“Note three,” announced Jen to the wavering mob. “Jen, working with you this last week has made my stay here worthwhile. F.” The atmosphere was electric. Hands squeezed, bedding was pulled over heads, and hearts raced. Fraser-the-body had the hots for Jen!
“Note four,” Jen paused, the silence is absolute. “I can’t read it,” she whispered modestly. The paper hung at her side. Her bowed head rang with delight. Sixteen years of being the sweet little girl that Mum and Dad expected was over. A new Jen had split the chrysalis of conformity. Popularity pumped power through her veins. She had the ability to fly.
Sonja Hope lunged at the paper, Jen offered no resistance. This was living! Sonja held her torch to the note, “Baby …” twenty gasps stole air from the room. Baby! Sonja stared at Jen before resuming. Jen stared back. At this moment every girl in the dorm wanted to be her. “Baby, kissing you …” The room spun, torch light illuminated excited stares fixed on the handwritten Adidas proof … “kissing you was the most incredible moment of my life …” The silence tingled. “… but it must not happen again. I cannot train you, I cannot see you. There will be no more notes. But know this forever, I LOVE YOU, FK.”
Lying in her Ridgevale Terrace bed 22 years later, Jen feels her face blotch with embarrassment. At the hostel the gasps merged to teen screams, hands clutched at the notepaper and the dormitory erupted in sexual overload. In Ridgevale Terrace Jen brings her hands to her face. She doesn’t want to relive the next chapter but once started the memory plays out in full.
The dorm doors burst open, propelled by two teachers. Reprimands are fast and loud. Noise was extinguished, girls returned to their bunks and torches were confiscated along with four sheets of blue notepaper. Ten minutes later a teacher returned. “Jennifer Leith, get up,” the voice is ice cold. “Get up. Pack your things and come with me.”
During the 35-minute ride back to town in the vice-principal’s car Jen did the only thing she could think of, she cried and lied, and lied and cried. “The notes were written to Jennifer Browning not me,” she sobbed. “Someone found them and showed the girls in our dorm. I don’t know anything about the notes. You have the wrong Jennifer.” The vice-principal explained to Jennifer’s parents that she had been involved in a disruptive incident and it was thought she had been the ringleader. However, she added, it is possible we jumped to the wrong conclusion. Ringleader or not, though, Jennifer was involved.
Hell broke lose at Queens. Mr Kearns disappeared — sacked or run out of town by a lynch mob of parents? Jennifer Browning was suspended. Mr and Mrs Browning were seen leaving the principal’s office with their heads down.
When the inevitable truth emerged it was Jen’s parents who cried. There was such anger. Jen had never seen her mother enraged to the point of despair. There was such grief. Her father looked like he was going to throw up. And there was shame. Shame accumulated around Jen, slowly enshrouding her. She didn’t eat. She didn’t speak. She wanted to die. Throughout the next term shame weighted her down like gumboots in mud. What she had done to Jennifer Browning was truly terrible, what she had done to Fraser Kearns was unthinkable, and what she had done to her parents was beyond comprehension. Thinking about their disappointment triggered body-toppling migraines.
Mr and Mrs Leith became increasingly concerned about Jen’s health. They cancelled the AFS trip she had qualified for. A year in America could be a wonderful escape but how would they know she was OK? Their Jen was hovering on the edge of full-blown depression. Could they trust her mental health to strangers? And the words unspoken … could they trust their daughter? What if she pulled another stunt like that!
Jennifer hated herself and what she had done but the situation was not irredeemable. She was sensitive and smart, smart enough to realise that her reaction was causing her parents more grief. One Sunday night during a stirring youth service Jen made a decision shared with God alone. “I am truly, truly sorry,” she confessed. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. From now on I will live as You intended. I will be pure in thought and action. I will dedicate myself to being Your hands in the world.” At 17 a clear path was Jen’s salvation. In actuality the path followed was not as straight or simple as her teenage vision but at the core of self Jen was committed to being a decent person.
Lying in a bed too big for one person, Jen feels the weight of the people she hurt. Despite times of doubt, she accepts God has forgiven her and this means that she can, no must, forgive herself. Shake it, shake it, she tells herself, literally shaking her head. It is only because Wilkin so desperately wants what you seem unable to give that you are descending into this mire.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
9 — The nameless daughter
Tuesday, 24 March
“Feminist criticism takes many forms,” begins Sarai. “It tends to be interdisciplinary as it views boundaries as confining. Recognising that women have been marginalised by men throughout civilisation is a starting point. Men have traditionally set the agenda in interpreting the Bible. As long as we remain within the androcentric ideology of biblical text …”
Kat whispers, “What’s androcentric?”
“Male-centred,” Jen hisses back.
“… we can do no more than describe ancient men’s views of women. In studying Biblical text we need to ask, how have women’s lives been suppressed? Are women made to speak against their own interests? What are the hidden gender assumptions? For example women lead men astray. You have read Judges 11.” Sarai consults a list. “Ms Tombs would you enlighten us as to how you respond to the story. What are your feelings for Jephthah?”
Philippa begins confidently as ever. “Sympathy. The poor man is caught in a bind, breaking a vow to God cannot be taken lightly.”
She’s never short of something to say, thinks Kat.
She never learns, thinks Jen.
“And you would agree, Mr Jones and Mr Paul?”
Steve and Jake nod consensus on this.
“How do you feel, Ms Hawthorne?”
“The writer wants us to have sympathy for Jephthah.”
“This is the shocking truth and for millennia men and women have fallen for it. This is a very disturbing tale. The victor blames the victim. You have brought me very low, you have become the source of my trouble. Alas the scenario is far from unique. Victimised women are frequently assigned this role by perpetrators. Now, gentlemen, what do we know about the background of Jephthah? Mr Jones?
“He was the child of a prostitute.”
“Yes. What else? Mr Paul?”
“Ill-treated by his half-brothers he attracted bad company as a young man.”
“Well put, Steven Paul. Perhaps you have the potential of your apostle namesakes, both being powerful preachers.”
Steve shrugs dismissively.
“You don’t fancy being a great preacher? Nor did Saul of Tarsus, his chosen name Paul means small.”
Kat’s giggle is audible. Sarai appears not to notice.
“This is a classic case of an abused child growing up to become an abuser. It happened then, it happens now. The narrator has the young woman speak against her own interests, she neither questions nor condemns, thus the seriousness of the vow is upheld and paternal authority goes unchallenged. Her request for two months’ reprieve is granted and the narrator has the young women go off with female friends, to bewail her virginity. The encoded message is, submit to paternal authority, you may lose your autonomy, your life, even your name, but in so doing your sacrifice will be celebrated. This woman is not remembered for herself, she is memorialised for being a daughter. In this story there is no divine intervention. No substitute ram is provided for Jephthah. This is one of the terror texts, its message being, Girls are expendable in God’s eyes.
“Cheryl Exum, professor of biblical studies at the University of Sheffield, England, finds the reading so offensive she gives the young woman a name. Bat, Hebrew for daughter, linked with Jifta, a closer Hebrew approximation of the difficult-to-pronounce Jephtha
h. Exum points out that virginity is the issue of the androcentric narrator, whose world-view is that the function of women is to bear children. He emphasises that the tragic plight of dying young is dying a virgin. Had this been Bat-Jifta’s concern she would have chosen different companions for her final days. The translation of virgin in this instance may not, as often is the biblical case, mean virgin as we use it. The word translated virgin here appears to be a rite of passage, a puberty ritual. No doubt important to women of the period for marking the transition from girlhood to womanhood.
“Bat-Jifta has friends, friends to empathise with her. Her father does not have friends, not even friends to rejoice with him in victory. In the telling of this story women are of so little value we do not know if Jifta has a wife. Despite Bat-Jifta’s speech being controlled by a male narrator, her words carry a message, to her father and to us, that words are dangerous; beware how you use them. You have opened your mouth to the Lord, she reminds. The story ends with an interesting verse: So there arose an Israelite custom that for four days every year the daughters of Israel would go out to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite. If we allow the women’s ceremonial remembrance to be seen as glorification of the victim we perpetrate the crime against Bat-Jifta. But what might the women of Israel have done on their annual retreat? Have you any thoughts on this, Ms Mergagh?”
Kat has struggled with the story since reading it. The abused woman reminds her of her own childhood. Sarai’s retelling is mesmerising and liberating. “Perhaps they …” She falters. Grandma’s cosy kitchen is in her mind, neighbours sitting chatting, sharing lives over tea and scones. “Perhaps they shared stories.”
Sarai nods approvingly. “Very likely. There are clear indicators that the male God of the Israelite men was not the God of choice for all Israelite women. Anyone have other thoughts?”
Jen suddenly remembers Rachel taking gods from her father’s tent. Were they her mother’s gods — fertility goddesses, perhaps? She asks her question.
In reply Sarai switches on the OHP. A cluster of terracotta figurines appear. They are crudely fashioned with prominent breasts. “Ashera, Ashtoreth or Astarte, this fertility goddess has many names,” she explains. “The Hebrew Scriptures never managed to completely silence her. These goddesses are clay but Ashera could be likened to a tree, pole or pillar. References to poles, pillars, high places and shrines pop up throughout the Hebrew Scriptures. Even Solomon’s temple had a shrine to Ashera. It is feasible to presume that the Hebrew women spent their time of retreat not primarily remembering Bat-Jifta but worshipping their own goddesses and teaching their girls feminine mysteries.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Tea with Sarai after the Tuesday lecture is becoming a regular thing. Though mystified as to what Sarai really wants of them Jen and Kat can’t help but feel flattered that she wants to talk with them and call them her friends. They see Sarai as their lecturer and mentor. Sarai sees Jen and Kat as novices to be trained but refrains from addressing them in terms that could be conceived as patronising. Much as she would like to say girls or my dears she articulates friends and hopes if she slips to my friends or dear friends they won’t be offended.
She’s not as relaxed as usual, observes Kat. She wants to say something but for once doesn’t know how to, thinks Jen. They both wonder, why are we here? It seems prudent to stay silent. Eventually Sarai drains her cup and pushes it to the side of her desk. “Friends, have you ever wondered what might have happened if Mary had said no to Gabriel?”
They hadn’t. What a question!
“It’s an interesting thought,” says Jen cautiously. “Are you suggesting that if Mary had said no, there would be no Christ and therefore no Christianity?”
“What do you think?” returns Sarai. “Can God’s purpose be thwarted?”
“Well, yes, humans disrupt God’s purpose all the time by giving in to greed and anger, creating wars, and not caring about creation.”
Sarai nods and turns to Kat. “Do you think it possible that Gabriel had approached other young women who said no?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“But is it possible?” persists Sarai.
“Anything is possible. What I would like to know is why are you asking?”
“Trust you to cut to the heart of the matter. I do have a reason, a serious reason. I am getting old. I have knowledge that must be passed on. I need an heir.”
“You don’t have any children, do you?” ask Jen.
Sarai’s faces creases into soft reflection. “Yes, I do, I have a son, a lovely man who is doing very well for himself in Ireland. But Jen, that kind of heir is a male way of thinking. Men get hung up on bloodlines: to a male, genes, his genes, are the important thing. With women, networks and friendship carry the deep currency. The knowledge I have is vital knowledge, female knowing. I have to find a successor able to receive my mantle but I haven’t received clear indication as to who this special person is. I now believe I have to share some of the knowledge and in the sharing a successor will be revealed.”
“You think one of us may be this special person?” Kat’s voice echoes the incredulity Jen feels.
“I don’t know for certain but I see special qualities in both of you. The question is will you accept? Don’t answer now because you don’t know what you are accepting. But please, will you let me share some things with you?”
Kat and Jen look at each other and each observes the other’s nod without being aware of their own.
“Thank you,” says Sarai. “For the moment nothing is required of you but I would like you to consider how ancient women may have passed on their wisdom.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen and Kat are not the only members of Sarai’s class to talk over hot drinks. Six of them are drinking coffee together in the Student Union.
“What is the deal with Jen and Kat taking off to Sarai’s office every Tuesday?” demands Darlene.
“Haven’t a clue,” responds the Goth, “but they are welcome to her, the woman is plain daft.”
“She is dangerous,” puts in Philippa, “and as for that blow-up doll, I’ve never seen anything so disgusting. She’s not a Christian. She shouldn’t be working in the religious studies department.”
“Religion doesn’t mean Christianity,” says Jake. “I think she’s kind of spiritual.”
“If by spiritual you mean some sort of shaman, I can see her riding a broomstick any full moon,” comments Iris Wong.
“Badjelly the Witch,” says Steve. “Yep, that’s her.”
“There is something about her that reminds me of an old kuia,” contributes Hana. “She’s too Pommy for my liking but she knows a lot. She gets that crazy old woman look at times, it quite scares me.”
“She scares me to,” says Rochelle. “I find some of her comments unsettling but I get hooked in, and I don’t like it. Really, I don’t believe half of what she says but to pass the exam I’ll have to pretend I do.”
“It’s not right,” Philippa says. “We should protest.”
“She’s a man-hater,” Steve says. “If I cared, I’d walk out, but I don’t.”
“I think she says some very interesting things,” says Darlene. “I find her quite enlightening. I’m enjoying reading what she recommends.”
“You’re just a swot,” retorts Steve. “Compile a summary for me to cram, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You! No thanks,” responds Darlene. “You’ve got nothing I want. Why do you want to pass anyway? It’s obvious you aren’t interested.”
“Now that’s where you are wrong, darling dyke. I have to pass or my parents won’t fund what I’m really interested in, electronics. It was a condition set by my vicar mother.”
“Your mother’s a vicar!” Jake makes the statement but all are equally surprised.
“OK, OK. I’ve admitted it. I’m a PK. It’s not something I’m proud of, but that’s how it is. You can’t choose your parents. I was raised on the Good Book.”
“Blow me down,” exclaims Jake. “I never would have guessed, I’m a preacher’s kid too. My dad is a Presbyterian parson.” The guys eye each other with new-found affinity.
“My confession is,” Jake colours but continues, “I actually enjoy this stuff. My dad is a liberal in the conservative Presbyterian South. We have great discussions at home. I miss that stimulation in student digs. Women have been repressed, it is right that this be addressed.”
“Now you’re being plain patronising,” snarls the Goth. “Sarai is crazy.”
“And people who wear black all over, every day, are in a position to judge?” asks Darlene.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
After her guests depart Sarai feels uncertainty touched with a glimmer of hope. Calm yourself, she chides, there is nothing more you can do at present. A spot of writing might help. From the depths of times past she pours onto paper …
A Psalm of Sarai — The Pantheon God
Ashera, Ashteroth, Ishstar, Astarte, Aphrodite.
Consort of and one substance with El, Elohim,
Jehovah, Yahweh …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat enjoys the city streets as a woman of the day; a well groomed city woman, decidedly preferable to being a lady of the night. She likes the bustle and buzz, the coffee shops, the bright flowers bunched for sale, the sound of her heels crisp on the pavement, and the characters who loiter in the Square.
Emerging from Sarai’s study, Kat encounters a sparkling March morning, one of those early autumn days when the sun glides and gilds with its temperature set on perfect. She takes the bus to the Square, lunches at a café, window-shops, and still has time to fill before beginning her waitressing shift. It occurs to her that although the cathedral is the central focus of the Square she has never been inside. Actually, she can’t recall being inside any churches other than the little Catholic one at Ross, the large concrete one in Hokitika, and the wooden church at Shantytown where she was once bridesmaid at a cousin’s wedding. If I’m doing a religious course I really should see what a cathedral looks like, she tells herself. Does it matter that she is Catholic and this cathedral is Anglican? Cathedrals are for tourists, she reasons.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 11
