Lost Cousins and Topsy

How close in relationship does it need to be to be called a cousin? I grew up in a town where I was related to half the people and knew the other half all by name. I stopped worrying about whether we were first, second or twenty-first cousins somewhere in my childhood. If my Mother said someone was a cousin, I took it to mean they were family. Two weeks ago I was sent a message from a lovely lady asking if I could help her with her family tree. She said, 'Tell me about Emmie. I see we are related and I have no information on this person and would like to find out more.' Well, hello. Who the heck is Emmie? I looked at my research information and looked again, nothing at all. When I asked her how we were related, her reply: 'We are 8th cousins.' Well she was incorrect, we are 8th cousins on one line and 5th cousins on another one, but who's counting? If that were the case for family relationships in South Africa, well, I think we can claim to be family to the whole nation. Well almost. And did I find Emmie? No. She is illusive and on no data bank that I can find. She reminded me of Topsy from 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' fame (Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel) when asked about God Topsy said, 'I s'pect I growed. Don't think nobody never made me.' Well Emmie falls into that category. She was never born or married or a parent as far as Government or Church records are concerned. The only thing we have is a gravestone with her birth and death dates. It made me think that in future generations will we be like Topsy and Emmie and leave no noticeable footprint for our descendants to follow? And of course we know that she had children because my dear 8th cousin is her granddaughter. We seem to have a plethora of record taking incidents in our lives. Every time we want to buy or sell, or go on holiday it requires reams of our data to be recorded. Let's hope that this will leave the footprints in the ether that our great great grandchildren can find. Wish me luck finding Emmie, because I do not give up that easily.

And talking about grandchildren, at the moment there are huge complaints about the Government of the day changing the abortion law to allow them to go ahead willy nilly. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not a fan of abortions. But this is political manipulation of the masses to the max and obviously for political gain. I have seen so many of my friends say that they will not be voting for this present government because of this change in the law. Well, hello folks. That law was there during the previous government. The only change our Jacinda has made is that it no longer requires a doctor to pronounce you on the brink of insanity to get one. The previous law said you needed a mental or health reason for a doctor to perform an abortion. And now, it is basically a health reason alone. How is that evil? It has removed the stigma so many women carry with them for their whole lives. In Africa there is a form of restoration and restitution called Ubuntu. Where the offender is taken into the village and surrounded by people they know. And then for a few days they are bombarded by people telling them all the good they have done in their lives. In fact, this process is now the subject of a new family violence treatment here in New Zealand. The victim gets care, but the offender is asked why they did what they did ... and then told how they can avoid it again and told how great they are for trying. They use a form of Ubuntu to highlight the good ... and what do you know, the chance of re-offending is halved in these men. That means less victims, less children caught in the cross-fires and less feelings of guilt from all sides. Why am I being fixated on this at the moment? Well, I have been asked to create some art work for the Family Violence White ribbon programme and it got me thinking about the cycles we sometimes find ourselves in. Perhaps those women who have had abortions needed someone to listen to their concerns and not judge them and this new law allows that to happen. Perhaps the man with his fist up and ready to smash his partner needs our care and not our condemnation. And when someone in the media tells us that we should judge Prime Ministers for listening to their constituents, maybe we can use our brains and figure out if what we are being told is true or are we being manipulated? Me? Well, I don't like manipulation and will certainly be voting for Jacinda this time around. Sorry for the political rant folks, it's an election year and I am thrilled that I live here and not in other places in the world. We are privileged to be living in this country. It is the world version of a private club ... it costs money to join and the things it offers are available to only a select few. Does this make me an elitist? No, just a kiwi in paradise.

There were once three sisters. The first one was beautiful, but she judged herself unworthy from her nose to her chin and from her head to her toes. When people criticised her, she walked away and sulked. She was always sad. The second sister was smart and clever, talented and fashionable. But she was never quite good enough. There was usually someone who was more talented, more beautiful or whatever than her. And this made her really angry and mad. Her favourite saying was 'Life isn't fair'. The third sister couldn't keep a tune, wore strange clothes that made people laugh at her and she was definitely not the smartest cookie in the box. She found joy in life and was often glad that she was alive. She sang at the top of her lungs and laughed and cried and twirled around in her crazy clothes to her heart's content. Which sister do I want to be? When they reached the end of their mortal lives each sister died either sad, mad or glad. We have a choice on how we perceive life and how we allow it to control our emotions. I am a mixture of the three sisters. Sometimes I judge myself harshly and am sad. At other times I do feel that life is not fair. But there are times where I sing at the top of my lungs, out of tune and happy with life. This week I had my spouting/gutters cleaned out. A man and his son came and climbed ladders and shook their heads at the terrible state of affairs on my roof. My house is 70 years old and has roof tiles that are 'decorated' with sand. Sadly ... which makes me mad ... the sand has sloughed off over the generations and is now residing in my spouting ... in a thick gunky layer. This has meant that my down pipes are blocked and the water pours over the sides of my spouting and is rotting my facias. Life is not fair, why was Barry not here to sort this mess out? A simple and cheap job became a mammoth task. And all this happened during one of the coldest, wettest, windiest weeks of the Winter. I sat here wondering how this would affect my bank balance and decided that I can choose if I am mad, sad or glad. And I was glad that there were men on my roof and not myself. I was happy that they were getting the job done. Did I sing? No. The poor men had gone through enough drama without my adding to it. At the start they had quoted me a fee ... which was reasonable for an hour's work. Four hours later and I was chewing my nails to the quick, when Daddy drain cleaner said, 'No, we quoted and if we misread the situation, then it was our fault.' What? Did I hear that right? And yes, I was not only glad, I was excited and happy and pleased as punch and so was my bank balance.

I watched a doco about Jeffrey Epstein this week. Good grief. How on earth was he allowed to continue for so long with his evil predatory behaviour? They discussed his supposed suicide on the show and apparently the ligature marks on his neck do not match someone who has hung himself. The hyoid bone was broken and that only happens in a homicide. Someone didn't want him telling his dirty little secrets to the world. Do I think that Ubuntu would have helped in this situation? Well, no. He thought what he was doing was acceptable because so many other rich and powerful men enabled him. Would he have changed if he had received psychological help? No idea. He started his life buying stamps and getting his neighbour to pay for them... without the neighbour's consent. Which in my book is stealing. Then he stole from people who tried to help him in life ... fraud ... and got them to pay for his crimes without any feelings of remorse. Despicable. And then he abused young girls and calls it 'non-consensual sex' ... which is rape. The way some folk manipulate words ... grrrr. I wonder if he is a cousin? Let's hope not. And I do wonder if he was glad about his choices, or was he one of those folks who think that life owes them a favour? Sorry mate, life is not fair, but in your case, you got your just desserts in the end. Sad, mad or whatever, I am happy he is no longer preying on young women.

Love

Pat

PS: This is the poem I have written for the White Ribbon art show: I am not a great poet ... not even a mediocre one ... but I woke up at midnight with these words in my head and had to write them down before they vanished into the night

The Scars on my Soul

The scars on my soul are hidden from view,

My smiles covers a hurt I cannot share with you.

When you ask how I am,

Don't be surprised if I lie.

But the concern in your eyes, shines a light,

That lifts me up and penetrates the gloom.

There may come a time when I reach out

And ask for help to heal my fears,

And to wipe out the residue of what I endured.