Gwen Tuinman

Tag

womens lives

Women Writing: What Diaries Say About History and Erasure

“This is a female text, composed while folding someone else’s clothes. My mind holds it close, and it grows, tender and slow, while my hands perform innumerable chores.”

 ~ Doireann Ní Ghríofa, A Ghost in the Throat

A Ghost in the Throat, by award-winning poet and essayist Doireann Ní Ghríofa, is a book I highly recommend for its insightful prose that flows seamlessly between memoir, poetic verse, and historical inquiry. It tells the story of turbulent motherhood and Ní Ghríofa’s compulsive re-envisioning of an eighteenth-century woman, Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill, all but erased by history.

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Wandering Wombs, Births and Pessaries: Women’s Health Mansplained Throughout History

Whether we’re anxious about a potential illness or expecting a baby, being cared for by a professional who’s empathetic and inspires our confidence is a comfort. My experience with women healthcare practitioners has been positive. There’s a built-in understanding when I explain how I’m feeling. They’ve never invalidated my concerns.

Women practitioners have treated me as a whole person, not a jumble of body parts.

As a historical fiction author who’s interested in women’s lives, I’m always thinking of the past. This leads me to wonder about the care and understanding that women did—or didn’t receive—from male physicians before the prevalence of licensed female doctors.

I recently read Lisa See’s historical fiction, Lady Tan’s Circle of Women, a story inspired by Tan Yunxian (1461–1554). Tan was one of a few women physicians during China’s Ming Dynasty and the first to publish a medical book. Women doctors and authors faced credibility issues. In the prologue, Tan wrote, “I beg readers’ indulgence and ask that they do not laugh at me.”

In the novel, I was struck by an account of a male doctor caring for a pregnant patient. Male doctors weren’t allowed to touch female patients, nor could married women be treated in the absence of their husbands. With the doctor seated on one side of a screen and the woman on the other, her husband acted as a go-between, posing the doctor’s questions to his wife and then repeating her answers to the doctor.

What quality of treatment did women receive under that kind of restriction?

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On Diaries: Now and Then

My earliest diary memory is the sort popular on the birthday party circuit of my childhood. I never received one as a gift, but I remember looking with envy at those pink puffy covered diaries and their zippered closures. Little girls I knew flashed their miniature padlocks and keys like symbols of their importance.

I attempted a diary on looseleaf paper when I was young. But at the ripe old age of 11, my life was uneventful. My thoughts were all I owned and even then, I felt the risk of committing them to paper.

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Women Grieving: Victorian and Edwardian Mourning Rules

I’ve been researching death and grieving in the early 1900s to inform the novel I’m currently writing. Death was no stranger. An article published by Berkley University, tells that just years earlier in 1830s London, England, life expectancy of middle to upper class males was 45 years. Tradesmen generally lived until 25 years, and labourers until 22 years. In working class families, 57% of children died by the age of five. With the prevalence of deaths, rituals shaped by grief helped mourners to cope with their losses.

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A Woman Looking Through a Window

Wouldn’t it be interesting if instead of writing our signatures, we were called upon to “sign” our names with a simple drawing of our choice? An image that represents us more accurately than an assemblance of letters? I know exactly what my drawing would be. A woman looking through a window.

In my mind, I carry so many snapshots, from over the years, of me looking through windows.

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Cherished

My great-grandmother Essie always wore an apron, the full-bib type that buttoned together in the back. Hers were made of lightweight cotton printed with floral patterns and trimmed with piping that matched. Even as a small child, I felt the love and warmth and story inside her tilting house. Although mindful and very much living in the now, part of me lingers in that time so vivid in my mind.

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