Journal of the Motherhood Initiative for Research and Community Involvement (JMI - York University)

Shanahan, Noreen

Nudging Aside for Poetry

Norman, Renee

Amy and Isabelle

Whatley, Deborah

Bearing Meaning: The Language of Birth

Brewer, Mary F.

Book Reviews 
healing journey toward a stronger sense of legitimacy. Other readers will gain 
a deeper appreciation for an aspect of maternal experience that is still largely 
marginalized and silenced. Although Malacrida herself felt empowered and 
healed by conducting this research, she wanted to assure herself that her 
participants felt some of these positive benefits as well. T o  this end, she reports 
on a follow-up survey at the end of the book that validates her claim that others 
also gained new insight into their loss and its effects and that their participation 
in the study had been helphl. By dissecting the social, psychological and 
physiological interplays in perinatal grief, complicated mourning, and 
postmodern creativity, Malacrida confronts questions that are seldom asked 
and a type of death that is seldom validated. 
Lesbians Raising Sons 
Jess Wells, Ed. 
Loss Angeles: Alyson Books, 1997 
Reviewed by Mary F. Brewer 
This anthology, according to the editorJess Wells, shows how the "current 
baby boom among lesbians . . . is challenging concepts and constraints of the 
family and, perhaps most important, raising men in a completely newway" (ix). 
It is divided into three sections, addressing the hybrid identity of lesbian 
families: how typically they transgress borders not only of sex and gender, but 
also race and class; the relation between living-out new models of family life and 
constructing new (sewimages of lesbians and lesbian community; and the way 
in which the inherent sexism and homophobia within the legal system and 
society at large continues to victimize lesbian parents and their children. 
The central theme within this collection rests on the various strategies 
employed by lesbian mothers to raise healthy, happy sons-boys who will have 
access to their fdl range of emotions and who will grow up to behave in ways 
that do not support systems of oppression-within the context of a society that 
denigrates women and homosexuals. 
Rather than attempt to review all the articles, all ofwhich document and 
provide valuable insights into lesbian's parenting skills and the wider impact 
lesbians raising sons may have on traditional gender roles in society, I shall 
attempt to look at how some of the above themes are addressed throughout. 
Most contributors follow a similar format of giving some history of their own 
experiences raising sons. Many of the lesbian mothers admit to some fear, even 
in some cases loathing, at the thought of raising a'little patriarch,'and most also 
Journal of tbe Associationfor Research on Mothering 1 201 
Book Reviews 
make the telling connection between raising sons and having to re-evaluate 
their own generalizations of the 'other' gender. Robin Morgan's entry is espe- 
cially noteworthy for the way it demonstrates that it is possible to "erode the 
allure of male entitlement," without giving boys a negative self-image. (Wells, 
1997: 41) Other issues explored are: the advantages as well as the drawbacks of 
being out outside one's immediate circle of family and friends, how to protect 
children from the negative attitudes of teachers and peers who would hold their 
parents' sexual orientation against them, and to what extent lesbian parents, or 
indeed any parent, can influence a child's sex-gender development. 
For me, one of the most interesting aspects of the collection is the way it 
debunks the myth that lesbian parents will coerce their chiildren into accepting 
their own particular sexual orientation: rather, what the book makes clear is that 
the essence ofgood parenting for lesbians is respect for the child's individuality. 
Most lesbian mothers assert that is it oflittle importance to them whether their 
sons grow up to be straight or gay; they do, however, acknowledge working very 
hard to socialize their boys to adopt non-violent ways ofresolving conflicts and 
to respect other people's rights and preferences. 
Ellen Lewin's research on mothering illustrates that most women's ac- 
counts ofbecoming a mother focus on the power of the individual to construct 
or to imagine herselfas a mother (1994: 338). In one ofthe books' most moving 
testimonies, Tryna Hope writes of giving up her son because "The truth is, I 
didn't see how I could be a lesbian anda mother" (Wells, 1997: 206). Studies 
such as this one point the way for lesbians to develop this sense of agency and 
a belief in their parenting capabilities. Its positive representation of lesbian 
families provides a valuable contribution to contemporary lesbian feminism. 
References 
Lewin, Ellen. 1994. "Negotiating Lesbian Motherhood: The Dialectics of 
Resistance and Accommodation." Mothering: Ideology, Experience, and 
Agency. Eds. Evelyn Nakano Glenn, Grace Chang, and Linda Rennie 
Forcey. New York: Routledge. 333-353. 
202 ( Volume l ,  Number l 


English

Lesbians Raising Sons

Chase, Kim

Caesarean Section

Berry, Lois M.

Sex Education

Taylor, Michelle L.

Women of Colour: Mother- Daughter Relationships in Twentieth-Century Literature

Bergman, Inga

lnga Bergman 
Memories of a 
Childhood In Iceland 
Picture this bay, that sparkles like blue sapphires in the sun, 
like green emeralds when the cloud cover closes in 
or turns a gloomy dark green and grey as storms stir it into a frightening boiling 
Pot 
of waves as high as houses. 
Picture how it stretches and opens to the western horizon, 
beyond which looms the great continent of America, thousands of miles away, 
and behind which the sun disappears every evening. 
Listen, how everything grows quiet and hushed under the cloud cover 
in the absence of the sun, 
or how the bay huddles apprehensively 
and braces it self against the lapping and crashing waves 
when the winter storms howl across the strait. 
Then picture the islands, protruding from the water like a lush, velvet green body 
a knee here, an elbow there, belly, shoulders and breasts. 
The movement of the sea, the tide and the tow, 
exposing the rocky coast and wet black sandy beaches, 
and then seeping back with a regular certainty. 
The sucking and the sighing of the sea as it moves 
gives the illusion that what we see is indeed alive and breathing. 
The hiiy regions of the largest island are dotted with white, fluffy shapes 
nipping their way through the delicate, tasty mountain flora 
Journal ofthe Association for Research on Mothering 1 159 
Inga Bergman 
and larger, heavier shapes 
wading through lush green lowlands, 
deftly slinging their long, strong tongues around tufts of grass 
dipping it offjust so, a couple of inches away from the roots. 
Nestled in the broad cleavage of two large hills are a couple of ancient white 
buildings, 
flanked by green fields sloping towards the sea. 
Four little shapes are bopping in the green grass, bare, white, little bodies, 
clad in lithe more than a pair of gaudily coloured shorts. 
Red, blue, green, y e l l o m n e  colour each for easy recognition. 
Every so often one of them stands erect and listens for sounds, 
the tight little braids sticking almost straight out, while scanning towards the 
strait 
then a glance back to the three little brothers playing nearby, 
the littlest one barely a toddler. 
The head cocks a little in the other direction 
and catches a sound coming from behind the house. 
A woman's voice can be heard, clear and rich. 
She always sings as she hangs out laundry. 
Her song grows softer and slower as her eyes wander 
towards the faraway shape of the town that sprawls 
along the shoreline on the other side of the strait. 
Her hand fumbles for fly-away strands of copper and pins them behind her ear. 
She shakes out yet another wet sheet, and as she stretches it over the washing 
line 
her song grows stronger and more cheerhl, 
the lines punctuated with each peg that she drives home. 
Rcna, across the way, says she can tell when it's mother's washing day. 
She can hear her voice loud and clear. 
She can probably also hear when mother calls us in at mealtimes. 
We took refuge on the island from the squalor of a housing shortage and 
PO"* 
that was rampant in Reykiaveik in the fifties. 
We  came together as a family 
gathered back by my father from various foster homes, 
where we were placed during mother's sudden and mysterious illness 
and father's attempt to make ends meet with seemingly endless workdays. 
This is where my parents worked together, 
joining their powerful strengths and ingenuity, 
with rarely an unkind word uttered between them, 
160 1 Volume I ,  Number 1 
Memories of a Childhood 
to create the oasis of security that we, 
the colourful children, 
need so desperately. 
My memory of time before the island has grown scant over the years. 
There were hard times, that left many scars on my family. 
My parents were deeply wounded 
and they lashed out at each other, 
in desperation. 
I was only six, but old enough to understand the anguish. 
Life was unfair. 
I knew that my parents deserved more than what they got. 
I picture my mother waiting in line, 
time and time again, anxious, 
waiting for appointments with city officials, 
reasoning, arguing, pleading and at last breaking down. 
Weeping quietly, collecting herself, clenching her fists 
and bearing them down on a desktop, 
sending stacks of papers jumping. 
Then, with the same hands, gathering our little hands 
into her hot palms as she rose to leave. 
I treasure pictures of my mother 
coming home with my brothers newly born, one by one, 
swaddled in her soft, white arms. 
I remember her gentle voice, 
as she comforted them and cuddled them to her breast. 
As she sang us off to sleep in the evening 
ever so softly, until there wasn't a care left in our wee hearts. 
I remember her laughing eyes and cheerful morning songs 
that always made it worth while starting afresh, every day. 
The gay laughter as she shared in our delights. 
The firm, yet gentle instruction, or reproach when needed. 
And the glow of love, that would have sent me to the end of the world 
if that is what she had requested. 
And I remember the immense emptiness and pain 
at being separated from my parents and my brothers. 
Most of all, I remember 
how my heart cried out in need for my mother. 
There were no songs in my aunt's house. 
No warm kisses or a lull-a-bye. 
Journal ofthe Association for Research on Mothering 1 161 
No smiles in the morning. 
No sun. 
We had been shacked up in temporary housing when mother took ill. 
Relatives took us in, 
somewhat reluctantly some of them. 
I think it was my silence that finally got to my father. 
My eyes had gone deep and watchll, my face pinched 
and my body very, very quiet. 
In his desperate search for a home he happened upon the deserted island. 
No one had lived there for years and the only habitable house 
was already two hundred and fifty years old. 
Aside from two coal stoves it had no commodities, no running water, 
but at least we would have a roof over our heads. 
I never knew how my mother took the news about our new home. 
By the time she was released from hospital the joy of being reunited 
overshadowed everything else. 
We had been apart for almost three months. 
By the time mother joined us harvest was in fidl swing. 
Some of my uncles gave up their evenings and weekends to help father. 
The air was filled with the sweet smell of hay and the sound of men's voices, 
talking and laughing as they worked. 
I was instructed by my father to help mother, 
and to call one of the men if I couldn't manage heavier tasks. 
Mother was not to exert herself. 
We worked hard that summer, and before we knew 
old man winter was upon us, 
coddling everything in cold grey, and later white. 
The men were gone. 
Mother was already shouldering her load of work 
There were twenty-four cows to be milked in the morning, 
breakfast to be made, water to be carried from the well into the kitchen, 
milk buckets to be washed, billies of milk to be carried down to the boat, 
little bottoms to be washed in the tub, after the dishes were put away. 
The bread was made in the afternoon, 
whiie the little ones napped, 
and clothes mended or made. 
My mother's wardrobe slowly changed shape, 
was carefully cut into smaller shapes with scissors, 
162 ( Volume I ,  Number 1 
Memories of a Childhood 
and reappearing in a changed and smaller form 
on our little bodies. 
"No matter," she explained, "my waist isn't what it used to be." 
In the afternoons there was also music. 
For two hours every weekday afternoon Radio Reykiavik 
broadcast classical music. 
Our house changed into a music hall. 
When they played operatic works 
mother changed roles 
and joined forces with the famous singers of the world. 
At other times, after she had taught me some of her songs, 
we would sing together, 
her voice making scrolls and roses around my simple lines. 
These were glorious times. 
Motheis voice also mesmerised the cows. 
She sang as she worked, and swaying as they listened 
chewing their cud slowly and thoughtfully 
the cows became less possessive of the milk 
flooding the buckets in no time at all. 
They even seemed to join in 
with a short humming sound every so often. 
When that happened mother would almost roll into the ditch giggling. 
By nightfall, after the late milking, mother grew quiet. 
She was tired. 
And yet, as we nodded off to sleep, 
there was always time for an embrace, warm kisses and a lull-a-bye. 
In  spite of all hardship, and in spite of my mother's loneliness, 
these were the times that fded me with more happiness 
than I had ever experienced before. 
Journal ofthe Associationfor Research on Mothering 1 163 


Memories of a Childhood in Iceland

Panofsky, Ruth

Ruth Panofsky 
The Pregnant Women of Spring 
I envy 
the pregnant women of spring 
on parade after 
an interminable winter 
they show themselves 
and I notice 
their cumbersome girth 
and curious gait 
slowed by burdens 
they carry 
into heavy traffic 
and city streets 
In the pregnant women of spring 
I see my own body 
round and ripe 
with my son 
then my daughter 
and feel the sudden stirrings 
of a glorious and riotous past 
in my still 
silent womb 
Journal ofthe Associationfor Research on Mothen'ng 1 113 


The Pregnant Women of Spring

Kim Chase 
Cesarean Section 
In 1960 
one C-section meant 
all  the rest by C-section 
And a long, red snarl of a scar 
up a soft, fleshy stomach. 
That's where you were born, 
she told us 
when we lay in our underwear 
in the smothering heat of summer. 
W e  notice the hair under her arms. 
W e  remembered those times later 
when she said, 
Don't start shaving now, girls. 
Youll be a slave to the razor 
the rest of your lives. 
In 1960 
one C-section meant 
a menu of options 
And tucked discreetly beneath 
the bikini line, 
A thin, prim smile of a scar 
Smug 
as if we deserved to not be 
cut up the middle 
like our mothers. 
76 1 Volume l, Number1 


Cesarean Section