My "Perfect" Life - Part 4

Sibling rivalry is bound up in disappointment. I was never disappointed by my sibling, so I never felt to rival her.

She was brainy and I admired her for it. I remember her reading one high school course for fun whilst studying another for credit. She read fiction voraciously. And sometimes she would recount to me lots of history I would otherwise never have learned. I learned more about Hitler and Russian and British history from her than from text books. I loved listening to her and I learned a lot. I wish some of those golden moments could have been kept in a bottle, because decades later, I have only memories. Our dysfunctional family has produced a gulf between these two sisters that only a miracle can close. I hope, one day, a miracle will come to pass.

My sister and I used to fight a lot. My mother, herself an only child, didn't seem to have any equipment in her mothering 'toolkit' to help us get along or to 'like' each other. Actually, I adored my sister.  Playing Sound of Music together was a favourite pastime for me - she sang the Maria parts and I played the sixteen year old girl to her Rolf. But I wonder if these play times meant as much to her? While most siblings grow up and get to share their memories and compare their perspectives, we have not.

I was four years her junior and labelled a pest. I liked to hang around when her friends were over, which she didn't like. I couldn't take a hint and was irritating I suppose. But I liked her friends, and admired her. I could have listened to her endlessly. Once I found her journal - she must have been in university by then. I only looked inside briefly but what I found was truly awesome! She wrote prose as though it were poetry; her reflections were intimate and beautifully composed. I only peeked as I knew it was wrong, but if I could have read her work I'd have soaked up every word.

I wouldn't say I lived in her shadow, though I admired her for her brilliance. Instead, by comparison, I was a more outgoing teenager to her quiet, introverted personality -- I dated a fair bit, was a bit sporty, acted in plays. By the time I grew up, I had mostly outgrown my interest in spending time with her. We had little in common except a last name. I would have liked to have been closer, but we were so different, I didn't really know how to befriend her. We were disconnected, but in spite of that, my respect for her never waned. Now, this sad comfort is all I have to offer a sister who wants nothing to do with me.

What do you do when someone you love but don't really know says she wants to live her life without you in it? What can you do? You can pray for change. You can try to reach out. But inevitably, I believe you must respect her wishes. Whatever the reason she may have, it is what she's said she wants. And a relationship without respect is no relationship at all.

Two decades since my sister said she wants me to have no part of her life, every indication suggests she has not budged in her attitude.

When I read stories of twins, who were separated at birth but in middle age are suddenly reunited, I think of my sister and I and wish we could have a happy ending. When I think of foster children forced to be raised in different households, longing for their siblings but remaining alone, I think how ungrateful we have been to have grown so far apart. And I think of my mother who had wanted a sister but had grown up an only child, and how she must have been devastated by the rift between her two daughters. Yet, out of respect, I continue to do nothing, because I want to honour my sister and don't know what else to do but to obey her wishes to stay out of her life.

I am sorry for the rift. I am sorry for my part in it. But I am unable to provoke change.

I'd like to end this excerpt on a cheery note. I can say I've seen my sister at a distance a few times quite unexpectedly, and I'm glad. I'm thankful for the opportunity to have seen her, to see that she is content. I wonder if a birth parent of an adopted child might feel a little as I have - watching without the other person even knowing she's there. I haven't approached my sister because I don't want to upset her; perhaps I give myself too much importance. Or perhaps I failed to recognize when we were young that I was important to her at all.

I wonder too, if she has had similar encounters with me - from a distance, without my awareness. And if so, I hope she is comforted.

Have you experienced a separation from someone you love but from whom you are now estranged? If so, how have you coped?

I'll write again next Thursday, sharing another glimpse into my past, hoping to spark something in you that invites your reflection too.

My "Perfect" Life - Part 3

My mother had issues with pride. Growing up I never realized that her barbs and jibes came from her own need for affirmation. As a kid, I didn't understand her boasting about attending private boarding school was an attempt to cover up for being lonely, or that her insistence on good manners was to raise her middle class status to that of a woman of culture and elegance. I didn't recognize that when she compared her attractive legs to my stubby thighs, she was seeking compensation for her insecurity.

According to my mother, she was a beautiful young woman, an excellent tennis player and golfer, and had a large group of friends with whom there was mutual admiration. A wealthy businessman who owned a formidable department store chain proposed to her, but she turned him down. "Never go with someone whom you like more than he likes you," she advised me. That didn't speak too well of my dad, I remember thinking. I must have been pretty miserable at home because I remember wondering if life might be better if this other man had been my father, not because he was wealthy -- I've never cared much about money -- but because maybe he would have been nicer to me than my dad was. But misery is a funny thing. If it's your normal emotional state you don't really notice it as such, because you've got nothing to compare it to. No, if you've got low self-esteem you don't put it down to the way you are treated but to something unworthy within. And so in this, my mother was quite successful in raising her own status by lowering that of her children.

In my mother's pride, my brainy sister never quite measured up in terms of good manners or poise. I fared better. Though from me my family had to endure frequent emotional outbursts springing from emotional immaturity, the public face I presented seemed to satisfy my mom. But this prideful idiosyncrasy of my mother's badly marred my growth, and probably my sister's, because values were not discussed on the basis of principles which needed to be practiced but on the basis of how others would perceive us. Integrity was a value my mother professed to admire, but her concern for what people thought weighed far more heavily upon her. She was quite the hypocrite.

It seems ironic then, that she valued my father's integrity so much. Or perhaps she didn't see how lacking in that area she was personally. Isn't that the way with most of us? We don't see our own shortcomings nearly as well as we see those of others.

In my case, however, I didn't see any of my mom's shortcomings. She was my mom and weren't all mothers the same? Although for example, she never had much in the way of physical affection for me, I didn't know it was normal to want it, so I just thought she was the norm and my craving was a mismatch to the rest of the family.

I wonder why, when thinking of her, I lapse into self-reflection? It is likely because we were so emotionally intertwined while I was growing up that, when reflecting on those times, it is impossible to separate her from myself. Or perhaps I'm simply an egotistic (or just plain bad) writer!

What is the overwhelming aspect to my mother's personality which best defines her I think, is what I've already alluded to: the fear of what people would think. It was a mantra as we were growing up. What we wore, how we behaved, what we said -- all these things were a reflection on her. It wasn't so much that she was concerned for our welfare as how others would perceive her. Oh, she didn't say it was about her, but looking back, clearly it was. The most poignant memory I have that crystallizes this is the week before my sister's confirmation. My sister didn't think she believed the words one is supposed to profess at confirmation so she really didn't want to go through with it. My mother's first strategy was to make light of my sister's doubts. "Oh, you'll believe it in time," I heard her say. But my sister, light years apart from me in personality style, quietly and with a rare display of tears, stood on her conviction and said she didn't believe it now and so now she couldn't say the words. My mother grew more and more anxious and 'concerned' about how others would perceive my sister if she didn't go through with it. All was arranged. It was expected. It was what should be done....

How my mother managed to get my sister to go through with it is beyond me. I wouldn't have done it. (But I was the difficult one, my sister the older and more cooperative one.) So out of guilt or fear or perhaps just feeling worn down, my sister went through with the ceremony. She cooperated. My mother was proud (irony and insult totally intended). The day passed without incident as far as I know.

But did my mother ever grieve that her eldest daughter didn't believe in God? Did she ever regret insisting my sister claim something she didn't believe? Did she recognize the irony in bragging about her husband of great integrity and pervert my sister to lies?

It must have been hell to be in her shoes. It certainly wasn't heaven living in my own.

But the thing about childhood is that it molds us and shapes us into the adults we become. I had compassion for my sister and really felt she was right. Sadly, I didn't have the vocabulary or emotional equipment, nor a close bond with my sister to say anything to her or to my mother in my sister's defense. But now I firmly hold to what I believe is truth and encourage others to do the same.

Whatever our parents offer us, be it good, bad, right or wrong, shapes our lives. We are woven from the cloth we've lived and experience brings us to the place we are now. The steps and the people that lead us through our childhood help to shape us.

Was my mother selfish and prideful. Indeed, I think she was. Did she act out of spite. I don't think so. I think she was trapped in fear and did the best she could within her cell. It's sad but true. The best thing I can do with that is to overcome and to treat others, my child in particular, very differently. The best any of us can do with what we've experienced, is to overcome and encourage others to do likewise.

That's the purpose behind my writing.

Until next Thursday, I'll say 'bye bye' and wish you a good week ahead.

My "Perfect" Life - Part 2

Intimacy is a word that sparks in me a feeling of being hugged and the experience of eye contact. The family home in which I grew up was decent and respectable to the outside world, but we were not intimate. It was a time when fathers were the breadwinners, and were responsible as role models. I suspect ours was more-or-less the norm. At least to the outside world we were a typical WASP household, where fathers were detached entities to be respected, feared and obeyed.

My father fought in World War II as a fighter pilot. I know nothing of his experiences. He never spoke about it himself. Second and third hand, through my mother and a first cousin: my father's sister's daughter, I've learned a little about how the war affected him. After the war, my father spent time with his sister 'recuperating' emotionally. Evidently, he had nightmares. Later, when he attempted to finish his law degree and write the Bar exam, he was too war-torn to manage it. He either didn't write the exam or flunked out.
Apparently, my father was a brilliant orator and law student never to have his dreams realized. I say 'apparently' because he never spoke to me about himself. My mother did a bit, but she wasn't the most reliable source of information as she was prone to exaggeration and embellishment. But it's safe to say he did leave law school to volunteer for the war effort a year before finishing, and he never practiced the Law. He'd been valedictorian of his undergraduate class and his yearbook says words to the affect: 'If this boy doesn't make a significant contribution to society there is no justice in the world.' Some time after his death, I found the yearbook when I was in my 30's. Upon discovering that comment, I felt proud for my dad.
His failure to complete Law was not only a personal tragedy but also indicative of the losses to society. This man - like so many others - put his own life 'on hold' to do what he felt was his duty, never to fulfill his goals or purpose.


The story I'll use to introduce my remote and harsh father is third hand. It's the only story I have about him as a child, but it gives me the impression that my dad was a sensitive and loving child. It is a story I'll call 'Sweet Kittens'. A cousin told me the story, which in itself tells you a lot about the lack of intimacy in my immediate family.

When my dad was little - maybe about five - the family cat had kittens. The family was never well-off.... (One reason my dad didn't finish law school was because he had to put himself through university and then law school; I don't know how he managed undergrad but by the time he got to law school he had to work a year, then study for a year, then work for a year... back and forth like that. By the time he was to study his last year the war was full-on and he felt he should wait no longer but go to fight...) ... the kittens were important to my dad. He played intently with them. But at some point, perhaps when they'd grown and needed solid food, or perhaps sooner when it was realized no one else would take the kittens, they were put in a sack and drowned. My father watched, helpless, and then he ran off, crying, devastated. I highlight in the story that he appeared to be alone in his grief. His older sisters and parents, it seemed, were unconsoling. A younger brother wasn't yet born.

Growing up in our house, we always had a cat. The third family cat is the only one I remember. I was three years old when we got him and he lived for ten years. He was wonderful! My dad was affectionate toward Boots and spoke words of affirmation to him. Boots lived a high life of soft cat food, roast beef and ice cream. When my dad would nap on the sofa, Boots curled up next to him. Dad flattered Boots. 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever' Dad would quote. Then he'd reach down and pat the cat and say, "Eh Boots." My mother looked on as the cat received open affection. The words of affirmation and displays of affection my dad showed toward the cat are the indications I interpret as the potential my dad had for displaying love.
When Boots died of natural causes, it was my father who found him. He took his body away for disposal and we never had another family cat. I don't remember my dad speaking about Boots or his death after that.

I admire my father in many ways. Now I choose to look upon our distant relationship as a tragedy that was rooted in his experience of war and having no acknowledgement or treatment for the effects.

While this post may seem bleak, it is not intended to be so. Some of life's events and relationships can be disappointing, how we take our experiences and make them channels for strength and learning are up to us. I believe every experience makes us stronger, healthier, more compassionate individuals, able to offer to the world insight and hope.

Have you family memories that this story triggers in you? I'd love to hear from you - about your family, or your thoughts about mine. And I'll bring a third installment of My "Perfect" Life next THURSDAY.