Kaleidoscope Suitcase
"At any given moment in time, the view in a kaleidoscope is complex, showing distinct colors and patterns. With a turn of the kaleidoscope, some of these colors and patterns become more pronounced, others less so, and new patterns and colors have emerged."
- Linda Nicholson, ‘Feminism in "Waves": Useful Metaphor or Not?’
"Our feminism is one which has been expressed and shaped firstly through personal experience and then the political. It is a kaleidoscope of our past and our uncertain future."
- Julia Hobsbawm, ‘Younger Women and Feminism: A Kaleidoscope of Old and New.’
The Book
‘There’s another one in here,’ I shout, sealing a large cardboard box and writing ‘books’ on the side. I look around the living room and picture Grandma sitting in her favourite chair, a Virginia Woolf novel in one hand and a cup of earl grey tea in the other. I glide my fingers over the top of the velvet sofa and gaze at the bare bookshelves. We’re all going to miss this house, its quaint quirks and ghostly sounds, the swing in the garden I fell off every time I visited, the door under the stairs no one could ever open. But I’m glad Grandma’s moving closer to us, it will give Ma some peace of mind, and I’ll finally be able to show her around my university. I smile, creating a mental list of all the places to take her in Cambridge, and sit down on the window seat. My heels smack the wood as I try to curl my legs underneath me. It sounds hollow. I tap it again with my finger. Moving aside the lavender pillows, I lift up the lid of the seat and discover a dark brown 1950s suitcase. Strange, Grandma always said she hated to travel. I lift it out and place it on the carpet, creating a whirlwind of dust. Settling down next to it, I click open the latches.
‘Did you call me, Lisa? I was just helping Emma pack the boxes into the car. She’s being bloody domineering, Sara do this, Sara do that, so I’m taking a break.’ Ma stands in the doorway, hands on her hips. Her light grey ‘Girls’ t-shirt has a small rip on the left shoulder and her hair is falling out of its bun, curly brunette wisps flying in all directions. Her eyes divert from me to the suitcase. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go help Mum in a minute,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Look what I just found under the window seat.’ ‘I’ve seen that before… My mother used to keep it by the side of her bed when I was a child,’ Ma says as she sits down next to me. She opens it without hesitation. A sea of scrunched up pieces of paper of various colours overflow onto our laps. I unscrew a piece, revealing a sketch of a stunningly brutal building with annotations labelling its materials. I hold it out to show Ma, but her attention is absorbed by a dark violet book she is holding. ‘Why does she have this?’ she mumbles. ‘I must have left it here when I moved out. I was about your age when I first read this book.’ I lean closer to read the title: Gender Trouble by Judith Butler. She flicks through the pages and inhales its sweet, musky scent. Multiple sentences have been underlined and scribbled notes fill the margins. I squint, trying to read her handwriting. ‘I think you’ve mentioned it before, but I’ve never read it,’ I say. ‘Oh Lisa you must!’ she exclaims, handing it to me. ‘It was revolutionary, it still is. It helped me discover who I am, to celebrate my queerness, and not let societal norms squeeze me into a box. Butler made people see beyond binaries, beyond heteronormative definitions, that gender is fluid and undefinable, something individual. She showed me that queer identities can be powerful, that they can challenge traditional structures of conformity that oppress people, people who are just trying to embrace who they truly are.’ She places a hand on her chest. ‘You know, it was actually this book that motivated me to pursue a career in mechanical engineering. I was told by numerous people I would never be able to survive in such a male-dominated industry. But here I am. It wasn’t easy though, my god, there were so many times I wanted to give up.’ ‘Was it the workload?’ I ask. ‘Oh no that was fine, it was more people’s attitude. It really effected my confidence. They were always so shocked that I could be an engineer, because I didn’t look like one. I would normally just laugh it off, but once this really patronizing guy said it and I asked, is it because of my breasts? His face’ – she rolls onto her back, laughing like a child – ‘went as red as a baboon’s backside.’ ‘People really said that?’ I ask, anger bubbling in my stomach. ‘All the time,’ she says, sitting up and grinning when she sees the deep frown carved into my face. ‘Of course I got the you don’t look like a lesbian as well, you know, because we all look the same, don’t we? And then the relentless period and hormonal jokes from my male colleagues when I disagreed with them. They were great, really original.’ ‘I can’t imagine having to experience that every single day at work. Is it not enough that women have to face sexist comments just walking down the street?’ I exclaim. ‘It was difficult, but so many women have to deal with it. We shouldn’t have to, but we do. I’ve designed aeroplane wings and yet I’m still bossy, up myself, too big for my boots, while my male equivalents are simply ambitious. And I know for a fact I’m paid less than them.’ She pauses, staring into nothingness, reliving a moment. ‘I’ll never forget when my old boss told me how ridiculous it was that I was planning to adopt. Every woman needs a man to give them their own children, you just need to find the right bloke. He shut up when I told him I was infertile and a lesbian. But it wasn’t long before I heard him giving similar demeaning talks to other unmarried women around the office.’ ‘God, really? I don’t understand why people feel this need to dictate women’s lives. I’ve had so many people scoff and say that I’ll change my mind about not having children. And yes, maybe I will, but that’s for me to decide, I never asked for their opinion. Why is there this forced expectation that women must have children, and if they decide not to, they’re selfish? And then when women do have children, they’re suddenly viewed as incapable of doing a job? We can’t win. I just -’ I kick out my legs in frustration and catch the suitcase, causing more paper to scatter over the floor. ‘Oops’. ‘Easy Bruce Lee! Why don’t we see what else is in here before you kick everything to oblivion?’ Ma jokes, sliding the suitcase back to us.
The Letter
A tattered olive-green folder catches my eye. I pull it out the suitcase and rest it on my knee as I peer inside. So many letters. Some nothing more than shreds, others barely legible. I open one that seems to have withstood the test of time and hold it between Ma and I to read.
13 August 1911
Dear Mrs Webb,
I am very sorry it has taken me so long to write to you. I hope that you are well and little Eric is healthy. I understand that your husband has demanded you no longer meet with me, nevertheless I hope he is also in good health. It was truly saddening that you were unable to march with us at the Coronation Procession in June, you were so much help with all the preparations. Since you could not be there, I thought I would write to tell you what a great success it was. I marched with my sisters and daughter in our purple and green saris, holding our banners of the Indian elephant high and proud. Thousands of women attended from all over the world and we marched from Westminster to Albert Hall carrying countless signs, just as we planned. One lady was holding a banner with the quote, “Women ought to have representatives, instead of being arbitrarily governed without having any direct share allowed them in the deliberations of government.” I committed it to memory since I thought it would please you. It was Mary Wollstonecraft who said that, was it not? Although the march was peaceful, nevertheless men still heckled us. They said we were prostitutes and corruptible, unreasonable, overemotional women. Nothing we haven’t heard before. But we knew our aim; to march, to fight, to vote. It was tame in comparison to the protest at Parliament last November. Never have I seen that many women so brutally assaulted, it was horrifying. I had to wrestle with one policeman who was battering a woman so badly I thought he was going to kill her. I managed to escape arrest, but Sophia was not so fortunate. I saw her when she was released a couple of weeks ago. I scarcely recognised her. Her eyes were drained of life. She’d gone on hunger strike. However, it wasn’t long before I heard she was smashing windows and setting fire to pillar boxes once again. I am relieved I persuaded you not to go, who knows what would have happened to poor little Eric if you had been trampled or kicked in the stomach like so many other women. It doesn’t bare thinking about. Let me, instead, tell you of a humorous incident at the recent procession. Do you remember Mary Gawthorpe? I believe you may have encountered her once or twice. Well, she was marching a few paces in front of my sisters and I, when a man suddenly threw a cabbage at her head. She managed to catch it and raised it up for everyone to see, remarking: ‘I knew a man would lose his head before long.’ We all erupted into laughter. I hope they finally understand that violence is not necessary, that treating us like animals is not what we deserve. We are as rational and respectable as man, and we have justified our right as human beings to vote. I know we will succeed. The women of North America and Australia already have, next it will be England, and India will follow.
Stay strong Lily, and never give up the fight.
Yours faithfully,
Lolita Roy
‘This is incredible! I can’t believe my mother had all this stored away in an old suitcase,’ Ma exclaims, inspecting the letter to make sure no detail has been missed. ‘And look, it was sent to this house,’ I say, pointing to the address. ‘Yes, to Lily Webb, your’ – she counts on her fingers – ‘great great great grandmother.’ ‘But who was Lolita Roy?’ I take out my phone and search her name. Nothing. ‘She must have been an Indian Suffragette. I never knew ethnic minorities were so involved in England’s fight for suffrage, I always assumed it was just middle-class white women,’ she says. ‘Well, predominantly it was, and then our history also has the tendency of overlooking the efforts of anyone who didn’t fit that category. Even in the recent film Suffragette, which showed the diverse class backgrounds of women in the movement, no women of colour were featured at all. I wonder if Grandma knows anything more about Lily and Lolita?’ ‘We’ll have to ask her,’ Ma says, still focused on the letter. ‘What amazing women. It’s so easily forgotten how much physical violence they suffered. I always used to imagine them as chirpy and jolly, like Mrs Banks in Mary Poppins, but what Lolita describes is so disturbing. They really did fight, united, with one clear goal in mind. It feels so different today, so much more complicated. Everyone seems to be battling against each other to be heard, to voice their own views. I must admit, even I find it difficult to keep up with it all sometimes,’ she says, resting her arm on the sofa, waiting intently for my reply. ‘I’ve never really thought about it like that. Many people would argue that mainstream feminism is still dominated by straight white middle-class women, but there is a lot more push now to represent the experiences of marginalized women. The movement has definitely splintered, so some groups do fight against each other to prioritise their issues, but it also shows that it’s not simple, it’s personal, it means something different to each individual.’ A notification lights up my phone screen, mathilda_smith liked your photo. ‘And social media has made everything more complicated too. People are able to hide behind their screens and say what they really think, without consequence, reminding us that we really haven’t made that much progress in minimising prejudice and sexism. But it’s also where a lot of activism takes place, like the #MeToo movement which raised awareness about sexual harassment and spoke out against abusers of power, like Harvey Weinstein.’ I shudder as I mention his name. Ma laughs and pats my leg, saying, ‘On that note, let’s unpack the rest of this dusty suitcase before Emma thinks we’ve abandoned her.’
The Diary
Ma picks up a petite sapphire blue book with ‘Vanessa Jones’ handwritten on the first page. ‘Wait Ma,’ I say, placing a hand on the book, ‘we can’t read this, it looks like Grandma’s diary, it’s private.’ Ma turns to look at me, her eyes fixed on mine, and asks, ‘Lisa, we’re close aren’t we? You can tell me anything, right?’ I nod my head confidently. ‘Well, I’ve never had that with my mother. She’s endlessly supportive and caring, but there’s always been a distance between us. If I have the chance to learn more about her, to build a bridge between us, even a little rickety one, I’m going to take it.’ I remove my hand and she starts to turn the pages. We notice that many of the entries finish mid-sentence or have been obscured by smudges and fingerprints. Some pages have been torn in half or out completely, and others have daisies and other wild flowers pressed between them. Ma chooses a couple of entries to read that are more decipherable.
20th November 1970
Sara said her first word today, ‘Mumma’. I was so happy I cried. I haven’t told Sebastian yet; he doesn’t like to make a fuss over such things. I think she will start walking soon, she is such a fast learner. Jane and Isabella are both doing well at school. Isabella was awarded her first gold star today for her art. Mrs Honey said she is very talented. I managed to get a lot of cleaning done this morning and Seb was happy when he got home. The building he designed is getting a grand opening next week and I am so proud. He still uses the leather sketchbook I gave him when we were studying at Bath. It makes me happy to see he still carries it with him, to know he is thinking about me at work. He has gone to bed in a huff now. We were watching the Miss World beauty pageant and a group of women suddenly started throwing flour and smoke bombs on stage at Bob Hope. Leaflets were flying everywhere and they were shouting and rattling things. I tried desperately not to laugh at Hope running off stage like a scared little kitten. Seb turned it off and hid the remote so I didn’t see what happened to the women, but I’m sure it will be in the papers tomorrow.
2nd January 1971
I told Sebastian I’m pregnant today and his face lit up like a lantern. He’s so desperate for a boy – we’ve had the name Nicholas picked out since before Jane was born. Sara will have to move into Isabella’s room when the baby comes, but I think they’ll be okay sharing. Seb said that I could go to the meeting in Oxford next week with Ava. I didn’t tell him what it was about. Ava said that they discuss things like childcare, housework, and equal rights at work. After reading the book, The Second Sex, she gave me at the children’s last play-date, I think this will be good for me. Beauvoir’s writing has really made me feel less alone, that my frustrations are valid and experienced by other women too. I want to start drawing and designing again, even if it’s just as a hobby. I’m beginning to realise that I envy Seb, that he gets to work and do what he loves. And of course I love being with the children, they are my entire world, but I also want to be…me. I’m so tired of waiting. Am I awful for thinking that? Sometimes I just want to
4th October 1972
I finally said it. He didn’t take it well. I told him I wasn’t happy, that I wanted to work again and help support our family since we are drowning in debt. He wouldn’t listen. I had to scream to get him to just look at me. He still wouldn’t listen. Ava is with me now. I don’t know where he has gone but he phoned to say he would be back tomorrow. My arm doesn’t hurt as much anymore, Ava put some ice on it to stop the swelling. She said I should leave him. But I can’t, I couldn’t do that to the children. Where would I go? He did say that he was sorry… I feel tired. The children are sleeping now. Tomorrow is a new day.
A few of the words are blurred and faded in the last entry, as though droplets of water have fallen onto them. I run my finger over the wrinkled paper and look at Ma. Her eyes are red and glossy. I can’t think what to say. She closes the diary, placing it in the suitcase, and sinks down onto the window seat. We watch as the trees are battered by the wind outside. The ticks of the old clock above the fireplace fill the silence. ‘I never,’ she chokes on the words, ‘I never knew that she went through that.’ She turns to me, her face so serious that for a moment I barely recognise her. ‘You never met your grandfather, he died when you were a baby, but he wasn’t a nice man. My sisters and I were always invisible to him and I, especially, was a constant disappointment. No one could compare to Nick. He never accepted my sexuality either, said I was going to Hell and all that crap. We didn’t talk for years after I moved out. I saw my mother occasionally but she never stood up for me and I didn’t understand why, but now I see… I could have helped her.’ She puts her head in her hands. ‘You didn’t know, Ma. You can’t blame yourself. Please don’t,’ I plead, perching next to her. ‘At least she had Ava. I remember her so vividly. She was part of the Women’s Liberation Movement at the time. I adored hearing her stories about the protests and marches, she was such an inspiration to me. I’ll never forget her telling me just before I turned sixteen that no one has a say over my body but me, that I can look however I want and be whoever I want and to ignore anyone that tells me otherwise,’ she says, smiling and leaning back against the cold glass of the window. But her smile soon vanishes. ‘She died in a car crash a few months later. My mother was distraught but she always tried to put on a brave face for us. I think my father let her work part-time after that.’ ‘She sounds like she was an incredible person,’ I say, holding her hand. ‘Oh she really was. People would often say she was unlovable and unattractive because she proudly called herself a feminist, but she never cared. My mother did. She would say she was a ‘closet feminist’, probably because the press misrepresented them as man-hating, humourless, shrill women, and she just couldn’t face being thought of like that. Some did hold very radical views, but ultimately they just wanted people to recognise the injustices women suffered and the systemic sexism ingrained into society,’ she says. ‘I know a few people that still view feminists in that light. Some of my friends even say that the movement’s biggest burden is actually our predecessors. But I disagree. I believe that instead of criticising previous generations, we should appreciate their extraordinary efforts and all they have accomplished for the movement, and use this to motivate us today. And we still have such a long way to go. If we are attempting to eradicate sexism, then we also need to acknowledge its intersection with those who suffer other kinds of prejudice. Everyone needs be included in the fight for equality,’ I say, smiling warmly at Ma. ‘Exactly,’ she says, squeezing my hand in agreement. ‘I’ve noticed way more men becoming involved now as well. People are realising that it’s never been about women versus men, but everyone working together to break down stigmas and oppressive stereotypes that do nothing to benefit anyone.’ The wind subsides and the clouds drift away. Rays of sunlight shine through the window and warm my face. Petals from Grandma’s red tulips are scattered around the garden; the sun catches them, making them glow like hot embers. ‘Not everything is improving though. I was rereading The Handmaid’s Tale the other week and couldn’t help thinking how close we are to the dystopian society Atwood describes, especially with so many things dividing us, such as Brexit and Trump. It feels like whenever we take one step forward, we then take about five back. Women are still the majority doing the housework, objectified in the media, discriminated against at work, abused and assaulted. But I do believe modern feminism is strong; we, as a movement, are stimulating change and altering perspectives all over the world. We’re fighting not just for a better future, but for the women of the past,’ I say, opening my palm to the suitcase. ‘Though we face new challenges, we can’t lose hope.’
Ma and I look up to see Mum leaning against the door frame, her arms folded. ‘Oh don’t let me interrupt, you girls just have a nice little tea break and leave me to do all the heavy lifting,’ she quips. Ma gives an exaggerated sigh and stands up, ‘Damn it, Detective Jones-Bailey has found us. I thought we had at least three more minutes. Come on then Em, help me with this.’ They carry the box of books to the car, bickering. I laugh and collect the rainbow of scrunched paper and letters strewn across the floor, packing them into the suitcase once more. I slide Gender Trouble under my arm, lift up the suitcase and head for the door, but something falls out and hits my foot. A pink pin. I pick it up and smile as I read it, picturing Ma wearing it when she was my age. With pride, I pin it to the collar of my denim jacket: ‘My feminism will be intersectional or it will be bullsh*t.’
Acknowledgments
To my Mum, who inspired the relationship and dialogue between my female characters.
To my Aunt, who inspired my character’s occupation as a mechanical engineer.
To the incredible women in history and today, whose experiences helped inspire those of my characters.
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