I was at the symphony with my dad on Saturday night. We were talking about how he and my mom had met. She had been teaching Home Economics at a high school just outside of Chicago. He was working for a company outside of Chicago as well. But they had both lived in the Near North and had met as members of the local ski club.
As we talked about this, my dad began to chronicle things- the year he had moved, the year they had met, the year she had resigned from her position at the high school...
"Wait," I asked. "She resigned from her position at the high school? Do you know why she resigned?"
"I don't recall," he said. "But that's when she started working for the National Meat Board."
Now, I have to tell you that this 'National Meat Board' snippet of my mother's life has always baffled me. I have known that my mother worked for the National Meat Board because I've heard it mentioned by my father several times. However, I have never understood it. I know my mother majored in Home Economics in college. I know my mother taught Home Economics in high school. I know that, at one point, my mom consulted with that Joe Ingargiola guy- the Green Grocer. And I know that at one point, she got married, stopped working, and had the three of us.
The high school Home Ec. teacher makes sense and the Green Grocer thing follows mostly- maybe her background in Home Economics gave her enough expertise to consult with Joe about nutritious green groceries. But the National Meat Board? All I can picture is my mom, in a white lab coat, walking around some meat packing plant, with dead cows hanging from the ceiling. How in the world does that fit with a degree in Home Economics and a teaching certificate? So I finally asked my dad, "That whole National Meat Board thing has always confused me! What was that all about?"
"Well," he explained. "She wrote for them. I can't recall exactly what she wrote for them but that's what she did for them, she wrote."
"But, I mean," I continued, "Was it just some job she came across that paid well or was she actively pursuing it?"
"Well," he said, "I'm sure there were a lot of writing jobs out there and this was the one she got."
"Wait," I said. "So she was pursuing this as a writing position?" I asked.
And then the bell rang, reminding us that intermission was over and we needed to get back inside for part two of the symphony.
"Yes," he said.
"So Mommy considered herself a writer?" I asked. "She was pursuing a writing career?" I asked for confirmation.
"Your mother very much considered herself a writer," my dad explained. "She and her friend wrote for the school newsletter.... what was it called?" and then we were in our seats, and the symphony started and so that was the end of the conversation.
But it wasn't the end of my thinking.
I revisited our conversation.
Basically, I had just learned that:
my mother had been a teacher:
Check! (it's what I've been doing since I was 25)
My mother had left teaching
Check! (it's what I did, twice, once when I was 28 to get my masters, and again when I was 33, to figure out who I was)
My mother had pursued writing as a career
Check! (it's one of the things I did when I was 33 and, it's exactly what I'm doing now- though I'm not leaving teaching to do it)
What?!
And then I followed her time line.
She worked for the National Meat board until she got pregnant with my sister- and they moved to Cleveland- oy vey!
Apparently, if my trajectory follows hers, I'm on my way to getting married, pregnant, and moving to the West Coast's version of Cleveland: Colma.
Nope, not going to happen, but still. I can't believe it. She saw herself as a writer! She actually left teaching to become a writer (I don't actually know that she left teaching in order to be a writer but she was apparently pursuing writing as a career). And I'm writing, now. Not so much as a career, but I'm beginning to see myself as a writer.
This is weird, but nice. Not the Colma thing, but the leaving teaching, seeing yourself as a writer, knowing that she wanted to do that too. A little sad, that we didn't get to share that. A little delusional. that maybe I'm living out her aspirations but mostly happy- that she and I both wrote,, that we both were women who pursued writing.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Consider yourself lightly
Consider your life a poem
he offered
unfinished
floating
not fixed
words assembled
lightly
simple statements
of
what is
no explanation
no understanding
no frame
just...oh!
this.
now
he offered
unfinished
floating
not fixed
words assembled
lightly
simple statements
of
what is
no explanation
no understanding
no frame
just...oh!
this.
now
Sunday, January 26, 2014
F#@$ the self
Note: This post is old. It was boiling when I wrote it so I let it simmer for a while. It simmered for a while and now, well, it's just water down the drain. But I thought the teaching was good so I'm posting it anyway.
"Fuck you!
You are NOT in charge of me
You do NOT decide whether I leave or stay
I can leave at anytime
This is not up to you
it's up to me."
This is the IMAGINARY conversation I had in my IMAGINARY dokusan with my teacher. In reality, my teacher was, well, who knows where he was because this conversation happened on the sidewalk as I walked home after my restorative yoga class at 9 at night. And then it continued while I was in the bathroom so really, this is a conversation between me and myself.
I am pissed with myself. I followed myself and it was right. What I did was right and I know that and I know I had no choice in the matter but now I am here and here is a very unsettled place. It is both incredibly more beautiful and blissful and at ease than I could ever have imagined (that would be the first part of self- realization) and obnoxiously uncertain and taking me places I didn't expect that are disappointing and sad and lonely. It is lonely when the only one left is you, when your delusions and alternatives and excuses are gone, when you actually trust yourself and it leads you here.
And so I went to my "teacher" and asked him to just witness, to just let me be. And I tried to speak and I couldn't and so I said that I was leaving, that the next person could come in for dokusan, that I just couldn't do it today.
"I just can't see this," I explained.
"See what?" he asked calmly.
"Be quiet!" I yelled at him. Only I didn't yell it, more like commanded it, like you would a dog. And I looked him straight in the eye when I said it.
And then I looked down, and I was quiet, and I cried in silence, and then a tear hit my hand, and my breathing slowed and I calmed down.
And then I looked back up at him.
"Apparently, I can..." I said as I made eye contact with him again
"Did you get to a point?" I asked, and then I looked away again.
"Did you get to a point when you finally reached yourself? When yourself and all those other people were the same? When you were really..."
And then I looked down again.
And that's when I went into the whole Fuck You tirade- telling my teacher off, letting him know that he wasn't in charge of me and that I could leave dokusan anytime.
But as I heard this I knew that it wasn't him that I was mad at, it was the self. It was the fact that I am not in charge of myself, that when I trust myself it takes me wherever it goes- that simply trusting yourself, going with your feelings, staying to what is true leads you to intimacy; which is who-knows-what-happens-next and that was great when what happened next was self- fulfillment and actualization of beauty. But it is not great when what-happens-next is not what you expected and you feel like you can't do a thing about it.
"That's it, I'm leaving," I said and shook my head. I shook my head some more. "I'm not doing this, I don't want to see this, I don't want to know if you got here, I don't want to know that this is what I am doing, this sucks."
And I got up to leave.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm leaving," I said and turned away.
"You can't leave dokusan," he said.
"Yes...I can," I said.
And I walked out of the bathroom. I refused to stay there- refused to sit with the suffering that I was experiencing: the knowledge that ALL of this was me, that I was capable of ALL of this, that there was nowhere left to turn or to blame or to explain or to make better. This was it and I was supposed to accept that.
"F that," I said, and considered turning to the right, to the kitchen, to eat cottage cheese and crackers and leftover Christmas candy- self pity to the max: love, comfort, and safety.
Instead I huffily turned to the left, walked into my room, climbed into bed and wrote this.
And I get it. I get that all of this comes together, that I wouldn't have all that self actualization and fulfillment and beauty if I hadn't trusted myself to follow it, but what gets me is this place. Self realization is basically intimacy- not knowing; the magic of all that I experienced came from having no idea that I could do that. So apparently the sadness and loneliness comes from there too. But still, it's just unfair that a thing of beauty can also lead to things of disappointment and things-beyond-control.
Mostly though, it's kind of funny. I am laughing at the person in me who when she sees, truly sees, that the universe is in charge, not her, she thinks she can actually do something about it and she thinks she can do this by asserting herself and walking away.
But the thing is, I never actually left that dokusan room, and I went into my bedroom instead of the kitchen, and I wrote this out to whoever might be reading.
Darn you...
"Fuck you!
You are NOT in charge of me
You do NOT decide whether I leave or stay
I can leave at anytime
This is not up to you
it's up to me."
This is the IMAGINARY conversation I had in my IMAGINARY dokusan with my teacher. In reality, my teacher was, well, who knows where he was because this conversation happened on the sidewalk as I walked home after my restorative yoga class at 9 at night. And then it continued while I was in the bathroom so really, this is a conversation between me and myself.
I am pissed with myself. I followed myself and it was right. What I did was right and I know that and I know I had no choice in the matter but now I am here and here is a very unsettled place. It is both incredibly more beautiful and blissful and at ease than I could ever have imagined (that would be the first part of self- realization) and obnoxiously uncertain and taking me places I didn't expect that are disappointing and sad and lonely. It is lonely when the only one left is you, when your delusions and alternatives and excuses are gone, when you actually trust yourself and it leads you here.
And so I went to my "teacher" and asked him to just witness, to just let me be. And I tried to speak and I couldn't and so I said that I was leaving, that the next person could come in for dokusan, that I just couldn't do it today.
"I just can't see this," I explained.
"See what?" he asked calmly.
"Be quiet!" I yelled at him. Only I didn't yell it, more like commanded it, like you would a dog. And I looked him straight in the eye when I said it.
And then I looked down, and I was quiet, and I cried in silence, and then a tear hit my hand, and my breathing slowed and I calmed down.
And then I looked back up at him.
"Apparently, I can..." I said as I made eye contact with him again
"Did you get to a point?" I asked, and then I looked away again.
"Did you get to a point when you finally reached yourself? When yourself and all those other people were the same? When you were really..."
And then I looked down again.
And that's when I went into the whole Fuck You tirade- telling my teacher off, letting him know that he wasn't in charge of me and that I could leave dokusan anytime.
But as I heard this I knew that it wasn't him that I was mad at, it was the self. It was the fact that I am not in charge of myself, that when I trust myself it takes me wherever it goes- that simply trusting yourself, going with your feelings, staying to what is true leads you to intimacy; which is who-knows-what-happens-next and that was great when what happened next was self- fulfillment and actualization of beauty. But it is not great when what-happens-next is not what you expected and you feel like you can't do a thing about it.
"That's it, I'm leaving," I said and shook my head. I shook my head some more. "I'm not doing this, I don't want to see this, I don't want to know if you got here, I don't want to know that this is what I am doing, this sucks."
And I got up to leave.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm leaving," I said and turned away.
"You can't leave dokusan," he said.
"Yes...I can," I said.
And I walked out of the bathroom. I refused to stay there- refused to sit with the suffering that I was experiencing: the knowledge that ALL of this was me, that I was capable of ALL of this, that there was nowhere left to turn or to blame or to explain or to make better. This was it and I was supposed to accept that.
"F that," I said, and considered turning to the right, to the kitchen, to eat cottage cheese and crackers and leftover Christmas candy- self pity to the max: love, comfort, and safety.
Instead I huffily turned to the left, walked into my room, climbed into bed and wrote this.
And I get it. I get that all of this comes together, that I wouldn't have all that self actualization and fulfillment and beauty if I hadn't trusted myself to follow it, but what gets me is this place. Self realization is basically intimacy- not knowing; the magic of all that I experienced came from having no idea that I could do that. So apparently the sadness and loneliness comes from there too. But still, it's just unfair that a thing of beauty can also lead to things of disappointment and things-beyond-control.
Mostly though, it's kind of funny. I am laughing at the person in me who when she sees, truly sees, that the universe is in charge, not her, she thinks she can actually do something about it and she thinks she can do this by asserting herself and walking away.
But the thing is, I never actually left that dokusan room, and I went into my bedroom instead of the kitchen, and I wrote this out to whoever might be reading.
Darn you...
Saturday, January 18, 2014
The legacy of love
I was at a dharma talk this morning, and at the end of it, someone played guitar while another person sang.
I scanned the room. Were we about to sing together? Was I about to be part of a group of people who sat in a room together and sang?
And then we did.
We sang together.
I didn't want to- didn't want to be a person... who sang.
Singing isn't functional. It's not something you need to do. It's not something that needs to get done. Plus, it's kind of emotional, you kind of sing your heart out.
But there I was, singing.
And to be honest, the only reason I did sing was because I didn't want to be the jerk who didn't sing. I get that other people sing and that it's a lovely thing to do so I didn't want to look down on that, make other people feel bad for singing by not singing.
But let me tell you, it was hard to sing.
Everything in my body told me not to sing, not be one of those people who had emotions, not be someone who did things because they felt them.
We were singing "We Shall Overcome" (it was a dharma talk in celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday). By the time we got to the line "Deep in my heart" I was crying- not because I was moved, but because I was sad.
Why couldn't I sing? Why couldn't I have emotions like everyone else? Why was I so judgmental of all the people in the room who were singing? Why was it so hard for me to sing?
And then I thought "Great- not only am I in a room, singing... I'm crying too!"
But then I remembered how crying was what brought me here in the first place, how crying was what had helped me, how crying was what I had needed to heal.
And then we got to the next line: We'll walk hand in hand...
"Sh*%" I thought. "I'll bet we're gonna start holding hands now."
And sure enough, as I looked across the room I saw a person, reaching for the hand of another person.
"Darnit!" I thought. "Now we're going to be like the Whos down in Whoville on Christmas morning- all singing and waving our heads together to music...."
I watched to see how far the chain of hand holding would go, how many people would play along. I worried about what I would do when it came to me. Would I deny the hand of another? Would I embrace it? Would I be a part of this group...singing....together?
I noticed that the hand holders were on the floor, and I was sitting in a chair. I smiled at the realization that I was free, as long as the chair sitters didn't start.
And then the darn person next to me reached for the hand of the person next to him, and she took it; and then he reached for my hand, and I gave it.
I gave it coldly, I played along, but I wasn't really into it. I wondered if I should reach down to the person sitting on the floor next to me and take their hand but then I decided that was going too far, it was too awkward.
So then I looked around the room, to see if we were all stuck in this place, of holding hands and singing. And I saw someone, who was not holding hands. I wondered how he got to get away with it, how come he didn't have to give in to this? I wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as I did. And then I decided that he did. I thought that he came from a generation similar to my father's- where we didn't necessarily hold hands and sing.
And then I imagined my dad singing, or holding hands with others and singing and the first thing I saw was my grandma, entering the room, and looking at him like he was crazy.
"You're singing? How could you be singing? There are things to do. There is dinner to be made and laundry to be folded and floors to be cleaned...."
Now, my grandma was not a task master, she wasn't a bossy person, she wasn't an overbearing mother- she wasn't any of those. She was a functional person. She had things to do: make dinner, clean the floors, fold the laundry... because these things needed to get done.
And I thought about when my grandma grew up: she grew up during the first world war. She grew up without a lot of money, probably without a ton of food, and I can't imagine she had fancy clothes or even a car. I'm pretty sure that she spent most of her life taking care of things- taking care of having food and shelter. So I think that she didn't necessarily have time for singing, let alone holding hands. It's not so much that she didn't value these things, she just didn't have time for them. She was busy making sure her basic needs- food and shelter- were met.
And I figured that my dad had the same situation. He had things to do: raise three kids and work a full time job. He too was busy making sure our needs were met.
And then the final lyrics of the song interrupted my thoughts:
We shall all be free, we shall all be free, we shall all be free some day....
And I thought about the legacy of oppression in our society- pictured the children whose basic needs weren't being met. And I pictured their parents, so stressed out in trying to make enough money to provide their children with food and shelter that they too didn't have time for holding hands, and singing. And I thought about freedom- to love, to sing, to be with others and I thought it was pretty important, and that maybe it was okay, and that everyone should be able to be in a room, with others, holding hands, and singing.
I scanned the room. Were we about to sing together? Was I about to be part of a group of people who sat in a room together and sang?
And then we did.
We sang together.
I didn't want to- didn't want to be a person... who sang.
Singing isn't functional. It's not something you need to do. It's not something that needs to get done. Plus, it's kind of emotional, you kind of sing your heart out.
But there I was, singing.
And to be honest, the only reason I did sing was because I didn't want to be the jerk who didn't sing. I get that other people sing and that it's a lovely thing to do so I didn't want to look down on that, make other people feel bad for singing by not singing.
But let me tell you, it was hard to sing.
Everything in my body told me not to sing, not be one of those people who had emotions, not be someone who did things because they felt them.
We were singing "We Shall Overcome" (it was a dharma talk in celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday). By the time we got to the line "Deep in my heart" I was crying- not because I was moved, but because I was sad.
Why couldn't I sing? Why couldn't I have emotions like everyone else? Why was I so judgmental of all the people in the room who were singing? Why was it so hard for me to sing?
And then I thought "Great- not only am I in a room, singing... I'm crying too!"
But then I remembered how crying was what brought me here in the first place, how crying was what had helped me, how crying was what I had needed to heal.
And then we got to the next line: We'll walk hand in hand...
"Sh*%" I thought. "I'll bet we're gonna start holding hands now."
And sure enough, as I looked across the room I saw a person, reaching for the hand of another person.
"Darnit!" I thought. "Now we're going to be like the Whos down in Whoville on Christmas morning- all singing and waving our heads together to music...."
I watched to see how far the chain of hand holding would go, how many people would play along. I worried about what I would do when it came to me. Would I deny the hand of another? Would I embrace it? Would I be a part of this group...singing....together?
I noticed that the hand holders were on the floor, and I was sitting in a chair. I smiled at the realization that I was free, as long as the chair sitters didn't start.
And then the darn person next to me reached for the hand of the person next to him, and she took it; and then he reached for my hand, and I gave it.
I gave it coldly, I played along, but I wasn't really into it. I wondered if I should reach down to the person sitting on the floor next to me and take their hand but then I decided that was going too far, it was too awkward.
So then I looked around the room, to see if we were all stuck in this place, of holding hands and singing. And I saw someone, who was not holding hands. I wondered how he got to get away with it, how come he didn't have to give in to this? I wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as I did. And then I decided that he did. I thought that he came from a generation similar to my father's- where we didn't necessarily hold hands and sing.
And then I imagined my dad singing, or holding hands with others and singing and the first thing I saw was my grandma, entering the room, and looking at him like he was crazy.
"You're singing? How could you be singing? There are things to do. There is dinner to be made and laundry to be folded and floors to be cleaned...."
Now, my grandma was not a task master, she wasn't a bossy person, she wasn't an overbearing mother- she wasn't any of those. She was a functional person. She had things to do: make dinner, clean the floors, fold the laundry... because these things needed to get done.
And I thought about when my grandma grew up: she grew up during the first world war. She grew up without a lot of money, probably without a ton of food, and I can't imagine she had fancy clothes or even a car. I'm pretty sure that she spent most of her life taking care of things- taking care of having food and shelter. So I think that she didn't necessarily have time for singing, let alone holding hands. It's not so much that she didn't value these things, she just didn't have time for them. She was busy making sure her basic needs- food and shelter- were met.
And I figured that my dad had the same situation. He had things to do: raise three kids and work a full time job. He too was busy making sure our needs were met.
And then the final lyrics of the song interrupted my thoughts:
We shall all be free, we shall all be free, we shall all be free some day....
And I thought about the legacy of oppression in our society- pictured the children whose basic needs weren't being met. And I pictured their parents, so stressed out in trying to make enough money to provide their children with food and shelter that they too didn't have time for holding hands, and singing. And I thought about freedom- to love, to sing, to be with others and I thought it was pretty important, and that maybe it was okay, and that everyone should be able to be in a room, with others, holding hands, and singing.
Friday, January 10, 2014
I never had a mom
I wonder if my mom would be sad to read that.
I know it's not true. I know I had a mom. There are pictures.
And she obviously gave birth to me. And I was six.
So it happened. I had one. And she was great. Everyone says so and I believe it.
But I don't feel it.
Tonight in restorative yoga class, I felt the absence of a mom.
I felt the space, the floating, the absolute lack of any memory or experience of having a mom.
I remember some things: happily sitting on my stool in the kitchen, eating her chocolate mousse, after serving that same chocolate mousse to her friends in her book club who sat in the living room where I wasn't allowed to eat chocolate mousse (white rug), singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow with her in my room on a sunny quiet morning after everyone else had left for school, standing on the side of the road with my grandma as we watched her drive away in a car with a stranger who took her to the garage to get someone to help us fix our flat tire.
But having a mom, being someone's daughter, what I imagine to be that feeling of being loved and taken care of by one's mom- I don't recall that at all.
There is nothing there.
I just don't have any memory of that.
I had a dad and he took care of me and he was there.
But the mom thing- it's just loss and longing and wondering where she is. It just feels like a lot of space, and me, and nothing else.
It's hard to read that title- I never had a mom- because of its truth, its resonance with my experience.
I have to admit that what I really believe is that this truth, the seeing of this truth, will allow me to finally feel that time when I did have a mom.
But for now, it's just true. I never had a mom, not that I remember, not that I feel, I just didn't have one, and that makes me sad.
I know it's not true. I know I had a mom. There are pictures.
And she obviously gave birth to me. And I was six.
So it happened. I had one. And she was great. Everyone says so and I believe it.
But I don't feel it.
Tonight in restorative yoga class, I felt the absence of a mom.
I felt the space, the floating, the absolute lack of any memory or experience of having a mom.
I remember some things: happily sitting on my stool in the kitchen, eating her chocolate mousse, after serving that same chocolate mousse to her friends in her book club who sat in the living room where I wasn't allowed to eat chocolate mousse (white rug), singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow with her in my room on a sunny quiet morning after everyone else had left for school, standing on the side of the road with my grandma as we watched her drive away in a car with a stranger who took her to the garage to get someone to help us fix our flat tire.
But having a mom, being someone's daughter, what I imagine to be that feeling of being loved and taken care of by one's mom- I don't recall that at all.
There is nothing there.
I just don't have any memory of that.
I had a dad and he took care of me and he was there.
But the mom thing- it's just loss and longing and wondering where she is. It just feels like a lot of space, and me, and nothing else.
It's hard to read that title- I never had a mom- because of its truth, its resonance with my experience.
I have to admit that what I really believe is that this truth, the seeing of this truth, will allow me to finally feel that time when I did have a mom.
But for now, it's just true. I never had a mom, not that I remember, not that I feel, I just didn't have one, and that makes me sad.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Your mother writes
I'm at home, childhood home, and everyone else is home too: siblings and parent.
Yesterday, Oldest and I were noticing that there were locks on the outside of our doors, apparently designed to lock us in our rooms. We found this somewhat alarming but found each of our childhood responses to it even more amusing. Eldest had actually removed the lock from her door (we could see the frame of where it had been). Middle had installed his own lock, on the inside, to keep everyone else out. And mine had remained untouched (I was always the compliant one, the "angel" as my babysitter liked to call me).
I wondered aloud when these had been installed and Oldest said that she remembered it happening, so it must have been after I was born. We went down to the kitchen, to inquire of the parent just when they had been installed and what prompted their installation.
"I can't remember," he answered. "Your mother must have had them put in."
"It was to keep you out!" answered Middle. "You were everywhere and you got into everything! I totally remember that," he explained. And then he went on to complain about my wet kisses.
The next day, Middle walked into my room and said he wanted to read something to me. It was a Christmas card he had found that my mother had sent to someone but that had been returned because of a wrong address. The card started out like your basic card- how are you, we miss you, haven't heard from you in a while. But then my mom began to update her friend on what she had been doing over the past year. I eagerly listened as he read aloud about her skiing in February, spending July in Indiana, taking a special trip to San Diego in September, and preparing to drive south to spend Christmas with my dad's family. And then she moved on to us.
Oldest, she said, was in second grade.
Middle, she said, was in preschool.
Youngest, she said, is into everything.
And I smiled when I heard this- to hear about myself, to imagine me running around, to imagine her trying to keep up with me.
"So I thought you should have this," Middle explained and smiled as he handed it to me.
And then I realized it was what he had been talking about just yesterday. And I thought that was funny- that here was proof of the justification for installment of the locks.
I thanked him and smiled as I took it from him; and then he walked back down to the kitchen.
I looked over the envelope to see what year it was, mostly to see how old I was. I noticed that it was sent in January of 1973, when I was just turning 2. "She hadn't been diagnosed yet," I thought to myself.
And then I looked at the card, wondered how she had chosen it, then noticed her handwriting, how her h's looked like n's because she didn't make their backs tall enough. I looked for similarities in our handwriting but found none and was surprised by what to me seemed somewhat rushed handwriting. But then I figured she had to write a lot of cards and maybe this person wasn't a close friend. And then I turned the card over, to the back of it, where she had written the last part, the update about the three of us. I reread that sentence:
M is in 2nd grade, JW in nursery school and S into everything.
"That's me!" I thought. "She writes like me."
I actually noticed in that phrase my writing style- the three statements, the simplicity of it, and the clever play on the repetition of the "in" that makes you think one thing is going to happen, but then surprises you with something else instead, something human and shared.
"She writes like me!" I thought, and I couldn't believe it.
See, I never saw my mom as a writer. I had heard that at one point in her life, she had written for the National Meat Board, but this always seemed like a job she had to do, not something she loved. And also, what do you write when you write for the National Meat Board? It just seemed weird.
And the one time my dad had talked about my mom as a writer, he said that she had always been frustrated with him for his ability to write something once, and have it be perfect. She had always had to write something over and over and over again until she got it right. In my experience as a writer, I often find that my first write is the clearest. I may go back and edit but still, my initial writing is usually what gets me to the essence of it. I hadn't found myself needing to write something over and over again until I got it "right" the way my dad described her doing it.
The other thing is that I had never seen myself as a writer. I had always loved writing when I was growing up and usually did well in it in school. But when I mentioned to an adult that I wanted to be a writer, they said that my writing wasn't popular enough to make a living off of, and that I should pursue another career instead- leave writing to be a hobby, something to do in the summer. And because writing seemed so effortless to me, because I enjoyed it and it flowed so easily from me, I thought my writing was just normal, nothing special, basic and simple.
But recently I have been doing a lot of writing. And I find that I enjoy it and am often compelled by it. And this has brought up in me the notion that I might actually be a writer- that writing makes me happy and that I need to respond to the part of me that actually wants to write.
So I was really surprised to see, when I read that last statement, that my mom may have been a writer too- and that she had my same style- that this was something that we shared too.
I was a little sad at first, that I hadn't seen this until now, that I had been missing this aspect of her. And part of me was sad too that I hadn't seen this part of me.
But now, in writing this post, I'm actually feeling kind of nice- it's kind of cool that we have the same style, that we could have been writers together, that she wrote, like me.
Yesterday, Oldest and I were noticing that there were locks on the outside of our doors, apparently designed to lock us in our rooms. We found this somewhat alarming but found each of our childhood responses to it even more amusing. Eldest had actually removed the lock from her door (we could see the frame of where it had been). Middle had installed his own lock, on the inside, to keep everyone else out. And mine had remained untouched (I was always the compliant one, the "angel" as my babysitter liked to call me).
I wondered aloud when these had been installed and Oldest said that she remembered it happening, so it must have been after I was born. We went down to the kitchen, to inquire of the parent just when they had been installed and what prompted their installation.
"I can't remember," he answered. "Your mother must have had them put in."
"It was to keep you out!" answered Middle. "You were everywhere and you got into everything! I totally remember that," he explained. And then he went on to complain about my wet kisses.
The next day, Middle walked into my room and said he wanted to read something to me. It was a Christmas card he had found that my mother had sent to someone but that had been returned because of a wrong address. The card started out like your basic card- how are you, we miss you, haven't heard from you in a while. But then my mom began to update her friend on what she had been doing over the past year. I eagerly listened as he read aloud about her skiing in February, spending July in Indiana, taking a special trip to San Diego in September, and preparing to drive south to spend Christmas with my dad's family. And then she moved on to us.
Oldest, she said, was in second grade.
Middle, she said, was in preschool.
Youngest, she said, is into everything.
And I smiled when I heard this- to hear about myself, to imagine me running around, to imagine her trying to keep up with me.
"So I thought you should have this," Middle explained and smiled as he handed it to me.
And then I realized it was what he had been talking about just yesterday. And I thought that was funny- that here was proof of the justification for installment of the locks.
I thanked him and smiled as I took it from him; and then he walked back down to the kitchen.
I looked over the envelope to see what year it was, mostly to see how old I was. I noticed that it was sent in January of 1973, when I was just turning 2. "She hadn't been diagnosed yet," I thought to myself.
And then I looked at the card, wondered how she had chosen it, then noticed her handwriting, how her h's looked like n's because she didn't make their backs tall enough. I looked for similarities in our handwriting but found none and was surprised by what to me seemed somewhat rushed handwriting. But then I figured she had to write a lot of cards and maybe this person wasn't a close friend. And then I turned the card over, to the back of it, where she had written the last part, the update about the three of us. I reread that sentence:
M is in 2nd grade, JW in nursery school and S into everything.
"That's me!" I thought. "She writes like me."
I actually noticed in that phrase my writing style- the three statements, the simplicity of it, and the clever play on the repetition of the "in" that makes you think one thing is going to happen, but then surprises you with something else instead, something human and shared.
"She writes like me!" I thought, and I couldn't believe it.
See, I never saw my mom as a writer. I had heard that at one point in her life, she had written for the National Meat Board, but this always seemed like a job she had to do, not something she loved. And also, what do you write when you write for the National Meat Board? It just seemed weird.
And the one time my dad had talked about my mom as a writer, he said that she had always been frustrated with him for his ability to write something once, and have it be perfect. She had always had to write something over and over and over again until she got it right. In my experience as a writer, I often find that my first write is the clearest. I may go back and edit but still, my initial writing is usually what gets me to the essence of it. I hadn't found myself needing to write something over and over again until I got it "right" the way my dad described her doing it.
The other thing is that I had never seen myself as a writer. I had always loved writing when I was growing up and usually did well in it in school. But when I mentioned to an adult that I wanted to be a writer, they said that my writing wasn't popular enough to make a living off of, and that I should pursue another career instead- leave writing to be a hobby, something to do in the summer. And because writing seemed so effortless to me, because I enjoyed it and it flowed so easily from me, I thought my writing was just normal, nothing special, basic and simple.
But recently I have been doing a lot of writing. And I find that I enjoy it and am often compelled by it. And this has brought up in me the notion that I might actually be a writer- that writing makes me happy and that I need to respond to the part of me that actually wants to write.
So I was really surprised to see, when I read that last statement, that my mom may have been a writer too- and that she had my same style- that this was something that we shared too.
I was a little sad at first, that I hadn't seen this until now, that I had been missing this aspect of her. And part of me was sad too that I hadn't seen this part of me.
But now, in writing this post, I'm actually feeling kind of nice- it's kind of cool that we have the same style, that we could have been writers together, that she wrote, like me.
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