The Guild of the Infant Saviour: An Adopted Child's Memory Book: Machete, cartea 1
Autor Megan Culhane Galbraithen Limba Engleză Paperback – 20 mai 2021 – vârsta ani
Shortly before Roe v. Wade legalized abortion, adoptee Megan Culhane Galbraith was born in a Catholic charity hospital in New York City to a teenaged resident of the Guild of the Infant Saviour, a home for unwed mothers. Decades later, on the eve of becoming a mother herself, she would travel to the former guild site; to her birth mother’s home in Scotland; and to Cornell University, where she discovered the startling history of its Domestic Economics program. There, from 1919 to 1969, coeds applied scientific principles to domesticity as they collectively mothered a rotating cast of babies awaiting adoption. The babies shared the last name Domecon and provided the inspiration for Galbraith’s art project, The Dollhouse.
The Guild of the Infant Saviour is a dizzyingly inventive hybrid memoir of one adoptee’s quest for her past. Galbraith pairs narrative with images from The Dollhouse as she weaves a personal and cultural history of adoption as it relates to guilt, shame, grief, identity, and memory itself. Ultimately, she connects her experiences to those of generations of adoptees, to the larger stories America tells about sex and motherhood, and to the shadows those stories cast on us all.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780814257913
ISBN-10: 0814257917
Pagini: 288
Ilustrații: 49
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 18 mm
Greutate: 0.45 kg
Ediția:First Edition, First Edition, Paperback original
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria Machete
ISBN-10: 0814257917
Pagini: 288
Ilustrații: 49
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 18 mm
Greutate: 0.45 kg
Ediția:First Edition, First Edition, Paperback original
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria Machete
Recenzii
"In emotional, sometimes blistering essays, Galbraith portrays her loving adoptive parents, sexuality, and role as a wife and mother….Galbraith’s passionate narrative effectively shows the struggle of an adoptive child to comprehend an often long-hidden history….A potent reminder that adoption is founded on loss.” —Kirkus Reviews
“The early life of an adopted child is mysterious, perhaps most of all to the child herself. In The Guild of the Infant Saviour, Megan Galbraith explores this mystery with delicacy and humorous intelligence, using science, art, and weird little dolls to guide her. What she finds is beautiful, sad, heartening, and mysterious. In its generous scope, Galbraith’s book honors the depth and mystery of all human lives, whether we grew up with birth parents or not.” —Mary Gaitskill, author of This Is Pleasure
“The Guild of the Infant Saviour depicts adoption and motherhood with hard-won and clear-eyed pathos. Galbraith is a model observer; here life is set before readers like her photographs, arranged into beautiful and terrifying patterns that stand fixed in time but move in the mind.” —Matthew Salesses, author of Disappear Doppelgänger Disappear
“An inventive, genre-defying look at what it means to belong. Galbraith artfully collects moments of her life and photographs from the past to create a touching portrait of motherhood, beauty, and home.” —Chelsea Hodson, author of Tonight I’m Someone Else
“This remarkable collection is a cross between Dani Shapiro’s Inheritance and a Joseph Cornell box: a mesmerizing cabinet filled with curious relics of caretaking, dollhouse reenactments, and the haunting questions of a daughter in search of identity and belonging. Megan Culhane Galbraith is a true artist.” —Leigh Stein, author of Self Care
“It’s heartbreaking and fascinating to follow Megan Culhane Galbraith through the mysteries that make up this glorious, weird, tender, and revelatory book. Who are we? How did we become who we are? She knows these mysteries are unsolvable, but it is beautiful to watch her try.” —Ander Monson, author of I Will Take the Answer
“An extraordinary collage of motherhood and a moving journey of one woman’s search for wholeness. Megan Culhane Galbraith’s personal story, braided with insightful research about adoption and foster care practices, and illustrated exquisitely with the author’s photos, is a beautiful and memorable exploration of life.” ––Jill McCorkle, best-selling author of Hieroglyphics
“This is the most ethereal yet earthly, dreamy yet disquieting book I have cradled, embraced, and, most importantly, held—an act made holy by Megan Culhane Galbraith. The Guild of the Infant Saviour is a book to be held and Megan Culhane Galbraith a voice to behold.” —Jenny Boully, author of Betwixt-and-Between: Essays on the Writing Life
“The early life of an adopted child is mysterious, perhaps most of all to the child herself. In The Guild of the Infant Saviour, Megan Galbraith explores this mystery with delicacy and humorous intelligence, using science, art, and weird little dolls to guide her. What she finds is beautiful, sad, heartening, and mysterious. In its generous scope, Galbraith’s book honors the depth and mystery of all human lives, whether we grew up with birth parents or not.” —Mary Gaitskill, author of This Is Pleasure
“The Guild of the Infant Saviour depicts adoption and motherhood with hard-won and clear-eyed pathos. Galbraith is a model observer; here life is set before readers like her photographs, arranged into beautiful and terrifying patterns that stand fixed in time but move in the mind.” —Matthew Salesses, author of Disappear Doppelgänger Disappear
“An inventive, genre-defying look at what it means to belong. Galbraith artfully collects moments of her life and photographs from the past to create a touching portrait of motherhood, beauty, and home.” —Chelsea Hodson, author of Tonight I’m Someone Else
“This remarkable collection is a cross between Dani Shapiro’s Inheritance and a Joseph Cornell box: a mesmerizing cabinet filled with curious relics of caretaking, dollhouse reenactments, and the haunting questions of a daughter in search of identity and belonging. Megan Culhane Galbraith is a true artist.” —Leigh Stein, author of Self Care
“It’s heartbreaking and fascinating to follow Megan Culhane Galbraith through the mysteries that make up this glorious, weird, tender, and revelatory book. Who are we? How did we become who we are? She knows these mysteries are unsolvable, but it is beautiful to watch her try.” —Ander Monson, author of I Will Take the Answer
“An extraordinary collage of motherhood and a moving journey of one woman’s search for wholeness. Megan Culhane Galbraith’s personal story, braided with insightful research about adoption and foster care practices, and illustrated exquisitely with the author’s photos, is a beautiful and memorable exploration of life.” ––Jill McCorkle, best-selling author of Hieroglyphics
“This is the most ethereal yet earthly, dreamy yet disquieting book I have cradled, embraced, and, most importantly, held—an act made holy by Megan Culhane Galbraith. The Guild of the Infant Saviour is a book to be held and Megan Culhane Galbraith a voice to behold.” —Jenny Boully, author of Betwixt-and-Between: Essays on the Writing Life
Notă biografică
Megan Culhane Galbraith is a writer and visual artist. Her work was a Notable Mention in Best American Essays 2017, has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, and has been published in Tupelo Quarterly, Redivider, Catapult, Hobart, Longreads, and Hotel Amerika, among others. She is Associate Director of the Bennington Writing Seminars and the founding director of the Governor’s Institutes of Vermont Young Writers Institute.
Extras
Children play to control the world. When I was a child, I wanted to control my world because as an adoptee I felt I had no control. I created small universes populated by all sorts of figures: friends to have tea with, monsters to defeat, and new miniature realms to explore. It was empowering to make all the decisions, so I built dioramas and imagined myself into another life. It didn’t matter that the stage was tiny. These were worlds into which I could disappear.
I’d just given birth to my first son when I found my birth mother, Ursula. I have changed her name to respect her request for privacy. I was twenty-nine years old. I learned she’d become pregnant with me and was sent away to a Catholic home for unwed mothers—The Guild of the Infant Saviour—in Manhattan.
Years later, I began playing with a tin dollhouse I’d found at a local antique shop; A ’60s-era Louis Marx “Marxie Mansion” of the same time period in which Ursula was sent away to have me. I found a set of dolls from that era called The Campus Cuties. They were made from molded hard plastic like the toy soldiers of the time. I purchased some from eBay and then Etsy. The dolls had vacant stares and bullet bras like tiny, hyper-sexualized blank slates. Little girls had painted some of my favorites: their eyes black blobs; their clothing peeling off. I find them weirdly endearing. Their arms and legs are frozen in position and their names imply the roles society cast for women in the ’50s and ’60s––“Nighty Nite,” “Lodge Girl,” “Stormy Weather,” “Dinner for Two,” and “Shopping Anyone?” If The Campus Cuties were rendered in the flesh they’d have 40-inch inseams, 12-inch waists, and breasts the size of beach balls.
I hadn’t been given dolls to play with as a child––no Barbie, or Baby Alive. I had no doll to feed, nor did I ever change a doll’s diaper. Yet here I was a grown woman (a feminist!) besotted with these booby, leggy, plastic dolls. I was also in love with the tiny, delicate baby dolls. They too were made from plastic, although they were fragile as eggshells and the size of a three-month-old fetus. I collected them with obsessive zeal.
The dollhouse became a visual art project called The Dollhouse. I staged the Cuties and babies in household situations and photographed them from the outside looking in. I realized it was a voyeuristic way of seeing a situation from an angle of removal. It gave me the space I needed to examine my adopted life through a different lens. It emphasized a dystopia perhaps that was right there before my eyes.
I’d been the subject of many photographs––my dad being the photographer––but now, playing with these dolls, I realized I’d also been an object: a doll. Behind the lens of my camera, I am the director of my narrative. I’ve reclaimed a sense of control. Play calmed me down, allowed me to turn off my brain, and when I did, thoughts flooded in; memories returned. I became curiouser and curiouser. I began to ask uncomfortable questions. A window opened to a new way of seeing my reality.
I’d just given birth to my first son when I found my birth mother, Ursula. I have changed her name to respect her request for privacy. I was twenty-nine years old. I learned she’d become pregnant with me and was sent away to a Catholic home for unwed mothers—The Guild of the Infant Saviour—in Manhattan.
Years later, I began playing with a tin dollhouse I’d found at a local antique shop; A ’60s-era Louis Marx “Marxie Mansion” of the same time period in which Ursula was sent away to have me. I found a set of dolls from that era called The Campus Cuties. They were made from molded hard plastic like the toy soldiers of the time. I purchased some from eBay and then Etsy. The dolls had vacant stares and bullet bras like tiny, hyper-sexualized blank slates. Little girls had painted some of my favorites: their eyes black blobs; their clothing peeling off. I find them weirdly endearing. Their arms and legs are frozen in position and their names imply the roles society cast for women in the ’50s and ’60s––“Nighty Nite,” “Lodge Girl,” “Stormy Weather,” “Dinner for Two,” and “Shopping Anyone?” If The Campus Cuties were rendered in the flesh they’d have 40-inch inseams, 12-inch waists, and breasts the size of beach balls.
I hadn’t been given dolls to play with as a child––no Barbie, or Baby Alive. I had no doll to feed, nor did I ever change a doll’s diaper. Yet here I was a grown woman (a feminist!) besotted with these booby, leggy, plastic dolls. I was also in love with the tiny, delicate baby dolls. They too were made from plastic, although they were fragile as eggshells and the size of a three-month-old fetus. I collected them with obsessive zeal.
The dollhouse became a visual art project called The Dollhouse. I staged the Cuties and babies in household situations and photographed them from the outside looking in. I realized it was a voyeuristic way of seeing a situation from an angle of removal. It gave me the space I needed to examine my adopted life through a different lens. It emphasized a dystopia perhaps that was right there before my eyes.
I’d been the subject of many photographs––my dad being the photographer––but now, playing with these dolls, I realized I’d also been an object: a doll. Behind the lens of my camera, I am the director of my narrative. I’ve reclaimed a sense of control. Play calmed me down, allowed me to turn off my brain, and when I did, thoughts flooded in; memories returned. I became curiouser and curiouser. I began to ask uncomfortable questions. A window opened to a new way of seeing my reality.
Cuprins
Prologue
Talking Points
Pregnant Pause
Sin Will Find You Out
New York Is Beautiful STOP Love, Elizabeth Caldwell STOP
Find Me Here
What to Expect When You Least Expect It
Hold Me Like a Baby
Happy Together
An Adopted Child’s Memory Book: Meeting My Birth Mother for the First Time
Consider the Lilies
The Blank Slate
Other Names for Home
Mother’s Day
O’ Father Where Art Thou
The Girl, the Garden, and the Key
Where There Is Nothing Left to Hide, There Is Nothing Left to Seek
Losing It
Water
Confession
Cardioversion
Learning to Mother Myself
Timepiece
Talking Points
Pregnant Pause
Sin Will Find You Out
New York Is Beautiful STOP Love, Elizabeth Caldwell STOP
Find Me Here
What to Expect When You Least Expect It
Hold Me Like a Baby
Happy Together
An Adopted Child’s Memory Book: Meeting My Birth Mother for the First Time
Consider the Lilies
The Blank Slate
Other Names for Home
Mother’s Day
O’ Father Where Art Thou
The Girl, the Garden, and the Key
Where There Is Nothing Left to Hide, There Is Nothing Left to Seek
Losing It
Water
Confession
Cardioversion
Learning to Mother Myself
Timepiece