allison theresa

A daughter often separates herself from her mother to then become her mother; but that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of daughters and the true nature of mothers unsolved. For in this initial conception of separation and becoming, the daughter ceases to be, her self simply the sketch on top of which a portrait of her mother is painted. Any daughter will tell you this is not the case, that though their womanhood certainly resembles that of their mothers, they are, in fact, themselves. And thus I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion— daughters and their mothers remain, so far as I am concerned, enigmatic entities. But in order to make some amends I am going to do what I can to show you how I arrived at this opinion about the room in a mother’s home. 

 and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions—women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems. But in order to make some amends I am going to do what I can to show you how I arrived at this opinion about the room and the money.

Here, then, I was (call me daughter, sister, mother, grandmother or by any name you please—it is not a matter of importance) sitting at my desk a week or two ago in fine October weather, lost in thought. That topic I have spoken of, daughters and their mothers, the need of coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of memory and trauma, bowed my head to the page. To the right and left books of some sort, written by daughters and mothers mostly, watched over my task, even seemed to vibrate in tandem. 

Here then was I (call me Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael or by any name you please—it is not a matter of any importance) sitting on the banks of a river a week or two ago in fine October weather, lost in thought. That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of prejudices and passions, bowed my head to the ground. To the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the colour, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire.

The first thought, glittering like a minnow in an otherwise still pond, was one of my own room in my mother’s home. Painted pale purple on my request, my room felt like an extension of me. There below the tiny tv was my collection of half-finished journals and ripped-out Seventeen pages. There on top of the book shelf was the bridal Barbie given to me for being a flower girl and the Princess Diana Beanie Baby in its plastic case. There, on the floorboard of the closet, was the spot I’d carved my own name with a pink thumbtack. 

Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. I will not trouble you with that thought now, though if you look carefully you may find it for yourselves in the course of what I am going to say. 

But the minnow of this thought wiggled deeper into the murk of my memory. It darted away as another, slower moving, larger thought came into vision. 

But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the mysterious property of its kind—put back into the mind, it became at once very exciting, and important; and as it darted and sank, and flashed hither and thither, set up such a wash and tumult of ideas that it was impossible to sit still. 

My mother in her own room in her mother’s home. She told stories of her rooms in the house I knew only as a treasure trove of antique oddities. She called her room “The Swamp,” a garage converted into a bedroom with sliding glass doors in place of the metal ones and a heavy wooden door opening into the kitchen. The carpet, a low-pile olive green, and the two steps down from the hall gave the room its name. 

It was thus that I found myself walking with extreme rapidity across a grass plot. Instantly a man's figure rose to intercept me. Nor did I at first understand that the gesticulations of a curious-looking object, in a cut-away coat and evening shirt, were aimed at me. His face expressed horror and indignation. Instinct rather than reason came to my help, he was a Beadle; I was a woman. This was the turf; there was the path. Only the Fellows and Scholars are allowed here; the gravel is the place for me. Such thoughts were the work of a moment. 

The room appears in my memory as a cold space with a queen bed crowded by stacks of records, boxes of fabric scraps, and rinsed milk bottles from my grandmother’s childhood dairy farm days. On this bed wrapped in blankets that smelled like forgotten dust, my mom read a book to my brother and me titled What is Heaven? the day before my granddad’s funeral. 

As I regained the path the arms of the Beadle sank, his face assumed its usual repose, and though turf is better walking than gravel, no very great harm was done. The only charge I could bring against the Fellows and Scholars of whatever the college might happen to be was that in protection of their turf, which has been rolled for 300 years in succession they had sent my little fish into hiding. 

In the swish of the tail of this thought it struck me that in that moment, she sat in her own room on her own bed as both a mother and a daughter. My grandmother, in some other room of the house mourning the loss of her husband, looms in the periphery of this memory. She is the daughter my mom made a mother. 

But for women, I thought, looking at the empty shelves, these difficulties were infinitely more formidable. In the first place, to have a room of her own, let alone a quiet room or a sound- proof room, was out of the question, unless her parents were exceptionally rich or very noble, even up to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Since her pin money, which depended on the goodwill of her father, was only enough to keep her clothed, she was debarred from such alleviations as came even to Keats or Tennyson or Carlyle, all poor men, from a walking tour, a little journey to France, from the separate lodging which, even if it were miserable enough, sheltered them from the claims and tyrannies of their families. 

The thought swam deeper and lead me to this: for my grandmother to have had a room of her own, was out of the question. Her parents weren’t exceptionally rich or noble, even up to the beginning of her adulthood when she bought her wedding dress and china set. Since her money, which depended on the goodwill of her father, was only enough to keep her clothed, she was barred from such alleviations as came even to Charlie or Eddie or all her brothers, from a walk alone, from a little journey out of town, from separate housing which, even if it were miserable enough, sheltered them from the claims and tyrannies of their family and allowed them the privilege of becoming men instead of women.

But for women, I thought, looking at the empty shelves, these difficulties were infinitely more formidable. In the first place, to have a room of her own, let alone a quiet room or a sound- proof room, was out of the question, unless her parents were exceptionally rich or very noble, even up to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Since her pin money, which depended on the goodwill of her father, was only enough to keep her clothed, she was debarred from such alleviations as came even to Keats or Tennyson or Carlyle, all poor men, from a walking tour, a little journey to France, from the separate lodging which, even if it were miserable enough, sheltered them from the claims and tyrannies of their families. 

As a woman who is seeking an autonomous selfhood, I have no tradition behind me, or one so short and partial that it is of little help to my understanding of my self. But we think back through our mothers if we are women. 

But whatever effect discouragement and criticism had upon their writing—and I believe that they had a very great effect—that was unimportant compared with the other difficulty which faced them (I was still considering those early nineteenth-century novelists) when they came to set their thoughts on paper—that is that they had no tradition behind them, or one so short and partial that it was of little help. For we think back through our mothers if we are women. 

The rooms differ so completely; they are calm or thunderous; open on to the street, or, on the contrary, give on to a dairy farm; are hung with washing; or alive with tarot cards and crystals; are hard as horse-hair or soft as feathers—one has only to go into any room in any street for the whole of that extremely complex force of feminine identity to fly in one’s face. Our rooms, in some sense, are ourselves.

The rooms differ so completely; they are calm or thunderous; open on to the sea, or, on the contrary, give on to a prison yard; are hung with washing; or alive with opals and silks; are hard as horse- hair or soft as feathers—one has only to go into any room in any street for the whole of that extremely complex force of femininity to fly in one's face. How should it be otherwise?

Sometimes I ask my mother about what she remembers and it shocks me that it is so little. For all the dinners are cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children sent to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it. And the mother memoirs, without meaning too, inevitably lie. 

And if one asked her, longing to pin down the moment with date and season, but what were you doing on the fifth of April 1868, or the second of November 1875, she would look vague and say that she could remember nothing. For all the dinners are cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children sent to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it. And the novels, without meaning to, inevitably lie. 

The scene, if I may ask you to follow me back to the room in October with the books, was now changed. The sun was setting slightly and its golden light cast a haze over my task. On the desk in front of me was a blank sheet of paper on which was written in large letters MY ROOM IN MY MOTHER’S HOME, but no more. A swarm of questions started. What of mothers who are always around? Of daughters who are like them and also not like them? Of the shared and separate selves that constitute every mother and daughter?—a thousand questions at once suggested themselves. But one needed answers, not questions; and an answer was only to be had by consulting the learned and the unprejudiced, who have removed themselves above the strife of tongue and the confusions of body and issued the result of their reasoning and research in books which were to be found scattered around me. If truth is not to be found in these volumes, where, I asked myself, picking up a notebook and pen, is truth?

The scene, if I may ask you to follow me, was now changed. The leaves were still falling, but in London now, not Oxbridge; and I must ask you to imagine a room, like many thousands, with a window looking across people's hats and vans and motorcars to other windows, and on the table inside the room a blank sheet of paper on which was written in large letters WOMEN AND FICTION, but no more. For that visit to Oxbridge and the luncheon and the dinner had started a swarm of questions. Why did men drink wine and women water? Why was one sex so prosperous and the other so poor? What effect has poverty on fiction? What conditions are necessary for the creation of works of art?—a thousand questions at once suggested themselves. But one needed answers, not questions; and an answer was only to be had by consulting the learned and the unprejudiced, who have removed themselves above the strife of tongue and the confusion of body and issued the result of their reasoning and research in books which are to be found in the British Museum. If truth is not to be found on the shelves of the British Museum, where, I asked myself, picking up a notebook and a pencil, is truth? 

Thus provided, thus confident and enquiring, I set out in the pursuit of truth.

Thus provided, thus confident and enquiring, I set out in the pursuit of truth. 

I read the books and wrote down quote after quote. I watched interviews with women talking about their art and their mothers. When I’d exhausted my printed and digital resources, I cornered friends at bars to ask them about their mothers. Every woman had a story for me. One told me of her mother’s incessant need to know where her daughter was at all times and the demand they spend more time together. One told me of the secrets her mother kept from her, despite her daughter knowing what her mother was hiding. One told me of her mother’s prodding words about being too thin, about not eating well, and a hypocritical complaint about smoking cigarettes. 

All this was to the good. But no abundance of sensation or fineness of perception would avail unless she could build up out of the fleeting and the personal the lasting edifice which remains unthrown. I had said that I would wait until she faced herself with 'a situation'. And I meant by that until she proved by summoning, beckoning and getting together that she was not a skimmer of surfaces merely, but had looked beneath into the depths. 

Now, in these stories my friends would realize at a certain moment that, without doing anything violent, she could show me the meaning of all of this. And she would begin — how unmistakable that quickening is! — beckoning and summoning and there would rise up in her memory, half forgotten, perhaps quite trivial things she shared with her mother. And she would make her mother’s presence felt, and I would feel, as she went on telling, as if she’d led me to the top of the world and show it laid out, majestically, beneath. Her mother. Her self. Her love. Her frustration. Her space within her mother’s home. 

Now is the time, she would say to herself at a certain moment, when without doing anything violent I can show the meaning of all this. And she would begin—how unmistakable that quickening is!—beckoning and summoning, and there would rise up in memory, half forgotten, perhaps quite trivial things in other chapters dropped by the way. And she would make their presence felt while someone sewed or smoked a pipe as naturally as possible, and one would feel, as she went on writing, as if one had gone to the top of the world and seen it laid out, very majestically, beneath. 

In these stories, of which my versions you’ve read in this collection, the teller forgets that their mother is also a daughter, their stories filled with that curious quality which comes only when one’s identity is unconscious of itself. 

The freedom to define oneself apart from one’s mother depends upon material separation and simultaneous acknowledgement of an inevitable sameness. Becoming a woman depends on this freedom, the freedom to hold these two things together in the same space. And women, all humans really, have always been poor in this area, not for two hundred years merely, but from the beginning of time. 

…she had—I began to think—mastered the first great lesson; she wrote as a woman, but as a woman who has forgotten that she is a woman, so that her pages were full of that curious sexual quality which comes only when sex is unconscious of itself. 

It is true that all humans begin as their mothers, a mix of cells nestled in a velvet underground of our mothers’ bodies. It is our very first home, the placental organ grown just our size, the cells that are our mother and the cells that are not, the resources that travel through our mothers to nourish us and sustain us until the alchemy of human life has finished and we are ready to separate. For the process of birth is a process of separation, the first of many that will begin to constitute the self. When a baby is born, they are cut from their mother and thus become a self. 

…for here begins the freedom of the mind, or rather the possibility that in the course of time the mind will be free to write what it likes. For now that Aphra Behn had done it, girls could go to their parents and say, You need not give me an allowance; I can make money by my pen. Of course the answer for many years to come was, Yes, by living the life of Aphra Behn! Death would be better!

In the same way our first home is the womb, so too is our first self our mother’s self. As we attempt to define that self, we encounter a tangle of intangible umbilical cords that we must decide what to do with. For those who are socialized as men, their development often demands a swift and complete severance of these cords. None of the tenderness, blood, or femininity is allowed in them. For those who are socialized as women (or who identify as women), their development is often contingent on a surgically accurate assessment of which severances one can survive and which ones must remain tethered. For women, it is their mother’s model of tenderness, blood-management, and femininity they are expected to replicate. The process of becoming a woman requires one to necessarily be in connection with one’s mother while also separating from one’s mother, in other words, occupying their own room in their mother’s home. 

Even so, the very first sentence that I would write here, I said, crossing over to the writing-table and taking up the page headed Women and Fiction, is that it is fatal for anyone who writes to think of their sex. It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-womanly. It is fatal for a woman to lay the least stress on any grievance; to plead even with justice any cause; in any way to speak consciously as a woman. And fatal is no figure of speech; for anything written with that conscious bias is doomed to death. It ceases to be fertilized. Brilliant and effective, powerful and masterly, as it may appear for a day or two, it must wither at nightfall; it cannot grow in the minds of others. Some collaboration has to take place in the mind between the woman and the man before the art of creation can be accomplished.

That is why I have laid so much stress on a room of one’s own in her mother’s home. 

That is why I have laid so much stress on money and a room of one's own. 

I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of becoming your mother, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exalted, but also do not dream of becoming not-your-mother. Think of things in themselves. Your room in your mother’s home. Your mother’s room in her mother’s home. And so on. 

I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exalted. Think of things in themselves. 

My belief is that if we live another century or so and all have rooms of our own in our mother’s homes; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage of connection; if we escape a little from the shadow of our mothers and see ourselves not always in relation to them but in relation to our less binary reality; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go along and that our responsibility is to the world of reality and not only to the world of our mothers, then the opportunity will come to become a new kind of woman. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her mother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born she shall find it possible to live as herself and also love her mother, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work on ourselves as daughters, even in vagueness and obscurity to our own mothers, is worthwhile. 

For my belief is that if we live another century or so—I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals—and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting-room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton's bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare's sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would he impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.