Retreat with a difference

An alternative title for this post is ‘even slower’. I wrote and rewrote it several times. I sat with it and worried over its gloom. I thought about it at work, at home and in hospital with my daughter. She has been here for almost two weeks now, as we aim to get better understanding and control over her seizures. This feels like a positive step, but it has been hard to find a positive way to frame this post.

During this time, I have (mostly) been on leave from work—a big shout out to awesome colleagues who have taken over key responsibilities such as staff induction—but I have continued to write. I finished the first draft of a chapter (due today), submitted five abstracts for conferences and journal special issues (several of them with co-authors), and responded to some copy-editing queries on another book chapter. Some caveats: being able to take leave is a privilege. Hospitalisations looked very different when I was a casual staff member (student evaluation from that time: “I liked this course but I got the impression that Agnes didn’t really want to be here”). Writing has also been possible because I am not staying in hospital every night, but have shared shifts with my partner, mother and mother-in-law.

Last year I wrote a post on working during difficult times. These were (meant to be) short-term strategies. When the crisis situation continues for longer than anticipated, when normal is redefined, when you start to think that this might be your indefinite future, the strategies need rethinking. Things that suffer: the tasks and projects you know will improve your self and your life. Half tongue-in-cheek, these might include decluttering, trying new recipes, practising mindful listening, cultivating family rituals, or building a new habit. And the activities that require care, time and planning start to fall away (organising a party for a soon-to-be five year old, for example).

There are good things here: therapy dogs, clown doctors, volunteers who have mastered the art of small talk, thoughtful rooming that puts us with other 11 and 12 year olds with epilepsy, and a lot of time spent waiting. My writing has adapted to the circumstances. I have practiced a method of ‘thinking through writing’ or ‘writing along the way’—“writing that is intended to sort out what we think, why, and what the implications of a line of thought might be” (Thomson & Kamler, 2010, p 149). I have also been doing a lot of ‘reading alongside writing’ and finding ways to acknowledge the intertexts that are usually not cited. (This is also one of the ideas we talked about as the spirit of research —we also mentioned the music we listen to while writing).

This doesn’t look like an ideal writing retreat but, with a laptop, it works for now:

Image result for westmead children's hospital

Image result for westmead children's hospital

Related image

Where we are

EC892284-06A6-41EE-8984-6364510C3C07.jpegUntil now I have been a creature of habit around the university. I regularly eat the same meals at a couple of places. I sit in the same spot during committee meetings. I take familiar paths between the car park, meeting rooms, cafes and my office.  I have done so repeatedly and unseeingly. I have treated my university as a non-place.

This is changing.

Once or twice a week my daughter comes to work with me. Her epilepsy is better controlled than a couple of months ago (with three to five seizures a day) but, on four medications, she is very tired. She has managed two hours of school per week (one morning only) for a couple of weeks with mixed success. She will not be returning to full-time schooling this year.

Her illness changes time. There is a lot of waiting with epilepsy. It also changes how I experience the space of the university. She likes to walk a different route every day. She notices things — like the door identification plates in my building.

IMG_0809

We are walking the campus, visiting its museums and art gallery (I recommend the current mermaids exhibition for those nearby), discussing brutalist architecture, and admiring the sculptures, gardens and birds. I feel more aware of my surroundings and my location than ever before. This week we are in Canberra, shadowing my daughter’s school excursion, and being somewhere new certainly primes our noticing skills.

Ragged schooling

My 11 year old daughter has missed six weeks of school this term as a result of her uncontrolled epilepsy. We are slowly getting there and hoping for a gradual return next term, starting with one hour and working up to half days. It will be some time before she is able to renew the frenetic pace of after school and extra-curricular activities. In the meantime, she is having regular tutoring from a generous neighbour and we are spending a lot of time in each other’s company. (She is next to me as I write this post).

Together we are reading one of my favourite childhood books: Ruth Park’s Playing Beatie Bow. (Written over thirty years ago, it tells the story of 15 year old Sydney resident Abigail who travels back in time to The Rocks in 1873). Here is a glimpse into the history of The Rocks in a 360° video (use your mouse or tracker pad to rotate the view and see ragged children in the streets):

This passage about Beatie’s schooling struck me:

The younger child was such a fierce homely creature, the eyes so bright and intelligent, the small thin hands crooked as though they would claw the eyes out of life itself.

‘You’ve got plenty of brains,’ said Abigail.

‘Aye,’ said Beatie suspiciously. ‘And what brings you to say that?’

‘Because I think you want to do other things besides learn how to feather-stitch and drop curtseys to rude rich old hags at the Ragged School.’

Beatie’s tawny eyes glittered. ‘True enough. I want to learn Greek and Latin like the boys. And geography. And algebra. And yet I’ll never. [My brother] Gibbie will learn them afor me, and he’s next to a mumblepate!’

‘But why?’ asked Abigail.

‘Why, why?’ cried Beatie. ‘Because I’m a girl, that’s why, and girls canna become scholars. Not unless their fathers are rich, and most of their daughters are learnt naught but how to dabble in paints, twiddle on the painoforte, and make themselves pretty for a good match!’

I did some further reading about Ragged Schools, including this fascinating history (which challenges Park’s representation—apparently boys would not have studied Greek, Latin and algebra). The term ‘ragged school’ was adopted from the British model—I would love to visit this museum!—but also served to ensure only the neediest students attended:

The Ragged Schools by their very name were somewhere to be avoided if at all possible. The term ‘ragged school’ was used as a deterrent to those who could afford to avoid its associations of dirt, filth, poverty and disrepute. Accordingly, there are no ex-student organisations, or proud school histories, and records are scarce. Despite the chances that a Ragged School education may have given them, or the practical help they may have received, it remains an experience that some would rather forget (Henrich, 2013, 62).

Image result for Henrich ragged school

(Image source)

Reading Playing Beatie Bow inspired conversations about educating girls, Malala’s story and our family history.

My paternal grandmother did not attend school past 12 or 13 (nor did my paternal grandfather). As family lore has it, her teachers cried to lose such a clever girl. My grandparents became strong advocates for education; both their sons (and their grand-daughter in turn) went on to get doctorates.

In a neat intertextuality, my grandmother’s name, like Ruth Park’s heroine, was Beatrice (and by some accounts she could be described as both intelligent and homely). She certainly had small hands—and I am thankful to have inherited them—as this was my Christmas present last year. My grandmother’s watch (a “nice Swiss made aspirational middle class watch” according to the repairer) restored as a bracelet with her photo and a necklace with the (now working) movements visible at the back:

IMG_0848IMG_0849

My daughter is incredulous and indignant that girls could be denied an education. She is desperate to return to school. (She is also quite taken with ‘mumblepate’ as an insult).