DAY 8 - Foe (21 DAYS OF RAGE)

This is the 8th instalment of a 21 day writing series about maternal rage and anger.

I was at the Barbican at Soheila Sokhanvari’s “Rebel Rebel” show, holding my toddler in my arms and trying to contain him so he didn’t wreck any million pound artworks. That day I was trying to feed my soul and not be relegated to an art-free life because I had dared to procreate.

It’s always a gamble. People who take their kids to see art in cities know that sometimes the staff are super understanding and friendly and relaxed and exhibits are designed with inclusivity in mind. And sometimes you get personnel who freak out or make a face or pressure you with a list of rules you would have followed anyway, or follow you round and basically harass you until you leave.

That day I was holding my son so he could look through a camera that was part of the exhibit, making sure his hands stayed clear, when the nearest staff member turned around and saw us and leapt in the air as if she’d been shot. “No no no,” she said, approaching us, then told me in a very strict voice that he mustn’t touch anything.

First cold jolt of rage, or was it hot? I told her that he was just looking, which she would have seen if she’d actually looked properly. She replied that the exhibition was “not a playground” and that there were plenty of places to play and climb in the main building, which didn’t exactly seem relevant because he was not playing or climbing. Second jolt of rage, my heart pounding. I said that we’d already been in the other area and that now we had come to see this exhibition.

She said yes, well we are making sure everything stays safe in this exhibition which you get to see for free. Third. Hot, definitely hot. Blood up to my eyeballs. In previous times I would have felt the same rage and rolled my eyes and walked away, but this time I walked up to her. My voice felt shaky, maybe anxiety or anger, but when I spoke my voice sounded grounded and clear. I said it was really important for parents to be able to come and see art, that people like her ruin the experience for us, that we have every right to be here.

That was it. I walked away. Afterwards I was thinking how we were all children once. How we are all children still, in some ways. How every artist was a child. About what Soraya Chemaly says about women and anger, that a lot of the time we’ve learned to cry instead of rage and that sometimes, rage is a useful fire, it is clarity, it is important.

I know anger can be righteous, that it's a gift when communicated with and channelled powerfully. It's my responsibility to be angry about many things on behalf of my children. What feels so uncomfortable is the losing it aspect, the way it often seems unfair for children to bear the brunt of it. I know it’s important for my children to see me stand up for things, and maybe it’s also useful for them to see that I have limits to patience, off days, frustrations, many moments of weakness. As my friend Emily said, maybe it is useful for a girl to see a woman who can shout NO. 

Sometimes I worry that they’ll remember angry moments as frequent, even if only in their child’s mind, similarly to the way my daughter tells me they did maths “all day for SIX HOURS” at school and I think she actually believes it. But maybe it matters more how they feel. I think overall they feels ok, more than ok. I think they feel safe and happy and loved. 

At the heart of the fear and shame around anger is this question about enough-ness. Is it good enough, am I good enough? Will they survive unscathed? What could that possibly look like? What are we trying to do here, exactly? Can we trust that we’re enough?