Thank You For Your Support

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." - Inigo Montoya

OK, part of it is the problem of the English language itself, with its ridiculous rules and exceptions to rules. I'll grant you that.

Still. Let's talk about support. The actual word - "support."

We so often use it to mean "agree with." People will insist that "the way to support" someone is to tell them that you think that they're correct, or that they should be doing whatever they're doing. They will tell you that to "support" your family or friends, you need, in essence, to say to them, "You are right. You are absolutely right."

It makes me crazy.

Most of the times that I felt most supported by my parents were the times when we disagreed.

Look on dictionary.com. They supply 19 definitions for "support," and not one contains the words "agree" or "agreement." Number 3, though, says, "to undergo or endure, especially with patience or submission; tolerate." My parents did a lot of that.

I've shared before the fact that I started attending a church at age seven. I went with the neighbors. My parents did not belong to any religion. Both of them, especially my dad, distrusted organized religions as a whole. Plus, this was one outside the mainstream, deemed kind of loopy. Still, when I announced at age eight that I intended to attend every week, that I wanted to be baptized a member, my parents eventually gave permission.

Were they thrilled? No. Not even close. Did they try to talk me out of it? Sure. I rarely share those details, since I consider them irrelevant to the outcome, but it wasn't all sunshine and roses. My family had reservations. My mom worried that being religious would equate to being judgmental. My dad said things like, "They talk about the importance of the family, but I think that this could tear the family apart." When I wanted to attend Sunday services as well as weekday activities, they worried that two meetings a week was too much. My dad also stressed out because Sunday had traditionally been our "pack a picnic and head into the hills" days, and we'd frequently be gone all day long. He was unamused when I countered this worry by asking, "Couldn't we do that on Saturdays?" To me, his answer of, "But we've always done it on Sunday" sounded like a non sequitur. I got to hear everyone's stories about how they "knew this one Mormon man/woman" and how they did something wrong or hurtful or stupid. My dad's family had some long standing beef with the church that went back to his childhood.

How did they handle all this? They let me join, without undue complaining. I could attend meetings weekly, but I had to wait until I was 12 to be baptized; that was OK with me. By that time, they were pretty comfortable that things would go on as usual at home; nobody had grand worries any more. By the time I was a teen, and my mom had to drive me to and from meetings and activities, it was just a normal part of our lives. They attended activities with me when invited. When my teacher suggested a 40 day sugar fast so that we could better understand Jesus' 40 day fast, my mother obsessively read labels and bought special groceries. When I had early morning religion classes in high school, my mother got up with me to make sure I had breakfast. They didn't worry about sending me on youth group trips or sleepovers, even co-ed ones.

Did they still think that my church was odd, my choices were odd, and sometimes hope that I'd decide that I didn't want to attend any more? Sure. Did they say nasty, snarky, passive-aggressive things? Never. Did they gripe to everyone else, outside of my earshot? No. They told people how nice members of my congregation were.

On the other hand, did I secretly throw out their coffee and wine, sigh and look mournful when they drank those things, when they swore, when they stayed home while I went to church? Never. Did I, or anyone else, pressure them to join, remark on how sad it was that I attended alone, tell them that their salvation was at stake? Nope. Not even once. It's called "being mature."

That's certainly not the only time we seriously disagreed. My dad was deeply upset that I had no interest in being an athlete. They were both deeply disappointed when I decided not to go to college after high school. They didn't always like my friends, and were not happy when I chose one of those friends as my roommate when I moved out. (Truth be told, they weren't happy about me moving out, period, and they disliked the girl in question.) (Also, they turned out to be right that living with her was a bad idea.) When I started dating my husband, my mother told me that she never wanted to meet my new boyfriend, and my dad referred to him as "that wild. bearded thing." They were not happy when I got married at 20, when I had a baby that year and another at 21, when we moved hundreds of miles away, when we bought a home in our new town, when I chose to be a stay at home mom... I mean, there are literally dozens of instances in which they would have made very different choices for me if they could.

(Despite the fact that they thought that I was too young, and the fact that my mother hated playing hostess, we held our wedding in my parents' back yard. I felt very supported.)

It should be noted that my extended family and my friends were often equally horrified, or even more distressed than my parents, by any or all of these events. Quite often the collective opinion was that I'd lost my mind, or that I had tragically low self esteem, or that I didn't know that I had alternatives. Also, my inlaws were not fond of me in the slightest. When we were engaged, if I walked into a room, my mother in law walked out.

The fact that my family soon learned to adore my husband (and kids), and that the years bore out the fact that I had not, in fact, ruined my life, is an aside here, instead of the point. The point is that my loved ones continued to love me and continued to treat me and my family the same way they would have if I had done things differently. This does not mean that everyone lived in a state of denial or that nobody voiced concerns, complaints or (my least favorite) advice. It means that the fact that we disagreed was totally secondary to the fact that we loved each other.

That, folks, is what "support" looks like.

I cannot stand it when I read some account or other of someone doing something that could be controversial - leaving medical school to become a jazz musician, or coming out as gay - their loved ones think that they're doing the right thing, and say, "I agree with you 100%! Live your truth! Follow your path! God wants you to do this!" and other people respond, "Now that's the way to support someone!" and "Anyone who tells you that you're wrong is not supporting you!" Listen up, everybody. That's not support. It's agreement. It's expected. It is the very definition, the epitome, of expected. Can you think of any instance in which someone will agree with you, will think that you're doing the right thing, and will say something derogatory or rude? Will they question you and offer alternatives if they think that you're already taking the best course of action? Good gravy, folks, it is the closest thing to a guarantee that if someone agrees with you, they'll say something positive. I repeat, that is agreement, not support.

Displaying expected behavior is not amazing or worthy of praise. It's a given, like the sun rising.

Actual support should be expected behavior, but alas, it is not.

A friend posted a question on their Facebook page about whether or not it was possible to civil and supportive if your family members disagreed on religion. This was my response.

"When I joined my church at almost age 13, my parents and siblings were supportive (if baffled). I do not belong to the same religion as my parents, siblings, parents-in-law, siblings-in-law, or any of my 11 nieces and nephews (or my grandnieces and -nephews, either). (I also do not belong to the same political party as my husband.)

Having grown up in an environment where I was taught that all people have intrinsic value, unrelated to their beliefs or actions, and in which I was both encouraged to be respectful to everyone and to think for myself, I will never be able to understand people who think that everyone has to agree, or they can't truly be close, or love each other. I don't understand people who see differences of opinion as betrayal and rejection.

We recently returned from a naming ceremony for my grandniece, daughter of lesbian, Jewish parents. Someone actually said to my husband, "You would go when you don't agree with them?" Of course! They flew here and celebrated with us, with genuine happiness, when our daughter was married in an LDS temple. They don't agree with us or our religious practices, but it made no difference. That's just what reasonable people do for each other.

Most of my friends are pretty great about differences, too. When I invited a (very non-religious) family to my son's baptism, they didn't say, "We don't believe in that, and we think you're a little weird. It would make us too uncomfortable." They said, "What time do we need to be there, and what is the dress code?" When they invited us to their son's gay pagan handfasting (wedding) ceremony, we said about the same - "When should we get there, and what's the dress code?"

I know people who say they'd love people, regardless, but they'd be very upset if, say, their daughter announced a desire to be a nun. Unless someone is sacrificing children or planning other acts of violence, allowing them to freely practice their beliefs, or unbelief, benefits everyone."

I mean, how is this even a question? How are we not all clear on this?

When you look at my close friends, my lifelong friends, my relatives, people that I truly and sincerely adore, you'll find members of my religion. You'll also find drug addicts, drug traffickers, alcoholics, promiscuous people, transgender people, homosexual people, three pack a day smokers, cross dressers, unwed parents, people with multiple sexual partners/spouses, pagans, Jews, Evangelicals, atheists, Wiccans, people who fit more than one of those categories... all kinds of people whose lives do not mirror my standards. Why is this not a problem for me? Because they are my standards, that I have committed to live. They are not their standards.

And let it also be noted here, because this often gets overlooked, that these people love me, despite the fact that I live a vastly different life than they do.

Three of my children are adults, and the youngest is in high school, so now they sometimes hear details that I may not have shared when they were younger. They know now that one of their deeply loved bonus uncles spent years as a drug addicted, alcoholic, promiscuous manager of strippers. When they were children, I didn't let them in on those details, because they didn't need to know. They arguably don't need to know now, but we never ignored those things, or pretended that they didn't exist. We went the route of, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Sometimes, we said a lot of nothing.

We've always answered questions truthfully, though. When one of my daughters was working on a play that I was in, she asked one night, "Did (our makeup artist) used to be a woman?"

"Yes, he did. His name was (different) then. I knew him as (that person) when we did university theater together years ago."

"I though so. Don't tell him that I could tell."

"He's not touchy about it. He doesn't broadcast it, but he doesn't mind if you ask. Most of us knew him back then. It's not a secret." I don't know if she ever asked him anything - probably not - but it was just another piece of info, like what any of our actors did for a living.

I have never told my children to love someone despite our differences - I simply love that person. There's no need to qualify the feeling or the relationship.

I've never told them to choose only LDS friends, or to avoid certain people, or not to listen to a friend or relative if they have questions or want to explain their own beliefs or practices. When we've been invited to other churches, if our schedule allows we've said "yes." My kids have gone to Vacation Bible School with their friends. I have never displayed dismissive or superior attitudes because someone is different from me. I don't allow my kids to behave that way, either.

Someone once accused me of being "hateful" and "homophobic" because my religion teaches that homosexuality is aberrant behavior and because I believe that same sex unions (and perhaps even opposite gender civil unions) should be "partnerships" instead of "marriages." I felt compelled to point out that my toddlers were sitting on the lap of my gay, HIV+ best friend back in the 1980s, when people were terrified that the virus could be airborne - and, I might add, before my accuser was even born. I have little patience with anyone trying to give me a sensitivity lecture without knowing about my life. Don't assume that because you have one piece of information that you know me.

Do my kids always agree with me? No. As in so many other areas, I follow my mother's lead.

Two of my children have decided to leave my church. Keep in mind, according to my beliefs, this means that they have effectively opted out of the family unit. They may be in heaven, but they won't be my children in eternity. (This is, arguably, harder than my parents had it, since they had no beliefs about an afterlife or the state of one's eternal soul.) Is this painful? Deeply. Does it feel like rejection? Sure. Do I hope that one day, they change their minds? Absolutely. Do I love them less, criticize them more, insist that they move away, withdraw any financial help, tell their siblings to ignore them or plead with them, lie to our family and friends (or ask the children to do so), refuse to spend time with them or to take them on family trips, or engage in any other ridiculous, alienating behavior? No. Do I forbid discussion of religion? No. Do I continue to have weekly family night lessons that are religious in nature? Yes. I do things exactly the same way I always did. My choices are mine. Theirs are their own.

A friend asked not too long ago how I felt about something in my child's life. I replied with a wide smile, "I adore my child."

"Well, that's a very political answer," they said. Yes, it is. It's also the only thing that really matters. How I feel about my kids and their lives is 1. no one else's business, and 2. not going to change anything.

Thank you for your support.

Socially Awkward

"I can't wait to read what you write about tonight on your blog," said a friend at my 30 year high school reunion. I was delighted, but it also gives me performance anxiety.

I didn't attend my 10 year high school reunion; a good friend was getting married that weekend, hundreds of miles away, and it was important that I be there. I attended one event and was with a group that crashed one event for my 20th. I'm not sure if there was an event for the 25th.

When my 30th approached, I thought about sitting it out.

There were a number of reasons for that. My husband was working, and none of my closest school friends were going. The venue was described as "upscale," and frankly, I don't do upscale. (If you have to announce, "We are a classy establishment," I doubt you. Wouldn't it just be obvious if you were? Also, I spend 90% of my life in sneakers, because comfort is paramount to me. If there was a serious dress code, I wouldn't meet it. Trendiness of any kind also annoys me, because it means that something will be outdated soon.) I don't drink, but I'd be arriving two hours late due to other events in my schedule, and I didn't feel like walking into a room full of people who might have been doing some serious drinking by then. Of course, I also wondered how many attendees remembered me or wanted to see me.

When I say stuff like that, inevitably one of two things happens. Either someone will rush to assure me that only shallow showoffs attend reunions, and there'd be no one there worth seeing, or they'll start trying to console me, as though I were upset, telling me how much "everyone" was likely to "love" me. I don't understand either reaction.

Did I attend school with some shallow, judgmental, superficial or dull people? Undoubtedly; there were over 500 people in our graduating class. A simple numbers analysis would tell you that not everyone was going to be delightful. Do I fear being judged by former classmates? No, I really don't. Some will like me; some will not. That's life. A negative appraisal from anyone, much less someone I haven't seen for decades, won't impact my life in any real way. I'm not worried because I've gained weight, or because my life isn't impressive enough.

But, too, neither will a positive appraisal change things. I don't need anyone to love me any more than I fear them disliking me. It's nice if they like me, but totally OK if they don't. Impressing people is just not on my radar.

I once completely freaked out a friend and coworker. I was having a rough time in my life, and he knew it. He tried very hard to assure me that work should be a sanctuary of some kind, "because everyone here really loves you." I know that he meant well, but it was silly.

"No, they don't," I told him. "They think I'm fairly pleasant to be around, and reasonably good at my job. When I leave - and some day, I will - some of them might miss me for a few days or weeks, but  I won't see many of them ever again. Soon, most of them won't even remember my name or my face, and that's OK. That's how it should be."

He could not imagine why I felt that way, and worse, why I was OK feeling that way. When his wife is upset, she wants to hear how universally adored she is, and how, if anyone dares not to adore her, they're a tiny, insignificant minority, one that should be soundly denounced and then ignored. He assumed, therefore, that other women wanted to hear those same things. Like I said, nice but silly.

Sometimes, even my close friends don't understand me. For instance, I'm an introvert. When I started dating my husband, he truly believed that introverts were a myth. He simply could not imagine anyone having such a mindset. A friend recently informed me, "I know you think you're an introvert, but you're not." Um - pardon?

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not. I've asked other people, and they agree with me."

"I assure you, I am the world's foremost authority on me."

"Nope. You're mistaken."

Anyway. It should surprise no one that I'm awkward in groups.

It's not a matter of not liking people, or being afraid that they don't like me. And I can, and sometimes do, have a great deal of fun in group settings. As a teen, I often went on vacation with a dozen or so other kids. It's just that being with people, even having fun, is exhausting. It's like people who love to work out, or enjoy running marathons. Just because they enjoy it and do it voluntarily doesn't mean that they don't get tired. Extroverts don't understand introverts, because they are energized by groups, activity, noise and action, whereas those things drain introverts, who are energized by quiet and solitude.

"But you're an actor and public speaker!" people say to me. "You can't do that and be an introvert!" Of course I can. Performing or speaking does not entail actual interaction with the audience. I do my thing, they do theirs, and we go home alone. Plus, I'm often speaking someone else's words, so I don't even have to decide what to say.

So - walking into a room full of people that I may or may not know, who may or may not want to see me, doesn't sound fabulous. I've learned to do it, but I've also learned that I can sit out the opportunity without guilt.

There were some friends coming in from out of town, people I hadn't seen in years, that tipped the scale. I have great fun "talking" to them on the computer, so doing it in person should be even more fun.

And so, the Mormon walks into a bar.

I learned fairly early in adulthood that a significant portion of people socialize in bars. Many years ago, it felt odd to be in a bar (and caused me to worry that I'd have to relive some of the worst caretaking memories of my youth, when I had to clean up vomit, console the weeping and other less than fabulous moments). It feels fairly ordinary now, but I still wonder why there aren't an equal number of alcohol free places to hang out. I mean, if you want to be around people, but you don't necessarily want to phone your friends and make formal plans, shouldn't there be someplace where you could just show up, and there will be comfy chairs and snacks and TVs, maybe showing something science fictiony?

I was actually surprised when the first person I saw remembered me. Since the invitation to the reunion had gone out on Facebook, we'd all had the chance to look up some classmates before the reunion, too. "I've been looking at pictures of your family; you have great kids," she said. I felt so invisible in school - in truth, I wanted to be invisible - so the idea that people remembered me was a surprise.

I paid, picked up the nametag with my high school senior portrait and my maiden name on it, and looked for a security blanket - someone I was comfortable with. This is a must in any social setting.

Success! Michele has been my friend since we were in 5th grade. I've known her husband Mark since I was 19 or 20. Our kids grew up together. And they were talking to Stacy - I've known her since elementary school. I made a beeline for their table.

There were hugs and pleasantries. Stacy reminded me that the last time I saw her, it was at the wedding of a mutual friend. Then, Michele and Stacy decided to go mingle - "You want to come?"

"No, not yet. I'm not ready. I'll stay here for a few minutes." The ladies went off to schmooze, while I stayed with Mark and Stacy's husband - in the back of the room, with my back to the wall; my comfort zone.

(When I told this to a friend later, the friend said, "I would have been right there with you; Vietnam vet, back to the wall, eye on the exit." Amen.)

You know how, when your friends get married, you hope that you like the spouse, because otherwise your life will be awkward? Now let me give you an example of why Mark and I are friends, why I would like him even if he weren't married to my elementary school best friend.

He sat next to me, making normal conversation, not wondering why I hadn't gone off with the ladies. After a few minutes, he said, "Are you ready to go mingle yet?" No; I was not. I was more anxious by the moment, unable to see the friends I'd come to see, and terrified almost to tears by the idea of circulating the room. Truth be told, I would have fled right then had I not been too far from the door. I knew that if I tried to leave, I'd be in tears in just a few steps, and then I'd either have to barrel through to the door, or, horror of horrors, have someone stop me to ask what was wrong. No, I was not yet capable of mingling.

"No. If I tried to mingle right now, I'd burst into tears."

"OK. We'll sit here for a while," he said, and went back to an ordinary conversation about our kids.

He did NOT: 1. look at me like I was crazy, 2. think that I was exaggerating, 3. leave me so that he could mingle, or 4. try to console or comfort me in any way. He just GOT IT. I cannot tell you how rare that it. Mark is a godsend. He just sat there and held a normal conversation.

A few minutes later, he checked again. Would I like to go with him while he went to find his wife? Yes; yes, I would. Security blanket in place, we went to find Michele and Stacy.

As luck would have it, they were right next to the group I'd been looking for, some debate team and AP English buddies. I had a great time, and stayed much longer than I thought I would, both talking to this group and actually mingling. I had a genuinely good time, and laughed a lot.

I've decided that those conversations are a separate post. I know some very witty, articulate people.

Since the event, though, I've been dissecting it and wondering. The conventions of behavior still seem so puzzling that I wonder if the evening looked the same to me as it did to everyone else.

I discovered that a large percentage of the attendees remembered me. That seemed very odd, especially when I'd mention other schoolmates and get blank looks. I'm not sure why people remember me. I remembered them, and I like them, but I just didn't feel memorable in high school. And while I am proud of the life I have, and would make most of my life choices again, I don't think that my life looks very impressive by most people's yardsticks. I wondered what to say, beyond, "How are you?" and recitations of facts about my kids. Now I worry - did I come off as standoffish? "Odd" I expect, but I hope that nobody felt that I didn't like them or enjoy seeing them.

Conversely, I worry that I was too - what's the word? - affectionate. As long as I live, I will never really understand, for instance, how to treat the genders differently, or even if I should. I once experienced an exceedingly painful time because wires were getting crossed, communication-wise, with someone (actually, several someones) who thought that I was flirting. (See the essay "Gender Blindness.") Truth be told, I do not know how to flirt.

I do not understand, for instance, how eye contact, smiles or ordinary physical contact is supposed to be flirting. I do not know how to live my life without doing these things. At the reunion, what if I made eye contact across the room and smiled at someone who then thought that I was hitting on them? I know that I reached out and touched people's arms, and at least one man's leg, while I was laughing about something he said. What if that was misconstrued as flirting? How many people did I pay compliments to? Oh, my gosh! What if the wrong signals were going out left and right? That would just be extremely awkward! And I can't ask people. "Hey, did you think that I was hitting on you? Because I wasn't." Yeah, that's appropriate behavior, I'm sure.

See, this is why I avoid groups. And casual contact. And small talk.

So, I've decided to do something I'm pretty good at, and to refuse to worry about it. Perception doesn't alter reality, and I can't do much about altering perception. It is what it is. If I start worrying about what people think, I will be wrong a significant amount of the time, and I will make myself crazy. This is an undesirable outcome.

So, I will simply be happy that I went. Class of '84, it was good to see you. I enjoy watching your lives scroll by on Facebook, as well.