Uncomfortable Stories of my DNA 1 DSC_1791
I have my father’s blue eyes, his olive skin and curly hair. I have his mother’s two crooked teeth, exactly as hers were. I have his nose, not quite a Jewish nose but something in between. His family was Jewish with over 100 family members killed in the Holocaust. One branch of the family escaped to England and then a boat took them to Australia, eventually leading to me.
My mother’s great grandfather took another boat from England to Tasmania but this was at the request of Her Majesty, as a convict. No heart-warming story about stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family. He was convicted for petty larceny- stealing from a hawker, (brooches, spoons, boots, slippers, gun powder and gun caps). He met his wife, another convict, eventually leading to my mother and then me.
The lines on my face are my mother’s and her mothers. I have the exact same deep furrows, especially one that curves like an upside down frown above my right eye.
As with many of my parent’s generation, they had hard lives growing up. My father was an only child. His father died when he was 13 leaving my grandmother, a single mother during difficult economic times. She was a seamstress and walked the streets with a suitcase, traveling from house to house to sell the clothes she’d sown or mended in a tiny backroom of their Californian Bungalow.
My mother’s father was an alcoholic and a violent man. Her mother suffered mental illness and was committed to a mental institution just when my mother was reaching adolescence. She later died at 52 without ever coming out. The children were split up and sent to live with relatives. My mother was the only girl in her aunt’s household and thus became the maid to the family. She was often sent to school without shoes. She rarely spoke of her past. I learnt most of this after she died but she told me once that her school mates called her Little Orphan Annie. Love was not overflowing in that household.
I had a relatively happy childhood where there was much love but there are things, looking back I understand more clearly now.
I do look back at these stories and although I did not live their lives, I wonder how much of their silent sadness and harshness of the past is carried within my DNA and weaved into my own life and that of my children.
I made this image primarily because I wanted to play with some Photoshop techniques and really it was all about that scarf! I didn’t really intend to show my face but I decided I would be brave for once. This morphed into something else as it is confronting to work on your own face. I have promised myself I will do more because I need to be brave and not care what others think.
I have softened some of the lines, those under the eyes and on the forehead but they are mostly still there.
After-all, they are part of the uncomfortable stories of my DNA.
For my children.
Uncomfortable Stories of my DNA 1 DSC_1791
I have my father’s blue eyes, his olive skin and curly hair. I have his mother’s two crooked teeth, exactly as hers were. I have his nose, not quite a Jewish nose but something in between. His family was Jewish with over 100 family members killed in the Holocaust. One branch of the family escaped to England and then a boat took them to Australia, eventually leading to me.
My mother’s great grandfather took another boat from England to Tasmania but this was at the request of Her Majesty, as a convict. No heart-warming story about stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family. He was convicted for petty larceny- stealing from a hawker, (brooches, spoons, boots, slippers, gun powder and gun caps). He met his wife, another convict, eventually leading to my mother and then me.
The lines on my face are my mother’s and her mothers. I have the exact same deep furrows, especially one that curves like an upside down frown above my right eye.
As with many of my parent’s generation, they had hard lives growing up. My father was an only child. His father died when he was 13 leaving my grandmother, a single mother during difficult economic times. She was a seamstress and walked the streets with a suitcase, traveling from house to house to sell the clothes she’d sown or mended in a tiny backroom of their Californian Bungalow.
My mother’s father was an alcoholic and a violent man. Her mother suffered mental illness and was committed to a mental institution just when my mother was reaching adolescence. She later died at 52 without ever coming out. The children were split up and sent to live with relatives. My mother was the only girl in her aunt’s household and thus became the maid to the family. She was often sent to school without shoes. She rarely spoke of her past. I learnt most of this after she died but she told me once that her school mates called her Little Orphan Annie. Love was not overflowing in that household.
I had a relatively happy childhood where there was much love but there are things, looking back I understand more clearly now.
I do look back at these stories and although I did not live their lives, I wonder how much of their silent sadness and harshness of the past is carried within my DNA and weaved into my own life and that of my children.
I made this image primarily because I wanted to play with some Photoshop techniques and really it was all about that scarf! I didn’t really intend to show my face but I decided I would be brave for once. This morphed into something else as it is confronting to work on your own face. I have promised myself I will do more because I need to be brave and not care what others think.
I have softened some of the lines, those under the eyes and on the forehead but they are mostly still there.
After-all, they are part of the uncomfortable stories of my DNA.
For my children.