Sometimes, when I walk through a weekly market, I miss seeing something very typical of my childhood. It was a symbol, to me, of my childhood vacations in Spain. Old ladies in black.
I can't think about any trip I made here in my childhood and teen years without visualizing an old woman wearing a black scarf, black blouse, black skirt, black stockings and black shoes. It was something you would see everywhere. Mostly in the villages, because cities everywhere tend to be more modern and universal. But the villages have always held old traditions much longer, including that of dressing in mourning when a loved one has died. And the cultural rites of mourning lasted long; three years for a mother, two for a father, at least one for a child, a sister or a brother, and the rest of your life for a spouse. Therefore some women would start wearing black in their forties and would never take it off again. I remember asking once why my grandmother was dressed in black if she wasn't a widow and my aunt told me that she was so old and so many relatives had died there was no reason not to wear it. (My grandmother was never married to my grandfather.)
In my teen summer visits here I coined a name I shared with a cousin, the Black Brigade. That's what I called a group of neighbors, all women, who wore black mourning. I would see them at Mass, seated towards the front, mumbling their prayers over black rosary beads held in their hands, heads bowed. They were the image of piety. Then, at the end of Mass, after having crossed themselves two times over, genuflected and left the church, they would gather together outside the side door (the main door was, and is, only used at special times) where they would tear their neighbors to pieces. It was as if the threshold of the church door marked a personality change from pious, saintly women to gossipping harridans. My cousin and I would try to steer clear of them, and if one of them ever asked us a question we would answer politely and ambivalently, knowing they would only use the information to spread half-truths.
There were good women who dressed in mourning and would themselves criticize the Black Brigade for their viciousness with the neighbors. And some would joke so-and-so's husband had been sent to the grave by his nagging wife and her sharp tongue. These were the good women who let playing children pick their fruit for their afternoon snack. Or they would call over their grandchildren and all the friends they had over playing with them for some cookies and milk. Some would even make small sandwiches of chourizo for their grandchild and one or two special friends that were visiting, playing. These women would be the typical good neighbors, who would always lend a hand when it was needed.
But mostly I just remember them walking along the lanes, with a basket of grass on their heads to take to the cow in the stable, or leading a donkey by the rope. Walking along the lanes and the paths with my cousin we would come upon a neighbor or two working in the fields, hoeing the cornrows or cutting grass with a scythe, all of them older women wearing mourning, working the fields while the younger adults were at work. Now when I walk along the lanes on a summer day I see men with machinery or an older woman wearing normal clothes. And only on weekends. With machinery now most of those jobs can wait for Saturday. Old women now, widows or not, wear everyday clothes. Some even wear pants and jeans. No longer do older women wear only skirts to below the knees. They have progressed with the times. When I saw two women, sisters apparently, at a market one day not long ago, both wearing the full regiment of black, headscarves included, I was surprised and realized it had been years since I had seen women like them. Now no one wears black except the oldest. When someone dies the relatives wear black or dark grey the day of the funeral and afterwards they wear their normal clothes. Clothing has become expensive and wardrobes are now not confined to one or two skirts and blouses. Of course, wearing mourning in many aspects is untenable because of jobs, uniforms, and simply because modern living does not allow someone to wear all black all the time.
Times change. Some things become simpler but at a cost. Soon, the traditions that have made each area unique will disappear. My future grandchildren will never see me dress as I have seen my grandmother dress. But they'll still call me old-fashioned, I bet.
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| An old lady with the traditional headscarf. |
In my teen summer visits here I coined a name I shared with a cousin, the Black Brigade. That's what I called a group of neighbors, all women, who wore black mourning. I would see them at Mass, seated towards the front, mumbling their prayers over black rosary beads held in their hands, heads bowed. They were the image of piety. Then, at the end of Mass, after having crossed themselves two times over, genuflected and left the church, they would gather together outside the side door (the main door was, and is, only used at special times) where they would tear their neighbors to pieces. It was as if the threshold of the church door marked a personality change from pious, saintly women to gossipping harridans. My cousin and I would try to steer clear of them, and if one of them ever asked us a question we would answer politely and ambivalently, knowing they would only use the information to spread half-truths.
There were good women who dressed in mourning and would themselves criticize the Black Brigade for their viciousness with the neighbors. And some would joke so-and-so's husband had been sent to the grave by his nagging wife and her sharp tongue. These were the good women who let playing children pick their fruit for their afternoon snack. Or they would call over their grandchildren and all the friends they had over playing with them for some cookies and milk. Some would even make small sandwiches of chourizo for their grandchild and one or two special friends that were visiting, playing. These women would be the typical good neighbors, who would always lend a hand when it was needed.
But mostly I just remember them walking along the lanes, with a basket of grass on their heads to take to the cow in the stable, or leading a donkey by the rope. Walking along the lanes and the paths with my cousin we would come upon a neighbor or two working in the fields, hoeing the cornrows or cutting grass with a scythe, all of them older women wearing mourning, working the fields while the younger adults were at work. Now when I walk along the lanes on a summer day I see men with machinery or an older woman wearing normal clothes. And only on weekends. With machinery now most of those jobs can wait for Saturday. Old women now, widows or not, wear everyday clothes. Some even wear pants and jeans. No longer do older women wear only skirts to below the knees. They have progressed with the times. When I saw two women, sisters apparently, at a market one day not long ago, both wearing the full regiment of black, headscarves included, I was surprised and realized it had been years since I had seen women like them. Now no one wears black except the oldest. When someone dies the relatives wear black or dark grey the day of the funeral and afterwards they wear their normal clothes. Clothing has become expensive and wardrobes are now not confined to one or two skirts and blouses. Of course, wearing mourning in many aspects is untenable because of jobs, uniforms, and simply because modern living does not allow someone to wear all black all the time.
Times change. Some things become simpler but at a cost. Soon, the traditions that have made each area unique will disappear. My future grandchildren will never see me dress as I have seen my grandmother dress. But they'll still call me old-fashioned, I bet.
 | |
| My grandmother and her great-granddaughter, my cousin, in the mid-80's. |
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