International Woman's Day: with a poem, of course.
In Ireland, women who were considered “immoral” but who could not be sent to jail because they had not committed any crimes, used to be sent, for an indefinite period of time, to the Laundries managed by the Magdalene Sisters. In theory, the nuns kept these women until they showed signs of repentance, but since the laundries made a profit, the nuns had no interest in letting the women go. Being sent to the Laundries was in practice a sentence for life. There are two movies about this, and one of them was so good and so sad it gave me nightmares for days.
My mother says that about the time my uncle was born (that must have been the late fifties) single mothers were sent to a special wing of the Maternity Hospital when they were still pregnant. They were not allowed to go out and they were forced to clean the place for free. When their babies were born, these women were forced to be wet nurses of the babies of married women. I do not know if they were ever made free or if they were allowed to keep their own babies.
Joni Mitchell has a song about the Magdalene Laundries. Today is International Working Woman’s Day, so here is a song for anyone who has been forced to work against her will, or has seen her work demeaned only because it was done by a woman. Do you think I’m talking about things that happened a very long time ago? Hah. About three years ago, I overheard this conversation:
Doctor: What did the other doctor told you?
Young man: Well, “doctor”, it’s not a doctor, it was a girl.
The man didn’t mean someone unqualified. He meant a woman doctor. So here is Joni Mitchell.
I was an unmarried girl
I'd just turned twenty-seven
When they sent me to the sisters
For the way men looked at me
Branded as a jezebel
I knew I was not bound for Heaven
I'd be cast in shame
Into the Magdalene Laundries
Most girls come here pregnant
Some by their own fathers
Bridget got that belly
By her parish priest
We're trying to get things white as snow
All of us woe-begotten-daughters
In the streaming stains
Of the Magdalene laundries
Prostitutes and destitutes
And temptresses like me--
Fallen women--
Sentenced into dreamless drudgery ...
Why do they call this heartless place
Our Lady of Charity?
Oh charity!
These bloodless brides of Jesus
If they had just once glimpsed their groom
Then they'd know, and they'd drop the stones
Concealed behind their rosaries
They wilt the grass they walk upon
They leech the light out of a room
They'd like to drive us down the drain
At the Magdalene laundries
Peg O'Connell died today
She was a cheeky girl
A flirt
They just stuffed her in a hole!
Surely to God you'd think at least some bells should ring!
One day I'm going to die here too
And they'll plant me in the dirt
Like some lame bulb
That never blooms come any spring
Not any spring
No, not any spring
Not any spring
My mother says that about the time my uncle was born (that must have been the late fifties) single mothers were sent to a special wing of the Maternity Hospital when they were still pregnant. They were not allowed to go out and they were forced to clean the place for free. When their babies were born, these women were forced to be wet nurses of the babies of married women. I do not know if they were ever made free or if they were allowed to keep their own babies.
Joni Mitchell has a song about the Magdalene Laundries. Today is International Working Woman’s Day, so here is a song for anyone who has been forced to work against her will, or has seen her work demeaned only because it was done by a woman. Do you think I’m talking about things that happened a very long time ago? Hah. About three years ago, I overheard this conversation:
Doctor: What did the other doctor told you?
Young man: Well, “doctor”, it’s not a doctor, it was a girl.
The man didn’t mean someone unqualified. He meant a woman doctor. So here is Joni Mitchell.
I was an unmarried girl
I'd just turned twenty-seven
When they sent me to the sisters
For the way men looked at me
Branded as a jezebel
I knew I was not bound for Heaven
I'd be cast in shame
Into the Magdalene Laundries
Most girls come here pregnant
Some by their own fathers
Bridget got that belly
By her parish priest
We're trying to get things white as snow
All of us woe-begotten-daughters
In the streaming stains
Of the Magdalene laundries
Prostitutes and destitutes
And temptresses like me--
Fallen women--
Sentenced into dreamless drudgery ...
Why do they call this heartless place
Our Lady of Charity?
Oh charity!
These bloodless brides of Jesus
If they had just once glimpsed their groom
Then they'd know, and they'd drop the stones
Concealed behind their rosaries
They wilt the grass they walk upon
They leech the light out of a room
They'd like to drive us down the drain
At the Magdalene laundries
Peg O'Connell died today
She was a cheeky girl
A flirt
They just stuffed her in a hole!
Surely to God you'd think at least some bells should ring!
One day I'm going to die here too
And they'll plant me in the dirt
Like some lame bulb
That never blooms come any spring
Not any spring
No, not any spring
Not any spring