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In the hierarchy of my family, it was always my mother rather than
my father who held the dominant position. Whether this was because
she was naturally the stronger of the two depends, I suppose, on what you
consider strength to be made of: that she was the more determined,
the more controlling, is certainly true enough. My father would,
for instance, discipline his children if and when we got too far out of
line; my mother's intention, however, was to keep us from ever getting
out of line in the first place. She herself was the youngest of
eight, all the others of whom were boys. Her father is said to
have been a dour and taciturn man, the sort who thought that children
were best seen and not heard. He was also frequently out of work,
sometimes because a floundering economy kept him from finding any gainful
employment, sometimes because of the trouble his temper got him into (he
was said to be subject to sudden, unexpected fits of rage). His wife,
by all accounts a naturally ebullient woman, was oppressed first by the
grinding poverty she was forced to endure while raising eight children,
and later, by the deep-seated rivalries which broke out between her sons,
two or three of whom kept up their feuding all of their lives. All
of which may help to explain why my own mother was so insistent that
her children behave civilly, show respect to their elders, and learn
to practice humility even while striving to better themselves. In
this, however, she was only partially a success. What she ended up
producing was a brood of offspring who longed for independence but never
quite knew how to achieve it, or who, even when knowing what was needed,
lacked the requisite courage to break free of their parental restraints.
My mother's disapproval could be severe, and she was not above using guilt
and shame as leverages for power. Thus my eldest brother, having
tried his hand at a variety of careers, each one of which he was singularly
ill suited for, ended up moving back in with my parents in a last-ditch
attempt to keep financial disaster at bay. My sister married
– and divorced – three times; and as for me, I dropped out
of college without ever having graduated, never moved away from my hometown,
and now work as a convenience-store clerk. Only my second eldest
brother has attained the kind of success my mother once envisioned for us
all. He has married, and his marriage is a strong one. He
and his wife live in a nearby town – still close, but demonstrably
on their own. They are both successful in their chosen
professions; they've built a house and are raising a family. Of
all her children, he is the one who most closely modeled his life
after her own aspirations: which is why, in all probability, he has
been able to manage so well.
My mother has always tended to act as if she believed her children were,
or should be, mere extensions of herself – not just physically, but
psychologically and morally as well. It's this which has caused the
sharpest disagreements between the two of us over the years, for though I've
found it as difficult as any of my siblings to achieve a genuine psychological
and emotional independence, the independence I've attempted has been rooted
in a profound difference with regard to thought and attitude. My mother
has always taken it as a personal affront when I've expressed opinions and
acted out behaviors which differed too greatly from her own. This
caused us many bitter battles when I was a teenager, and for many years
thereafter. My father was more or less content to let me find my own
way; my mother insisted that in some fundamental way my path should
be no more than an extension of the one she had chosen. I was
frequently the cause of much disappointment to her.
Her attitude –
and her disappointment – is no longer hard for me to understand:
it is, after all, only an extension of the attitude society as a whole
holds towards its individual members. Society commands us to
excel, to be the very best we can be – but only on condition that we
don't stray too far from the beaten path. This stricture is
reasonable enough, I suppose; my problem has always been that the
beaten path never made much sense to me. It didn't make sense because
there was always too much in my nature that was considered unacceptable
by society, too much not considered to be beneficial to those who had
helped raise and support me. They were wary of my excessive bookishness
and of my penchant for solitude; they did not approve of, nor even understand,
my desire to put self-exploration above all else. My homosexuality they
considered subversive, hence frightening. But my mother understood, at
a subconscious level if in no other way, how much at variance with
society's norms the essential nature of my character put me. She
too did not approve of me; often I felt that she did not even particularly
like me: I disturbed her too much. But she did attempt to
protect me, from both society and myself, by trying to force me to be as
"normal" in my thinking and behavior as possible.
As the years
have gone by, I have learned to appreciate the heroism – if only on
a minor scale – of her task; and to admire her ability, in the end,
to let it go. Eventually we were able to reach a sort of truce over
our conflicting needs and desires. This truce is similar to the one I have
reached with society as a whole: I obey its laws, committing no open
acts of treason against its norms; I earn my own keep and pay my own way.
All I ask in return is to be left alone, to be allowed to explore in privacy
the sanctum sanctorum of my inner world. It's not an entirely satisfactory
answer for either side: it keeps the peace; that's all.
My parents are
growing older now. They are presently on the threshold of what is
sometimes sentimentally referred to as "the autumn of their lives."
I see them often – once every week or so. My father has, over the
years, become increasingly conservative politically; my mother the same
in matters of religion. Hence my father rails at the political commentators
he so avidly seeks out on the TV; my mother drags him off to church every
Sunday. I am fond of them both, as they are of me. We've
learned to avoid any topics of conversation into which the strain of our
differences might creep, nor do we probe too deeply into each other's
lives. It no longer seems to matter. What we talk about are
the little things: how my job is going; what they did with their
day around the house. We talk of their neighbors, my two cats,
and of whatever might be happening in town. These things, I find, are
as important in their way for keeping us in touch as any discussion of
the larger, more personal issues that we tend to avoid might be.
As the years go by I even find that occasionally, during one of the
chatty conversations we have about the mundane matters that make up our
lives, a small hole may be discovered in those walls we have built up
between us. Through these holes we sometimes witness the
interiors of each other's lives – may even offer a word or two of
sympathy or advice. For now at least, it's enough. The
journey one takes through life with one's parents is a primal one,
deep and abiding. With my equally deep and abiding interest in
primal causes, I find it is a journey I am glad not to have forsaken.
ANGER CAN LAST FOR YEARS
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Anger can last for years
It can stretch for miles and miles
from horizon to horizon
in all directions flung
it's everywhere I look
Once I was inside you
Then you were inside me
like sheets of sky
amplified with fear
a child's god
Dragged into the future
Someday I'll drag your corpse behind
only death brings order
not decency, as you believed
that's just all you had
Fresh knowledge of our hopelessness
Eases with compassion
a worldly tribe
new primitives
we have outgrown gods
Mutual autonomy
A distance in each other's eyes
heaven's nowhere
everywhere
you can see it in our smiles |
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