meikuree

I wrote fic for Nimona (the 2023 film) for

sidewalk reinventions
Nimona (2023)
Gen, Ballister Blackheart | Ballister Boldheart & Nimona, Gloreth & Nimona
Summary:

Nimona, the Best and Most Renowned Shapeshifter in the World, or: a chronicle of the shapes Nimona takes through the years.

I had the graphic novel at home and read it before I loaned it to a young relative for her to read. The film's catered towards kids, so I'm not quite the target audience. but it was a fun casual romp and I'm glad the youth have this. I liked the trans/genderqueer metaphors carried over from the graphic novel, all the animals Nimona could turn into, and I liked the addition of her backstory.

I wrote the fic as an exercise, tbh, to see if I could whip up something in < 5 hours. it's not too polished and I've written steadier things, but I had fun!

I'm slowly sliding into my era of being a late and slow replier to comments -- or rather my preferred way of 'replying' any time someone comments is to read their fic and comment some words of appreciation in turn. my brain is a jellylike amoeba when it comes to talking about my own writing these days, and I find it much easier to gush about other people's writing than my own. ^^;

on reading

books and articles I've finished:

Severance by Ling Ma
Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin
Are You My Mother? by Allison Bechdel
Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton by Linda Gray Sexton
Domestic Heteropessimism by Sarah Brouillette

the last three things in this list touch on mothers in some form or another which makes me go, wow, I sure read a lot of writing about motherhood for someone who doesn't plan to have any children. there's another common thread, which is that they're all books/things written by daughters about their mothers. the most recent one was Domestic Heteropessimism, where I found Brouilette's account of her mother's life, and how her mother tried to apologise to her affecting.

CN for addiction, alcoholism, class inequality, healthcare, and parental death:

Something else, finally, shaped my thinking too, as I was reading Everything for Everyone, and attending "the family problem" seminar, and following the debate about Starr's comics. I was mourning the loss of my own mother, who had died after struggling with alcoholism for a long time.

Visiting my dad in BC soon after, I found a grocery store cake in the fridge, untouched and covered in a hard plastic dome. A novelty ring decorating the top read "Best Mom Ever." She had bought this cake herself, preparing to mark Mother's Day with my brothers perhaps, or maybe it was one of her countless covers: she would drink alone, hiding, and was ashamed to go out just for alcohol. She needed to act as though she had an errand to run, coming home with items she didn't need and never used, hoarding clothing, jewelry, and make up.

I have since spent a lot of time sorting through these items. They have all been lovingly curated, washed and pressed, folded, stored. In a recent reflection on his father's hoarded collections, Jon Day describes the psychology of hoarding as "fecund and generative." Organizing a hoard requires a great deal of labor. "It demands to be handled, shuffled, arranged, rejigged." It gave my mother something to do. Was it a way, also, of preparing for a life she didn't have — ready at any moment to fit an image of what she thought a woman's life should be? Having it all, perhaps. "Best Mom Ever." She felt guilty about not being that person, and responsible. In one common treatment for addiction, you apologize to people you feel you have wronged. My mother told me that she regretted not having more time for me, and not being "fully herself" even when we were together. Only half lying, I told her I was fine. I told her it wasn't her fault.

I blame capitalism, no surprise — but specifically here, its private family household and gendered organization of work. My mother moved with my dad from Ontario to BC in the 1970s, and they soon had me and my two brothers to look after. She trained as a nurse and worked very hard jobs for very little pay. Among these, she did a stint in a hospital for people with severe mental illness; she was a homemaker, caring for disabled and elderly people, helping with housework, shopping, and personal hygiene; and before retirement she was a classroom assistant for children with special needs. She saw a lot of people suffer; she watched some become ill and even die. My dad, meanwhile, earned considerably more money working in an increasingly automated environment at the Pacific Press, printing and distributing Vancouver's daily newspapers.

My mom never spoke to me about the impact that the nature of her work had on her, or the disparities in their incomes, or anything else of that nature. Lost in my own world, I don't recall ever really asking. I think we all felt — my brothers and I, and our friends — like it was normal to be a burden to our parents. They were trapped inside, while we roamed the streets around our townhouse complex, busy with each other. We lived in a large neighborhood with hundreds of families, but the adults, all to our knowledge organized into married heterosexual couples, rarely socialized. Parents all seemed exactly like mine: house after house, after work there were chores to do and then time for a few drinks watching television. We dreaded becoming them, burdened by responsibility and family life. "All the same, but all in isolation," as Michèle Barrett and Mary McIntosh described in The Anti-Social Family, in which they lament naturalization of the idea that biological parents are alone responsible for their children's wellbeing.

that's all for now -- hope you're all doing good!