As debates rage regarding whether a woman should have dominion over her own body, I think of something that happened in Saint-Germain-de-Grantham, Québec, the village where my family has lived and farmed for nine generations.
About a century ago, a group of village women worked up the courage to visit the curé (parish priest) to present a weighty concern. I’m sure this didn’t happen casually, because their action constituted a serious transgression of cultural and religious rules.
The women marched to l’église (the church), and the woman delegated to pose the question stepped forward to address the priest. She spoke quietly at first. The priest narrowed his eyes and shot back loudly, “Quoi?” (What?) The woman spoke again, this time with more volume. The priest scowled.
The woman asked a question concerning a matter that affected health, finances, peace of mind, and ability to survive: “Must we always submit to our husbands’ sexual demands, even at the time of the month when we’re most likely to become pregnant? We want to be able to say no. The men say we should ask you. Will you give us your blessing?” Many of the women present already had 10, 12, or 14 children; one woman had 19.
My mother told me, hundreds of times, as I was growing up, “The women in my village were pregnant all the time. Literally, all the time.” My mother, Céline, was her mother’s eighteenth pregnancy. Eight lived to adulthood, but my grand-mère (grandmother), Eveline Rajotte Janelle, was pregnant virtually every single year between her marriage and when her body ceased to reproduce.
I don’t know if my grand-mère was part of the brave posse. When my mother told me the story four years ago, she relayed an event that occurred several years before her own birth. Céline kept it secret until dementia loosened her mind and tongue. Even so, before whispering the story, my mother made sure the door was firmly closed and no one else was listening.
“They were sexual slaves,” she hissed, eyes darting around the room.
How did the priest respond? He folded his arms and stared down the group of women. The powerful, supposedly celibate man pronounced: “You must never refuse your husband. It is your duty to submit. If I hear of any of you refusing, I’ll no longer hear your confession or give you communion at Mass. Refusing is a sin. Now go home.”
A few decades later, next door to the house where my mother grew up, her brother Philippe lived with his wife, Lucille, and their nine children. Eleven people living in a 1,200-square-foot house already strained the limits of privacy and sanity, but when Tante Lucille’s sister, Josephine, arrived with a black eye and her own eight children, Lucille insisted on taking them in.
Josephine’s husband, a tragic man with an alcohol addiction, had beaten his wife once again. The desperate woman did the only thing she could think of in order to survive. Knocking on her sister’s door was humiliating, but years of abuse had worn her down. “S’il vous plaît,” she whispered. “Juste pour quelques nuits.” (Please, just for a few nights.) She wasn’t planning to leave her husband; she simply needed a break from the violence.
My Oncle Philippe told his wife to turn her sister away; they didn’t have room. My indomitable Tante Lucille stood her ground and said, “Nous ferons de la place.” (We’ll make room.)
Twenty people shared the tiny house for several weeks, with villagers whispering all the while. Tante Lucille strode into church each Sunday firmly holding her sister’s hand. As they sat with their combined 17 children, Lucille stared directly at the priest. When he refused to meet her gaze, something new stirred in the village.
To those who discuss reproductive rights as if it’s something to actually discuss, I invite reflection about the women in my family’s village. Please also think about women the world over. Perhaps your own ancestors suffered mightily?
Eveline MacDougall lives in Greenfield. She may be contacted at eveline@amandlachorus.org.