Black and white and in between

When I was a child the nuns taught us to look at the way our boyfriends treated their mothers and sisters to get some insight into how they’d most likely treat us in years to come. 

The nuns were warning us away from abusive men, or so I reasoned at the time, though I knew from the things my mother had told me about how lovely my father was in the beginning, you can’t always tell first up. 

As I was ripping through the housework yesterday, I plugged in earphones and listened again to the beginning of Jess Hill’s book, See what you made me do

It’s sobering stuff, the idea that home is the most dangerous place for a woman; that one woman a week is murdered in Australia by an intimate partner and that one woman in four suffers the effects of family abuse, however it’s rendered. 

It took till the mid-sixties and Vatican Two for the nuns to begin to escape the bonds of their clothing, those heavy habits, all black in winter and white in summer, folds of fabric that they looked after themselves, sewed and mended as necessary. 

In my childhood memory, those habits never looked shoddy; no signs of food spills, even on the white, but they must have been the devil’s own to clean. So much fabric and I doubt they had multiple changes. 

The invisible nature of the nuns’ clothing and those unseen bodies underneath fascinated me. Along with the fact that the nuns’ only encounters with men came in the form of priests and the fathers of the school children they taught. 

But still they could warn us away.

The nuns presumably grew up in families with fathers and mothers and sisters. Perhaps they gleaned their knowledge of abusive men from there. 

From my understanding of the nun’s teachings, there seemed to be two types of men, black and white like their habits, the good sainted ones like Jesus and his father Joseph; like the apostles Peter, Paul and the rest; the Archangel Michael and his cohort, and some of the fathers of the children they taught and maybe some of the priests. And the rest. 

The nuns deferred to the priests, but even as a child I did not get the sense they adored them, not the suburban ones in the parishes, and not the way they loved the Pope or the Archbishop of Melbourne, in those days Daniel Mannix.

Where did the nuns get their knowledge of abusive men and was the thought of being ill-treated something that put them off marrying?

The second type of men, the ones whose souls were blackened through cruelty and neglect, these were the ones to avoid. These were the ones who might treat you like you were a servant; there only to care for them, their bodies and their house. 

These were the ones who might give you a crushed rib or blackened eye if you so much as objected to the way they refused to hand out enough money for housekeeping. These were the men who kept you down. 

Stay away from them, the nuns warned.

But how to do that when the first appeal came in the form of those puppy eyes that looked at you adoringly, at least when you first encountered your boyfriend and filled you with a maternal longing to look after this small boy/man and care for him with all your heart. 

It was only later as the months and years into marriage and many children later turned you into an abject dish cloth that you began to realise, you’d made a bad bargain. 

By then it was too late, as it was for my mother. She was trapped.

When I hit my early twenties well before I’d subjected myself to marriage, studying social work at the university, I began to read feminist texts and unfairly found myself railing against the passivity of my mother for staying with my father for all those years.

She was given plenty of opportunities to leave I reasoned then, but always she was drawn back.

In my final years at school, during one of those separations which my older brothers had organised when the youngest of my family lived with our mother alone in a run-down house near the beach at Parkdale, I never feared to go home at night. 

I never held my breath as the weekend approached about what might happen. 

How drunk he might get. How dangerous he might become. Which of us he might hit or hit upon. 

I never feared about how I might conduct myself. 

All I needed to do was work hard at school and get a good enough result to get me into the University of Melbourne and a social work degree. 

During the week of swat vac, cramming Latin declensions into my brain one day, French vocabulary the next, rote learning quotes from books like Long Days Journey into Night and The Great Gatsby, men’s books about the horrible lot of women among other things, life’s great tragedies, my mother told me that she had decided to go back to our father by Christmas. 

She would relinquish the rental on this house and we younger kids could return with her if we could not find a place of our own. There was no ‘we’. I was just eighteen and had no idea how to live other than in the care of my mother. 

The year before two brothers ahead of me by two years, had moved out, one to college in Canberra at the university and the other into a bed sit which he managed through his first job in something like insurance. 

I could not do this, I believed, and so I returned home for my first year of university. 

My mother argued, and not for the first time, that a miracle had happened and that my father had agreed once more to give up drinking. That he would never touch the bottle again.

Jess Hill writes that on average it takes seven attempts for a woman to leave her abusive partner successfully, that is for good, unless he kills her first. 

My sister and I stayed behind in the Parkdale house one final night alone before the removalists came to take the last of our possessions back home to Cheltenham. I sat at the kitchen table and listened to the radio; aware this might be the last time for a long time when I could feel the freedom of life away from my father. 

I listened to Frank Sinatra – patriarch, though I didn’t know it then – sing his signature My Way and decided I too could live my life my way. 

I wrote a letter to my twenty-one-year-old self that night. Time seemed eternal, as if a year or more might last forever, and it was hard to imagine myself in three years’ time. To imagine myself as a twenty-one-year-old adult. 

Eighteen then was not the same as eighteen now. Eighteen then marked a transition from school to another life but not until we were twenty-one, were we honoured as adults. So, my late adolescent self wrote to my adult self what I read now as the corniest of letters. All about being good and diligent and kind and religious. 

I did not know then how much I would change under the influence of those first months at university. How the people I met and the experiences of being free from the burden of Catholicism, even still living with my father, allowed me to open my eyes wider than ever before.

That is, once I moved away from the black and white nature of good and bad, and learned to ‘love hatingly’ and ‘hate lovingly’ as the analyst Thomas Ogden suggests in order to lead meaningful lives. 

House wife’s curse and hand shoes

My fingers smell of rubber from the gloves I wore yesterday to clean out the toilets and three bathrooms in this house. There’s no one else to clean for me in this time of Covid and so I find myself reverting to earlier days when I took solace from dragging out the disinfectant and bleach, then soaping up the walls of the bath and shower recess to make them shine.

I took the greatest pleasure in stabbing at the black smear of mold that formed in the corners of every shower recess, ignored over time, and I scraped away till it too skipped off in sooty particles. 

Too many years of half-hearted cleaning by someone else means I can never get the bathroom back to its original newness but I can at least create an aura of cleanliness that pleases me in this time of the virus when people are still fearful, though less so in Australia when our daily infection tally is modest compared to elsewhere.

I wear the same rubber gloves when I complete a poo collection around the back garden picking up after the dogs have left their daily offerings. I do this every few days and fill a small bag with shit, a thing that once would have set my stomach roiling but now bothers me very little. 

The rubber gloves of my mind have created a type of immunity to the things that would have upset me in my youth.

I learned it from my mother. A type of stoicism, the sense that it has to be done, so do it. No point in being squeamish. 

When the skin specialist burns off a small spot on my leg that if left unattended could spread into something more sinister, I will watch the procedure. I will fix my eyes on his gloved hands and watch as he takes hold of the blue gun that reminds me of the machine my daughter uses when she blazes a caramelised coating on her crème caramel.

The skin specialist promises it will sting. The sting of the liquid nitrogen on bare skin. A pin prick of pain that lasts as long as he holds the zapper to my leg and then it’s over. 

I watch to harden myself against the pain. I watch to get a sense of what it’s like to watch a person inflict something harsh on another person. All for the greater good.

It would be different if I were in some sado-masochistic dance with a man who drew sexual pleasure out of inflicting pain on me. And I doubt I could do such a thing to myself.

The nurse manager who rang with the results of my biopsy, told me there are three possibilities in treating this Basel Cell carcinoma.

We can cut it out, the most invasive. We can burn it off or we can use an ointment another skin specialist introduced me to several years ago when I had a crazy case of irritation on my lip. A type of chemotherapy that I must apply myself.

I cannot do such a thing, no matter how stout of heart. 

The first dermatologist diagnosed sun damage that could become cancerous. The second, the dermatologist I now attend, described it as a case of both eczema and a fungus dancing around together on my lip and neither was responding to either treatment typically used.

I needed to combine treatments in titrated doses to get the thing clear. It worked, so he’s my dermatologist of choice even during this time of Covid. 

I dislike ringing his rooms though. These days, the message on his answer machine takes a good three minutes to listen through.

The usual drill: ‘If you have a fever, sore throat or any other such symptom cancel your appointment with the dermatologist and seek help from your GP. Do not come here.’

No one wants you if there’s a risk you have the virus. But if you’re virus free you’re welcome.

This accursed virus.

A friend wondered recently how much rubber we will add to landfill with all these gloves rotting in the ground, no longer simply the terrain of skin doctors and surgeons, of hairdressers and beauty therapists or people who need to protect themselves and others from whatever else might attach to their hands.

In German, the word for gloves translates into hand shoes. I enjoy the play on words. The play on ideas. The need to keep flexible at this time of inflexibility whereby every person fears every other stranger and even those we know well we must keep at arm’s length.

We can touch only through rubber gloves and even then, we must not breathe in our shared air for fear of contamination.

I watch movies from years gone by and have this urge to admonish the characters on the screen for standing too close together as if those days then are these days now.

I’ve taken to wearing gloves in winter as I grow older and feel the cold more. When the part of skin visible, the hands and face must be covered for protection from cold, let alone from viruses. At least the wool and leather gloves I wear do not leave a stink on my fingers that hangs around for hours. 

Another dermatologist I saw years ago when I was pregnant with my third child and developed a case of eczema on my hands – ‘housewife’s curse’ he called it – advised me to soak my hands daily for ten minutes in Pinetarsol. The medical smell of pine forests, alcohol and something aromatic stays with me in the same nauseous way as I felt in the early days of that pregnancy.

He also advised me to wear white cotton gloves underneath the rubber gloves for wet jobs and cotton gloves alone for when I swept floors and dusted. 

How many men get housewife’s curse from too much housework? Not many I imagine though my male hairdresser gets eczema from all the chemicals he handles. 

My poor beloved hands. Hands that have seen many surfaces, touched many textures, rough, silky, cold, or hot, burns and scalds and cuts, a life time’s collection all rolled into one set of hands with their time lines etched on the palms for any clairvoyant to read one day and catch me out for all the times I failed to wear proper gloves.