Years ago, my husband and I went with some friends to see a stage show in a neighboring city. One friend was considering directing the show, and wanted to look at a production before making the final choice.
The show is called "Six Women With Brain Death," and it's very funny. In one scene, a character is onstage alone, cataloging her life's woes - failed marriages, sullen, uncooperative kids; just normal, everyday stresses, undoubtedly aggravated by her own responses. Addressing the audience directly, she laments, "Oh, I know that you could understand what I'm going through - but you probably don't."
I do not have a delicate giggle of a laugh - I have a belly laugh. I guffaw. At that point I simply howled with laughter. It was loud and unrestrained. It was also the only laugh in the theater. No one else so much as sniffed or smirked. I, on the other hand, was tickled to my core. There are few statements that I find to contain more truth than that one - and the truth is funny. So, in this crowded theater, I alone laughed without reservation, and the sound echoed through the quiet auditorium.
The actress onstage did something that actors are trained to not do; she turned, looked right at me, and broke "the fourth wall" (the imaginary, transparent "wall" separating the stage from the audience). Pointing straight at me, she said, "Except for you, ma'am." Then she went right back to the script.
To this day, I cannot imagine why no one else thought the line was as funny as I did. The human condition demonstrates, over and over, that while it is theoretically possible to understand others, in practice it's more miss than hit.
I never can wrap my head around people explaining how intolerable a situation was, and why they had to flee from it, by saying, "I just felt so alone." To me, that's just as much a given as saying, "I was breathing." I'm not entirely sure that it's possible to not feel alone. We're each alone inside of our heads. It just seems like biology to me.
What I think they might mean is "alienated." I totally do know how that feels - the feeling that you don't fit, you never will. On the other hand, that just seems expected, too. I have never met a human who said, "I always felt so connected and understood." Does anyone feel like that? Ever? If they do, it certainly isn't in school, or as the new hire on a job, or as a newlywed, a new parent, a new arrival to a new town/country, or, really, most other circumstances in life. It isn't as the artistic kid in a family full of ranchers, or the kid who hated school in a family full of PhDs, medical degrees and law degrees. It wasn't when you carefully chose an outfit, and everyone at the function looked horrified by it. It wasn't when you tried to explain your feelings to your parents, or to your children. It wasn't when you stood in a meeting or social activity or family gathering counting the minutes until you could leave. These experiences are universal. I am really not sure that their lack is.
Sometimes, someone will explain their divorce by saying, "I felt so alone, even when my spouse was there." Again, while I understand that they're sincerely in pain, it doesn't compute. While I adore my husband, he does not instinctively understand me (or anyone else), or I, him (or anyone else). He likes surprises; I like predictability. When I'm cold, he's hot. He likes loud; I like quiet. He's chatty; I'm not. We spend a lot of time wondering what in the world is up with the other person.
Often enough for it to be an expected occurance, not a deviation from the norm, in my memories of growing up, I'll forget that other people experienced something with me. I'll tell a story about my second grade teacher, and someone will say, "Oh, yeah - and remember the time that she..." Well, sure, I remember the time, but I'd forgotten that my friend was there. I've done this with my sister, too. I'll be talking about a family vacation, and she'll chime in, and for a few seconds I'll think, "Was she there?" Of course she was, we're siblings, it was a family vacation, but when I look in my mind, I see me there, by myself. This will happen with my husband, too. I'll forget that he experienced something with me, until he starts talking about it.
Now, before you decide that I'm terribly lonely and depressed and need a party or something, alone does not equal sad and lonely. I like being alone. My mother, my brother, my son - we're pretty solitary beings. We enjoy solitude. Solitude is less lonely than being surrounded by people. So when I say "alone," it's likely to mean "tranquil, relaxing, calming." As I said, "alienated" is something else entirely. Being alone is not a cry for help, at least not to me.
My husband is also sure that his highest good as a husband is to read between the lines and ferret out what I "really mean." I think the highest good of a spouse is to listen to spoken words, exact words, and believe them. (I mean, why would anyone not want to be believed?) This means that we are constanly irritated. He'll try to figure out what I'm not saying, and act accordingly, and my reaction will be, "Did you not listen to me?"
The reverse is also true. He'll say something like, "I wonder if the Christmas lights still work," then be annoyed that I did not hear, "Tomorrow after I'm off work, I want to shop for lights."
"I told you that we needed to buy lights! You knew I wanted to do that this afternoon!"
"No, you wondered out loud if the old lights still work! That's not planning a shopping trip, much less planning an exact time for shopping!" He is just sure that "it was implied." Why else would he bring it up?
Maddening.
A significant number of people who've known me for years are sure that they will know what I'm thinking, or doing, and why, but they're really bad at it.
I was once invited to an event that started with a tour of a local brewery, then ended with dinner. I showed up in time for dinner, and one friend said, "Oh, come on. You mean to tell me that your religion forbids you to even be in the same room as brewing beer?"
Wow; just so far off anything resembling accurate. I said, "No, it doesn't. I just have absolutely no interest in a brewery, so I'm not going to spend my time touring one." I cannot imagine that this was not obvious. My friend looked startled, and mumbled, "Oh. I guess."
(I think that, many times, when someone tells a story about how they knew this one person who was {fill in the blank}, and they saw their religious restrictions/weird behavior with their own eyes, it stems from an event like this where someone did not ask, but simply assumed.)
I'll tell a story, or write a Facebook post, and people who have known me for most of my life will say, "Oh, I know you! At that point, you (fill in the blank)" - and they will be so far off the mark, they're not even in the ballpark anymore.
I do the same thing. I'll assume that someone will be thinking or doing what I would do in their situation, and I will be so wrong. So very wrong.
This, folks, is why that line was so funny. Because you could understand what I'm going through, but you probably don't - and vice versa.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Monday, October 7, 2019
Supervising Adult
When I was in high school, I competed in speech and debate. So, when the chance came up to coach high school speech and debate for the homeschool team, I was all over it.
The first year we went to the state competition, I had one competitor, and the tournament was held locally. The next year, it was in Las Vegas; the state competition alternates years - Reno, Vegas, Reno, Vegas - so that everybody has to do the same amount of travel, and the burden of hosting and finding judges, lodging discounts, etc. isn't always on the same teams.
When you grow up in Nevada, going to Las Vegas isn't as exotic and exciting sounding as it is if you grow up elsewhere. Plus, I don't drink, or gamble, or go to strip clubs, so a lot of the "traditional" Vegas stuff isn't even on my radar. It's not like I had to make an effort to be on my best behavior, or to shield the kids, by avoiding that stuff - avoiding it is my normal behavior.
Which, in hindsight, meant that I might not have been as vigilant as I might have been.
I coached with a close friend, one I've known since we were both teens. Later, we brought in a university student to help coach. Homeschool classes - we taught speech and theater at a co-op - and clubs can be more casual than they are in public or private schools. The students on our debate team called us by our first names. One of our students chose the "call to order" term we used (which was the word "potato"). We didn't make them approve their performance scripts or speeches with us before competition. We didn't give grades, just kept track of the points they earned with the national organization.
During that second state tournament, all of our kids were eliminated from competition by Saturday evening. We gave them a choice - stay and watch the rest of the competition, go back to the hotel and hang out at the pool, or go do something Vegas-y. The majority of the kids chose a trip to the Las Vegas Strip. The rest voted for the hotel pool. My co-coach LaRena would stay at the hotel. The 20 year old coach, Rachel, and I would take the other kids to the Strip.
It didn't seem like an inappropriate or risky choice. To me, the Strip is the Bellagio fountains, the M&M store, the habitat for Sigfried and Roy's tigers, the roller coaster at New York, New York. All of the things that we usually do are totally kid appropriate. I tend to forget how much there is that's not "family friendly." That was my first mistake. My second was in not thinking about how different a Saturday night might be, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday afternoon.
My third was in not taking the date into consideration. It was St. Patrick's Day. I have sincerely never equated St. Patrick's Day with alcohol. I don't drink, remember? At all. We spend our St. Patrick's Day eating corned beef and watching "Darby O'Gill and the Little People."
So, off I went, on a Saturday night, with my minivan full of kids, to the Las Vegas Strip, on St.Patrick's Day.
Yes, I am that naive.
We drove through town; I don't see well enough in the dark to drive on the freeway after dark. I put my Veggie Tales "Veggies Sing the 80s" CD on; Rachel still hasn't forgiven me. The plan was to park at the Miracle Mile shopping center, then head to the fountains and the M&M store. We were just hitting Las Vegas Boulevard when an outraged voice from the back seat said, "Is that someone's butt on that billboard?" The girl speaking is an only child, homeschooled all her life, from a very conservative, Evangelical Christian family - in short, a very sheltered girl.
I looked out the window. Yes, indeed, 40 feet tall or more, there was a close up of a woman's butt, wearing a thong that provided zero coverage. "Yes, that's someone's butt. It's probably best to avoid looking at the billboards." Oh, dear, I thought, I've forgotten to factor in billboards. That includes the rolling billboards advertising brothels that cruise up and down the Strip. (For businesses that are an hour or more outside of town, they advertise rather aggressively.) I tried to remember if the clear plexiglass trailers with strippers in them were still allowed to cruise the Strip. Those were banned as being traffic hazards, weren't they?
Oh, dear. But we can avoid billboards, right?
I couldn't quite figure out why it was so crowded. It was March! Who travels in March? We finally made it to the parking garage, and I started to get a real sense of how very crowded it was. There were almost as many people milling about as there were cars. They all seemed to be intoxicated, despite it being only about 7:00 PM. So many of them were carrying plastic cups that were two or three feet tall. And the hats and the feather boas - "Is it a bachelor or bachelorette party?" I wondered out loud.
"It's St. Patrick's Day. Didn't you notice that everything's green?" Oh; no. I hadn't. But it'll be fine, right? I mean, we just ignore the drunks.
And the street performers; oh, my. There are always people in costume posing for photos for tip money. There might be superheroes, Disney characters, or "showgirls" - not the actual showgirls from splashy casino shows, but people in spangled bikinis and tall, feathered hats. That night, it seemed to be mostly showgirls in thongs. Great; now we had to avoid actual butts, not just butts on billboards. Which shouldn't be too hard, normally, but there were so many people. We were jostling, constantly bumping into someone.
As we made our way through the crowd, one of my students, Kyle, said, "Sharon, I'm sorry. I just littered."
"Littered?"
"Yeah. This guy handed me a card, and said, 'You want a coupon?', so I just took it. But I looked at it and went like this." Kyle mimed bringing the card up in front of his face, his eyes widening, then tossing the card aggressively to the ground. Now, I feel sincere ire for litterers. They're inconsiderate and impatient and I have no patience for them. But I knew exactly the cards he was talking about. If you've been to Vegas, you probably do, too. They're soft - or even hard - porn, advertising strip clubs or sex shops. They're only supposed to hand them to those 21 and older, but Kyle's tall - or, they didn't care. Many people do exactly what Kyle did, so the sidewalks on the Strip are papered in them. During daylight, it's less aggressive, but after dark, someone might shove one of them at you two or three times on a block. I was totally OK with Kyle littering.
"Yeah, lots of people will try to hand you things. Don't take anything from anybody."
My husband and LaRena's husband started walking one in the front of our group, and one in the back, to fend off anyone aggressive. Mark's a cop, and Dan's big, so they tried to look appropriately threatening. Still, I was the coach, the one responsible for the kids - I experienced stress.
At this point, I started repeating over and over, both out loud and in my head, "Just get to the fountains. We just need to get to the fountains." Then, I was sure, we could spend half an hour watching the free fountain show, unmolested.
Of course, I was wrong. As we hit the sidewalk in front of the fountains, a limousine pulled up, actually onto the sidewalk, so close to my kids that they could touch it. Just as I was feeling outraged because whoever it was might have hit my kids, who drives on the sidewalk, who lets them park there, the driver got out and started shouting through a megaphone. Directly into the faces of my teenage students, he yelled, "Free rides to the Hustler Club! Best show in town!"
No one, I thought, is ever going to let me supervise their kids again. They'll tell their parents, and I probably won't be allowed to teach at co-op. Most of my kids came from religious families, families who really live their religion, families who opted out of public education because they wanted to protect their kids. And what did I do? Bring them to the Las Vegas Strip, where they got an education in intoxication and strip clubs.
After the fountains, I abandoned plans for the M&M store. We went to McDonald's, where I bought everyone a soda or an ice cream. Then I hustled everyone back to the car, like a mother hen with her chicks. I could feel my blood pressure go down as we headed back across the valley.
I coached for four more years, so I guess that nobody complained.
Look at those kids. They're pretty great. They don't look scarred, do they?
Except for the Veggie Tales thing. I don't think Rachel will ever forgive me for that.
The first year we went to the state competition, I had one competitor, and the tournament was held locally. The next year, it was in Las Vegas; the state competition alternates years - Reno, Vegas, Reno, Vegas - so that everybody has to do the same amount of travel, and the burden of hosting and finding judges, lodging discounts, etc. isn't always on the same teams.
When you grow up in Nevada, going to Las Vegas isn't as exotic and exciting sounding as it is if you grow up elsewhere. Plus, I don't drink, or gamble, or go to strip clubs, so a lot of the "traditional" Vegas stuff isn't even on my radar. It's not like I had to make an effort to be on my best behavior, or to shield the kids, by avoiding that stuff - avoiding it is my normal behavior.
Which, in hindsight, meant that I might not have been as vigilant as I might have been.
I coached with a close friend, one I've known since we were both teens. Later, we brought in a university student to help coach. Homeschool classes - we taught speech and theater at a co-op - and clubs can be more casual than they are in public or private schools. The students on our debate team called us by our first names. One of our students chose the "call to order" term we used (which was the word "potato"). We didn't make them approve their performance scripts or speeches with us before competition. We didn't give grades, just kept track of the points they earned with the national organization.
During that second state tournament, all of our kids were eliminated from competition by Saturday evening. We gave them a choice - stay and watch the rest of the competition, go back to the hotel and hang out at the pool, or go do something Vegas-y. The majority of the kids chose a trip to the Las Vegas Strip. The rest voted for the hotel pool. My co-coach LaRena would stay at the hotel. The 20 year old coach, Rachel, and I would take the other kids to the Strip.
It didn't seem like an inappropriate or risky choice. To me, the Strip is the Bellagio fountains, the M&M store, the habitat for Sigfried and Roy's tigers, the roller coaster at New York, New York. All of the things that we usually do are totally kid appropriate. I tend to forget how much there is that's not "family friendly." That was my first mistake. My second was in not thinking about how different a Saturday night might be, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday afternoon.
My third was in not taking the date into consideration. It was St. Patrick's Day. I have sincerely never equated St. Patrick's Day with alcohol. I don't drink, remember? At all. We spend our St. Patrick's Day eating corned beef and watching "Darby O'Gill and the Little People."
So, off I went, on a Saturday night, with my minivan full of kids, to the Las Vegas Strip, on St.Patrick's Day.
Yes, I am that naive.
We drove through town; I don't see well enough in the dark to drive on the freeway after dark. I put my Veggie Tales "Veggies Sing the 80s" CD on; Rachel still hasn't forgiven me. The plan was to park at the Miracle Mile shopping center, then head to the fountains and the M&M store. We were just hitting Las Vegas Boulevard when an outraged voice from the back seat said, "Is that someone's butt on that billboard?" The girl speaking is an only child, homeschooled all her life, from a very conservative, Evangelical Christian family - in short, a very sheltered girl.
I looked out the window. Yes, indeed, 40 feet tall or more, there was a close up of a woman's butt, wearing a thong that provided zero coverage. "Yes, that's someone's butt. It's probably best to avoid looking at the billboards." Oh, dear, I thought, I've forgotten to factor in billboards. That includes the rolling billboards advertising brothels that cruise up and down the Strip. (For businesses that are an hour or more outside of town, they advertise rather aggressively.) I tried to remember if the clear plexiglass trailers with strippers in them were still allowed to cruise the Strip. Those were banned as being traffic hazards, weren't they?
Oh, dear. But we can avoid billboards, right?
I couldn't quite figure out why it was so crowded. It was March! Who travels in March? We finally made it to the parking garage, and I started to get a real sense of how very crowded it was. There were almost as many people milling about as there were cars. They all seemed to be intoxicated, despite it being only about 7:00 PM. So many of them were carrying plastic cups that were two or three feet tall. And the hats and the feather boas - "Is it a bachelor or bachelorette party?" I wondered out loud.
"It's St. Patrick's Day. Didn't you notice that everything's green?" Oh; no. I hadn't. But it'll be fine, right? I mean, we just ignore the drunks.
And the street performers; oh, my. There are always people in costume posing for photos for tip money. There might be superheroes, Disney characters, or "showgirls" - not the actual showgirls from splashy casino shows, but people in spangled bikinis and tall, feathered hats. That night, it seemed to be mostly showgirls in thongs. Great; now we had to avoid actual butts, not just butts on billboards. Which shouldn't be too hard, normally, but there were so many people. We were jostling, constantly bumping into someone.
As we made our way through the crowd, one of my students, Kyle, said, "Sharon, I'm sorry. I just littered."
"Littered?"
"Yeah. This guy handed me a card, and said, 'You want a coupon?', so I just took it. But I looked at it and went like this." Kyle mimed bringing the card up in front of his face, his eyes widening, then tossing the card aggressively to the ground. Now, I feel sincere ire for litterers. They're inconsiderate and impatient and I have no patience for them. But I knew exactly the cards he was talking about. If you've been to Vegas, you probably do, too. They're soft - or even hard - porn, advertising strip clubs or sex shops. They're only supposed to hand them to those 21 and older, but Kyle's tall - or, they didn't care. Many people do exactly what Kyle did, so the sidewalks on the Strip are papered in them. During daylight, it's less aggressive, but after dark, someone might shove one of them at you two or three times on a block. I was totally OK with Kyle littering.
"Yeah, lots of people will try to hand you things. Don't take anything from anybody."
My husband and LaRena's husband started walking one in the front of our group, and one in the back, to fend off anyone aggressive. Mark's a cop, and Dan's big, so they tried to look appropriately threatening. Still, I was the coach, the one responsible for the kids - I experienced stress.
At this point, I started repeating over and over, both out loud and in my head, "Just get to the fountains. We just need to get to the fountains." Then, I was sure, we could spend half an hour watching the free fountain show, unmolested.
Of course, I was wrong. As we hit the sidewalk in front of the fountains, a limousine pulled up, actually onto the sidewalk, so close to my kids that they could touch it. Just as I was feeling outraged because whoever it was might have hit my kids, who drives on the sidewalk, who lets them park there, the driver got out and started shouting through a megaphone. Directly into the faces of my teenage students, he yelled, "Free rides to the Hustler Club! Best show in town!"
No one, I thought, is ever going to let me supervise their kids again. They'll tell their parents, and I probably won't be allowed to teach at co-op. Most of my kids came from religious families, families who really live their religion, families who opted out of public education because they wanted to protect their kids. And what did I do? Bring them to the Las Vegas Strip, where they got an education in intoxication and strip clubs.
After the fountains, I abandoned plans for the M&M store. We went to McDonald's, where I bought everyone a soda or an ice cream. Then I hustled everyone back to the car, like a mother hen with her chicks. I could feel my blood pressure go down as we headed back across the valley.
I coached for four more years, so I guess that nobody complained.
Look at those kids. They're pretty great. They don't look scarred, do they?
Except for the Veggie Tales thing. I don't think Rachel will ever forgive me for that.
Sunday, September 29, 2019
It's OK
I spoke to a friend recently about a family member of theirs who's going through a hard time. A mother and adult child had an argument - an ordinary kind of argument - but Mom passed away unexpectedly the next day, so this meant that the last thing that they ever said to each other was angry (and maybe unkind). This sent the child into a tailspin. Child is having a really hard time coping with the idea that they "never got to settle things;" they worry that the relationship is somehow frozen in that angry moment, and can't ever be fixed.
I can't speak for their mom, but I can speak for me. I think a great deal, the older I get, about Aging People Stuff. I probably make people uncomfortable, because I get pretty effusive about telling people that I love them (you've gotta say it!) I also tell my kids what to do if I'm senile, what I want at my funeral, stuff they might need to know.
Here's what my kids, my family, my friends might need to know if I die after we've argued: don't sweat it. Seriously. I won't. Our relationship is what took place over the whole time we knew each other, not on one day.
Plus, if you ever made the mistake of thinking that I never argue with people, give that up right now. I disagree with most people about something. I have very little filter. Pretty much daily, I tell someone that they're wrong, or they tell me that I'm wrong. Plus, I'm a stubborn person, from a long line of stubborn people. Heads get butted, feelings get hurt.
I don't really know what it would look like to always agree with people. I grew up practicing a religion that was different from the other members of my household. I don't belong to the same political party as my husband. There are more people in my life who differ from me than there are people who are similar.
That's undoubtedly why I don't get overwhelmed by differences. I just expect them. And sure, there are people whose company I don't enjoy. But I don't wish harm on any of them. I hope that they live happy, healthy lives. I just don't need to be in the same room with them while they do it. But, lemme tell you, that list is so small, the chance that you personally are on it is next to nothing. And, I can't think of a single person to whom I couldn't be civil - and times that I choose not to be, anyway.
There will be arguments, hurt feelings, the stuff of being human. And that, too, is expected. So, I don't really need to "settle" things. I'm not waiting for an apology. (If you're waiting for one, know that I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt, sincerely. But you don't need to please me, and I don't need to please you.)
I don't plan on any "saying goodbye" scenes before I die, either. There will be no calling people to my side to impart last words of wisdom or love or anything else. If I think it really needs said, I've said it. I'm not waiting to hear you validate me.
So, look, whatever either of us may have said or done or not, we're good. It's OK.
If your mom or dad or best friend or boss or anyone else left unfinished business, I'm really sure that they want you to let it go. They knew what you wanted to say. It's alright. Don't lose any sleep over it. It doesn't define your life, or theirs.
It's OK.
I can't speak for their mom, but I can speak for me. I think a great deal, the older I get, about Aging People Stuff. I probably make people uncomfortable, because I get pretty effusive about telling people that I love them (you've gotta say it!) I also tell my kids what to do if I'm senile, what I want at my funeral, stuff they might need to know.
Here's what my kids, my family, my friends might need to know if I die after we've argued: don't sweat it. Seriously. I won't. Our relationship is what took place over the whole time we knew each other, not on one day.
Plus, if you ever made the mistake of thinking that I never argue with people, give that up right now. I disagree with most people about something. I have very little filter. Pretty much daily, I tell someone that they're wrong, or they tell me that I'm wrong. Plus, I'm a stubborn person, from a long line of stubborn people. Heads get butted, feelings get hurt.
I don't really know what it would look like to always agree with people. I grew up practicing a religion that was different from the other members of my household. I don't belong to the same political party as my husband. There are more people in my life who differ from me than there are people who are similar.
That's undoubtedly why I don't get overwhelmed by differences. I just expect them. And sure, there are people whose company I don't enjoy. But I don't wish harm on any of them. I hope that they live happy, healthy lives. I just don't need to be in the same room with them while they do it. But, lemme tell you, that list is so small, the chance that you personally are on it is next to nothing. And, I can't think of a single person to whom I couldn't be civil - and times that I choose not to be, anyway.
There will be arguments, hurt feelings, the stuff of being human. And that, too, is expected. So, I don't really need to "settle" things. I'm not waiting for an apology. (If you're waiting for one, know that I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt, sincerely. But you don't need to please me, and I don't need to please you.)
I don't plan on any "saying goodbye" scenes before I die, either. There will be no calling people to my side to impart last words of wisdom or love or anything else. If I think it really needs said, I've said it. I'm not waiting to hear you validate me.
So, look, whatever either of us may have said or done or not, we're good. It's OK.
If your mom or dad or best friend or boss or anyone else left unfinished business, I'm really sure that they want you to let it go. They knew what you wanted to say. It's alright. Don't lose any sleep over it. It doesn't define your life, or theirs.
It's OK.
Friday, May 31, 2019
The Professor
Recently, one of my university theater professors passed away. I've been thinking about him, how amazing he was, how lucky I was to know and work with him.
Let's start with how I knew him. See, that description up above is a bit misleading; yes, he was "mine" as in someone that I studied under, and I enjoyed his company, very much. He was a university professor. But I was not a university student.
Auditions at the university are "open;" anyone can audition (but casting preference is given to students). One of my best friends convinced me to go with him the first time we auditioned; I'm forever grateful.
I got some of my best acting roles there from Dr. Bob Dillard, head of the theater department. He was elegant, slender, funny, acerbic, insanely talented, well read, better educated than I would ever be. He was great at keeping appropriate boundaries while still hanging out with teens and 20-somethings. I was 18 when I met him.
When I was 19, he cast me in "Evita." I was not confident about my singing. My mother had a beautiful voice, and I loved singing, but I was very insecure about letting anyone hear. I told people that I didn't sing, that "you don't want to hear me sing." My family and friends weren't big cheerleaders; the first time my high school did a musical, my father said to me, "What are you gonna do in a musical?" when I told him about the show. Stung, I said, "They need technicians!"
"Oh. I guess that makes sense," he said.
The only reason I tried out for "Evita" is that it had a huge chorus. I could "hide" my voice in the group.
During rehearsals, I learned to sing out, to project. I wasn't ready to play Eva, but I was then comfortable with being an actor who sings.
Later, I also joined my church choir. I can sing the "gloria" part of "Angels We Have Heard On High" in one breath, without sounding gaspy. (Unless my asthma is kicking my butt.)
"Evita" made possible every musical that I was in afterward, musicals where I had solos and a headset microphone. Years later, when I was in a large show, the vocal director pulled a large group over to me during rehearsal and said, "Listen to Sharon. Follow what she does."
I am a singer. That never would have happened without Bob Dillard.
Before I met him, one of his apparently standard admonitions had become legendary - in a musical, the cast was to "Sparkle, dammit, sparkle!" I adopted the phrase for non-theater use; my kids are familiar with it.
There are other phrases that so spoke to me that I still check my work, and my life, against them.
My taste in entertainment (and life) runs to squeaky clean. Still, I know that not everything will be G rated, and that's OK - in fact, it's desirable. I love crime shows, murder mystery books, serial killer trivia. So, I save my ire for things that I find unnecessary. For instance: Mel Gibson makes great historical pieces, but he loves gore too much for my taste; I usually watch his stuff after it's been "cut for TV." David Mamet is brilliant, but probably couldn't order breakfast without dropping four or five f-bombs. I don't mind most of the nudity in "Schindler's List," because I know what Spielberg is trying to say (even though I think that there are less revealing ways to do it). I do mind Amon Goeth's girlfriend being naked and throwing things at him so that we get to see her bounce. Put her in a negligee and the scene still works.
Sometimes, the university theater department would produce things that pushed certain boundaries. I rarely had to sit a show out because it pushed too far for me. And, since I think I'm pretty picky, I usually think that if I'm not bothered, no reasonable person should be.
I don't remember what show we were working on when someone asked Dr. Dillard if he was worried about offending people. While I don't remember the show, I remember the moment, the room we were in, and I remember the smile that spread across his face at the question. "No," he said. "I'm not."
"But what if they, like, complain to the university president? What if they write letters and stuff?"
Here's where he dropped that piece of wisdom that so spoke to me. "If we're not offending somebody, we're not doing our jobs," he said. Each of us has people we're willing to offend, and people we'd rather not offend, and it's not only impossible but dangerous to try to avoid offending anyone, ever. Draw your line in the sand, and stand by it. He encapsulated something I already believed in, in a compact sentence. It was brilliance.
I also remembering being giddily grateful to him on a personal level for the way he handled a conversation that had gotten uncomfortable for me.
There was a group of us sitting in the "green room," the lounge area under the stage where we hung out during rehearsals when we personally weren't working. We were going through the whole "getting to know you" thing of asking each other about our lives and backgrounds - where were we from, where we'd gone to high school, that sort of thing.
One girl said that she'd graduated from a local school. "Hey, me too!" I told her. That led to asking what year, who we both knew that had gone to high school with us, and so on. She'd graduated 5 or 6 years after I did.
"Who was your theater teacher?" she asked. It's a really ordinary question, especially under the circumstances, but I was unprepared for it, and I just froze. I'm a pretty open book, I lean toward TMI, but I just stared at her for an uncomfortable few seconds, then said, "I'm sorry. You've just hit on one of the very few areas of my life that I don't talk about."
"WHAT? What? Who was it?"
"Nope. Sorry."
"What happened? What did you do?" She kept asking, and I kept saying no. See, when you don't want to discuss things, people assume that there's a scandal. They want the dirt - they want to hear something salacious. This is just something that I discuss rarely, and I only discuss in detail with people who were there. I'm not hiding, I'm not embarrassed. It's just so uncomfortable that I'd rather not do it. My kids know this teacher as She Who Shall Not Be Named. They wouldn't recognize her name if they heard it.
But this poor girl was just convinced that there was a great story, a big scandal - and that I undoubtedly did something wrong - and she kept pushing. Finally, she looked at Dr. Dillard. "Do you know?" she demanded. I had no idea if he did or didn't. I'd certainly never discussed it with him.
He looked at me, right in my eyes. If he wanted to say, I couldn't stop him (and I wouldn't have). Then he looked at her and said, "Yes, I do. And I know why she doesn't talk about it."
Oh, the relief! The validation, that I didn't have to say if I didn't want to! I was just so overwhelmingly grateful.
I sincerely have no idea what he knew or didn't know. I never asked. It's entirely possible that he had heard some wildly inaccurate stories that cast me as a criminal mastermind or some such thing. I don't know if he actually even knew her name or not. All I knew in that moment was that he had my back. Even if there had been nothing else about him that I liked, this single incident would have assured that I thought of him fondly forever.
I wish that I could remember more about the last time that I worked with him. Unfortunately, something that still ranks as the worst thing that ever happened to me happened during that show. Trauma tends to stain everything, even unrelated things, so even though I actively tried not to associate the show, the people, the theater, plays in general, or anything else of the sort, with the trauma, it didn't work very well. It took 10 years for me to attend a show in that theater again; I have still never worked there since that show.
It's really a shame, because it was a great show, and a great part, the best part I'd ever had at the university. I always got the sense that Dr. D believed in me, and enjoyed my work. My husband assures me that I did a great job, and none of my friends ever told me that the performance stunk, so that's good. I assume that the show didn't suffer. Still, I'd like to have the memories back. Maybe they'll show up some day.
I saw Dr. Dillard occasionally after that. I sent him Christmas cards for years. Still, we never worked together again, and he eventually retired.
Last year, I was at a theater gathering, and had the chance to write something in a notebook for Dr. Dillard (who couldn't attend). Enough of my loved ones have passed away that I'm getting pretty effusive in expressing my feelings to people. You never know when they'll need to hear it, or when they'll be gone.
I don't remember what I wrote. It was probably inadequate and silly. It was only half a page or so. Still, I knew - I may never be in the same room with this friend again, and I need to let him know how amazing he is. He needs to know that I remember; the shows he cast me in, the things he taught me, how he backed me up when I wanted my personal life to remain personal.
He sparkled.
Now it's our turn. "Sparkle, dammit!"
Let's start with how I knew him. See, that description up above is a bit misleading; yes, he was "mine" as in someone that I studied under, and I enjoyed his company, very much. He was a university professor. But I was not a university student.
Auditions at the university are "open;" anyone can audition (but casting preference is given to students). One of my best friends convinced me to go with him the first time we auditioned; I'm forever grateful.
I got some of my best acting roles there from Dr. Bob Dillard, head of the theater department. He was elegant, slender, funny, acerbic, insanely talented, well read, better educated than I would ever be. He was great at keeping appropriate boundaries while still hanging out with teens and 20-somethings. I was 18 when I met him.
When I was 19, he cast me in "Evita." I was not confident about my singing. My mother had a beautiful voice, and I loved singing, but I was very insecure about letting anyone hear. I told people that I didn't sing, that "you don't want to hear me sing." My family and friends weren't big cheerleaders; the first time my high school did a musical, my father said to me, "What are you gonna do in a musical?" when I told him about the show. Stung, I said, "They need technicians!"
"Oh. I guess that makes sense," he said.
The only reason I tried out for "Evita" is that it had a huge chorus. I could "hide" my voice in the group.
During rehearsals, I learned to sing out, to project. I wasn't ready to play Eva, but I was then comfortable with being an actor who sings.
Later, I also joined my church choir. I can sing the "gloria" part of "Angels We Have Heard On High" in one breath, without sounding gaspy. (Unless my asthma is kicking my butt.)
"Evita" made possible every musical that I was in afterward, musicals where I had solos and a headset microphone. Years later, when I was in a large show, the vocal director pulled a large group over to me during rehearsal and said, "Listen to Sharon. Follow what she does."
I am a singer. That never would have happened without Bob Dillard.
Before I met him, one of his apparently standard admonitions had become legendary - in a musical, the cast was to "Sparkle, dammit, sparkle!" I adopted the phrase for non-theater use; my kids are familiar with it.
There are other phrases that so spoke to me that I still check my work, and my life, against them.
My taste in entertainment (and life) runs to squeaky clean. Still, I know that not everything will be G rated, and that's OK - in fact, it's desirable. I love crime shows, murder mystery books, serial killer trivia. So, I save my ire for things that I find unnecessary. For instance: Mel Gibson makes great historical pieces, but he loves gore too much for my taste; I usually watch his stuff after it's been "cut for TV." David Mamet is brilliant, but probably couldn't order breakfast without dropping four or five f-bombs. I don't mind most of the nudity in "Schindler's List," because I know what Spielberg is trying to say (even though I think that there are less revealing ways to do it). I do mind Amon Goeth's girlfriend being naked and throwing things at him so that we get to see her bounce. Put her in a negligee and the scene still works.
Sometimes, the university theater department would produce things that pushed certain boundaries. I rarely had to sit a show out because it pushed too far for me. And, since I think I'm pretty picky, I usually think that if I'm not bothered, no reasonable person should be.
I don't remember what show we were working on when someone asked Dr. Dillard if he was worried about offending people. While I don't remember the show, I remember the moment, the room we were in, and I remember the smile that spread across his face at the question. "No," he said. "I'm not."
"But what if they, like, complain to the university president? What if they write letters and stuff?"
Here's where he dropped that piece of wisdom that so spoke to me. "If we're not offending somebody, we're not doing our jobs," he said. Each of us has people we're willing to offend, and people we'd rather not offend, and it's not only impossible but dangerous to try to avoid offending anyone, ever. Draw your line in the sand, and stand by it. He encapsulated something I already believed in, in a compact sentence. It was brilliance.
I also remembering being giddily grateful to him on a personal level for the way he handled a conversation that had gotten uncomfortable for me.
There was a group of us sitting in the "green room," the lounge area under the stage where we hung out during rehearsals when we personally weren't working. We were going through the whole "getting to know you" thing of asking each other about our lives and backgrounds - where were we from, where we'd gone to high school, that sort of thing.
One girl said that she'd graduated from a local school. "Hey, me too!" I told her. That led to asking what year, who we both knew that had gone to high school with us, and so on. She'd graduated 5 or 6 years after I did.
"Who was your theater teacher?" she asked. It's a really ordinary question, especially under the circumstances, but I was unprepared for it, and I just froze. I'm a pretty open book, I lean toward TMI, but I just stared at her for an uncomfortable few seconds, then said, "I'm sorry. You've just hit on one of the very few areas of my life that I don't talk about."
"WHAT? What? Who was it?"
"Nope. Sorry."
"What happened? What did you do?" She kept asking, and I kept saying no. See, when you don't want to discuss things, people assume that there's a scandal. They want the dirt - they want to hear something salacious. This is just something that I discuss rarely, and I only discuss in detail with people who were there. I'm not hiding, I'm not embarrassed. It's just so uncomfortable that I'd rather not do it. My kids know this teacher as She Who Shall Not Be Named. They wouldn't recognize her name if they heard it.
But this poor girl was just convinced that there was a great story, a big scandal - and that I undoubtedly did something wrong - and she kept pushing. Finally, she looked at Dr. Dillard. "Do you know?" she demanded. I had no idea if he did or didn't. I'd certainly never discussed it with him.
He looked at me, right in my eyes. If he wanted to say, I couldn't stop him (and I wouldn't have). Then he looked at her and said, "Yes, I do. And I know why she doesn't talk about it."
Oh, the relief! The validation, that I didn't have to say if I didn't want to! I was just so overwhelmingly grateful.
I sincerely have no idea what he knew or didn't know. I never asked. It's entirely possible that he had heard some wildly inaccurate stories that cast me as a criminal mastermind or some such thing. I don't know if he actually even knew her name or not. All I knew in that moment was that he had my back. Even if there had been nothing else about him that I liked, this single incident would have assured that I thought of him fondly forever.
I wish that I could remember more about the last time that I worked with him. Unfortunately, something that still ranks as the worst thing that ever happened to me happened during that show. Trauma tends to stain everything, even unrelated things, so even though I actively tried not to associate the show, the people, the theater, plays in general, or anything else of the sort, with the trauma, it didn't work very well. It took 10 years for me to attend a show in that theater again; I have still never worked there since that show.
It's really a shame, because it was a great show, and a great part, the best part I'd ever had at the university. I always got the sense that Dr. D believed in me, and enjoyed my work. My husband assures me that I did a great job, and none of my friends ever told me that the performance stunk, so that's good. I assume that the show didn't suffer. Still, I'd like to have the memories back. Maybe they'll show up some day.
I saw Dr. Dillard occasionally after that. I sent him Christmas cards for years. Still, we never worked together again, and he eventually retired.
Last year, I was at a theater gathering, and had the chance to write something in a notebook for Dr. Dillard (who couldn't attend). Enough of my loved ones have passed away that I'm getting pretty effusive in expressing my feelings to people. You never know when they'll need to hear it, or when they'll be gone.
I don't remember what I wrote. It was probably inadequate and silly. It was only half a page or so. Still, I knew - I may never be in the same room with this friend again, and I need to let him know how amazing he is. He needs to know that I remember; the shows he cast me in, the things he taught me, how he backed me up when I wanted my personal life to remain personal.
He sparkled.
Now it's our turn. "Sparkle, dammit!"
Thursday, May 9, 2019
To Every Thing There Is A Season
I don't expect everyone to agree with me, and I'm always willing to have respectful conversations about differences. Especially given that I try very hard to extend respect, though, it's really exhausting how many people phrase their questions to me or people like me in truly confrontational terms - "What kind of idiot believes..." and, "How could you possibly..." and "How can you ignore..." That last one is especially annoying when it's wielded by people who define "ignore" as, "You didn't change your mind after I told you that you were wrong!" Folks, that is not what "ignore" means. Ignoring you would be not responding at all or pretending that you hadn't spoken. It does not mean hearing what you have to say and simply maintaining one's own opinion (even when you think that opinion is wrong or "stupid"). I don't tell you that you're "ignoring" me because you continue to have opinions and beliefs that I do not share. Let's try to extend each other the same courtesies, shall we?
Anyway, there's been a whole lot of interpersonal and online questions aimed at people of my religion lately, because we 1. (gasp!) Believe things that others do not, and 2. My church leaders have made quite a few procedural changes in recent years. People who know that they do not agree with my religion are apparently continually astonished that they still don't agree with us - like that should be a surprise, to them or to me. There's lots of, "Can you believe that someone said/did..." like it's just amazing - which puzzles me, because I don't spend any time being surprised by the fact that I don't agree with religions to which I do not belong. I certainly don't post on social media about it, or engage people who are members in conversations about why I'm not a member.
Anyway. I digress.
So, I'm going to explain 1. why changes don't bother me, and 2. why not everything will, or should, change. I don't think I'll change any minds, but I assume that others really do want to understand, not just to insist on agreement. (Call me crazy...) You will definitely not agree with me if you think that all religion is superstitious nonsense, but please save us time by not being surprised or outraged by that. You also won't agree if you don't view Jesus as the Messiah; don't be surprised by that, either. It'll just save us both time and frustration.
To demonstate my points, I'm going way back - back to the Old Testament. For centuries, people followed the Law of Moses. A significant part of that was the law of sacrifice. Dating back to the time Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden, people had been commanded to sacrifice the first and best of their crops, livestock, etc. in the temple. There were all kinds of associated laws - what was acceptable, when to sacrifice it, how to sacrifice it, where to sprinkle or spread the blood of the sacrificed animals. It was part of what separated God's Chosen People from the "heathen."
Following me? OK.
Now, it's New Testament time. Here comes Jesus. He declares that there should be no more "burnt offerings," no more animal sacrifices, no more crop sacrifices. This law had run its course; it had been "fulfilled."
Theologically, the sacrifice was supposed to remind people of the Messiah, the Savior. Now that the Savior had come, those were no longer needed. Christ asked them to offer "a contrite spirit" instead of animal sacrifice.
Were the people thrilled about this? Did they say, "Wow, this is great! Not only has the Messiah come, but this frees up time and food that my family can use!"? No; they accused Jesus of trying "to destroy the law and the prophets."
Some of what they said is recorded in the Bible, and I'm pretty sure that I can imagine how a lot of conversations not recorded went. People were furious and scandalized. This was, after all, The Way Things Have Always Been Done, it was the Word of God, it was how one earned salvation, generations had followed these precepts - and now they were being asked to discard it. This made no sense to the vast majority of believers.
The problem was in thinking the same way many people today think. "Were you wrong before, or are you wrong now?" Because, people assume, if you've changed something, something has to be wrong. People don't seem to be able to understand that both ways can be right, for their time and circumstances.
Of course, not everything is fulfillment of prophesy, like the arrival of the Messiah, but the idea of different behaviors for different circumstances shouldn't be too difficult for anyone who's been younger than they are now (which is all of us), and especially for parents. Do you treat your toddlers the same way you treat your teens? Of course not. Does that mean that you were wrong to treat them differently, that "different" automatically equals "not fair?" Of course not.
Now that brings us to the flip side of that coin, people who assume that everything must unavoidably change; that, in fact, anything that doesn't change is wrong. To look at that idea, let's go back to the Old Testament again.
Let's look at the Ten Commandments. Most societies, religious or not, agree with at least some of those commandments, things like "don't murder each other" and "don't take things that don't belong to you." Let's agree that, even if you don't follow all of the ten, you recognize that these rules go back many centuries, and are accepted by people of differing religions as the basis of their moral code.
I'm going to take one of these as my example - "Do not bear false witness against thy neighbor." There are so many laws based on this concept - plagiarism, libel, false advertising, perjury, breach of contract, defamation, slander and more. Pretty much every system of government has laws against false witness.
If I come across a religion that tells me that these ideas are outdated, outmoded, unnecessary, embarassingly backward, I know that I do not want to practice that religion; I don't think anybody should practice that religion. (The same is true, actually, of a government.) That's because some things do not change, so our attitude toward them, and our observance of them, shouldn't change. Saying, "OK, it was accepted in the past, but we know better now" doesn't sway me.
In general (although this isn't a hard and fast rule), practices change; doctrine shouldn't.
Many practices will change, and those changes don't mean that anyone is, or was, wrong. But some things are wrong, and time, popular opinion and other societal changes don't make wrong things, like false witness, right.
Sometimes I hear from people who are waiting for changes that they think should come, or those who feel wounded by changes that have come, and they talk about how pained and unhappy and angry they feel. The entire church (or all humanity), they think, should so obviously be doing things the way that makes sense to them. I understand that their pain is real, but I don't think that's the fault of any religion or its adherents. It's a problem with unrealistic expectations. How many times were you in tears as a child, or have you watched your child be in tears, because you couldn't have a pony, had to take a bath, had to do homework? That's what that pain looks like to God. He's lived many centuries longer than we have, so He has perspective and experience that we don't. He hurts because we hurt and He loves us, but not because He's doing things wrong and we children would do it better.
So, in summary, change is inevitable - but not all change. Makes sense?
Anyway. I digress.
So, I'm going to explain 1. why changes don't bother me, and 2. why not everything will, or should, change. I don't think I'll change any minds, but I assume that others really do want to understand, not just to insist on agreement. (Call me crazy...) You will definitely not agree with me if you think that all religion is superstitious nonsense, but please save us time by not being surprised or outraged by that. You also won't agree if you don't view Jesus as the Messiah; don't be surprised by that, either. It'll just save us both time and frustration.
To demonstate my points, I'm going way back - back to the Old Testament. For centuries, people followed the Law of Moses. A significant part of that was the law of sacrifice. Dating back to the time Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden, people had been commanded to sacrifice the first and best of their crops, livestock, etc. in the temple. There were all kinds of associated laws - what was acceptable, when to sacrifice it, how to sacrifice it, where to sprinkle or spread the blood of the sacrificed animals. It was part of what separated God's Chosen People from the "heathen."
Following me? OK.
Now, it's New Testament time. Here comes Jesus. He declares that there should be no more "burnt offerings," no more animal sacrifices, no more crop sacrifices. This law had run its course; it had been "fulfilled."
Theologically, the sacrifice was supposed to remind people of the Messiah, the Savior. Now that the Savior had come, those were no longer needed. Christ asked them to offer "a contrite spirit" instead of animal sacrifice.
Were the people thrilled about this? Did they say, "Wow, this is great! Not only has the Messiah come, but this frees up time and food that my family can use!"? No; they accused Jesus of trying "to destroy the law and the prophets."
Some of what they said is recorded in the Bible, and I'm pretty sure that I can imagine how a lot of conversations not recorded went. People were furious and scandalized. This was, after all, The Way Things Have Always Been Done, it was the Word of God, it was how one earned salvation, generations had followed these precepts - and now they were being asked to discard it. This made no sense to the vast majority of believers.
The problem was in thinking the same way many people today think. "Were you wrong before, or are you wrong now?" Because, people assume, if you've changed something, something has to be wrong. People don't seem to be able to understand that both ways can be right, for their time and circumstances.
Of course, not everything is fulfillment of prophesy, like the arrival of the Messiah, but the idea of different behaviors for different circumstances shouldn't be too difficult for anyone who's been younger than they are now (which is all of us), and especially for parents. Do you treat your toddlers the same way you treat your teens? Of course not. Does that mean that you were wrong to treat them differently, that "different" automatically equals "not fair?" Of course not.
Now that brings us to the flip side of that coin, people who assume that everything must unavoidably change; that, in fact, anything that doesn't change is wrong. To look at that idea, let's go back to the Old Testament again.
Let's look at the Ten Commandments. Most societies, religious or not, agree with at least some of those commandments, things like "don't murder each other" and "don't take things that don't belong to you." Let's agree that, even if you don't follow all of the ten, you recognize that these rules go back many centuries, and are accepted by people of differing religions as the basis of their moral code.
I'm going to take one of these as my example - "Do not bear false witness against thy neighbor." There are so many laws based on this concept - plagiarism, libel, false advertising, perjury, breach of contract, defamation, slander and more. Pretty much every system of government has laws against false witness.
If I come across a religion that tells me that these ideas are outdated, outmoded, unnecessary, embarassingly backward, I know that I do not want to practice that religion; I don't think anybody should practice that religion. (The same is true, actually, of a government.) That's because some things do not change, so our attitude toward them, and our observance of them, shouldn't change. Saying, "OK, it was accepted in the past, but we know better now" doesn't sway me.
In general (although this isn't a hard and fast rule), practices change; doctrine shouldn't.
Many practices will change, and those changes don't mean that anyone is, or was, wrong. But some things are wrong, and time, popular opinion and other societal changes don't make wrong things, like false witness, right.
Sometimes I hear from people who are waiting for changes that they think should come, or those who feel wounded by changes that have come, and they talk about how pained and unhappy and angry they feel. The entire church (or all humanity), they think, should so obviously be doing things the way that makes sense to them. I understand that their pain is real, but I don't think that's the fault of any religion or its adherents. It's a problem with unrealistic expectations. How many times were you in tears as a child, or have you watched your child be in tears, because you couldn't have a pony, had to take a bath, had to do homework? That's what that pain looks like to God. He's lived many centuries longer than we have, so He has perspective and experience that we don't. He hurts because we hurt and He loves us, but not because He's doing things wrong and we children would do it better.
So, in summary, change is inevitable - but not all change. Makes sense?
Saturday, April 6, 2019
Just A Small Town Girl
Before I met my oldest brother, I had no idea that anything was missing from my life. I didn't feel any holes, any missing pieces.
The story of my mom's first child, adopted by his wonderful forever parents, wasn't part of the story I knew of my life, of my mom's life.
Since he found us, though, so much in my past, and my mom's past, makes more sense. Looking at things with the lens of added knowledge, there's so much more clarity.
For instance, Mom never expressed any overt hostility toward her hometown. She shared positive memories. There was no, "I hated every moment, and I couldn't wait to get out." Still, she never wanted to go back. She left at 19, and died at 83. She went back to her hometown exactly twice in those years, and one of those times was to deal with my grandmother's move out of her home and into a nursing facility.
When she got high school reunion invitations, I'd say, "Don't you want to go?"
"No," she'd say. "There's nobody that I need to see. I don't even know what we'd talk about."
Still, she's an introvert, very happy being alone, miserable in crowds, so that was fairly expected.
Mom hated crowds and noise, so it goes without saying that she disliked large cities; it would never have been her choice to live in one. She didn't even like to visit large cities. So, it was a tiny bit puzzling when she was also vocal about not wanting to live in small towns. "Small towns are terrible," she'd tell me. "Everyone knows your business, and everyone's in your business."
"I don't care," I'd say, especially as a child. (I wanted to live in a town that went beyond "small" and into "tiny.") My personality veers more toward TMI than it does toward close mouthedness, so having people know my business didn't seem like too big a drawback. Also, I'm very good at brushing off people who want to make my decisions for me. They annoy me, but I can ignore them.
That was viewing things through my lens. Through Mom's, things look different. I cannot begin to comprehend what it felt like to be an unmarried pregnant teen in the 1940s, in a small town in the Midwest.
My family probably already looked pretty scandalous to those with wagging tongues. My grandparents were divorced. My aunt was about to get a divorce. Mom was pregnant out of wedlock.
I can imagine the force of all of those well meaning advice givers and all of those judgement passers mostly from Mom and Aunt Jeanette's reactions - move 2000 miles away, and never come back. She never, ever spoke of it to me, my siblings, my cousins, but I don't have to hear the details; I see the results.
And, I can't count the number of times Mom told me that small towns were gossipy and judgemental. I chalked that up to her experiences during her divorce. In the picture perfect 1950s, she left a handsome husband and a pretty house to marry a never before married bachelor 20 years her senior - and he and her first husband worked together in a small town fire department. "Grandma," my daughter told her decades later, "you were scandalous!" She humphed, and smiled a small, amused smile. Now I know that, by then, she was a pro at navigating societal disapproval.
(In the turbulent, "free love" 1960s and 1970s, she was a faithful wife and mother. Whether she did it intentionally or not, I'm tickled that she swam upstream, against prevailing currents.)
How Mom described us now carries more meaning for me, as well. When someone asked how many children she had, my mother would say, "My husband and I have four at home," and, as the older kids were no longer at home, "My husband and I have four." It was invariably "we," not "I." If she said "I," it was usually with details about one or another of us - "I have one who's turning 30 this year." I always looked at it as her way of looping my dad in - two of us were children of her first husband, not my dad (her second husband). Still, he raised them, so I always liked that she always phrased it as "we have" four children, not "I have 2, and my husband has 2."
I'm still certain that was part of the intent. Mom presented us as a unit, because she saw us as a unit.
Now, though, I know that there was a second, unspoken part to that statement. "My husband and I have four" was accompanied in her head by, "And I have an older son." He was always in her head, always in her heart, just as the rest of us were.
So much of her life was colored by her first child, by this brother that I didn't meet until I was in my 50s. And now, I get to love him, too. And I love the way his life touched my mother's. I enjoy understanding her better. She was an outstanding mother, friend, aunt, sister just because of her own personality, but her experiences with her firstborn made her a better one. Having my brother had a huge impact on the kind of person she was, and the rest of us siblings (and our friends) reaped the benefit.
I understand so much more - and I am glad.
The story of my mom's first child, adopted by his wonderful forever parents, wasn't part of the story I knew of my life, of my mom's life.
Since he found us, though, so much in my past, and my mom's past, makes more sense. Looking at things with the lens of added knowledge, there's so much more clarity.
For instance, Mom never expressed any overt hostility toward her hometown. She shared positive memories. There was no, "I hated every moment, and I couldn't wait to get out." Still, she never wanted to go back. She left at 19, and died at 83. She went back to her hometown exactly twice in those years, and one of those times was to deal with my grandmother's move out of her home and into a nursing facility.
When she got high school reunion invitations, I'd say, "Don't you want to go?"
"No," she'd say. "There's nobody that I need to see. I don't even know what we'd talk about."
Still, she's an introvert, very happy being alone, miserable in crowds, so that was fairly expected.
Mom hated crowds and noise, so it goes without saying that she disliked large cities; it would never have been her choice to live in one. She didn't even like to visit large cities. So, it was a tiny bit puzzling when she was also vocal about not wanting to live in small towns. "Small towns are terrible," she'd tell me. "Everyone knows your business, and everyone's in your business."
"I don't care," I'd say, especially as a child. (I wanted to live in a town that went beyond "small" and into "tiny.") My personality veers more toward TMI than it does toward close mouthedness, so having people know my business didn't seem like too big a drawback. Also, I'm very good at brushing off people who want to make my decisions for me. They annoy me, but I can ignore them.
That was viewing things through my lens. Through Mom's, things look different. I cannot begin to comprehend what it felt like to be an unmarried pregnant teen in the 1940s, in a small town in the Midwest.
My family probably already looked pretty scandalous to those with wagging tongues. My grandparents were divorced. My aunt was about to get a divorce. Mom was pregnant out of wedlock.
I can imagine the force of all of those well meaning advice givers and all of those judgement passers mostly from Mom and Aunt Jeanette's reactions - move 2000 miles away, and never come back. She never, ever spoke of it to me, my siblings, my cousins, but I don't have to hear the details; I see the results.
And, I can't count the number of times Mom told me that small towns were gossipy and judgemental. I chalked that up to her experiences during her divorce. In the picture perfect 1950s, she left a handsome husband and a pretty house to marry a never before married bachelor 20 years her senior - and he and her first husband worked together in a small town fire department. "Grandma," my daughter told her decades later, "you were scandalous!" She humphed, and smiled a small, amused smile. Now I know that, by then, she was a pro at navigating societal disapproval.
(In the turbulent, "free love" 1960s and 1970s, she was a faithful wife and mother. Whether she did it intentionally or not, I'm tickled that she swam upstream, against prevailing currents.)
How Mom described us now carries more meaning for me, as well. When someone asked how many children she had, my mother would say, "My husband and I have four at home," and, as the older kids were no longer at home, "My husband and I have four." It was invariably "we," not "I." If she said "I," it was usually with details about one or another of us - "I have one who's turning 30 this year." I always looked at it as her way of looping my dad in - two of us were children of her first husband, not my dad (her second husband). Still, he raised them, so I always liked that she always phrased it as "we have" four children, not "I have 2, and my husband has 2."
I'm still certain that was part of the intent. Mom presented us as a unit, because she saw us as a unit.
Now, though, I know that there was a second, unspoken part to that statement. "My husband and I have four" was accompanied in her head by, "And I have an older son." He was always in her head, always in her heart, just as the rest of us were.
So much of her life was colored by her first child, by this brother that I didn't meet until I was in my 50s. And now, I get to love him, too. And I love the way his life touched my mother's. I enjoy understanding her better. She was an outstanding mother, friend, aunt, sister just because of her own personality, but her experiences with her firstborn made her a better one. Having my brother had a huge impact on the kind of person she was, and the rest of us siblings (and our friends) reaped the benefit.
I understand so much more - and I am glad.
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Hair Today - Gone Tomorrow?
I reminded my husband that the only reason that I have hair at all is in deference to him; I would be so happy bald, but I would not look great.
Still, this is what my hair looks like. For the last 25 years, the fact that I have hair at all is due to Rogaine.
When you add that to the fact that I cannot stand, really, truly, cannot stand, the feeling of hair touching my neck or my face, what I need is a buzz cut.
I feel ridiculous trying to "style" this and make it socially acceptable, when what I really want is to be happy and socially unacceptable.
"Put it in a ponytail! Put it in a bun!" people say; they have never seen me in either style. This is me in a play set in another century. We've fluffed a lot of air into my hair to get it to look this, um, abundant. Still, compare it to my companion. I could hold back a ponytail with an orthodontic rubber band. My bun in this photo is held by a single bobby pin, I think. (I'm on the left, obviously.)
And, I wear a ponytail to bed every night because, as I said, I cannot stand the feeling of hair on my neck or face. It is not an attractive look. Trust me. But, it is comfortable.
I know that it will "look terrible" cut very short. I do. I just don't really care. I do want to avoid having my husband be horrified every time he looks at me. This is why I still have any hair.
I could wear wigs; I own wigs. They're not comfortable. Ditto hats or scarves - and I have a really large head, so most women's hats (and some men's hats) perch on top, look silly, and blow away with every puff of air. I just wanna be bald, and society does not support me in this.
The vanishing nature of my hair - it was thick and long in my childhood - is a combination of heredity and hormonal imbalance. Before you ask, yes, my hormones are "regulated" with medication. No, it doesn't help my hair. Or the whiskers I grow (after I've had laser hair removal on my face and neck).
My dad, if he were alive, would be mortified if I cut my hair off. I cannot tell you how many times he lamented the 60s popularity of short styles (think Twiggy). "A woman's hair is her crowning glory!" he said, over and over. Any woman who cut it was being self destructive, he was sure.
After looking at photos of my Grandma Laurel, my dad's mom, I think this sentiment may echo something my Grandpa Fred may have said when Grandma got a 1920s bob.
Here's Grandma on her wedding day. Beautiful, no?
Still, this is what my hair looks like. For the last 25 years, the fact that I have hair at all is due to Rogaine.
When you add that to the fact that I cannot stand, really, truly, cannot stand, the feeling of hair touching my neck or my face, what I need is a buzz cut.
I feel ridiculous trying to "style" this and make it socially acceptable, when what I really want is to be happy and socially unacceptable.
"Put it in a ponytail! Put it in a bun!" people say; they have never seen me in either style. This is me in a play set in another century. We've fluffed a lot of air into my hair to get it to look this, um, abundant. Still, compare it to my companion. I could hold back a ponytail with an orthodontic rubber band. My bun in this photo is held by a single bobby pin, I think. (I'm on the left, obviously.)
And, I wear a ponytail to bed every night because, as I said, I cannot stand the feeling of hair on my neck or face. It is not an attractive look. Trust me. But, it is comfortable.
I know that it will "look terrible" cut very short. I do. I just don't really care. I do want to avoid having my husband be horrified every time he looks at me. This is why I still have any hair.
I could wear wigs; I own wigs. They're not comfortable. Ditto hats or scarves - and I have a really large head, so most women's hats (and some men's hats) perch on top, look silly, and blow away with every puff of air. I just wanna be bald, and society does not support me in this.
The vanishing nature of my hair - it was thick and long in my childhood - is a combination of heredity and hormonal imbalance. Before you ask, yes, my hormones are "regulated" with medication. No, it doesn't help my hair. Or the whiskers I grow (after I've had laser hair removal on my face and neck).
My dad, if he were alive, would be mortified if I cut my hair off. I cannot tell you how many times he lamented the 60s popularity of short styles (think Twiggy). "A woman's hair is her crowning glory!" he said, over and over. Any woman who cut it was being self destructive, he was sure.
After looking at photos of my Grandma Laurel, my dad's mom, I think this sentiment may echo something my Grandpa Fred may have said when Grandma got a 1920s bob.
Here's Grandma on her wedding day. Beautiful, no?
Later, she cut her hair to a fashionable chin length bob. She's still beautiful, but my dad's "crowning glory" attitude tells me that the haircut was probably not well received.
I never understood, either, the idea that long hair put up is attractive, elegant, acceptable, but short hair is not. It has the same basic aesthetics.
So, for right now, I have hair. Some day, maybe I won't.
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