My Gran was, and I say this with love for a woman that I adored, “a little bit rascist”.
She was also a bit of a homophobe, a bit bigotted, and tended to be sceptical of anything that didn’t fit in her world view of being white, straight, and Methodist. That’s not to say she wasn’t tolerant and kind to others; for a woman of her generation it’s just the world view she knew, and her views would occasionally creep into her language but never (as far as I know) into her actions. And most of what I heard were whispered asides and never directed at anyone else.
I’m sure there is a long German word to describe someone like this who holds their views strongly but quietly (just as there is definitely a German word for those who hold their views strongly and loudly).
My memories of my Gran portray her as a kind and caring woman and I hold fond memories of my weekends with her and my Grandpa. Unfortunately he suffered a stroke when I was quite young so, for the most part, my core memory is me and Gran heading into town to the local toy shop where she’d invariably buy me yet another balsa wood or styrofoam plane, and then treat me to an ice cream from the Italian gelato store in the shopping centre (via the window booth), before heading back to their house to make me my favourite dinner of mince and tatties (which she made just for me regardless of what else she was making for dinner!).
Sidenote: Just describing that meal, the way she’d take the boiled potatoes, add them to the mince, so the potatoes soaked up some of the gravy before serving it to me, has unlocked some very powerful and emotional memories. I can almost taste it. Aren’t brains amazing.
Occasionally Gran and I would go into the big city on the train to visit House of Frasers, where she would head to the makeup counter as I ran amok up and down the seemingly endless staircases. She visited that store so often that, as her health deteriorated and she could no longer get in to the store, the makeup assistants at the Lancome counter started sending little gift parcels of samples to her home, such was the impression she made on them. She was a charmer for sure.
No doubt my Gran was a woman of her time and, as I grew older she would regale me with stories of her youth. She was always well “turned out” as she’d say, something that started when the American soldiers were based near where she grew up during WW2. A well chosen skirt and blouse made “all the difference”, apparently (and yes, teenage me was mortified to think of my Gran as a young woman flirting with soldiers!).
But as with many people from that time, there was that underlying dislike and distrust of “others”. She may have held that quietly and I don’t recall her every being directly mean or nasty to anyone*, but she was a little freer with her language when it was just us. As I grew up I started to realise this and whilst it didn’t diminish how much I loved my Gran, I did used to joke that I was going to try and find a disabled, black, transexual catholic** to marry just to see what she said.
I loved my Gran.
It’s such an odd thing to have a heart full of happy memories of someone with such glaring flaws and, whilst it can be easy and possibly valid to push those aside as “of a time” it still doesn’t sit quite right with me but, the thing is, she was my Gran and looking back now, and understanding more of why her world views were they way they were, I find myself more accepting of her with all the flaws she didn’t even realise she had. If anything I should be grateful to her for, as I started to recognise those flaws, it helped has push me to reflect on my own world views, to challenge them, to try and understand them.
And I get a lot of that attitude from my Mum and Dad.
My Mum, growing up with my Gran and Grandpa’s world views, took a different stance (as children are wont to do) and the short version is that I was brought me up as a feminist. She vowed that I would know how to take care of myself properly, taught me to wash and iron clothes, and various household chores were assigned to me. It was made clear, without ever being directly articulated, that she was NOT of the opinion that a woman’s place was in the kitchen etc. Mind you I now realise that some of those chores were given to me, for example, simply because she just didn’t enjoy dusting!
I don’t think my Mum ever used the word “feminist” but her force of character and her consistent quiet pushing back against the patriarchy left a lasting impression on me. My Dad was a quiet supporter of such attitudes as well, and I imagine his time as a secondary school guidance teacher stood him in good stead as he saw the variety of ‘others’ coming through the system, all having to deal with the prejudices thrown at them every day. He was a good man.
Fast forward to today and I remain determined that my son will inherit all the good traits I learned from my Gran, her patience, her sense of style (I’m presuming this has skipped a generation or two maybe, cos I sure don’t have it!), and her loyalty, along with everything I inherited from my parents; I’ve written about how my Dad was seen as a good man, and that remains my aspiration, whilst my Mum has a strength to her that she constantly denies, and has always been self-less and generous with her time.
I know I can influence, but not control, the type of person Jack becomes but I’d be doing him a disservice if I didn’t at least try and pass on the best of my parents and grandparents, whilst steering him away from the less desirable traits that they, and I, sometimes exhibit.
Which is all well and good as far as an aspiration goes but making it happen is an entirely other thing, an entirely other thing that means I’ve been checking in on myself and my own prejudices and flaws to see how I can either (ideally) change them or at the very least make sure Jack knows that it isn’t acceptable and give him the knowledge and tools he needs to make his own decisions about his life and how he wants to live it.
One core sense I hope to be able to guide him towards is a true sense of self, and some measure of moral integrity that is his to own. At some point it will be a conversation I know, but until he’s old enough to grasp such ideas, I have to demonstrate them to him and, hopefully, when he is older the conversation will be all the easier (for me). Beyond that, as long as he is happy, kind, and safe I think he will do just fine.
I have no idea if Jack will remain Jack, he may choose to alter his gender., just as I know he will grow into his sexuality, make life decisions I might not’ve, or who knows, maybe he’ll even embrace religion. Whilst the latter might be a struggle for me I will support him through any and all of these decisions. It helps that both of his parents are of a similar view that his happiness is what matters, and that we will always support him and give him the space he needs to discover himself. It can be so easy to fall into the trap of wanting ‘more’ for him, more success, more status, more more more… and again I find myself contemplating how to demonstrate that “more” isn’t the route to happiness.
I hope Jack makes the most of the opportunities he has before them, whilst being aware of the advantages he inherits by being a white male in western society, I hope that he finds space for himself without compromising on his own set of values, whatever they turn out to be, and I hope that he feels supported and loved enough to know that his Mum and Dad will always be there to listen, to support, and to guide if we can. Given his parents are no strangers to being “other” in one form or another, I think we can help Jack navigate the world as he grows.
As for what the world will look like when Jack reaches adulthood, well that’s a topic for another day, one where the crushing noise of hate, misinformation, and climate change denial aren’t continually pummelling me into despair.
Ultimately, long after I’m gone I hope that people will look at Jack and think, he’s a good man and, if I’ve had even a small part to play in that journey then I’ll rest happily.
* The only example I can recall was during one of my cousins christenings. It’s a vague memory. I think the catholic priest asked everyone to assist in a census they were taking to ‘better understand the make up of the people who were attending’ by selecting from two coloured cards on every seat, if you were catholic put colour A in the box on the way out, if not, colour B. I was sitting next to my Gran and watched her pick up one of the cards and wrote METHODIST on it. That was about as forthright as she got.
** Please insert any multitude of ‘othered’ synonyms/categories here!
