Alongside, cleaning behind the fridge and under the bed, our "to do" list got one item shorter this week. With four weeks left in utero, Havana's baby sister finally got a name that has stuck.
For several weeks, months ago, we had the name Catriona, which we thought was pronounced as it looks. We emailed a comrade with that name and found out that it should be pronounced kat-ree-na, which undermined the integrity of our bubble, one which finally burst when we learnt of its roots in a certain Saint Catherine. As concious athiests, we struck that one off.
SO. We kicked around many, many names until Karen told me that we needed to cross the name thing off our "to do" before the baby arrives list. So I suggested we each pick 10 names and sit down and come up with an agreed top 3 list.
Then, out of nowhere, a Name appeared to me. It was a creation of genius. It met our 2 requirements. It was political and it sounded good. I was proud of my own brilliance.
June is currently the month of the 30th anniversary of the Soweto Uprising. A movement of grade school students against the apartheid regime in South Africa which ended in bloodshed, but spirred on a huge movement which eventually brought the apartheid regime down.
Okay, I figured to myself, Soweto doesn't sound like a girl's name. However, I a small reshaping, created, "Soweta." Politically great, and it sounded beautiful. Our quest was now over.
"I've got it" I explained to Karen, "its as good as Havana! It's brilliant!"
Well, that was 2 weeks ago.
I have since run into various friends of Karen, who had heard of "the name." Karen had dismissed the name outright for sounding "just aweful" and then one by one I would overhear her friends joking about how bad "the name" was. I had outdone myself this time.
However, "the name" as it is now known with derision, did help give Karen that small push into deciding an entirely different name which did stick. Ilyana.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The World Cup, TV and the cost to family-pet relations
We considered it our first gift to Havana. When Karen was pregnant with her we got rid of the TV.
Like all households, capitalism flowed in through every pore. Magazines that came home. Junk mail that came through our door. Pop ups on the computer. Radio commercials. We figured we wouldn't keep The Man's machine in the house with its sitcoms that weren't funny and ads for things we didn't want. Stopping short of putting it out on the street, we packed the TV away. That was 3 years ago.
We forgot about the bloody World Cup.
So we dug the thing back out and switched it back on. With help from the lad across the street, we were able to get enough reception to distinguish one team on the pitch from the other.
Havana was of course mesmerized by the new machine. Her clay, crayons, books, lego were discarded as yesterday's fleeting interests. They could hardly compete with the TV.
While in Wales earlier this year we had watched a couple of televised Chelsea soccer matches. My brothers and I grew up in West London, home to Chelsea Football Club. The CFC tattoo on my forearm was all that remained of my strained relationship with Chelsea.
Havana, however, immediately recalled the games we had watched in Britain and when Argentina and Ivory Coast walked on the field, sensing the excitement in the room, she quickly began chanting, "Go Chelsea Go." I explained to Havana a couple of things mum and dad had picked up as internationalists watching the World Cup. We generally supported the least economically advanced team in each game. That seemed to be the socialist thing to do. I consoled Havana also that Chelsea was not a country and would not be playing in the world cup.
I explained that although Chelsea has a single geographic location, it would need to develop a seperate language, seperate cultural identity and lead a succesful movement for national soveriegnty before it could qualify for the World Cup. She listened intently, looked back at the TV and took off where she left off, chanting "Go Chelsea."
In what may seem like an development unconected to the World Cup, Havana has also been developing her pet relationship skills. She now recognizes her place in the combat hierarchy in our house. She is below Karen and I, below our cat, Milou, who can kick any kid's ass, but above our other cat, the appropriately named, Kitten. She chases Kitten, picks her up by her bottom half and generally manhandles her. Her relationship with Kitten is frequently the basis of tedious life lessons on sensitivity and bullying.
During the Holland game today there were many shots at the goal by Serbia and the 7-foot Dutch goalie made many great diving saves. While watching the Argentina game, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Havana standing upright on one end of the sofa. Her arms were outstretched, she pushed down and dived all the way to the other end of the sofa, as if to catch a shot at the goal. Unfortunately, the recipient of the dive was Kitten, who in a moment of stupidity had fallen asleep, awoken by 28-lbs of 2 year old landing full force on her.
Kitten lived to see another day. I don't know if she'll survive the whole month of world cup games. Perhaps in her small pet cerebrum, she blames the TV for the increased violence in her home.
Like all households, capitalism flowed in through every pore. Magazines that came home. Junk mail that came through our door. Pop ups on the computer. Radio commercials. We figured we wouldn't keep The Man's machine in the house with its sitcoms that weren't funny and ads for things we didn't want. Stopping short of putting it out on the street, we packed the TV away. That was 3 years ago.
We forgot about the bloody World Cup.
So we dug the thing back out and switched it back on. With help from the lad across the street, we were able to get enough reception to distinguish one team on the pitch from the other.
Havana was of course mesmerized by the new machine. Her clay, crayons, books, lego were discarded as yesterday's fleeting interests. They could hardly compete with the TV.
While in Wales earlier this year we had watched a couple of televised Chelsea soccer matches. My brothers and I grew up in West London, home to Chelsea Football Club. The CFC tattoo on my forearm was all that remained of my strained relationship with Chelsea.
Havana, however, immediately recalled the games we had watched in Britain and when Argentina and Ivory Coast walked on the field, sensing the excitement in the room, she quickly began chanting, "Go Chelsea Go." I explained to Havana a couple of things mum and dad had picked up as internationalists watching the World Cup. We generally supported the least economically advanced team in each game. That seemed to be the socialist thing to do. I consoled Havana also that Chelsea was not a country and would not be playing in the world cup.
I explained that although Chelsea has a single geographic location, it would need to develop a seperate language, seperate cultural identity and lead a succesful movement for national soveriegnty before it could qualify for the World Cup. She listened intently, looked back at the TV and took off where she left off, chanting "Go Chelsea."
In what may seem like an development unconected to the World Cup, Havana has also been developing her pet relationship skills. She now recognizes her place in the combat hierarchy in our house. She is below Karen and I, below our cat, Milou, who can kick any kid's ass, but above our other cat, the appropriately named, Kitten. She chases Kitten, picks her up by her bottom half and generally manhandles her. Her relationship with Kitten is frequently the basis of tedious life lessons on sensitivity and bullying.
During the Holland game today there were many shots at the goal by Serbia and the 7-foot Dutch goalie made many great diving saves. While watching the Argentina game, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Havana standing upright on one end of the sofa. Her arms were outstretched, she pushed down and dived all the way to the other end of the sofa, as if to catch a shot at the goal. Unfortunately, the recipient of the dive was Kitten, who in a moment of stupidity had fallen asleep, awoken by 28-lbs of 2 year old landing full force on her.
Kitten lived to see another day. I don't know if she'll survive the whole month of world cup games. Perhaps in her small pet cerebrum, she blames the TV for the increased violence in her home.
Friday, June 02, 2006
simplifying the complex can backfire
Sunday morning the three of us are in bed. Havana is leafing through a book. Karen and I are splitting the weekend edition of the capitalist Financial Times.
I turn the page to an ad. It's for some high-end resort in the Carribean. The image shows a woman walking on the beach with a bellboy five steps behind carrying, we presume, her bags.
Havana peaks over and, without encouragement, explains the ad as she sees it.
"That's a worker and that's not a worker" she clarifies. Initially, I was a bit stunned. We hadn't begun our indoctrination on the issue of class and image. But I figure we're making big progress here, so I push the envelope a wee tad.
"Yes" I confirm to her and add, "worker - good" and then point, "bourgeois bad!" She looks at me with furrowed eyebrows. So I repeat, "worker -good, bourgeois - bad!" To which she retorts, "No, daddy, she's not bad. She's a woman."
Outwitted again.
Well, as one stickler for political clarification once said, "theory is grey, but the tree of life is green."
I turn the page to an ad. It's for some high-end resort in the Carribean. The image shows a woman walking on the beach with a bellboy five steps behind carrying, we presume, her bags.
Havana peaks over and, without encouragement, explains the ad as she sees it.
"That's a worker and that's not a worker" she clarifies. Initially, I was a bit stunned. We hadn't begun our indoctrination on the issue of class and image. But I figure we're making big progress here, so I push the envelope a wee tad.
"Yes" I confirm to her and add, "worker - good" and then point, "bourgeois bad!" She looks at me with furrowed eyebrows. So I repeat, "worker -good, bourgeois - bad!" To which she retorts, "No, daddy, she's not bad. She's a woman."
Outwitted again.
Well, as one stickler for political clarification once said, "theory is grey, but the tree of life is green."
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