Less Diet Culture More Gender Expectations
It would be remiss of me to talk about my Dad without including the rest of my family; my Mum, Stepdad and two brothers.
Most of us could write a book about our families/caregivers. The stories I hear never cease to amaze me. I find familial relationships utterly fascinating.
My definition of “family” is the people/person(s) who bring us up. Whoever put food on the table, shoes on our feet and mended the leaking roof. Even better if home was safe and we were loved and cared for.
Standing on the threshold of adulthood. A cloth-sack with bread, cheese and a sovereign or two tucked deep within the folds, tied across our shoulders.
Our family sees us off with merry waves, holding back their tears.
Go and live your life, they say,
Don’t worry about us. It’s your turn now.
Or maybe we had no family. No home or leaking roof to mend. But we’ve made it this far. We’ll continue to rely upon ourselves and find our way.
R D Laing - arguably the most important psychiatrist from the 1960’s/counter culture suggested (I’m simplifying here) that madness lay at the seat of the family.
Philip Larkin, said in his poem, This Be The Verse,
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
The astrologer, Reina James (guest from S7 - check episode here!) says, and if you’re a writer they didn’t fuck you up enough.
Feeling other, misunderstood and underappreciated is terrific fuel for the writer.
I wanted to be like my brothers. They seemed to have more fun. I didn’t see them much except during school holidays but sometimes, at the weekend we’d watch them play rugby. I couldn’t have cared less about rugby but I worshipped those trestle tables laid out in the school hall; piled high with sandwiches and cake for the visiting team and guests. The very epitome of glamour to my four year old self.
I was brought up quite strictly around food. There wasn’t much in the cupboard, money was tight and everything was homemade. Bread, squash, vegetables from the garden. My stepdad brewed ginger beer (exploded under the stairs), regular beer kept on the kitchen counter near the boiler, and once gooseberry champagne - delicious. Sounds like a rural idyll, doesn’t it? I think it was typical of the 1970’s.
My Dad, on the other hand, fed me with the type of food Mum breezed past in the supermarket. I knew it was an issue between them, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t enjoy my Dad’s cooking. Not sure if it was his cooking ability or because Mum hadn’t made it. Or the guilt if I liked it.
On the weekends we saw Dad and we would generally eat out. Little Chefs and local cafe’s. Later restaurants. I was allowed baked beans on toast. Then when I was older I graduated, like my brothers, onto fish and steak, well done. Indicative of “grown up eating.”
My brothers appeared to have an innate confidence and knowledge about the world. How do they live away from home? How do they cope? I used to think. When they were home they filled the space. And ate a lot.
Growing boys need their food. So they can become strong men.
My stepdad was served first, followed by my older brother, middle brother and then me. My stepdad ate everything on his plate and then the leftovers. The type of man to hoover vast quantities of food as those around mumbled appreciatively. Where does he put it? We used to think. Your proverbial beanpole. Mum would serve herself last with the smallest portion and then proceed to eat v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. While apologising. Which drove us all mad.
She’d say she didn’t feel hungry because she’d been cooking. Fair enough, yes?
It's one thing to cook when you feel like it and/or because you love it but something else entirely when it's you, day in day out, for years.
After supper Mum would cut a Mars Bar into fifths and we’d settle down in front of the telly. When my brothers weren’t there - the Mars Bar would be divided into thirds. Sometimes I’d luck out with one of the ends (more chocolate) instead of the middle bit.
The boys and the men in my family have never doubted their entitlement to take up space. To eat well. Whatever they felt inside. I’ve seen over the years the differences between how my nephews and nieces ate. Repeated patterns and beliefs passed down through the generations.
Women eat less than men. Don’t eat too much lest you appear greedy.
Mum felt she needed to shrink herself. She didn’t have that entitlement, that feeling that it was safe to expand. Room for a small one? She’d say as she squeezed into the car. Don’t mind me, I'm only little. I won’t take up much room.
When I first met my now husband we went home to visit my Mum and Stepdad. Mum planned a bbq. There were four of us. She bought one mackerel. One mackerel between four.
My husband still refers to it to this day by way of explanation for some of my behaviour! I find it kind of touching and deeply moving that my darling Mum thought one would be enough.
P’raps it was her revenge.
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