One of those weird memories bobbed to the surface. One of my jobs as a child was to polish my father's shoes. Not just the Sunday shoes along with the rest of the family shoes, which would have been fine. Not like it was an onerous task in itself, and if I'd been responsible for both parents, brothers and my shiny Sunday footwear, no sweat. But I had to stick my hands in the shoes of the man I detested, the ones he wore everyday to the factory. To SHINE them. Rubbed in the hatred, ground in the resentment. Like having to iron his handkerchiefs and later shirts. And had to do it all well, or bear the consequences.
Like most kids, I certainly didn't like chores, and needed reminding and urging. But I don't think I was worse than most, and vacuumed, washed dishes, did laundry, stoked the furnace, took out garbage, pulled weeds and cut grass, although I had few mandatory daily tasks. The shoe cleaning struck at the heart of me. Both because it was an unpleasant sort of intimacy, and because it seemed so utterly pointless.
My mother claimed a kind of pride that when both boys were in school, she ironed "21 white shirts every week!" A load of work, that upon examination seems ridiculous. They had to have freshly ironed white shirts on Saturday? They couldn't have learned to iron them, or at least the older one by the time both were in school? I was ironing shirts by the time I was nine, why not my older brother, at least? The mandatory white shirt was in it's last years, save for catholic school uniforms. Again, though, my father worked in a factory. Changed clothes as soon as he got to work, put back on when his shift ended, but he needed a white, perfectly ironed shirt? Every day, plus Saturday? Really? And shiny shoes? And perfectly ironed snot rags?
My childhood anger was well fed. Taught me hard lessons in what is important, what I want my life to be about, and what I don't want it to be defined by. Ironing every few weeks, out of love and respect, is a very different experience. We don't have shoes that need kiwi.
The anger starves, these days.
6 comments:
I was generally pretty good about chores, though I never had to do anything like shining shoes. Cleaning my room, or the public rooms in the house was okay, vacuuming, shoveling snow, raking leaves, mowing lawn. I don't remember actively hating any of these things the way you describe that one chore you had to do. So far we have only been able to get our eldest child to do chores in fits and starts.
word verification: ovegan
Irish vegetarian.
having similar duties in my own life, i understand this post on a visceral level!
I think some people internalise these things so much as important without actually asking themselves why (or if) they matter.
Phil,
Chores at home are important, sure makes it easier to keep one's own apartment clean growing up with the practice.
Sky,
Yeah, I think parents need to think about what chores they give their kids, the ones that not only help the family, but are part of teaching.
Pacian,
I'm sure you are exactly correct. Most people don't think, period.
My mum had a friend who used to boast that when she had period pains she would get down on her knees and scrub the kitchen floor. Now maybe that was beneficial exercise for her but it always seemed to me a rather sinister kind of self-loathing and masochism.
My dad used to clean the family shoes, it was done cheerfully as a kind of offering. It can be a nice thing to do, but you're right, it's very intimate and should never be demanded of anyone.He also did the ironing, though sometimes he burned things a bit.
Lucy,
What a wonderful dad, scorches included. Likewise, I rather like that my ironing skills can come in handy for me to iron D's shirts. Not really work at all, done lovingly.
I've heard of the floor scrubbing of women going into labor, which does put the babe in a better position. Not sure how that would help with regular cramps, though.
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