I am my parents’ daughter & my mother’s sister

Troubled mother-daughter relationships are a recurring theme in second wave feminist writing. They are also discussed in Astrid Henry’s book about generational conflict in feminism, Not My Mother’s Sister. But guest-blogger Finia found that these depictions of daughters at war with their (literal and metaphorical) mothers just didn’t resonate with her own experience.

Like many women born in the 1990s, I was raised with an unshakable belief in my own equality. My parents grew up in the Leftist movement in West Germany during the Cold War, and when they had a daughter it was clear she would become their feminist project. This involved an atheist upbringing, empowering kids’ books, an artistic education, and a father who stayed home part-time while my mother made her career as an international IT journalist. (The recurring joke in my family is that if Mama had stayed home with me I would have learned to change light bulbs, but stuck with Papa, I had no chance to learn any practical skills at all.)

In Marge Piercy’s 1973 novel Small Changes some of the women live in communes, and I could relate to that from the kids’ perspective, because I grew up in a house with five adults: my Mama, myself and the big bearded teddy downstairs, my Papa, the woman artist and the musician upstairs. Recalling this period, I have fond memories of a busy, energetic house, where there were always people around (many of them men with long hair and long beards) for me to talk to and play with.

The two main protagonists of Small Changes both have difficult relationships with their mothers. One of them reflects that it was as if

there was a law in operation that mothers and daughters could not teach each other, could not inherit, could not relate.

In my family I think we overcame this, by opening up to the possibility of learning from each other. Dinner-table conversations would frequently revolve around stereotypes, personal experiences and mutual support – an early consciousness-raising of a sort. My parents helped me to perceive situations in different ways and to recognise injustices. It must have killed them to sit through all eight seasons of Germany’s Next Top Model—looking back it is a terrible sexist show – but they preferred to watch it with me rather than let me go off and watch it without context.

It was probably unavoidable that in my teenage years I would rebel. But as the daughter of hippie parents my rebellion took an unusual form. I chose Latin as my third language, and took up ballroom dancing as a hobby. To this day I believe I’m a disappointment to my parents, since I have not learned how to juggle (“not even with fabrics” – my father likes to add with utter judgement in his voice), nor can I ride a unicycle. But I felt no need to reject feminism, or (in Astrid Henry’s words) “escape from my mother”: she was never a prison to escape from, but rather a launch-pad from which to start.

Today my Mama and I relate to each other first and foremost as women, without erasing our generational family bond. We share many of the same concerns: we talk about our relatives’ ignorance of gender issues, criticise badly-written female characters in films (or praise the ones we admire—we both love Claire Underwood in House of Cards), and complain about the lack of sanitary products in male-dominated office environments (while celebrating Mama’s ingenious plan to expense the tampon supply for the staff bathrooms on the sly). Even now I still call my mother if I am not sure whether I am reacting to a situation appropriately. And—here’s the twist—she does the same. I know all about her office politics and struggles with incompetent male board members. She values my advice as much as I value hers.

One source of conflict Astrid Henry mentions is the idea that feminists today are less idealistic than the second wavers, less optimistic about their personal power to bring about social change. But many radicals of my mother’s generation have ‘cooled down’ over time—they have been willing to compromise to achieve results. My Mama now acknowledges that jumpsuits are more appropriate for business meetings than jeans, and she eventually agreed to accept a promotion, even though this pushed her onto the ‘wrong’ side in the capitalist system. The tension between radical ideals and the practical politics of incremental change is something I grew up with: I think of it as an integral part of feminism, rather than a division or a conflict between different generations of feminists.

If your relationship to feminism is bound up with your relationship to Mother (both in the literal ‘my Mama’ sense and in the more metaphorical ‘second wave’ sense), then that’s a good thing for me. My relationship with my mother is one of mutual respect: it has evolved over time and it continues to facilitate our growth as individuals. We do have arguments and disagreements, because our values and approaches are not the same. But the issues we face are similar. We are part of the same struggle, and we fight it together—as mother and daughter, and as sisters.


Author: debuk

Feminist, linguist, writer