June 12, 2005
-
Revelations
The Author, 2005Sometimes I stumble upon moments that are so raw that they hit me like
water blasting from a garden hose set on jet spray; stunned, my skin
prickles and chills as I am rinsed clean of everything that is not at
the very core of me. Operating on reaction and instinct alone, learned
behaviors dissipate and I am shocked to find what my true essence
reveals itself to be.Riding the Amtrak train back to Chicago from my hometown in Michigan
this afternoon, I woke drooling on my husband’s shoulder at the
Dearborn stop. Bleary eyed, I turned to watch the last minute farewells
happening outside the window. Here I spied the little girl who made me
cry.A man who appeared to be her father carried the girl; her slight,
creamed coffee colored limbs fell to either side of his round belly.
The little girl, no older than three, pushed her body away from his and
twisted around to face the train. She wiggled against her fathers grip,
and with her arms stretched desperately towards the train, she wailed,
her mouth to hanging tragically in the shape of an oversized lima bean.
In her tiny fist, she held a clover flower, her fevered offering to the
boarding passenger that she loved so, so much.Seeing this girl strain to retrieve whomever it was that left her
reminded me that I have been doing the same for a few years now. As
progressive and adaptable as my adult-self postures, I am straining to
retrieve so much in my life. At my core, I like the way tradition
settles in my bones; I look forward to certain continuities. I don’t
want to be this kind of person, but today, I suppose I am; I guess it’s
pretty human to favor the familiar. As the train moved away from the
station, the little girl collapsed onto her father’s chest in defeat,
and I cried.Visiting my hometown and family in Michigan are never what I expect
they will be, which kind of defeats the purpose of visiting. When Shaun
and I first moved to Chicago three years ago, I had illusions that
things in Michigan would stay the same, that relationships and
friendships would be unaltered. But as the character Andrew Largeman
(Zach Braff) discovers in the movie Garden State,the concept of home shifts for people in their twenties. Largeman
ponders, “It’s like you get homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. I
mean it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t have this
feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you
know, for you kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or
something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A
group of people who miss the same imaginary place.”In the three years since my partner and I have lived in Chicago, my mom
and step-dad divorced, my little brothers became teenagers, my
childhood home was sold, many of my friends disappeared into
unidentifiable versions of their former personalities, and the town I
grew up in went from dirt roads and quiet to strip malls and traffic
jams. The home I knew no longer exists.In his book, Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche proposes that
an ideal man behaves as his friend would expect him to, otherwise the
foundation of the relationship is forever shattered. While there is
much of Nietzsche’s philosophy that is horrifying (his assertion that
women are incapable of friendship, for example), and I don’t expect
those I love to be “ideal humans,” I know what its like to have to
rebuild a relationship when someone is suddenly different than they
originally presented themselves. In specific, when my parents divorced,
I felt like I had to reacquaint myself with my mom and step-dad. They
had almost become strangers to me, with different mannerisms, habits,
and preferences than the people I grew up loving.For instance, I always thought my mom loved cooking. Our family meals
were pretty unique and experimental for a white family living in the
suburbs. A week’s menu might include English curried chicken, bear
burgers, venison stir-fry, Spanish rice, accompanied by monumental
salads with veggies grown fresh from mom’s garden. For desert, we’d
enjoy a frosty glass of chocolate rice milk, fresh pie, or homemade
strawberry shortcake. When I was younger, I didn’t like eating
anything, let alone something as strong as bear meat, but my mom’s
adventurous spirit, and the consistent expression of love through
nourishment was always appreciated on some level–even if it was hard
to tell as I chewed up “one more bite” of my rice
pilaf with my nose plugged to mask the taste.Our family ate home cooked meals together nightly, and this mandatory
tradition is a big part of my concept of family. During a phone
conversation after the divorce, my mom told me that she never really
enjoyed cooking those meals. It wasn’t the fact that she didn’t like
cooking that stung, but rather that she had been dishonest about it for
over two decades, doing something she hated while I thought that loving
us in this way was something she enjoyed doing.If all the instances of re-acquaintance were as uncomplicated and clean
as this innocent example, then my family’s transition would be so much
easier to bare. But of course, like any proper family drama, nothing is
simple. A sickly knot of revelations has settled in the hollow of my
throat, gagging me whenever I attempt to purge it. My inability to
express my feelings about these revelations (I’ve always been bad at confronting those I care about) results in more of them getting dumped on me. And the knot tightens further.This past weekend spend visiting my family in Michigan did not leave me
wrecked–in fact, I actually enjoyed my stay, and in many ways it
revived me. I spent Friday happily splashing and swimming in the
seaweed-infested waters at my family cottage with my partner and my
thirteen-year old brother. That night we went to dinner with my
step-dad and sixteen-year old brother at The Clarkston Union, one of
our favorite restaurants. There we ran into one of Shaun’s lovely
sisters and her husband and we joined them to chew the fat (literally).Saturday we went with Shaun’s parents to visit Shaun’s other sister and
our new nephew Noah, who got a kick out of chewing on my
ever-accommodating husband’s big Greek nose. Saturday night we visited
my biological dad’s new restaurant: a gourmet pizza place and deli
dubbed Renderoni’s. We met my grandparents there and gorged ourselves
on my dad’s delicious creations. Despite the many, many undesirable
qualities my dad possesses, one thing is for certain: the man can cook
and he knows food (and he’s got the gargantuan body to prove it).
Saturday night we visited my mom. It is always good to hug her, even if
her sadness haunts her lately.Leaving this morning, I was surprised not to feel my usual sense of
relief and escape as the train pulled out of the Pontiac station.
Instead I felt unsettled and sad. Perhaps because I did not cry myself
to sleep or get into a fight with my mom once during this trip I
realized that I may finally be able to recognize this new, updated
version of my family. And for once, it seemed like a strain for
everyone to say goodbye.
________________________________________________________What change have you processed lately? How did you process it?
Comments (6)
It’s a funny (as in odd, but perhaps also humorous) thread that I see running through the blogs of so many twentysomethings: the idea of making peace with parents, coming to an understanding of the redefined relationships with parents, or people wondering whether they are turning into their parents (although few blogs are as well-written and filled with as many great analogies as yours). People who have been analyzing our generation (i.e., those born between the early 1960s and 1980s) report finding conflict between parents and children, but an underpinning love as well. Consider that in Kurt Cobain’s journal, he says that he loves his parents but disagrees with everything they stand for.
Those of us from broken homes have to learn to get over not having two parents around, although in my case I consider myself lucky to have a mother and her parents — my grandparents — who took an active role in ensuring we relished creativity, knowledge and a sense of history. Had my parents stayed together and miserable longer, I suspect my upbringing would not have been so enjoyable (tell that to those who curiously would say that marriage is better than divorce). Half of our generation may not have had a nuclear family, but coming of age makes us realize that relationships don’t always work out, people change/mature/evolve as they age, and that our parents often love us more than they can adequately explain.
Despite the upheavals of modernity and the many changes in our society, these self-discoveries and ponderances of meanings redefined are essentially true of any generation hitting its 20s, but the ability for such a mass reinforcement/feedback loop/support system of the Web make us realize that, perhaps, we are not alone or strange in any way. Indeed, entering our 20s and trying to square our appreciation and understanding of how we interact with our parents is, dare I say, downright normal.
leaving home and moving on is one of those moments you spend the rest of your life adjusting to, and as you develop a different relationship w/your family, you will spend some time grieving as if it is a death and other time rejoicing as if it was an escape…. at least that’s how i find it to be.
First off, let me say (again) that you are a brilliant writer. I’m not trying to excessive with praise, but this piece was so raw yet so well conceived that it blew me away. That first paragraph describing a metaphorical baptism was….I don’t know what to say…glorious. That word is a bit over the top but it’ll do. I think TimsHead genius observation further explained why this piece resonated so deeply with me. It’s funny, I just finished posting a blog with a similar theme. Not too similar, but we hint at the same themes. Thank you SO MUCH for posting this. Reading it made my day.
As for your question, I posed that to myself a couple of years ago when working on an essay for a creative writing class. The assignment was to compare our past selves with our present selves. To try to figure out what I wanted to write about, I tried to list moments in my life where I really felt change. Things like graduations mean nothing to me. High school graduation was boring and I didn’t even go to my college graduation. I remember when I finally realized that I had entered a new phase of my life as my parents drove me to college. I went to college a whole 45 minutes away from home, but I was still moving out and living in the dorms. In my hometown, the Wasatch mountains are seen from a considerable distance–all of Salt Lake City separates them from us. In Provo, where I went to school, the mountains are right up in your face. I’d been to Provo many times before I drove down with my parents to leave home. To get to Provo, you drive right up to the mountains and around them. As I watched the mountains from the window, I felt like I was watching a flip book, each frame of mountain slightly different than the one before. The thought occurred to me, My mountains won’t be the same as my mom’s mountains. “My” mountains would be massive and rugged while “home’s” mountains would be distant and serene. It was at this moment that all of my gradual “growing up” became almost concrete to me. I tried to convince myself that it was exciting, but I couldn’t help feeling like we were driving past those mountains way too fast.
That really wasn’t a change I’ve processed lately. So I guess I won’t get full credit for the assignment, but the answer to the second part of the question is always writing. Ah writing. I love words. I love language. I don’t know why it works so well at facilitating change, but I’m reminded of a Rainer Maria Rilke quote in one of his letters to a young poet: “Go inside yourself. Discover the motive that bids you write; examine whether it sends its roots down to the deepest places of your heart, confess to yourself whether you would have to die if writing were denied you. This before all: ask yourself in the quietest hour of you night: must I write?” (Letter 1; Feb. 17, 1903). I need writing. I need to read other people’s writing like yours. I like the way you asked the question. Writing doesn’t always result in a solution, but it is a necessary tool to process the human experience.
Once again, thank you for this.
-Jamie
As always, your entry us wonderful. It’s strange — things have changed a lot for me in the last three months: I went from living with my mother in New York City to living with a friend from college in Santa Fe. I’ve met someone who I am now seriously dating. I am interning at a newspaper. I am a barista. I left the humidity behind for the desert.
And strangely, I haven’t been particularly sentimental about my loss of familiarity. Maybe this past year of over-exposure to what I call my “home” has left me needing another type of home, surrounded by another kind of family.
The best new change of late is the DSL which I finally got to start working yesterday. I’m back in the blogging world! I’ve missed your essays — glad to finally get back to reading them.
I grew up in a family where there were constant bbqs and constant family gatherings. As a little kid I would always wait excitedly for thanksgiving and christmas, because we would go over to my cousin’s house and all my other cousins and their families would come over and we’d have a big mexican style holiday. It was awesome! At midnight the adults would still be talking and they’d tell us kids to get ready because we were leaving, but they would be so wrapped up in talking that we would spend an hour trying to leave. It has been many years since those family get togethers and I miss them. The problem is that we can never have them again. Now it’s like all we do is fight and it’s always about religion. They start saying things and one can never sit there and just take it. so the fights begin and the magic of the evening and the holiday is broken. Now I just avoid those family get togethers like the plague. Darn family stuff always makes me soooo sad. Sorry was this a bit depressing?
ummm…let me think of something nice and funny…I know what, I miss watching Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. That was THE BEST! It was so awesome when he would go to different factories and see how things were made. the one I always remember is when he went to the crayon factory. I always felt like I was his neighbor. It was good times indeed.
-Jenn
p.s.-we took kitty to the humane society, turned out it was a girl. I hope she gets adopted she was such a good kitty.
I probably had an even worse time in my 20s with the concept of home, because my mother died when I was twenty-three and going home was never, ever the same. My dad seemed to be in a black pit of despair until he met the woman who is his wife now. But then they sold the house (and I’ve been symbolically looking for that house ever since). Now, there’s Dad and his wife Karen and my brother and sister and little nephew, but no real Home. So my own little nuclear family has to make do.
I’m probably going to go through more changes as my son prepares to move out on his own. He’s moving into a condo on the South Loop, which will take the place of dorm living. I don’t think he could tolerate a dorm with his condition. So, he’s still not paying his way. That’s a few years down the road, but this will be an empty nest soon and I’m not sure how I will handle that. I can tell you one thing, though. The condo has a pool and I’ll be visiting plenty often.
Lynn