Gender Norms Theme Analysis

The day Somebody McSomebody put a gun to my breast and called me a cat and threatened to shoot me was the same day the milkman died. He had been shot by one of the state hit squads and I did not care about the shooting of this man. Others did care though, and some were those who, in the parlance, ‘knew me to see but not to speak to’ and I was being talked about because there was a rumour started by them, or more likely by first brother-in-law, that I had been having an affair with this milkman and that I was eighteen and he was forty-one.

All that running along the reservoirs where I had not ever seen him run had never been about running. All that running, I knew, was about me. He implied it was because of pacing, that he was slowing the run because of pacing, but I knew pacing and for me, walking during running was not that. I could not say so, however, for I could not be fitter than this man, could not be more knowledgeable about my own regime than this man, because the conditioning of males and females here would never have allowed that. This was the ‘I’m male and you’re female’ territory. This was what you could say if you were a girl to a boy, or a woman to a man, or a girl to a man, and what you were not – least not officially, least not in public, least not often – permitted to say.

Since my sixteenth birthday two years earlier ma had tormented herself and me because I was not married. My two older sisters were married. Three of my brothers, including the one who had died and the one on the run, had got married. Probably too, my oldest brother gone errant, dropped off the face of the earth, and even though she’d no proof, was married. My other older sister – the unmentionable second sister – also married. So why wasn’t I married? This non-wedlock was selfish, disturbing of the God-given order and unsettling for the younger girls, she said. ‘Look at them!’ she continued, and there they were, standing behind ma, bright- eyed, perky, grinning. From the look of them, not one of these sisters seemed unsettled to me. ‘Sets a bad example,’ said ma. ‘If you don’t get married, they’ll think it’s all right for them not to get married.’ None of these sisters – age seven, eight and nine – was anywhere near the marrying teens yet.

This was when I began to wonder, again, if maybe-boyfriend should be going to sunsets, if he should be owning coffee pots, if he should like football whilst giving the impression of not liking football, no matter I myself didn’t like football but my not liking football, apart from that Match of the Day music, wasn’t the point. Certainly he tinkered with cars and it was normal for boys to tinker with cars, to want to drive them, to dream of driving them if they couldn’t afford to buy them to drive them and weren’t sufficiently car-nutty to steal them to drive them. All the same, I did feel worried that maybe- boyfriend in some male way was refusing to fit in.

‘Some locations are just stuck,’ said ma. ‘And deluded. Like some people. Like your da’ – which would be the point when I’d regret having opened my mouth. Anything – be it in any way dark, any way into the shadow, anything to do with what she called ‘the psychologicals’ – always it brought her back to the subject of, and especially to the denigration of, her husband, my da. ‘Back then,’ she’d say, meaning the olden days, meaning her days, their days, ‘even then,’ she said, ‘I never understood your father. When all was said and done, daughter, what had he got to be psychological about?’

Cats are not adoring like dogs. They don’t care. They can never be relied upon to shore up a human ego. They go their way, do their thing, are not subservient and will never apologise. No one has ever come across a cat apologising and if a cat did, it would patently be obvious it was not being sincere. As for dead cats – as in the deliberate killing of cats, killing them as a matter of course – I have come across that many times. The days of my childhood was when I would come across it, during the time cats were vermin, subversive, witch-like, the left hand, bad luck, feminine – though no one ever came out and levelled the feminine except during drunkenness with the drunkenness – should violence then ensue towards some hapless female – later being blamed for the cause.

So, said my spontaneity, maybe-boyfriend was my maybe-boyfriend; Milkman was not my lover. At the time of affirming this conviction, the resurgence of truth felt lucid and uplifting. Somewhat unaware in my feverish excitement that instead of lucidity and upliftment, however, I might instead be swinging from one extreme of despondency and powerlessness over to the other extreme of sudden and incongruous jollity, I scribbled a note for wee sisters. It said, ‘Put on your nightclothes. I’ll be back later to read you Hardy as promised.’ With that, I threw on my jacket and rushed to the bus-stop up the road.

He said then that for as long as I remained living in the family home, he’d call up to my door but wait outside and that I was to go to him. He said then he’d call at seven the following night in one of his cars. ‘Not this,’ he added, dismissing the van, mentioning instead one of those alpha-numericals. For my part – here he meant what I could do for him, how I could make him happy – I could come out the door on time and not keep him waiting. Also I could wear something lovely, he said. ‘Not trousers. Something lovely. Some feminine, womanly, elegant, nice dress.’