Atleast once a year my husband brings up the topic of ‘Life after Death’…to be exact my life after his death…and he renews instructions on what I should do. This year, watching his brow furrow and hearing him say , “I worry about you sweetheart…what will you do?”, I thought what will happen to him if I’m gone before him , which is quite possible given that I’m not immortal. So I said, “Let’s talk about how you’ll manage if I died”. He just shrugged and said , “I don’t worry about myself”. That got me thinking on the insignificance of my labor and how it’s easily replaceable..because as this post eloquently says, the labour of women has never been valued and made available free.
I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”
Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this…
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