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In the hierarchy of my family, it was always my mother rather than my father who held the higher 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 discipline his children if and when we got too far out of line; it was my mother's intention to keep us from ever getting out of line in the first place.  She herself was the youngest of eight, all the others of which 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 of the trouble his temper got him into (he was subject to sudden, unexpected fits of rage), sometimes because a floundering economy kept him, along with a lot of other people, from finding any gainful employment.  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 then later, by the deep-seated rivalries which broke out between her sons, several of whom kept up their feuding all of their lives.  This 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 all of this she was, however, only partially a success.  What she produced was a brood of offspring who longed to break free from their beginnings but never quite knew how.  My eldest brother, having tried a variety of careers, has ended up moving back in with my parents in a last-ditch attempt to keep financial disaster at bay.  My sister has married – and divorced – three times.  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.

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 I've always tended to the belief that a parent's job should be to create completely independent offspring, not only economically but also emotionally.  Educational instruction as to proper behavior is necessary at first, but at some point a child must be released from the parental bonds and allowed to be whoever and whatever he or she chooses to be.  My mother took it as a personal affront when I began to express opinions and act 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.  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.  It's similar to the truce 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 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 on the threshold of what is 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.  My father rails at the political commentators he 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; we do not 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, of 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