My parents read a lot. We had lots of magazines and books around the house, and from the time we could read, none of us were forbidden to touch any of them. There were no trashy romance novels, no stashes of porn; the closest thing to inappropriate was a pile of Cosmos that a cousin had handed down (and my mom had no interest in). Plus, a lot of the thrillers and such were in Condensed Book form, so they were the equivalent of movies cut for TV. Anything graphic was edited out.
There were books we had to treat carefully, and those were on high shelves - the encyclopedias, the old family Bibles. We were expected to have clean hands, be gentle, put them away.
We had lots of storybooks, too, but if we could read something the adults owned, that was OK. Mom sometimes told us that we probably wouldn't like a book that was really dry, from a kid's point of view, or warned us that there was something we might not like (for me, that meant animals dying. I still loved Old Yeller). But if we could read the words, we could read the book (or magazine).
I remember sitting in the living room and reading a magazine while my mom sat across the room reading something. I came across a word I didn't know. I was never the kid who just skipped those; I had to find out how to say it, and what it meant. So, I asked my mom, "What are genitals?"
She looked a bit surprised, and said, "Private parts - reproductive organs. What are you reading that has that word in it?"
"Reader's Digest." She raised her eyebrows, so I elaborated - "It's an article about a bear attack. It says the man covered his during the attack." Now I understood why.
Mom said, "I'll bet he did." Then she wanted to know, "Did he survive?"
"I haven't finished the article yet, but the title has the word 'survival' in it, so I'm guessing he did."
"That's good," Mom said, and went back to reading.
That kind of parenting was perfect for me. She didn't lecture me about reading something scary and tell me that I'd have nightmares. (Books rarely scared me.) She didn't rush to reassure me that bear attacks were rare, and that we were safe when we went into the woods. (I knew that anyway, and the article had already covered that ground if I didn't.) She certainly never refused to tell me what a word meant, or made me feel bad for asking. She gave clear, factual answers, without unnecessary detail.
I was eight years old when the book Jaws came out. I remember clearly lying in the hammock in the back yard, reading in the opening pages the description of the first victim reaching down, thinking she'd caught her foot on something, and discovering that her whole leg was gone. A fly landed on my book, and in irritation I slammed the book shut, squishing it between the pages, then regretted my impulsiveness.
I loved Brody, Hooper and Quint. I loved the way that each needed the other's expertise to get the job done. I rolled my eyes at their bickering, and was captivated by their bonding. I understood parts of each of their personalities.
At eight, though, my only experience with losing a main character was Old Yeller. I naively assumed that all of our principles would live. After all, so far, everyone who'd died had been someone we'd met for mere moments.
Then Quint died. I took it very hard; I was devastated. Decades later, I still feel it.
I did not understand the reaction that a lot of people had: "I will never go in the ocean again!" A very literal person, I could not figure out if people had never known that sharks existed. That seemed unlikely. If you knew that sharks existed, why would a book about one be surprising? Turns out, most of them had just never considered that a shark might attack them, personally.
My reaction was, "You know what in the ocean is most likely to kill you? The water." Most animals will leave you alone, most of the time. Water is relentless, and doesn't care about you. Still, people felt sure that intellect and ability would keep them safe from the actual water - just don't breathe it, right? A shark sounded much more unpredictable and frightening.
Still, I fell back on the numbers, how many people die every year from drowning vs. shark attack. Plus, Benchley called his character a "rogue" shark, over and over. The whole point was that this was not a normal shark, and not a normal summer. Plus, it was fiction. He could have made the shark talk if he wanted to; fiction is not constrained by facts.
Decades later, I'm still afraid of drowning; sharks still don't bother me a bit.
The next year, when the movie came out, kids at school kept asking each other, "Have you seen Jaws?" I kept saying, "No, but I've read the book." (One kid earned a scowl by saying, "What book?")
When I was sleeping over at a friend's house, her dad asked my mom if it was OK if I went with them to the movie. "Sure. She's read the book; she'll be fine," Mom said. And she was right; the scenes of the camera gliding over the ocean bottom at the beginning of the show felt scarier than any of the scenes with the shark.
Except when we still lost Quint. I hoped that they'd let him live this time, but no. In a way, that made me happy, because I hate it when filmmakers change the plot, but I hated losing Quint, too.
I had the same rules for my kids concerning books as my mom had had for me - clean hands, treat it right, don't leave it out, put it away when you're done. But I didn't have any books that I hid from them. If there was something not appropriate for kids - I read a lot of mysteries and histories, and people in those have a tendency to die, often in colorful ways - I put it on a high shelf. By the time you could reach the shelf, you'd be old enough to read it.
My daughter was home from college for a visit, and I said something about a crime; I forget which one. "Oh, yeah, I read about that in your book," she said.
"Which book?" I wanted to know.
She told me, then said, "Whoops. I probably shouldn't have told you that." It was a book about famous unsolved crimes - Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, JonBenet Ramsey.
"Why not?"
"Because I read your book."
"Did you ruin it?"
"No."
"Did you put it back?"
"Yeah."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I figured you'd be mad if I read it."
"Let me get this straight. It's a book that I bought - not just borrowed, but spent money on. It's something that I'm interested in. And you thought that would be a problem?"
"Well, yeah. People were, like, murdered."
"So, you thought that a book that sat in plain sight, on a shelf literally right outside your bedroom, would be forbidden."
"Well, yeah." She actually looked a bit disappointed that I wasn't angry, but I thought that this was very funny. Kid, if I didn't want you to know that the book existed, I would not put it at eye level, 6 inches away from your bedroom door.
Also, if I would have said, "This is really fascinating, you should read this," I probably would have gotten, "Ew! That's gross! What is wrong with you? Why would I want to read that?"
I have only one book with pages that I don't want left where people can see them, and that's because I would have a problem. I own a big, glossy, fascinating book about the Titanic. But, the pages with photos of the wreck are paper clipped together. The kids all know that they're welcome to look, but as soon as they're done, those paper clips go back on!
Because the scariest thing in my books is still the water.
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
My Parents' Anniversary
Today is my parents' 58th wedding anniversary. I'm thinking about them today.
I've previously written about the fact that my mom got married twice to her first husband. We recently discovered that she'd also married my dad twice.
("What is it with Mom and having two weddings?" my sister said.)
We've always known the date and place of my parents' wedding. We teased them about taking the wedding to the guests instead of the guests to the wedding, since they were married in the church my uncle and aunt attended. "That's not how you're supposed to do it," we'd say. "Yes, well, that's how we did it," Mom would say.
I figured that choice was a combination of not wanting a big fuss, but wanting a formal ceremony. Mom was very practical, and I can imagine Dad wanting a ceremony that rivaled the one with her first husband. Neither of my parents were members of any congregation, so they didn't have their own church to consider. So, the 90 minute drive each way made sense. (It still does.)
After my mom passed away (Dad's been gone for years), I found the certificate from their wedding. It is an ornate piece of parchment, with flowers and filigree and the writing hand done in calligraphy. It's tied by silk tassels, in a leather folder. Very showy, very fancy; it looks regal. It had all the information I was used to - date, place, my aunt and uncle as witnesses.
The problem was, on either my FamilySearch account or on my Ancestry.com account, the two geneological programs that I use, I could not find an online record of it. Neither could my sister. Oh, well, I thought. We know that it happened. New documents are being scanned or info uploaded every day; sooner or later, it'll be online. I don't need another record of it so badly that I needed to drive across four counties to get a copy.
But then, we came across another record online, a record showing that they got married more than a month after the first wedding, by a Justice of the Peace in another, closer, neighboring county. What was that about? Lots of people, myself and my husband included, have a civil ceremony first, and later, a religious ceremony. But why do it the other way round? And why so close together?
My parents are gone. My uncle and aunt are gone. I'm willing to bet that the minister (and Justice) are gone, even if he remembered them. Some of my cousins are gone; my oldest brother is nearing 70, and all of my children are grown. We're reaching the age at which we are the older generation. There's no one with first hand knowledge around to ask.
There are, however, stories and records from years gone by to help us extrapolate. There's the fact that many religions are very strict about how they will, and won't, perform ceremonies.
As nearly as we can figure, the minister from my uncle's church found out that my mother was divorced after he'd already performed the ceremony, and he then refused to file the paperwork with the state, so the marriage wasn't considered legal. "My mother couldn't have told the church that she'd been divorced when she married my dad. Otherwise, they wouldn't have let them get married in the church," one of my cousins told me. It used to be uncommon to find a church that would perform ceremonies for divorced folks.
So, my parents drove to the next town over in order to make it legal; but, they continued to celebrate the day they actually chose to be married, the day they first said vows. That's very typical of my parents. "This is my anniversary."
That makes sense. We celebrate the day of our first wedding. By the time of our second wedding, the religious ceremony, we'd been married for years, and had two children. That's a different day than the day we chose to get married.
I am a religious person; I stand behind the idea of religions acting in accordance with their beliefs. And yet this story tickles me. It amuses me. I stand behind my parents and their choice to celebrate their non-legal wedding day. Call it like you see it, Mom and Dad. Don't back down.
I come by my stubbornness honestly.
I've previously written about the fact that my mom got married twice to her first husband. We recently discovered that she'd also married my dad twice.
("What is it with Mom and having two weddings?" my sister said.)
We've always known the date and place of my parents' wedding. We teased them about taking the wedding to the guests instead of the guests to the wedding, since they were married in the church my uncle and aunt attended. "That's not how you're supposed to do it," we'd say. "Yes, well, that's how we did it," Mom would say.
I figured that choice was a combination of not wanting a big fuss, but wanting a formal ceremony. Mom was very practical, and I can imagine Dad wanting a ceremony that rivaled the one with her first husband. Neither of my parents were members of any congregation, so they didn't have their own church to consider. So, the 90 minute drive each way made sense. (It still does.)
After my mom passed away (Dad's been gone for years), I found the certificate from their wedding. It is an ornate piece of parchment, with flowers and filigree and the writing hand done in calligraphy. It's tied by silk tassels, in a leather folder. Very showy, very fancy; it looks regal. It had all the information I was used to - date, place, my aunt and uncle as witnesses.
The problem was, on either my FamilySearch account or on my Ancestry.com account, the two geneological programs that I use, I could not find an online record of it. Neither could my sister. Oh, well, I thought. We know that it happened. New documents are being scanned or info uploaded every day; sooner or later, it'll be online. I don't need another record of it so badly that I needed to drive across four counties to get a copy.
But then, we came across another record online, a record showing that they got married more than a month after the first wedding, by a Justice of the Peace in another, closer, neighboring county. What was that about? Lots of people, myself and my husband included, have a civil ceremony first, and later, a religious ceremony. But why do it the other way round? And why so close together?
My parents are gone. My uncle and aunt are gone. I'm willing to bet that the minister (and Justice) are gone, even if he remembered them. Some of my cousins are gone; my oldest brother is nearing 70, and all of my children are grown. We're reaching the age at which we are the older generation. There's no one with first hand knowledge around to ask.
There are, however, stories and records from years gone by to help us extrapolate. There's the fact that many religions are very strict about how they will, and won't, perform ceremonies.
As nearly as we can figure, the minister from my uncle's church found out that my mother was divorced after he'd already performed the ceremony, and he then refused to file the paperwork with the state, so the marriage wasn't considered legal. "My mother couldn't have told the church that she'd been divorced when she married my dad. Otherwise, they wouldn't have let them get married in the church," one of my cousins told me. It used to be uncommon to find a church that would perform ceremonies for divorced folks.
So, my parents drove to the next town over in order to make it legal; but, they continued to celebrate the day they actually chose to be married, the day they first said vows. That's very typical of my parents. "This is my anniversary."
That makes sense. We celebrate the day of our first wedding. By the time of our second wedding, the religious ceremony, we'd been married for years, and had two children. That's a different day than the day we chose to get married.
I am a religious person; I stand behind the idea of religions acting in accordance with their beliefs. And yet this story tickles me. It amuses me. I stand behind my parents and their choice to celebrate their non-legal wedding day. Call it like you see it, Mom and Dad. Don't back down.
I come by my stubbornness honestly.
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Staying At Home
Maybe it's because my youngest child just graduated from high school; maybe not. I've had several conversations lately about how people view, and speak to, stay at home parents, young parents, and especially, heaven forbid, young stay at home parents. It's often not pretty.
I got married at 20, had babies at 20 and 21, and was a stay at home mom. To make matters, in many people's eyes, worse, we lived in small, rural communities for close to 10 years.
Many sincere, well intentioned people had feelings that fell on a scale from puzzled to horrified. It was - it is - a struggle for me to understand why.
I mean, they had reasons, they told me their reasons, but I couldn't quite make out what those reasons had to do with me, personally.
Sometimes, those reasons were phrased as concern for my mental and emotional state. "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were bringing in money?" No. I'd still have the exact same IQ, abilities, knowledge, skills, and talents, no matter what I did with my days. I'm really unclear on why people expected the way I felt about myself to depend on factors outside of myself. I was certainly aware that some people thought that anyone who married young, had children immediately, and dropped out of college to be a stay at home parent couldn't possibly have two brain cells to rub together; I just didn't care. It's not as if that opinion actually lowered my IQ.
Sometimes, the wording was slightly different: the clumsily worded, "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were contributing to the household?" Those people got a chilly, "I am contributing."
My responses usually led to an earnest attempt on their part to explain the query that just, from my perspective, dug the hole deeper. Insisting that the way others viewed me mattered more than what went on in my own household was an impossible task, because I will never believe that. Insisting that I "could be doing so much more" led me to point out, "Different does not mean better." If I'd decided to be a doctor, I wouldn't be a practicing lawyer. If I was a teacher, I wouldn't be an accountant. Choosing what you do with your time always means eliminating other possibilities. That's a good thing, not a bad one.
What really made me angry was people who kept pushing, getting into the idea that some jobs are "better" than others, and this makes the people who do them more valuable to society. That just smacks of Third Reich thinking. The Reich started out with policies against criminals, prostitutes (even though prostitution was legal), and Gypsies. Then they moved on to the mentally and physically handicapped. "These people don't contribute to society, but they use up our resources." After a significant portion of the population believed that some people were just lesser beings, the Third Reich had less trouble both expanding the groups considered undesirable and getting people to condone the killing of the country's own citizens. After all, those people weren't as valuable as other people. Any attempt to convince me that a person's worth lies in their employment skill set or employment status will fall flat.
Sometimes, those reasons were a reflection of how they felt about their own lives. "I just feel like my brain cells are atrophying." I never felt that way. I did sometimes crave adult company, but that's because children make no sense. They're irrational little beings, with little in the way of logic.
For instance, one of my daughters had a thing about wrapping up every bump or bruise in blankets and towels. She'd watched some show or movie where someone tore strips of gauze to tie around a wound, and became convinced that wrapping in fabric was the way to treat any injury. She further theorized that keeping a wound warm meant that it wouldn't hurt. I explained, over and over, that fabric strips were bandages, or held bandages in place, when you didn't have store bought, pre made bandages, but she refused to believe me. It was about wrapping to keep warm, she was sure. She'd insist on wrapping an entire blanket or bath towel around her hand, or wherever else she's been scraped or bumped. She'd often howl about how, "It hurts! It hurts!" until the wrapping was done, then tell you how, "Oh, now it doesn't hurt. I feel so much better." Then she'd walk around with a ridiculously mummified hand, until she had to unwrap it to, say, eat, then howl again about how being without the blanket "hurts!" Sometimes, she'd want 2 or 3 blankets wound around it at once, because more is apparently better. This went on for years. Irrational, and resistant to new information; that's the definition of childhood thinking. Sometimes I just needed to speak to people who made sense.
Maybe that's why it was so frustrating when other adults didn't make sense. And, why it was so frustrating when they wanted to critique my life and choices.
When my oldest children were young, I did a lot of work with a university theater company - it was my comfort zone - and that meant spending time around people who were close to my age, but thought that my life was unimaginable, and/or that I was doing things all wrong. Sometimes, they'd snark at me.
I lived 45 minutes away from the theater, (across two county lines) in a small farming community. (Yeah - you can see already that I'd be winning friends on a university campus, right?) Rehearsals or shows often ran until 11. That had me getting into bed no earlier than midnight. Even before I had kids, midnight was LATE to me. I never watched a live episode of "Saturday Night Live." I never saw "The Tonight Show" live until I had nursing babies who were hungry at that hour.
One night, some of us were talking, and somebody groused about how hard it would be to get up for work in the morning. (Her day went work, then school, then the show.) Several of us who had school or work in the morning chimed in. I said, "Tell me about it!" Most days, I dragged through the morning, anticipating nap time after lunch.
One of the young men in the group looked shocked. "What are you talking about? You don't work!" he said.
If you have a Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent (and if you don't, consider it!), put this comment on it.
"I have kids!" I said. Kids don't care how tired you are, how much sleep you got, how you feel, what you have going on.
"It's not like you have responsibilities!" he said. Seeing my face, he scrambled. "You don't have, like, obligations to meet or a schedule to keep." (That Handy Dandy List? Yeah - you know what to do.)
There are certain sentiments that one might find on a bumper sticker or T-shirt to which I wholeheartedly subscribe. One is, "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and annoys the pig." Explaining life to this guy was looking like the equivalent of trying to teach the pig to sing - an exercise in futility. But, I simply cannot let certain kinds of ignorance stand.
"What happens if you have a bad day at work?" I asked.
"What?"
"What happens if you have a bad day at work? Do you get written up, maybe get a demotion, get docked pay?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"If I have a bad day at work, people die." Most of the 20-somethings worked retail (the most talented guy in the group at the time was a grocery store bagger). To think that a retail job was more responsibility than taking care of human lives was an astonishing and inaccurate judgement.
He looked shocked. "Isn't that being a little overdramatic? I mean, it's pretty much babysitting."
(Pig! Singing! Handy Dandy List!)
"Why do parents hire babysitters?"
"Because they want to go out to dinner or whatever."
"Yes, but why do they need a sitter? Why don't they just leave the kids alone?"
He stared at me.
"Because a babysitter's entire job is to keep the children alive. If they are left alone, they may not survive it."
I did not point out (pig! singing!) that a parent's job is indeed NOT babysitting. Sitters might, occasionally, be asked to serve a meal or give baths, but their entire purpose is indeed to keep the children alive. Happy is good, fed is good, amused is good, but alive is a must. Plus, their job has a start time and an end time. Parents are constantly (even when the kids are with a sitter) responsible for the children's health, nutrition, character, cleanliness, manners, education, chores, and relationships. They are legally, financially (and occasionally, morally) responsible if the kids break any laws. It makes me just crazy to hear a man refer to staying with his own kids as "babysitting." Nope, Pop - you are a parent. You can babysit other people's kids, but not your own.
"Have you done much babysitting?" I wanted to know - because it seemed pretty obvious that he'd spent very little time around children.
"Some."
I thought, uncharitably, that he might have spent an afternoon or two plunking kids down in front of the TV, so they don't "bother" him.
"Well, you might want to do some more. Overnight, or maybe even for a whole weekend. Then tell me how easy it is. Then think about the fact that I do that every day."
It still astonishes me when people who are not parents think they know what it's like. I don't care if you've worked day care for 20 years, you have no idea what it's like to be a parent unless you are a parent. And yet, non-parents are so often just sure that they know as much, or more, about it than parents do.
A couple of years later, someone again voiced one of those opinions that was so egregious in its inaccuracy that I had to speak up. In fact, I fairly ripped the guy's head off, verbally.
Again, we were in rehearsal for a show. It was early in the process, and there was some "getting to know you" stuff going on. Someone asked, "So, what do you do?"
"I stay home with my kids."
As usual, there was some surprise, and some tepid smiles. One man, probably mid-20s, said, very jovially, "Oh, gosh, great hours on your job!" Seriously? Parenting is a lot of things, but the hours are not great.
"No, not really," I said. "I don't work 8 hour shifts, or even 12 hour shifts - I work 24 hour shifts. I don't leave my job at the end of the day, and go home to relax - my job is at home. I get no days off - no weekends, no holidays, no sick days, no vacations. If I want to take a vacation, my job goes with me. If I ever want to leave my job, for even 15 minutes, I have to find someone willing and competent to do it, and I, personally, have to pay them, even though I, myself, do not get paid."
He looked stricken. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to offend you."
"It's not about me being offended. It's about accuracy."
I don't care how people feel about my religion, my job, my family, politics, world news - I do care that their opinion is based on facts.
The poor guy, to his credit, tried, from then on, very hard to be very nice to me, so I didn't feel shunned. I tried hard not to make him feel judged; but man, I hoped he'd never make that mistake again. (Handy Dandy List!)
I hoped that my children, having been raised in my household, would not make those same mistakes in talking to others. That hope was, apparently, in vain. One of my kids in particular has informed me repeatedly that I "never worked." She also has often said, "You got to take naps!" as evidence of how "easy" my days were.
Sure, parents get naps - if their children are sleeping, or are old enough to avoid death or injury if they're left relatively unsupervised for short periods of time. Our culture considers it perfectly normal, acceptable (and even beneficial) for people to go out drinking alcohol "to unwind" after a day's work. I absolutely will not feel bad about sleeping, in my own house, with my kids at school or in the next room.
I never really expected my kids to fully understand adult concepts while they were kids, but I certainly expect other adults, including those to whom I gave birth, to have a better handle on things.
A couple of years ago, my daughter was again telling me that I had no perspective, and I'd had an easy life, because "You never worked!"
"I was a full time parent. When I was your age, the age you are right this minute, I had a first grader and a second grader. I also had two extras (my niece and nephew were living with us), and I was pregnant. Do you want that job? Do you want to wake up tomorrow morning and do that job, instead of going to work?"
"No." (This is the child who still says that parenting looks like "no fun.")
"Then don't ever tell me that I didn't work." Honestly, it's more aggravating to have my child say this than to hear a stranger say it, because I know what my kids have been told. "And if you're going to measure everything by money earned, I had a second job. When I worked it, I made $100 an hour - and that's a discount rate for the industry." For my entire adult life - actually, starting when I was a teen - I've been a self employed photographer, shooting mostly weddings. Back in the days of film, my husband and I charged by the roll of film shot. When we went digital, we took the average number of rolls we'd shoot in an hour, and used that for the hourly rate. That price has gone up since I was in my 20s, and I'm still less expensive than the industry standard. And you know what - none of that equals my worth.
You know what? The more that I think about it, everybody needs The Handy Dandy List. In fact, we need two - The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent, and The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Stay at Home Parent. I just watched somebody (who thought they were being funny, I'll bet) snark at my nephew online the other day, because he's a stay at home dad. I grew up with my dad staying home, and my mom going to work. I knew it was age related - Dad was retired, and not very Mr. Mom - but I also knew it was a perfectly reasonable way to live.
Go ahead! Get out your phone, or your notepad, or whatever you need, and make lists! If you get stumped, I'll volunteer to help.
I got married at 20, had babies at 20 and 21, and was a stay at home mom. To make matters, in many people's eyes, worse, we lived in small, rural communities for close to 10 years.
Many sincere, well intentioned people had feelings that fell on a scale from puzzled to horrified. It was - it is - a struggle for me to understand why.
I mean, they had reasons, they told me their reasons, but I couldn't quite make out what those reasons had to do with me, personally.
Sometimes, those reasons were phrased as concern for my mental and emotional state. "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were bringing in money?" No. I'd still have the exact same IQ, abilities, knowledge, skills, and talents, no matter what I did with my days. I'm really unclear on why people expected the way I felt about myself to depend on factors outside of myself. I was certainly aware that some people thought that anyone who married young, had children immediately, and dropped out of college to be a stay at home parent couldn't possibly have two brain cells to rub together; I just didn't care. It's not as if that opinion actually lowered my IQ.
Sometimes, the wording was slightly different: the clumsily worded, "Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were contributing to the household?" Those people got a chilly, "I am contributing."
My responses usually led to an earnest attempt on their part to explain the query that just, from my perspective, dug the hole deeper. Insisting that the way others viewed me mattered more than what went on in my own household was an impossible task, because I will never believe that. Insisting that I "could be doing so much more" led me to point out, "Different does not mean better." If I'd decided to be a doctor, I wouldn't be a practicing lawyer. If I was a teacher, I wouldn't be an accountant. Choosing what you do with your time always means eliminating other possibilities. That's a good thing, not a bad one.
What really made me angry was people who kept pushing, getting into the idea that some jobs are "better" than others, and this makes the people who do them more valuable to society. That just smacks of Third Reich thinking. The Reich started out with policies against criminals, prostitutes (even though prostitution was legal), and Gypsies. Then they moved on to the mentally and physically handicapped. "These people don't contribute to society, but they use up our resources." After a significant portion of the population believed that some people were just lesser beings, the Third Reich had less trouble both expanding the groups considered undesirable and getting people to condone the killing of the country's own citizens. After all, those people weren't as valuable as other people. Any attempt to convince me that a person's worth lies in their employment skill set or employment status will fall flat.
Sometimes, those reasons were a reflection of how they felt about their own lives. "I just feel like my brain cells are atrophying." I never felt that way. I did sometimes crave adult company, but that's because children make no sense. They're irrational little beings, with little in the way of logic.
For instance, one of my daughters had a thing about wrapping up every bump or bruise in blankets and towels. She'd watched some show or movie where someone tore strips of gauze to tie around a wound, and became convinced that wrapping in fabric was the way to treat any injury. She further theorized that keeping a wound warm meant that it wouldn't hurt. I explained, over and over, that fabric strips were bandages, or held bandages in place, when you didn't have store bought, pre made bandages, but she refused to believe me. It was about wrapping to keep warm, she was sure. She'd insist on wrapping an entire blanket or bath towel around her hand, or wherever else she's been scraped or bumped. She'd often howl about how, "It hurts! It hurts!" until the wrapping was done, then tell you how, "Oh, now it doesn't hurt. I feel so much better." Then she'd walk around with a ridiculously mummified hand, until she had to unwrap it to, say, eat, then howl again about how being without the blanket "hurts!" Sometimes, she'd want 2 or 3 blankets wound around it at once, because more is apparently better. This went on for years. Irrational, and resistant to new information; that's the definition of childhood thinking. Sometimes I just needed to speak to people who made sense.
Maybe that's why it was so frustrating when other adults didn't make sense. And, why it was so frustrating when they wanted to critique my life and choices.
When my oldest children were young, I did a lot of work with a university theater company - it was my comfort zone - and that meant spending time around people who were close to my age, but thought that my life was unimaginable, and/or that I was doing things all wrong. Sometimes, they'd snark at me.
I lived 45 minutes away from the theater, (across two county lines) in a small farming community. (Yeah - you can see already that I'd be winning friends on a university campus, right?) Rehearsals or shows often ran until 11. That had me getting into bed no earlier than midnight. Even before I had kids, midnight was LATE to me. I never watched a live episode of "Saturday Night Live." I never saw "The Tonight Show" live until I had nursing babies who were hungry at that hour.
One night, some of us were talking, and somebody groused about how hard it would be to get up for work in the morning. (Her day went work, then school, then the show.) Several of us who had school or work in the morning chimed in. I said, "Tell me about it!" Most days, I dragged through the morning, anticipating nap time after lunch.
One of the young men in the group looked shocked. "What are you talking about? You don't work!" he said.
If you have a Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent (and if you don't, consider it!), put this comment on it.
"I have kids!" I said. Kids don't care how tired you are, how much sleep you got, how you feel, what you have going on.
"It's not like you have responsibilities!" he said. Seeing my face, he scrambled. "You don't have, like, obligations to meet or a schedule to keep." (That Handy Dandy List? Yeah - you know what to do.)
There are certain sentiments that one might find on a bumper sticker or T-shirt to which I wholeheartedly subscribe. One is, "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and annoys the pig." Explaining life to this guy was looking like the equivalent of trying to teach the pig to sing - an exercise in futility. But, I simply cannot let certain kinds of ignorance stand.
"What happens if you have a bad day at work?" I asked.
"What?"
"What happens if you have a bad day at work? Do you get written up, maybe get a demotion, get docked pay?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"If I have a bad day at work, people die." Most of the 20-somethings worked retail (the most talented guy in the group at the time was a grocery store bagger). To think that a retail job was more responsibility than taking care of human lives was an astonishing and inaccurate judgement.
He looked shocked. "Isn't that being a little overdramatic? I mean, it's pretty much babysitting."
(Pig! Singing! Handy Dandy List!)
"Why do parents hire babysitters?"
"Because they want to go out to dinner or whatever."
"Yes, but why do they need a sitter? Why don't they just leave the kids alone?"
He stared at me.
"Because a babysitter's entire job is to keep the children alive. If they are left alone, they may not survive it."
I did not point out (pig! singing!) that a parent's job is indeed NOT babysitting. Sitters might, occasionally, be asked to serve a meal or give baths, but their entire purpose is indeed to keep the children alive. Happy is good, fed is good, amused is good, but alive is a must. Plus, their job has a start time and an end time. Parents are constantly (even when the kids are with a sitter) responsible for the children's health, nutrition, character, cleanliness, manners, education, chores, and relationships. They are legally, financially (and occasionally, morally) responsible if the kids break any laws. It makes me just crazy to hear a man refer to staying with his own kids as "babysitting." Nope, Pop - you are a parent. You can babysit other people's kids, but not your own.
"Have you done much babysitting?" I wanted to know - because it seemed pretty obvious that he'd spent very little time around children.
"Some."
I thought, uncharitably, that he might have spent an afternoon or two plunking kids down in front of the TV, so they don't "bother" him.
"Well, you might want to do some more. Overnight, or maybe even for a whole weekend. Then tell me how easy it is. Then think about the fact that I do that every day."
It still astonishes me when people who are not parents think they know what it's like. I don't care if you've worked day care for 20 years, you have no idea what it's like to be a parent unless you are a parent. And yet, non-parents are so often just sure that they know as much, or more, about it than parents do.
A couple of years later, someone again voiced one of those opinions that was so egregious in its inaccuracy that I had to speak up. In fact, I fairly ripped the guy's head off, verbally.
Again, we were in rehearsal for a show. It was early in the process, and there was some "getting to know you" stuff going on. Someone asked, "So, what do you do?"
"I stay home with my kids."
As usual, there was some surprise, and some tepid smiles. One man, probably mid-20s, said, very jovially, "Oh, gosh, great hours on your job!" Seriously? Parenting is a lot of things, but the hours are not great.
"No, not really," I said. "I don't work 8 hour shifts, or even 12 hour shifts - I work 24 hour shifts. I don't leave my job at the end of the day, and go home to relax - my job is at home. I get no days off - no weekends, no holidays, no sick days, no vacations. If I want to take a vacation, my job goes with me. If I ever want to leave my job, for even 15 minutes, I have to find someone willing and competent to do it, and I, personally, have to pay them, even though I, myself, do not get paid."
He looked stricken. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to offend you."
"It's not about me being offended. It's about accuracy."
I don't care how people feel about my religion, my job, my family, politics, world news - I do care that their opinion is based on facts.
The poor guy, to his credit, tried, from then on, very hard to be very nice to me, so I didn't feel shunned. I tried hard not to make him feel judged; but man, I hoped he'd never make that mistake again. (Handy Dandy List!)
I hoped that my children, having been raised in my household, would not make those same mistakes in talking to others. That hope was, apparently, in vain. One of my kids in particular has informed me repeatedly that I "never worked." She also has often said, "You got to take naps!" as evidence of how "easy" my days were.
Sure, parents get naps - if their children are sleeping, or are old enough to avoid death or injury if they're left relatively unsupervised for short periods of time. Our culture considers it perfectly normal, acceptable (and even beneficial) for people to go out drinking alcohol "to unwind" after a day's work. I absolutely will not feel bad about sleeping, in my own house, with my kids at school or in the next room.
I never really expected my kids to fully understand adult concepts while they were kids, but I certainly expect other adults, including those to whom I gave birth, to have a better handle on things.
A couple of years ago, my daughter was again telling me that I had no perspective, and I'd had an easy life, because "You never worked!"
"I was a full time parent. When I was your age, the age you are right this minute, I had a first grader and a second grader. I also had two extras (my niece and nephew were living with us), and I was pregnant. Do you want that job? Do you want to wake up tomorrow morning and do that job, instead of going to work?"
"No." (This is the child who still says that parenting looks like "no fun.")
"Then don't ever tell me that I didn't work." Honestly, it's more aggravating to have my child say this than to hear a stranger say it, because I know what my kids have been told. "And if you're going to measure everything by money earned, I had a second job. When I worked it, I made $100 an hour - and that's a discount rate for the industry." For my entire adult life - actually, starting when I was a teen - I've been a self employed photographer, shooting mostly weddings. Back in the days of film, my husband and I charged by the roll of film shot. When we went digital, we took the average number of rolls we'd shoot in an hour, and used that for the hourly rate. That price has gone up since I was in my 20s, and I'm still less expensive than the industry standard. And you know what - none of that equals my worth.
You know what? The more that I think about it, everybody needs The Handy Dandy List. In fact, we need two - The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Parent, and The Handy Dandy List of Things Never to Say to a Stay at Home Parent. I just watched somebody (who thought they were being funny, I'll bet) snark at my nephew online the other day, because he's a stay at home dad. I grew up with my dad staying home, and my mom going to work. I knew it was age related - Dad was retired, and not very Mr. Mom - but I also knew it was a perfectly reasonable way to live.
Go ahead! Get out your phone, or your notepad, or whatever you need, and make lists! If you get stumped, I'll volunteer to help.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother
From my Facebook page:
Someone asked people to post good parental advice on their page. Here's stuff I learned from my Mom. What's your good advice?
You don't need validation from others to be sure that you're doing the right thing.
You can be the smartest person in the room without being a gloating arrogant a** about it, or even pointing it out.
Always give a kid a ride.
Love your kids' friends.
Trust your kids if they've earned it; watch them like a hawk if they haven't.
Be good at what you do because it's the right thing to do and will make you feel good, but don't expect others to notice or appreciate it.
Go outside as much as you can.
Read.
Eat it or wear it. (The family joke ;D)
(I'm the little bald one.)
For Mother's Day, I shared wisdom from my mom. For Father's Day, here's some of what I learned from my dad.
1. Line up the sights before you pull the trigger: This was very literal advice, as my dad was a shooting coach, and I was competent with a gun while my age was still in single digits. It's great metaphorical advice, too. I sometimes want to jump into things without lining things up, and I know that it won't work as well.
2. Fishing wisdom: I can look at a stream or lake and tell you where the fish will be. I can catch them in a tiny trickle of a stream or a deep mountain lake. I know how to rest the line on a sensitive fingertip in order to feel nibbles. I can set the hook. I have homemade bait recipes, I can clean and cook fish, I can cast, I can keep a reel from tangling. I can feed myself, as long as there's water nearby.
Fishing was what my dad and I did together, without the rest of the family. One of his favorite stories from my childhood was "the time Ainsley put you out of the boat." He'd tell it and roar with laughter, no matter how many times he'd already told it. Ainsley was one of Dad's - our - fishing buddies. One day on Frenchmen's, I announced that I had a bite before either man had one. "No, you don't. They're not biting today. You're feeling the bait bump the bottom," Ainsley said. Moments later, I pulled in a nice sized trout.
This continued - "I have a bite!" "No, you don't!" followed by reeling in a fish - until I had caught my limit. Neither man in the boat had gotten a single bite yet. Competitive Ainsley was so miffed that he found a tiny island to leave me on until HE'D caught his limit. I watched the boat go back and forth, back and forth - it was Ainsley's boat, and he wasn't letting me back in until we were even.
Dad loved that story.
3. You don't have to be a parent to parent a child: he helped raise his niece while he was a single man. She called him Unc instead of the more cumbersome Uncle Everett. "He needed a three letter nickname, just like Dad," she explained. He held the same place in her life as her own father - which also taught me that kids can have more than two "real" parents.
4. Do your job to the best of your ability, even if others stop short: The thing my dad did that made me proudest happened before I was born. He worked for the Sparks Fire Department. A fire broke out at the jail - an old style jail, with caged cells and a big iron loop of big, iron keys to open the locks. The fire was so fierce that most responders refused to enter the building, saying that the prisoners had to have already succumbed to smoke, and to risk any men would be foolhardy. Only two people, my dad and one police officer, were willing to venture into the burning jail to let the prisoners out. Those two saved every one of the prisoners.
There were articles in the paper, commendations, awards from service clubs. Dad shrugged them all off. "I was just doing my job. I wasn't going to let men burn to death in cages."
I now own his uniform cap and the awards that hung above the desk during my childhood. None of my kids remember my dad - two never met him, the others were infants when he died - but they know this story.
Friday, October 24, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Not For Sale
I will concede that I could be cranky and overreacting. Let's establish that right away.
Still, I keep hearing in my head the growling, snarling noises that the cartoon Tasmanian Devil makes; that's what I hear in my head, too, every time I see, "&^$%#@!" or the equivalent.
My parents bought their house, on an acre and a third, back when the house was one of only three on the entire dirt road, outside of town. We kept horses in the back pasture the entire time I was growing up, even as the city grew up to and then past us. Today, the property is on an ordinary street in an ordinary neighborhood - a neighborhood that's considered "aging" and not very desirable, real estate-wise. The house across the street was the home of local casino owners for a while, the only one in our neighborhood with two bathrooms and a family/rec room. Now, even it's considered fairly ordinary. Its most unusual feature is an RV garage; plus, many of the surrounding homes added on those second bathrooms and rec rooms.
My parents had originally planned to sell off pieces of their property, but they never did, so it's still an acre and a third. The largest portion, by far, is behind the house, reachable only by going down a gravel driveway.
My brother owns the house now. He isn't sure if he wants to live there or sell it, so for now, he rents it to a family member. The agent who came out to appraise it kept saying, "If only it was 2005. You could have gotten so much for this in 2005." Now, of course, it's worth far less, and "You'd never get your money back if you tried to develop it ("develop," of course, meaning "subdivide and build houses on.")" We understand that. If my mother had wanted or needed money more than she needed an unused horse pasture, she would have sold it in 2005.
I bring this up because it's relevant backstory.
My dad died years ago. After my mother died, while we were still measuring her loss in days, we started getting notes in the mailbox. "Hi! I'd love to buy your property! Call me." We rolled our eyes and tossed the notes. Is there a "for sale" sign out front? No. Then please assume that it's not for sale. Most of the would be buyers gave up, but some kept sending new notes, getting progressively pushier. One of the last ones said, "I can't believe you haven't taken me up on this offer!"
Really? You're surprised by this? Note, pushy neighbors, the continued lack of a "for sale" sign! Nobody took you up on your offer because the property is not for sale! This cannot be a difficult concept to grasp.
I mean, good heavens, my mother has four children, ten grandchildren and four great grandchildren. If my brother decides that he doesn't want the house, there will be any number of heirs who do. Does anyone honestly imagine that we're just waiting for the neighbors to swoop in?
I thought they'd given up; I hoped they'd given up. It's been a year and a half. For crying out loud, we haven't even emptied the linen closets. The house is occupied by family. If the owner wanted to sell it to strangers, he'd put it on the market, not wait for little notes to be dropped in his mailbox.
The day before Easter, we were in the back yard hiding eggs. Friends and family, including at least two toddlers, were invited over for a BBQ. Normal, wholesome family holiday, right? The neighbor came out, stood on their side of the fence and yelled over, "Are you selling that property?"
Truly, neighbor? You left "pushy" behind in the dust long ago.
My husband was the nearest one to the disembodied voice. He said, "Probably not." (He has an almost pathological aversion to uttering definitive declarative statements.)
What I said to him was, "Don't say 'probably.' They're thinking that you've left the door open to the possibility."
It's probably a good thing that he answered them, instead of me. What I wanted to say to the neighbor was, "Do you SEE a 'for sale' sign? NO! You do NOT! The property is NOT for sale, and if it was, we wouldn't sell to YOU! Stay on your own side of the fence, you opportunistic jackals!"
Which, you know, all things considered, may be an overreaction.
But the property still isn't for sale.
Still, I keep hearing in my head the growling, snarling noises that the cartoon Tasmanian Devil makes; that's what I hear in my head, too, every time I see, "&^$%#@!" or the equivalent.
My parents bought their house, on an acre and a third, back when the house was one of only three on the entire dirt road, outside of town. We kept horses in the back pasture the entire time I was growing up, even as the city grew up to and then past us. Today, the property is on an ordinary street in an ordinary neighborhood - a neighborhood that's considered "aging" and not very desirable, real estate-wise. The house across the street was the home of local casino owners for a while, the only one in our neighborhood with two bathrooms and a family/rec room. Now, even it's considered fairly ordinary. Its most unusual feature is an RV garage; plus, many of the surrounding homes added on those second bathrooms and rec rooms.
My parents had originally planned to sell off pieces of their property, but they never did, so it's still an acre and a third. The largest portion, by far, is behind the house, reachable only by going down a gravel driveway.
My brother owns the house now. He isn't sure if he wants to live there or sell it, so for now, he rents it to a family member. The agent who came out to appraise it kept saying, "If only it was 2005. You could have gotten so much for this in 2005." Now, of course, it's worth far less, and "You'd never get your money back if you tried to develop it ("develop," of course, meaning "subdivide and build houses on.")" We understand that. If my mother had wanted or needed money more than she needed an unused horse pasture, she would have sold it in 2005.
I bring this up because it's relevant backstory.
My dad died years ago. After my mother died, while we were still measuring her loss in days, we started getting notes in the mailbox. "Hi! I'd love to buy your property! Call me." We rolled our eyes and tossed the notes. Is there a "for sale" sign out front? No. Then please assume that it's not for sale. Most of the would be buyers gave up, but some kept sending new notes, getting progressively pushier. One of the last ones said, "I can't believe you haven't taken me up on this offer!"
Really? You're surprised by this? Note, pushy neighbors, the continued lack of a "for sale" sign! Nobody took you up on your offer because the property is not for sale! This cannot be a difficult concept to grasp.
I mean, good heavens, my mother has four children, ten grandchildren and four great grandchildren. If my brother decides that he doesn't want the house, there will be any number of heirs who do. Does anyone honestly imagine that we're just waiting for the neighbors to swoop in?
I thought they'd given up; I hoped they'd given up. It's been a year and a half. For crying out loud, we haven't even emptied the linen closets. The house is occupied by family. If the owner wanted to sell it to strangers, he'd put it on the market, not wait for little notes to be dropped in his mailbox.
The day before Easter, we were in the back yard hiding eggs. Friends and family, including at least two toddlers, were invited over for a BBQ. Normal, wholesome family holiday, right? The neighbor came out, stood on their side of the fence and yelled over, "Are you selling that property?"
Truly, neighbor? You left "pushy" behind in the dust long ago.
My husband was the nearest one to the disembodied voice. He said, "Probably not." (He has an almost pathological aversion to uttering definitive declarative statements.)
What I said to him was, "Don't say 'probably.' They're thinking that you've left the door open to the possibility."
It's probably a good thing that he answered them, instead of me. What I wanted to say to the neighbor was, "Do you SEE a 'for sale' sign? NO! You do NOT! The property is NOT for sale, and if it was, we wouldn't sell to YOU! Stay on your own side of the fence, you opportunistic jackals!"
Which, you know, all things considered, may be an overreaction.
But the property still isn't for sale.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
"That's Just Not Normal."
I'm missing church today - car trouble, don't ask - so I've been reading my scriptures and otherwise trying to have churchy moments at home. That got me started thinking about a recent conversation I had with one of my childhood friends.
"How did you live a Mormon life in a household that was very definitely not Mormon?" she asked.
"I don't know that I can explain it to you. It was the only choice that made sense to me," I told her.
Her response: "That's just not normal."
I don't know that I worried about "normal" then any more than I do now. "Normal" is beside the point. I was sure it was the right thing to do, so I did it. I didn't care that much about whether other people did, or would do, the same in my place. I didn't know why, either, they'd care if I agreed with them.
I was seven years old when my best friends, our neighbors, took me to church with them for the first time. Back then, they had children's meetings on Tuesdays after school, and it seemed like it took forever for them to get home so that we could play again. "You could always come with us," they'd say, but we, my sister and I, turned them down. Finally, I agreed to go.
I remember the lesson from that day clearly. It was the story of the "pearl of great price" found in the Bible in the book of Matthew. A merchant, searching for pearls, finds one exquisite pearl, and sells everything he possesses in order to buy this single, perfect pearl. The teacher explained that it was a metaphor for giving up something good for something better, but I was a very literal child. I could not wrap my head around the idea of having a pearl, but no food, clothing, place to live, or money. What good would the pearl do?
Metaphor is a method of communication that grows on a person.
It only took a year or so of tagging along with my friends to decide that I wanted to be a member of the church. My dad said that I was too young, and that he wouldn't give permission until I was 12. I think he thought that it was a phase that I'd grow out of. I didn't; I was baptized at 12.
When my neighbors moved away, other friends took me to church with them. When they moved away, my mother started driving me to and from my meetings; she did it for years, without griping of any kind.
My dad thought that my new religion was odd. He said repeatedly that, "They're good, hard working, honest people," but he didn't necessarily wanting me believing what they believed. My mother opined that, "The Bible was written for people who are less educated than we are," but she saw no real harm in letting her kids figure out what they believed, and why.
I was puzzled, as a kid, when people would ask me why I was doing this, or not doing that, "when your parents won't even care." It wasn't about what my parents thought or did, for me. It was about what I thought was right.
Besides, my parents weren't likely to complain about my adopting a code of behavior that was stricter than that of my peers.
It was never about rebellion, either. I am, by nature, a rule follower. I have always known those people who would never have considered a particular course of action until they were told that they couldn't do it. The word "no" is a huge catalyst for those people. That was never me.
Some people were sure that it was about conformity, about doing what would impress my friends. It wasn't. Anyone who really values conformity isn't likely to choose a strange, unpopular religion. When people were surprised that I kept attending church after the friends who introduced me moved away, I thought that was strange. I'd made a choice; why wouldn't I continue to act on it?
I value free will too much to want to have knee jerk reactions of any kind. Having obvious hot buttons, like either rebellion or conformity, makes a person far too easy to manipulate.
Trying to impress others isn't really on my radar, at all.
I never really thought that choosing and living my religion was easier or harder for me than it was for other people. Sure, I had anti-Mormon literature dropped in my locker at school. I had a family member say, in soothing, pitying tones, "You realize that your church is a cult, don't you?" Still, there's always somebody who disagrees with everybody, and most people aren't shy about letting you know.
Sometimes, my friends would gripe - "I can't believe I have to sit through Conference!" - and I would think, "What is wrong with you? I had to ask permission to be here." Other kids didn't "get" me.
As an adult, I discovered that most religious families - families practicing any religion - spend time and effort helping their family members figure out ways to cope with negative attitudes or behaviors. I became more and more aware that most people are uncomfortable having either society at large or their loved ones disagree with them. I can't imagine making important, moral choices by taking an opinion poll.
People would say, "Well, you know that most people disagree," as if they expected me to 1. gasp in horror at this startling revelation, and 2. change everything I thought and did, if I wasn't on the side of the majority (or at least, in whatever group people thought it was important to impress). Of course I knew that most of the world's population didn't agree with me. That's like knowing that it's two o'clock; true, but irrelevant.
Sometimes this would lead to conversations that would be funny if the other party wasn't deadly serious. What, exactly, I would ask, did they expect me to do about the fact that someone disagreed with me? Usually the answer was, in some form, that I should change my opinion (so that I'd be like "everybody else").
"Oh, so if someone disagrees, then other people should change their minds?"
"Yes. Once you've been educated about your errors, you should correct them."
"So, you'll be changing your opinion to mine."
"No!"
"Why not? I can explain why you should."
"But you're wrong!"
"What makes me wrong?"
"Most people disagree with you!"
"So, it's a numbers thing."
"No! It's about who's right."
"How do you know who's right?"
"I can show you all kinds of people and all kinds of sources that say that I'm right!"
"I can show you millions of people worldwide, and lots of scholarly sources, that say that I'm right."
"But you're not!"
"But you told me it was all about how many people agreed with an opinion."
It's just ludicrous.
I tried to prepare my kids for those moments in their lives. Still, when all is said and done, they need to decide, by themselves, what they believe and what they will do.
I'm happy to explain to people why I think and behave as I do. If someone wants to know, I'm happy to tell them. It's pretty obvious from the things I do, as well. My religion affects every choice I make - the clothes I wear, the groceries I buy, the movies I watch. I think that people would be happier if they made the same choices I do.
Of course, I'm also happy to let others make their own choices, because I cherish that right myself, and recognize it as sacred.
I learned that not only from my church, but from my mother.
So, OK. I'm not normal. I can live with that.
"How did you live a Mormon life in a household that was very definitely not Mormon?" she asked.
"I don't know that I can explain it to you. It was the only choice that made sense to me," I told her.
Her response: "That's just not normal."
I don't know that I worried about "normal" then any more than I do now. "Normal" is beside the point. I was sure it was the right thing to do, so I did it. I didn't care that much about whether other people did, or would do, the same in my place. I didn't know why, either, they'd care if I agreed with them.
I was seven years old when my best friends, our neighbors, took me to church with them for the first time. Back then, they had children's meetings on Tuesdays after school, and it seemed like it took forever for them to get home so that we could play again. "You could always come with us," they'd say, but we, my sister and I, turned them down. Finally, I agreed to go.
I remember the lesson from that day clearly. It was the story of the "pearl of great price" found in the Bible in the book of Matthew. A merchant, searching for pearls, finds one exquisite pearl, and sells everything he possesses in order to buy this single, perfect pearl. The teacher explained that it was a metaphor for giving up something good for something better, but I was a very literal child. I could not wrap my head around the idea of having a pearl, but no food, clothing, place to live, or money. What good would the pearl do?
Metaphor is a method of communication that grows on a person.
It only took a year or so of tagging along with my friends to decide that I wanted to be a member of the church. My dad said that I was too young, and that he wouldn't give permission until I was 12. I think he thought that it was a phase that I'd grow out of. I didn't; I was baptized at 12.
When my neighbors moved away, other friends took me to church with them. When they moved away, my mother started driving me to and from my meetings; she did it for years, without griping of any kind.
My dad thought that my new religion was odd. He said repeatedly that, "They're good, hard working, honest people," but he didn't necessarily wanting me believing what they believed. My mother opined that, "The Bible was written for people who are less educated than we are," but she saw no real harm in letting her kids figure out what they believed, and why.
I was puzzled, as a kid, when people would ask me why I was doing this, or not doing that, "when your parents won't even care." It wasn't about what my parents thought or did, for me. It was about what I thought was right.
Besides, my parents weren't likely to complain about my adopting a code of behavior that was stricter than that of my peers.
It was never about rebellion, either. I am, by nature, a rule follower. I have always known those people who would never have considered a particular course of action until they were told that they couldn't do it. The word "no" is a huge catalyst for those people. That was never me.
Some people were sure that it was about conformity, about doing what would impress my friends. It wasn't. Anyone who really values conformity isn't likely to choose a strange, unpopular religion. When people were surprised that I kept attending church after the friends who introduced me moved away, I thought that was strange. I'd made a choice; why wouldn't I continue to act on it?
I value free will too much to want to have knee jerk reactions of any kind. Having obvious hot buttons, like either rebellion or conformity, makes a person far too easy to manipulate.
Trying to impress others isn't really on my radar, at all.
I never really thought that choosing and living my religion was easier or harder for me than it was for other people. Sure, I had anti-Mormon literature dropped in my locker at school. I had a family member say, in soothing, pitying tones, "You realize that your church is a cult, don't you?" Still, there's always somebody who disagrees with everybody, and most people aren't shy about letting you know.
Sometimes, my friends would gripe - "I can't believe I have to sit through Conference!" - and I would think, "What is wrong with you? I had to ask permission to be here." Other kids didn't "get" me.
As an adult, I discovered that most religious families - families practicing any religion - spend time and effort helping their family members figure out ways to cope with negative attitudes or behaviors. I became more and more aware that most people are uncomfortable having either society at large or their loved ones disagree with them. I can't imagine making important, moral choices by taking an opinion poll.
People would say, "Well, you know that most people disagree," as if they expected me to 1. gasp in horror at this startling revelation, and 2. change everything I thought and did, if I wasn't on the side of the majority (or at least, in whatever group people thought it was important to impress). Of course I knew that most of the world's population didn't agree with me. That's like knowing that it's two o'clock; true, but irrelevant.
Sometimes this would lead to conversations that would be funny if the other party wasn't deadly serious. What, exactly, I would ask, did they expect me to do about the fact that someone disagreed with me? Usually the answer was, in some form, that I should change my opinion (so that I'd be like "everybody else").
"Oh, so if someone disagrees, then other people should change their minds?"
"Yes. Once you've been educated about your errors, you should correct them."
"So, you'll be changing your opinion to mine."
"No!"
"Why not? I can explain why you should."
"But you're wrong!"
"What makes me wrong?"
"Most people disagree with you!"
"So, it's a numbers thing."
"No! It's about who's right."
"How do you know who's right?"
"I can show you all kinds of people and all kinds of sources that say that I'm right!"
"I can show you millions of people worldwide, and lots of scholarly sources, that say that I'm right."
"But you're not!"
"But you told me it was all about how many people agreed with an opinion."
It's just ludicrous.
I tried to prepare my kids for those moments in their lives. Still, when all is said and done, they need to decide, by themselves, what they believe and what they will do.
I'm happy to explain to people why I think and behave as I do. If someone wants to know, I'm happy to tell them. It's pretty obvious from the things I do, as well. My religion affects every choice I make - the clothes I wear, the groceries I buy, the movies I watch. I think that people would be happier if they made the same choices I do.
Of course, I'm also happy to let others make their own choices, because I cherish that right myself, and recognize it as sacred.
I learned that not only from my church, but from my mother.
So, OK. I'm not normal. I can live with that.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Documentation
Our society places an inordinate importance on official documentation of all kinds. Want to travel? You need a passport. What's being taught in schools? Show me the standardized test scores.
Of course, not everything boils down to what can be seen on a piece of paper.
My father's death certificate actually tells you very little about his death.
My dad was a private trap shooting coach. One day, he left as normal to go to the gun club, about 20 minutes away. My mom was working in the garden, as she did every day. Dad came out to let her know he was headed to the gun club. "OK. See you later," Mom said. It was all very ordinary.
At the gun club, it was also very ordinary. He watched his students, chatted with friends. His students say that he suddenly put his hand to his temple and said, "Oh!" Then he collapsed. Someone called 911. One of his students, Heather, acted quickly and tirelessly, giving him CPR until emergency crews arrived. She managed to get his heart started again, but he needed artificial respiration.
At the hospital, they continued to try to revive him, but he'd had a massive stroke. He was pronounced brain dead.
They had him in the ICU, hooked up to a variety of machines, by the time someone phoned my mother.
She knew, all four of the children knew, all our relatives, most of his friends, even casual acquaintances knew that his biggest fear in life was being incapacitated and kept alive by machines. He'd told us all, over and over, never to let that happen.
He'd never put it in writing, though. Luckily, his doctors left the decisions up to my mom. Luckily, we all agreed – Dad had actually died at the gun club. He was already gone. He was 78 years old.
None of the children lived in the same town as my parents at the time. I was the closest, and it would take 3 ½ hours for me to drive there. Some of us, children and spouses, needed to arrange time off from work. The earliest we could all get to Mom was the next day. Mom decided that we needed each other, and should all be in town before they unplugged the machines. She asked the hospital to wait until the next day, to let us all see him if we wanted to. Then, they'd unhook all the machines.
Everyone who wanted to be was let into the ICU, one and two at a time, cousins, aunts, uncles, children and grandchildren. My children were 21 months and 8 months old. For me, seeing him was like seeing a familiar house that no one lives in anymore. He wasn't there. I wasn't at the hospital when they unhooked him and officially pronounced him dead.
His death certificate lists his place of death as the hospital, of course. It lists his cause of death, rather inexplicably, as cardiac arrest.
I know doctors who are scornful of cardiac arrest as a cause of death, or a diagnosis of any kind. "It's like saying that someone died from abdominal pain. It's a symptom, not a cause." It's apparently a catch-all fall back to say, "Well, yup, obviously the heart stopped." Even more inexplicably, on Dad's death certificate in the spaces left for other medical conditions, those that were present but not officially the cause of death, the spaces are blank. There's no mention of the stroke that left him brain dead. I have no idea why, but I've wondered more than once if the person who filled out the necessary paperwork was actually familiar with my dad.
When I'm asked about my family history on medical forms, I list stroke as my dad's cause of death. Some day, someone may look at the records and assume that I had it wrong, but I think it's important that my doctors know what actually happened.
My mother died at home, in her own bed, which is an inestimably great thing for her. It meant, though, that the authorities probably had to work a bit harder to document her passing.
The morning that she died, I called the police department's non-emergency number and asked, "What do I do now?" Did I call an ambulance? The coroner? Was there a procedure? What is it? I didn't know.
"We're sending an officer over," she said.
We sat and waited, my middle daughter and I. The house already felt different. Two officers showed up in minutes, arriving in separate cars and conferring for a moment outside before they came up to the door. I wondered if they were steeling themselves for a scene inside; there wasn't going to be one, but they didn't know that.
They were very sweet, but they also had to follow procedure. They couldn't just take our word for who she was. They wanted my mom's ID, but when I said it would be in the pocket of the pants she'd worn the day before, they said they'd get it themselves. They wouldn't let either of us back into Mom's room. I thought that was silly – if we wanted to stage things, we would have already done so.
They closed the door while they checked Mom. "What are they looking for?" Terry wondered.
"Needle marks, bruises, signs of malnutrition," I told her. I knew they were also looking for things like bed sores, urine soaked sheets or clothes, signs of suffocation, wounds – any sign that she had been neglected or a victim of violence – but Terry was upset enough. I wasn't going to say that out loud.
"Oh. They won't find anything like that," Terry said.
"I know, but they don't know that yet. They don't know us from Adam."
They came out and informed us of what we already knew, that it looked as if she had passed away peacefully in her sleep. They phoned the coroner, and made small talk while we waited.
"Was she on any prescription medication?" No. "Any history of heart disease?" No. "Any history of high blood pressure?" No. "Any history of stroke?" No. "Under a doctor's care?" No. She hadn't seen a doctor in 20 years.
After several more of these questions, one officer asked, "How old was she again?"
"83."
"Ma'am," he said, "that's amazing."
"I know! She's amazing."
I predicted that the official cause of death would again be listed as cardiac arrest. It took them almost a month – long after the body had been cremated – to issue a death certificate.
The cause of death is listed as "arteriosclerotic cardiovascular disease."
Well. Really? The space for "interval between onset and death" is blank, because she was never diagnosed with cardiovascular disease or arteriosclerosis. The certificate also indicates that there was no autopsy. Without an autopsy, how do they know what her circulatory system looked like? I'm willing to guess that they took a blood test; maybe it said that she had high cholesterol. Still, it seems a pretty big leap to get from there to deadly cardiovascular disease, and I have no idea whether they did any tests at all.
There are, again, no secondary causes. The form has 3 spaces for, "Conditions if any which gave rise to immediate cause stating the underlying cause last," and one for "Other significant conditions," but all that's listed is the official cause. Since she did not die under supervision by medical personnel, there is no certifying physician. The coroner's office filled out the part that says, "On the basis of examination and/or investigation, in my opinion, death occurred at the time, place and date stated." The official time, of course, is the time the coroner arrived at Mom's house. Even though she was dead for hours before that, she was not officially dead until Someone in Authority was able to Certify it.
In generations past, "old age" was a perfectly acceptable cause of death. History and literature are full of people who are described as dying from old age. Now, though, we find that unsatisfactory and vague. We can't possibly say that advanced age alone is fatal – we want an explanation, darn it. Why is old age fatal?
There are few other ways to explain using 36 letters to say, basically, "cardiac arrest," which basically means, "Yeah, s/he's dead, alright." Using a dart board or Magic 8 Ball also explains it, but not much better.
My teenage son said, "Isn't cardiovascular disease preventable?" He was annoyed that his grandmother's death might possibly have been something she could have postponed longer. (I miss her so much; we all do.) I had to point out, though, that they were just making a best guess. Without an autopsy, no one knows what her arteries, her heart or anything else looks like. More importantly, everyone who has cardiovascular disease wishes that they could live a normal, medication free life and then pass away peacefully in their sleep, at the age of 83. That's pretty much everyone's best case scenario, sick or not.
In fact, knowing that both my parents died painlessly, at places they loved, gives me great hope that I can prevail upon the Almighty for the same for myself. Let me have an ordinary day and pass away quickly, without warning. Ordinary days are what a life is built of.
I won't ever put "old age" as a cause of death on my medical forms when I'm asked how my mother died - but I'll think it.
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