Commitments

I wanted to write last night but I couldn’t get in the right headspace. I enjoy the creative act of weaving my thoughts and feelings into words to form a narrative. It’s part artistic expression, part intellectual exercise, and part cathartic practice. Whenever I take the time to sit down with my thoughts and write I enjoy embarking on it. It then begs the question why I wasn’t making more time for it in my life.

My friend Amy has consistently encouraged me to continue writing. At my age I shouldn't need a cheer squad, but that encouragement helps affirm I am on the right path. So, as one does with a new year, I set an intention to stick with it. I made a commitment to myself to create a written piece two times a month throughout this next year.

I’m typically inspired by a spark, and it marinates in my mind. Before I even take to my laptop, I’ve already begun the pre-writing process in my head, making connections, and turning phrases. It’s not a laborious task at all, the words pull me. Its stimulating.

But like I said, last night I was stuck. I suppose, like a lot of people, all the news of the past week has been weighing on me. It’s been an “insert your adjective here “ experience. Depending on your disposition in life, anything from troubling to traumatic to terrifying. So many descriptors, so little time.

Thus, my mind was preoccupied. I wanted to accomplish something, so I thought to myself, let me finish the short book Small Things Like These by Irish Author Claire Keegan. There’s also a 2024 film based on the book starring Cillian Murphy that I haven’t seen yet but plan on watching tonight. They had me at Cillian Murphy ;)

I cracked the book open on my flight to New York last week and was able to read about half of it. The book is only 114 pages so I knew I could knock out the rest of it last night. It’s a work of fiction set against the very real Magdalen laundries in Ireland, something I knew nothing about until I serendipitously picked up the book last week.

They were also known as Magdalen asylums; institutions run by religious communities and supported in some measure by the state. Operating from the 18th to late 20th centuries they housed “fallen women”. It’s estimated 30,000 females were in confinement during that time. Initially intended for prostitutes, over time the clientele included petty criminals, orphans, abused girls, and mentally disabled women. The women and girls were hidden away from society and forced to provide free labor. Almost all of these institutions were run by female religious congregations. The women struggled to survive under brutal conditions. They suffered physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Keegan’s story explores a fictional local family, primarily from the point of view of the middle-aged father. He’s got a wife, five daughters, and the reader rides shotgun as he looks back on his own childhood and the world as it exists around him. I’ve not given the whole plot away; I’m just providing context. What’s clear by the end of the story though is that there’s a communal commitment to turning a blind eye.

I finished the book last night, and started another novella, E.B. White’s Here is New York and got only a few pages in before I hit the hay. I awoke this morning with more clarity and confidence to write. Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These had illuminated my past with prose. What choice do you make when you can benefit from staying silent? When you risk preferential treatment if you open your mouth. What decision do you make?

The summer before my mother passed away, one of my aunts came to visit. She wanted to spend time with her sister as my mom had been battling cancer. It makes sense. I’m unclear as to her precise reasons why, but I never felt my aunt was particularly fond of me. Throughout my childhood she fawned over my sisters and seemed to only tolerate me. Except for that one summer. I was a busy twenty-year-old college student working fulltime commuting into and out of downtown at the University of Houston while school was out.

When I came home in the evenings, I’d hear my aunt passive aggressively communicating to, and/or about, my teenage sister. At the same time, my aunt now routinely lauded over me. It happened on multiple occasions over a couple of weeks. At first curious, I was now perplexed. Once it was an established pattern, I could no longer ignore it. I had to confide in my mother. I recall telling her, “I don’t know what’s going on Mommy, but it’s not right, she’s treating my sister like she’s me.” After that conversation my aunt treated my sister better and I had once again become the subject of her ire. All was now well in the land (that’s sarcasm, kids). I’m certain my mother had spoken to my aunt as only one Sicilian sister can to another.

I could’ve kept my mouth shut and benefitted from my aunt’s favoritism. But my conscience wouldn’t let me. I was only twenty, but I knew right from wrong, what was fair treatment and what wasn’t. Listen, I precipitously moved up several rungs in my aunt’s eyes because of her sudden adoration of all things me. But you know when something is wrong and/or inauthentic, right? When someone is blowing smoke up your ass. I couldn’t keep quiet; even at my young age I had to call it out.

So much life has happened to me since I was that young twenty-year-old girl wild with idealism. I had very primal ideas about what fairness and justice meant. I’ve experienced love, grief, joy, hardships, and every experience and emotion in between since then. Despite all of that, my idealism somehow incredulously remains intact. Surprising but true.

Turbulent feelings and the simple diversionary tactic of reading, the combination of both enlightened me. I was able to honor my commitment to myself and write. It’s connected my personal experience to a larger context, the historical price to pay for communal silence. The collective conscience of our community echoes for us to find our better angels.