You might ask: “Why are you spending so much time in the ‘Mission Statement’ portion of your blog talking about your relationship with your parents?” The answer, for me, is in the title of this post: To create a mission statement that is wholly in line with who I am, I must know who I am. Although I am evolving and changing (sometimes haltingly, sometimes by quantum leap), I will never completely escape the upbringing that shaped my earliest experiences of life. I may decide that the values instilled do not serve me any longer (and in fact I have, in some cases), but the process of moving in another direction will always start from a clear awareness of where I began.
My mom was born in 1926, putting her at the tender age of 3 when the Great Depression hit. That Depression did not subside until her “formative” years were near an end. I believe strongly that this event colored her reality for the remainder of her days, yielding a “scarcity mentality” that suffused her existence. My dad, born in 1917, was a little bit older when the Depression hit, and his early life and formative years were relatively spared.
As I mentioned, she pushed strenuously to keep my dad at a job that was sapping his will to live so that she would have the security of his pension in her old age. But this was the point: Her scarcity mentality affected and infected her family, in ways that haunt us even today – years after her death. There is nothing overtly wrong about her penurious approach to life; of course, wastefulness is no virtue. But the constant reminder of lack served to reinforce a world view that was pessimistic, beleaguered, and subtly victimizing.
“Mommie Doris” (as I have called her in later years – think: Joan Crawford) was a strong, determined woman. She was sweet as could be, with a coquettish giggle that never failed to charm (except for me – I’ll likely share about that later). She worked for my school during my elementary education, serving as a “chaperone” on the campus, assisting the staff in maintaining order and discipline. She was a tireless volunteer for our Parent-Teachers Association. She was very involved. This was very good, of course, but it came at a price.
Of course the kids teased me. Of course they resented me when she disciplined them. This was not terrible or life-shattering though, honestly. It was simply a nuisance, as I recall.
As I said in that last post, in private my mom had an edge to her. Saving much of her sweetness to confer generously on neighbors and colleagues at the school, she reserved her deep, blue ocean of criticism and judgment for her family. This complicated my relationship with her, even as a young child before I started attending school. To my tender, sensitive mind, I came to feel that there was nothing I could do that would really please her.
That conclusion was not entirely fair. She frequently praised me for academic achievements, and for the (admittedly few) times I contributed around the house. But something about the praise seemed wrong to me, and it would be long, sad decades before I pieced it all together. I came to understand that because I was constantly focused on winning her conditional approval, I never learned how to be satisfied with myself.
My dad told my mom before they were married: “You better accept me as I am. You will never change me.” This was largely true. So she let my dad be who he was (although she had her ways of punishing him for it), and set her sights on shaping me. Let me say here as an aside: she would have vehemently disagreed with much of what follows (and, probably, much of what precedes).
Deriding his feckless machismo, and subtly shaming me when I exhibited it myself, my mom pampered me to be the soft, loving man she really wished my dad would be. She taught me to be thoughtful of others, loving and kind; and not to react violently, but to back down from every confrontation peacefully.
Compared to my dad, who was completely unapproachable, overtly derogatory, and utterly unavailable emotionally, my mom’s carefully meted love and approval taught me very quickly whose opinion in the household really mattered. My dad was a lost cause; I learned to look for love where I could get it, even if it came at a price.
Obviously, this severely complicated my relationship with my mother. I recall watching an episode of “The Simpsons” that captured it all for me: Bart discovered his school principal sitting in the waiting room of a psychologist’s office where Bart had been sent for acting up. Bart asked, “What are YOU doing here, Mr. Skinner?” to which he replied, “Well, I have some issues to work through with respect to my Smother – I mean, Mother.” Yesiree, Mr. Skinner, complicated.
The combined action of her conditional love and subtle manipulation made it much more difficult to work through her legacy than that of my father, whose complete unavailability made him less “relevant.” My mom’s love felt smothering, emotionally incestuous, expectation-driven, absolutely necessary, and always like a carrot dangling at the end of a stick, slightly out of my reach.
It was not until well into my adulthood that I was able to even BEGIN understanding how I felt about her, and I still have lingering “issues.” To this day, the sound of a woman giggling coquettishly cuts through me like a knife (perhaps this is one of the many reasons why the idea of a Sarah Palin vice presidency is so abhorrent to me). All of the ghosts are not cleared out of this closet.
And I have NOT received a “postcard” from my mom since her death. However, the clear good in her legacy remains with me: My dad had only anger as a tool; through my mom’s teaching, however, I learned the tools of love, kindness, and thoughtfulness of others. And I strongly believe that her persistent push for excellence has fueled my growth process over the last six years in particular. She may even be smiling on me now in a way that she didn’t have access to when she was living. Being in a much larger territory since her death, perhaps now she has healed from the scarcity consciousness that crippled her in this life.
I am grateful for the lessons I learned from BOTH of my parents. From my dad I learned (in a roundabout way) a zest for adventurous life and a profound and essential sense of humor; from my mom I learned that I did not have to wield a hammer every time I make a point. While I frequently have abused the good tools both of them put at my feet (and picked up a few of their tools that didn’t suit me), at least I learned that tools exist. And now that I have intentionally collected a whole arsenal of tools with which to negotiate life, their good tools fit my new toolkit nicely. As long as I don’t feel compelled to use a hammer when a screwdriver is called for (I recall here my dad’s story about initially using nails for his sawhorses instead of screws), I find I can handle most of the challenges that face me today with reasonable equanimity.
I am who I am largely because of the upbringing I received from my mom and my dad. This is a fact of life. However, I am not limited by their legacy, as long as I keep an open heart and mind.
Next: I am who I am becoming.
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