The revenge of the Invisible Woman

If you’ve ever had a nightmare where you’re in danger and you open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out, then you’ll have some idea of what it means to be an Invisible Woman.

An Invisible Woman is a woman in her 50s who has given over several decades to doing essential, repetitive, unnoticed tasks. If she opens her mouth to speak, she is talked over, ignored or ridiculed. She has an apologetic, conciliatory manner and is often walked into, blending inconspicuously, as she does, with her surroundings.

I am such a woman. Or rather, I was. I have taken what has turned out to be, in my sons’ eyes, a revolutionary step. One of them feels so strongly that I suspect he would gladly bring back the guillotine. I have stepped into the spotlight, literally, and become a stand-up comedian.

He considers me a scourge, refusing to acknowledge that all artists (that is what I now term myself, shoulders back and head high) draw on their own life for material. As my sons are now in their 20s I feel that if they choose to be embarrassed by me, it is more a sign of their lack of confidence in themselves and inability to separate from me than any failing on my part.

I will still be blamed, however. Mothers, although rarely given credit, are generally held to account, but I no longer care; I am putting myself first.

Taking a stand in Edinburgh

This year I took my stand-up comedy show, Invisible Woman, to the Edinburgh Fringe. Every day for the month of August I accosted strangers, muttered a few words, handed them a flyer and was greeted with a smile or word of recognition, which resulted, more often than I'd hoped, in them forking out to come and see my show.

My flyering targets were all middle-aged and older women and most recognised this feeling of being invisible. I honed in on them. And they responded: “Tell me about it”; “Don’t I know it”.

One old lady took me literally when I said that older women turned invisible. “Really,” she said. “How?”

Sometimes a jocular spouse would reply, “Did someone speak? Sorry, didn’t see you.” Or, less passable, “I wish they would [turn invisible].”

Other people would come along but the driving force would be the woman I’d flyered. Her companions would humour her, because most dealings with older women have that hint of condescension. (Ah, bless.) But they, too, appeared to enjoy the show.

Good at heart

Men left muttering that I was right, that women were invaluable and unappreciated. Because most men are good sorts at heart, even though they’re happy to leave us to clean the toilet and organise Christmas.

In most countries in the world there are more women than men, and in the most powerful country in the world, the US, the biggest demographic is women aged 40-65. Yet a cursory glance at governments or the media would seem to belie this fact.

I talk of changing the generic from “he” to “she” – as in “She who dares wins”. And distinguishing between jobs by saying “doctor” and “man-doctor”, “writer” and “man-writer”, “comedian” and “man-comedian”. Male comedians could be introduced with, “And now we have a man comedian for you, the very lovely . . . ” And comedians could tell jokes about man drivers.

It’s a confidence thing. Men for millennia have felt entitled, and women’s confidence has been eroded accordingly. But I was heartened by how older women, when gathered together (and we are often quite isolated) displayed a bedrock of faith in themselves.

As an interlude in the Edinburgh show, I asked married women in the audience if they had changed their names. Many had. Some several times. A discussion would follow on which name they preferred and a surprising number (to me) didn’t care. A name is not important, they say. So true, so philosophical – so confident.

Changing names has made us virtually untraceable in history, where women’s invisibility is notorious. But in a way, our invisibility makes us stronger – like with Invisible Woman, the superhero. Truth resides in what we, as women, know, and it lives on a different plane from any historical record or media representation.

The mature women in my audience knew their worth and were faintly amused that onlookers may not have done.

Yet the fact remained that they had responded to my Invisible Woman bait. They recognised that older women are invisible in an affluent western society saturated with images of youthful female beauty. And if we put our heads above the parapet we are more likely to be criticised.

It is enlightening to see more and more women, such as the Cambridge classicist Mary Beard, appear on television without make-up and without dyeing their hair and dressing to please themselves.

Sarah Millican waited for the anniversary of the press onslaught on her choice of dress for the Bafta awards to publish a withering indictment of how her ability as a performer was judged on the dress she wore.

The majority of men applaud and admire these women. Many are now happy to be considered feminists. We women, especially older women, should take the lead here and not let slights go unheeded.

The Irish mammy, a particularly feisty and praiseworthy breed, is subjected to an atrocious amount of condescension and parody. Were it aimed at any other sector of society, there would be a law against it.

In a country where the Constitution deems it best for a woman to remain in the home, I struggled during child-rearing years to fight the impression that I was gradually disappearing. I was more tied to the house than my UK counterparts. Coming from England, I was surprised to find no school dinners here, no affordable childcare, short school days, and long, long summer holidays.

On top of this I was one of Ireland’s first divorcees (Edinburgh audiences were shocked to learn there was no divorce in Ireland before 1996). I was also living in a State highly influenced by a church that does not allow female officiates.

Born in the 1950s, I was a shy, retiring girl, terrified of speaking out or drawing attention to myself. To command a room of people with nothing but my words for nearly an hour seemed unimaginable, but it has proved a liberating and joyful experience.

Silver lining

I cast a light on the dark years and mould my endless trips to Lidl and difficulties with teenage sons into material that evokes laughs of recognition. My career is starting at an age where many careers are ending.

During my stint at the Edinburgh Fringe, I went to see several female comedians. The two performances that remain with me were by women more than 10 and 20 years older than me. Seventy-year-old Virginia Ironside's Growing Old Disgracefully and 80-year-old Lynn Ruth Miller's Not Dead Yet are shows I would urge you to see if you get a chance.

Before writing this, I was at the supermarket. The young man on the checkout said to the old guy in front of me, “Change in the weather.” The old guy in front of me said, “It’s not a change in the weather we want, it’s a change in the women.” Nothing like a bit of random misogyny with your shopping.

The young man on the checkout exchanged an amused glance with me, and that glance summed up what I genuinely believe: the tide has turned and the future is bright.

Invisible Woman is at the Mill Theatre, Dundrum, Oct 16 and 17, €12/€10, milltheatre.ie, 01-2969340