Story for performance #625
webcast from Sydney at 07:25PM, 07 Mar 07

A spoiling effect. That is what we politely termed it, despite the blood that had been spilled and the hearts that were broken. Okay, the blood loss was minimal, but still-beating hearts are strewn across the kitchen floor, congealing. A mess which does not look like being cleaned up any time soon. Family is difficult at the best of times and (apparently) tragic at the worst—ours is no exception.

The drama began with my choosing to date a boy who isn’t a Catholic, or at the very least a solid Christian. It confuses things for my Father who, by the way, hasn’t set foot in a church since we baptised my younger brother nearly eighteen years ago. He’s the type of man who is heavily invested in mashed potatoes—any meal that doesn’t include it is suspect. He eyes off any new dinner guest watching for signs that they won’t eat the mashed potatoes and the minute my new boyfriend politely refused his serve my Father declared war. He didn’t use the term ‘war’ of course; he suggested that the household needed a radical altering of the current attitudes towards who we are, and how we behave because as far as he was concerned mashed potatoes were just the beginning. So he brought in my Grandfather to save the day, even though the last time he invited my Grandfather to stay in the hope of uniting the family over my sister’s choice to become an environmental lawyer instead of marrying and having children, he ended up buying a new fridge. This was considered a strategic failure on his part, but my sister was recognised as a new force in the household to be reckoned with.

Grandfather’s arrival was nothing short of an unwelcome invasion organised by my father and passively accepted by my Mother.

My younger brother assessed the situation and decided that as my Father has the final say on whether he does or does not get a car for his eighteenth birthday, he formed an alliance with my Father and Grandfather, whilst my older sister packed her bags and left home after an argument in which Grandfather refused to acknowledge the crisis of global warming. That’s when she threw the first punch at my Father because she could forgive our Grandfather his ignorance but not our Father for his. Interestingly my Grandfather sided with her, whilst not relenting his opinion on global warming.

With her gone, and my brother supplying my Father with cups of tea whilst agreeing that my boyfriend had to stop sleeping over because of the smells he brought with him (cooking spices), my Father turned on me with the full force of his convictions about mashed potato and Catholicism. He thought he had galvanised the men in the household to fight the good fight against my enemy boyfriend and transform the wayward daughter who needed to be brought into line but…when my Grandfather openly declared his opinion that a young man should have to work to earn the money to buy his first car, the next punch was thrown, this time by my brother but again at my Father who was seen as a man who couldn’t keep a promise to look after the people who had sided with him in the household war against terrifying boyfriends.

When my Father accused my boyfriend of being a rapist I threw the next few punches, and that’s when my Grandfather surprised us all by declaring that my love life was my own business, surely? My Mother, plainly frightened by my Father, silent but somehow present in the backdrop of this family outrage, meekly offered her support to me at which point my Father threw his first real punch, shocking us all.

‘You fucking bully!’ cried my Mother as she stormed out.

‘You fucking misogynist prick!’ I screamed, and stormed out of the house.

‘What are you doing?’ asked my Grandfather, ‘Why am I really here son? Surely not to cause all this heartache?’

My Father of course began back-pedalling while my Grandfather admitted, much to my Father’s horror, that he didn’t like mashed potatoes either. ‘Mashed potatoes are a flimsy reason for breaking up a family, for causing so many tears!’

‘But what about Catholicism?’ my Father cried, ‘Are you suggesting we turn our backs on God now?’

‘That boyfriend of hers is the only one saying any damned prayers in this household.’

‘But he’s a rapist, all of his kind are, don’t you read the news?’

At which point my Grandfather threw his punch at my Father, ‘You hit your wife, you are a disgrace to this family, get out, get out!’

Of course he stayed. My Father is nothing if not stubborn—but he spends his time out in the shed, looking in at what we are getting up to, refusing to face the fact that his marriage is in crisis, and his children have lost all respect for him.

Meanwhile, my Grandfather and boyfriend take turns to cook, always making up a little plate of mashed potatoes for my Father as a tentative gesture of unity so we can all pretend the family will get through this in one piece.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Fiona Sprott.