Category: yesallwomen

On Abuse, Beauty Standards: “Blueberry Scones”

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Content warning: abuse 

Blueberry scones.  Louise recalled her mother baking them fragrant and buttery every Sunday morning.  They left flour trails on the good porcelain dishware and corners of her mouth as they dined on the lawn.  Their necks sheltered by the limbs of the poplar tree.  Louise would blush with the heady kisses of the blueberries and peals of laughter.  The poplar bared its fruits in that space, though its trunk was slim and its leaves almost translucent.

The air in the house took on an electrified vibe when he started coming around.  In the parlour under definite drawls of “honey,” the coffee was bitter but jarring.  It pooled black and inky as it rested on her knees.  Back straight as she perched on the sofa, her lips painted cherry red to match her mothers.  Daytime appearances seamlessly folded into nightly visits.  Dresses were ironed carefully each time; their clean A-lines improved by the hundreds of tummy toners performed every morning.  He brought new sound to the house too; concertos of harsh shouts that didn’t echo beyond the starched, checkered curtains. Her mother’s eyes shone like slivers of wet jewels- any drips that touched her cheeks wiped clean and painted over with cream-coloured powder.  Tender spots of bruised flesh could be covered by wool as autumn closed in.

The ruts in her mother’s chin grew deeper and her mouth settled in placidity.

“I am making this work for us”, a mantra repeated as she pinched the earrings tight on her lobes and pulled her hair taut against her head. A golden egg exposed for the taking.

“It’s better for us to have a man,” she repeated somewhat apologetically as she pulled Louise down street to her ballet classes.

 

____________________________

 

The screams washed over the house that evening.  They rolled over the kitchen mouldings and crashed against the windowpanes.  Louise dashed upstairs- it was time to seek higher ground.  A wild female wail then a teacup flung- it sung as it fractured against the wall.

The dishes continued to fall downstairs.  The crushing sound became definite and dependable, like the merging of orchestrated notes in her ballet classes.

“You’re just gonna do that all night are ya?”

No answer.  Louise heard the front door slam.  Piece after piece, they were hurled at the wall.  She began to feel a rhythm.

Shattering.  Release.  He was gone- all these broken pieces were too difficult to tread on.  She heard sobbing.  The breaking continued.  Alone in her bedroom, Louise started to spin.  The merging of sound, performing under pressure.  Was she straining?  She didn’t think so.  Among the wreck, she felt in her element.  She wasn’t broken – her flesh withstood more than those brittle dishes.  She tilted her head back – a dizzy distancing feeling crept in.  For now she could cope.  Soon enough she would rise from these fragments and pirouette away.

 

word by Keah Hansen

From the author: “The shattered tea cup- with its clean lines and dainty features- made me think of the strain women feel when upholding conventional beauty standards. Its brokenness inspired me to write about an abusive domestic relationship, and an experience of cathartic release for the female characters.  While the mother smashes through her imposed constraints and repels her perpetrator, she is still cloistered within the traditional domestic sphere.”

colour by Fannie Gadouas

“I am an interdisciplinary artist working with photography, fiber arts and performance. My work explores issues pertaining to feminine, identity and experience. By re-appropriating various traditional imagery, techniques and rituals, I question and challenge the way gendered identity is constructed, inherited and perceived in western society. Textiles is, and has traditionally been associated with the feminine realm. Critically engaging with techniques such as weaving, knitting and embroidery allows me to subvert and question my own role as both woman and artist. In this sense, my practice as a whole becomes a performance in which the process holds more relevance than the resulting objects. Informed and greatly influenced by feminist theory, the work I produce is a critical response to the social structure of western society.”

 

taking control of the layers

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Dissension oozed thick, coloured with every shade of emotion; everyone could see that she was loosing form. The angles and contours of her performance were obscured – all precision to the approach had been abandoned. All that was left was a covering-over of that which was covered-over. Her sharp words now muffled and barely audible over the noise of what could be clearly seen as an implosion come undone.

I closed my eyes and put my fingers to my temples and awaited the barrier of silence I had built in my mind to be shattered by the sound of her cries. As her father I had become accustomed to reading the signs and positioning myself to be at the ready should she need me. I primped and prepped and practiced alongside her, but once she stepped out on that stage she was entirely on her own. And here she was, melting into a puddle of pastel-coloured mess, centre-stage, harsh lights ablaze. I sensed amusement on the lips of those around me, and full-bellied brawling laughter was just moments away. I sensed the horror on the faces of the four perfectly coiffed has-beens who spent their every weekend judging the misguided proclivities of young girls whose burgeoning self-worth would be inextricably tied to their looks.

I prepared myself for the unwonted stares, pitiful glances and murmurs of judgment but instead as I made my way towards the stage I found an impressive showing of ingenuity. In what appeared to be the beginning stages of a meltdown, profuse dissension had resolved itself into abundant honesty, a truth so pure that it lacked its typical bite.

Inside the dingy low-budget hotel conference room, in front of pageant parents, child contestants and jaded judges, Noelle begun to confidently rip long pieces of fabric off her dress, and stick them into the spaces between her still first set of teeth. She took the heels of her palms and expertly smeared eye make-up down her face. She ripped her tights, undid her hair and ran around the stage fully committed to portraying the mythical creature in her favourite bedtime tale. In one beautiful act of childhood defiance, Noelle played and pretended, sang and cooed, delivering gibberish prose with Shakespearian gravitas. Laughter escaped the tightly pursed and botoxed lips of the former beauty queen judges and childhood chatter echoed off the walls and lurid drapes.

I was once beyond resentful of spending my every other weekend with the insipid pageant folks, practicing routines and applying fake lashes, but that was all that I could get, so I took it. And Noelle was a wonder on that stage, consistently low-scoring but persistent. And after years of attempted conformity an apparent meltdown unleashed a cacophony of colour and sound, my beautiful girl.

word by Cora-Lee Conway

colour by Zutto

From the author: “A thick, sweet, melt like a human ice cream cone; I kept thinking about the upside to a meltdown… Perhaps also inspired by my location as I write this sitting on the beach in Cuba, melting in the best way.”

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