Compelling History Is Remembered By Scholars
We have all heard Winston Churchill's aggressive, patriarchally-inspired declaration "History is written by the victors". However, this is one of THE most misquoted, misrepresented quotes in history. "History will be kind to me, I intend to write it" is the more accurate quote. Spoken by the man who was leader of a country bombed out during the second World War, I would not call that 'victorious'. But what if you were given a glimpse of the portions of history 'remembered' by scholars?
We gathered in North Carolina this weekend to 'cheer' on my niece (the one I refer to as "Little Me") in her first Cheerleading Competition. Out of the pool of potentials (read: eighteen nieces and nephews), only five have attempted to participate in cheerleading (all females) and only three have stuck with it. 'Little Me' is the one who sees cheerleading from the competitive athletic perspective I have held for years. Not content to simply be "adorable" in her uniform, she elected to participate in this competition, with her cheer coach's blessing and encouragement. My oldest brother came, bringing his silent apology to me, under the guise of bringing my niece "C" to cheer on my younger niece. I am not being self-important: my oldest brother is not related to my older sister and her children except through me. He is my father's oldest son, born before my mother and father joined together to make me; even before my mother bore my older sister. He is not a talker (or an apologizer, to be sure), and I am more greatly influenced by my maternal family's form of communication. We refer to it as 'random speak': we will tie several subjects to a primary subject, indirectly informing (or boring) the listener with more information than was originally solicited. If you haven't noticed that happens a great deal in my blog posts!
The reason for my brother's remorse? His callous handling of the situation concerning my posssession of our father's ring and the fire that destroyed the majority of my personal property. Our phone conversation began with me attempting to assure him that I was not harmed and safe; it ended with me sobbing and feeling unworthy of a family heirloom. The actual tone of the conversation made me feel as though I were speaking with a more lucid and intimidating Golem from "Lord of The Rings". So I ended up FedEx-ing the ring overnight back to Ohio ("MY precious!"). This ring was purchased in a store in Dublin; it bears my family's crest. There were many crests, as the surname is 'popular' to be sure, but my father and his father did the legwork and the research to find out which was truly OUR family's crest. While in my possession, I would absent-mindedly run a fingertip across the eagles' heads of the crest and my father's name imprinted on the inside of this solid and heavy ring. I wore it around my neck on a chain. The weight never mattered, only the gravity of the symbolism. So when my brother, who had gone with my father and grandfather ("Da") on the Heritage Tour, allowed me to bring the ring with me to North Carolina from Ohio, I was overjoyed. Then, he demanded it back.
My mother (not his biological mother) was not pleased. Knowing how I was denied permission to join them on their heritage tour, she felt I was wounded harshly indeed. I suppose I have gotten over this a bit better than she. As she looked at the ring on his right ring finger, she ran her thumb over the indented crest. "Funny...I believe heirlooms like this should be given to those denied other advantages of heritage." My brother was wounded and furrowed his brow, but would not let her get the best of him in front of his wife and children. "You couldn't mean M.~! She is the only one with our father's freckles and red hair!" We all laughed uncomfortably and began discussing other things. I knew my mother was also referring to my growning up with her maiden name. My father believed I would "just grow up, marry and change (my) name anyway" as he put it. His family's last name was for his male children, of which he had three. Never imagine I was TOO neglected...but being "The Princess" in the tower is sometimes lonely and oppressive.
As I later helped my mother hang her clothing in her hotel closet, I saw a shirt that reminded me of one I'd bought for a former coworker. "I should call Zuly and see how she is doing!" I remarked. My mother's head swung around, "Zuly?!" I answered timidly, "Yes...her name is Zuleyka-" "Z-u-l-e-i-k-a?" "No. A 'Y' instead of an 'I'-" "Where is she from?" I had no clue why my mother seemed so stunned and manic, "Boricua...why?" My mother had gone to Puerto Rico when I was very young to help the women of the country defend themselves against what she and others deemed a form of religious oppression and culturally-geared population control. For years, the poorer, less educated, mostly Catholic women of the island were being duped into getting tubaligations and some were given hysterectomies, having signed consent forms in English and they were barely literate in Spanish. My mother- herself fluent in Spanish- upon her return (fluent in Puerto Rican culture), felt it was respectful to refer to Puerto Rico by it's historic name, Boricua. "Have you been in Mommie's purse?", it never unnerved me that my mother referred to herself in the third person to her children until now. I chuckled, "Not YET, why?" "I have a movie I want you to see...", then smiling to herself she said to her camel hair blazer as she unpacked it, "I SWEAR that girl is psychic." To be sure, I am not! I believe I might be...intuitive at very random times; homing in on cues from those around me, but never psychic. The movie she had to show me was a DVD of the movie "Zuzu Angel" (2006), the story of the life and death of international fashion designer Zuleika Angel Jones.
For those of you who believe the only Brazilian Fashion Revolution involved models, you must search Youtube.com for footage of Zuzu Angel's 1970s New York Fashion show that became the first recognizable political protest fashion show; a tribute to her son Stuart who was a political torture victim. Brazil is historically notable for it's progressive economy...but then there is the story the scholars wrote, of political revolts of various affliations lasting until the mid-1980s. I will admit, like so many others, I learned only what our government placed in books concerning Brazil; our countries temperamental ties with the progressive but oppressive military-based governments ruling Brazil from the 1930s until the 1980s would dictate that that would be the case. Just after watching "Zuzu Angel" I researched as thoroughly as I could that time in Brazil's history. I was saddened that I was so ignorant. I could sit here and type information about the union between the elite-wealthy and the miltary; the era of Vargas; the oppression of labor under fears of socialism; Branco's initiation of democratic balance without a total revolt against the military; etc. but I urge you to feed your own brain and develop your own perspectives, just as my mother did when she showed me this film. I will leave off by saying that, for a woman who began as an apolitical, rags-to-riches fashion icon, Zuzu Angel has now joined the illustrious ranks of the 'Evolutionaries' I admire and the Mothers of Tragedy I adore. Her suspicious death adds her to the list of those I pray for November second...
After the competition my mother and I encouraged my niece to tote around her trophy and re-enact her cheer formations. As we did my brother found his way over to me. "How can I show you how sorry I am? How can I apoogize?" His heart was truly pained, yet my mother could not help sticking the knife in deeper. "If you're really sorry, buy her Bulgari!" Her answer was so contrived and shallow, my brother and I both laughed! "You know how you can apologize?" I answered sweetly, "You can tell me how it felt to travel to Vancouver, then Ireland with Daddie and Da." "I never told you?!" "No! I guess I was too young for you to talk to about such things. I only remember you bringing back Seona, your wife!"
Familial thoughtlessness is not a crime! But to forget the fatal cause of a family member most assuredly would be. My heart goes out to Zuzu Angel's daughter, a Brazilian journalist that fights for the truth daily. God bless!
We gathered in North Carolina this weekend to 'cheer' on my niece (the one I refer to as "Little Me") in her first Cheerleading Competition. Out of the pool of potentials (read: eighteen nieces and nephews), only five have attempted to participate in cheerleading (all females) and only three have stuck with it. 'Little Me' is the one who sees cheerleading from the competitive athletic perspective I have held for years. Not content to simply be "adorable" in her uniform, she elected to participate in this competition, with her cheer coach's blessing and encouragement. My oldest brother came, bringing his silent apology to me, under the guise of bringing my niece "C" to cheer on my younger niece. I am not being self-important: my oldest brother is not related to my older sister and her children except through me. He is my father's oldest son, born before my mother and father joined together to make me; even before my mother bore my older sister. He is not a talker (or an apologizer, to be sure), and I am more greatly influenced by my maternal family's form of communication. We refer to it as 'random speak': we will tie several subjects to a primary subject, indirectly informing (or boring) the listener with more information than was originally solicited. If you haven't noticed that happens a great deal in my blog posts!
The reason for my brother's remorse? His callous handling of the situation concerning my posssession of our father's ring and the fire that destroyed the majority of my personal property. Our phone conversation began with me attempting to assure him that I was not harmed and safe; it ended with me sobbing and feeling unworthy of a family heirloom. The actual tone of the conversation made me feel as though I were speaking with a more lucid and intimidating Golem from "Lord of The Rings". So I ended up FedEx-ing the ring overnight back to Ohio ("MY precious!"). This ring was purchased in a store in Dublin; it bears my family's crest. There were many crests, as the surname is 'popular' to be sure, but my father and his father did the legwork and the research to find out which was truly OUR family's crest. While in my possession, I would absent-mindedly run a fingertip across the eagles' heads of the crest and my father's name imprinted on the inside of this solid and heavy ring. I wore it around my neck on a chain. The weight never mattered, only the gravity of the symbolism. So when my brother, who had gone with my father and grandfather ("Da") on the Heritage Tour, allowed me to bring the ring with me to North Carolina from Ohio, I was overjoyed. Then, he demanded it back.
My mother (not his biological mother) was not pleased. Knowing how I was denied permission to join them on their heritage tour, she felt I was wounded harshly indeed. I suppose I have gotten over this a bit better than she. As she looked at the ring on his right ring finger, she ran her thumb over the indented crest. "Funny...I believe heirlooms like this should be given to those denied other advantages of heritage." My brother was wounded and furrowed his brow, but would not let her get the best of him in front of his wife and children. "You couldn't mean M.~! She is the only one with our father's freckles and red hair!" We all laughed uncomfortably and began discussing other things. I knew my mother was also referring to my growning up with her maiden name. My father believed I would "just grow up, marry and change (my) name anyway" as he put it. His family's last name was for his male children, of which he had three. Never imagine I was TOO neglected...but being "The Princess" in the tower is sometimes lonely and oppressive.
As I later helped my mother hang her clothing in her hotel closet, I saw a shirt that reminded me of one I'd bought for a former coworker. "I should call Zuly and see how she is doing!" I remarked. My mother's head swung around, "Zuly?!" I answered timidly, "Yes...her name is Zuleyka-" "Z-u-l-e-i-k-a?" "No. A 'Y' instead of an 'I'-" "Where is she from?" I had no clue why my mother seemed so stunned and manic, "Boricua...why?" My mother had gone to Puerto Rico when I was very young to help the women of the country defend themselves against what she and others deemed a form of religious oppression and culturally-geared population control. For years, the poorer, less educated, mostly Catholic women of the island were being duped into getting tubaligations and some were given hysterectomies, having signed consent forms in English and they were barely literate in Spanish. My mother- herself fluent in Spanish- upon her return (fluent in Puerto Rican culture), felt it was respectful to refer to Puerto Rico by it's historic name, Boricua. "Have you been in Mommie's purse?", it never unnerved me that my mother referred to herself in the third person to her children until now. I chuckled, "Not YET, why?" "I have a movie I want you to see...", then smiling to herself she said to her camel hair blazer as she unpacked it, "I SWEAR that girl is psychic." To be sure, I am not! I believe I might be...intuitive at very random times; homing in on cues from those around me, but never psychic. The movie she had to show me was a DVD of the movie "Zuzu Angel" (2006), the story of the life and death of international fashion designer Zuleika Angel Jones.
For those of you who believe the only Brazilian Fashion Revolution involved models, you must search Youtube.com for footage of Zuzu Angel's 1970s New York Fashion show that became the first recognizable political protest fashion show; a tribute to her son Stuart who was a political torture victim. Brazil is historically notable for it's progressive economy...but then there is the story the scholars wrote, of political revolts of various affliations lasting until the mid-1980s. I will admit, like so many others, I learned only what our government placed in books concerning Brazil; our countries temperamental ties with the progressive but oppressive military-based governments ruling Brazil from the 1930s until the 1980s would dictate that that would be the case. Just after watching "Zuzu Angel" I researched as thoroughly as I could that time in Brazil's history. I was saddened that I was so ignorant. I could sit here and type information about the union between the elite-wealthy and the miltary; the era of Vargas; the oppression of labor under fears of socialism; Branco's initiation of democratic balance without a total revolt against the military; etc. but I urge you to feed your own brain and develop your own perspectives, just as my mother did when she showed me this film. I will leave off by saying that, for a woman who began as an apolitical, rags-to-riches fashion icon, Zuzu Angel has now joined the illustrious ranks of the 'Evolutionaries' I admire and the Mothers of Tragedy I adore. Her suspicious death adds her to the list of those I pray for November second...
After the competition my mother and I encouraged my niece to tote around her trophy and re-enact her cheer formations. As we did my brother found his way over to me. "How can I show you how sorry I am? How can I apoogize?" His heart was truly pained, yet my mother could not help sticking the knife in deeper. "If you're really sorry, buy her Bulgari!" Her answer was so contrived and shallow, my brother and I both laughed! "You know how you can apologize?" I answered sweetly, "You can tell me how it felt to travel to Vancouver, then Ireland with Daddie and Da." "I never told you?!" "No! I guess I was too young for you to talk to about such things. I only remember you bringing back Seona, your wife!"
Familial thoughtlessness is not a crime! But to forget the fatal cause of a family member most assuredly would be. My heart goes out to Zuzu Angel's daughter, a Brazilian journalist that fights for the truth daily. God bless!
Labels: guardians of family heirlooms, Stuart Angel Jones, Zuleika Angel Jones
posted by ScreenGoddessComplex at 10:44 AM
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