Dear Tess,
I couldn’t help but think quite literally and viscerally about eating an elephant. You won’t want me to describe the images so I’ll leave it there—a testament to my current state of mind I think.
I digress, because I completely understand what you are saying, these really are enormous questions I unleashed upon you in my last letter.
Yes, nurture—
nurture—but also, be successful—
nurture—but also, look beautiful whilst you are being successful…
but also, don’t miss your child’s first…
Feminine ideals—I only know that these women exist on social media, behind glossy filters dripping with Zoflora.
A cashier in the Co-op, a man, once congratulated me on ‘getting my body back’ whilst I bobbed a 10 week old Belle in a pram. He proceeded to tell me that his wife never got hers back. I stared at him a little speechless at the time, probably gave a polite smile whilst I shoved the shopping bag underneath the pram—Like your MAN on the street (and the countless others that have told us to smile sweetheart) I always wished I would have told him to fuck off—knowing at the time that body back meant small..and I was, because I was too anxious to eat. I’m not sure why this came back into my mind just now. I think it’s because I already felt the unattainable pressure, because I was young, because I was insecure, because I felt vulnerable.
I know you only apologised to 20 year old Tess for becoming traditional—but there really is no shame in tradition. For now, perhaps you rely on his money, but that doesn’t mean it will always be this way—Rose is just 10 months. Plus, whilst I don’t know you that well, I do know that you are a great writer and whilst hard work does not always equate to financial gain—although this could also change—It shows.
You asked me, how about you? Who are you?
Funny how we often define ourselves sometimes by what we do, isn’t it. Funny how you say you got lost in the story of yourself —do you think this is because when we go to write the story of ourselves, we feel we need introducing through other people, through our experiences, through so many things that we do truly get lost. Because it’s very hard to say who we are—other than a mother, a photographer, an artist…a writer? I write with trepidation, because I don’t know if I am a writer yet, not officially. In the same way I would have said this years ago about being an artist.
I’m going a bit deeper here, but how to we communicate our true selves then?
I think that’s why I come back to fluidity a lot.
And why I have so many questions.
Identity is assumed to be innate
but roles are futile anyway
we’re reduced to stereotypes
wearing doc Martens
How do you identify?
Like water, I say.
But no, that’s not good enough.
For language is constructed to constrain us,
not to let us flow.
I think this is why identity is tied to desire in many ways—it’s rules are constructed with language. Us women, we were taught not to speak of desire, weren’t we? I don’t even necessarily mean sexual desire, although this is included within it. The words mother and desire feel like opposites.
How could you desire more than motherhood….
Becy x
P.s Please send me the name of that audiobook.
Dear Mother 