Friends think it's quirky the way am genuinely frightened by violence. Boyfriends think it's cute the way am prone to get all teary-eyed and hide my face in movies like Fight Club, or frustrating when would rather break up than have an argument. And some think it's silly that I am horrified by things as simple as fist fights or yelling matches, or refuse to get involved in something as harmless as political debate. She's sensitive. Non-confrontational.
Only siblings will be able to understand the reasons for this quirky and otherwise uncharacteristic timidity toward conflict. The three older ones, at least.
We all grew up in the hitting house.
My father was a yeller with a fierce temper. But paired with the fact that he was also very tender-hearted himself (and something of a pushover), he dealt his punishments in not-overly-frequent spankings. The traditional kind. His big hand to our backsides. If you tensed your butt muscles just right, we learned, you hardly felt a thing. But mostly, he ranted, raved and yelled. It was my mother who came completely unglued. She found uses for Dad's thick brown leather belt (watch the buckle -- it leaves marks), for spatulas and metal clothes hangers. She doesn't let us bring up the incidents with the wire hangers. She cries and tells us to stop. Maybe the image of her beating them into our bare asses is too much for her. Maybe that's why she talks about what a cold mother she'd had growing up. Because maybe she'll be forgiven by comparison. I remain uncertain.
I am also not quite certain when the beatings stopped, but I do remember quite clearly that the punishment rarely fit the crime. Getting caught for stealing gum in the third grade landed me a rational talking-to about honesty. Getting caught by my mom, waking from her nap to find yours truly hosing-down my older brother with spray nozzle on the kitchen sink, merited a beating with a wooden ruler yanked from the kitchen utility drawer.
By the time the youngest two were born, my mother had become enlightened. Hitting was wrong. Her punishments then were dealt by withholding approval. Her daughters were never thin enough. Pinching our adolescent tummies, she'd say, "Don't you want to go on a diet with me?" Our thin hair too long for her liking, she'd ask us, sugar coated, if we wouldn't feel much better about ourselves if we'd do something with it.
My father, worn down by four daughters, lost his temper somewhere along the way. He'd ground us for a week and change his mind after an hour. "Just get out of my hair," he'd say, sending us out with the car and stern demands to fill up the tank before we came home. Oh, there were times he could be completely unreasonable, but he adored us. "Don't we have the most beautiful daughters?" he asked my mom one night, seeing yours truly wind down the staircase dressed for a dance. Her thin lips stayed pursed while we waited for her to compliment my chocolate-colored slip dress. Instead, she looked back to her Good Housekeeping and said, "It's a good thing they're smart."
Indeed it is. Because in the end, a smart girl knows not to blame her sad and unhinged mother for being stressed out and depressed. A smart girl knows that you don't have to keep weak and hurtful people around you. And a smart girl gets a scholarship to a college that will take her two thousand miles away from the hitting house and equip her with the resources to never go back.
It must be noted that I do not feel sorry for myself. And do not blame stressed-out, struggling parents for any of my own personality flaws that unintentionally subject others to. Am not even sure why am posting this, except that it makes me feel better to know there's a reason for things I do. Not an excuse. Just a reason. And also maybe because this generation should be free to talk about things our parents are too ashamed to.
Posted by This Fish at March 21, 2003 10:37 AMAmazing entry. Confessional but it never feels like it. It sounds like your parents would be proud, even if like mine they only tell that to others.
Posted by: Mike at March 21, 2003 10:49 AMYou certainly know how to write. Kudos. Sincere but not overexcited compliments always strike me as the best kind...
Posted by: Justin at March 21, 2003 10:58 AMI agree. Amazing entry. This opens up memories. Makes me wish I could have come up with these reasons for hating some of the things the way I do. The same way you hate violence in movies. Being a survior of dysfunction feels pretty good doesn't it.
Posted by: Lana at March 21, 2003 11:44 AMmy god. at first I thought this is so personal, should I be reading this? But the further along I got the more I realized that everything was going to be okay, and despite the fact that all of this is happening over the internet, I somehow feel priveledged for having you share this.
thank you.
Posted by: mark at March 21, 2003 12:08 PMOK, now I understand why J.
Posted by: kris at March 21, 2003 12:10 PMMy mom was a little freaky and unpredictable, but she preferred self punishment like locking herself in "the blue room" for days on end.
My wife has a different thing. She can't stand arguments since she never saw her parents argue. She doesn't know how adults are supposed to fight. I, however, have a degree in rhetorical theory. We actually never argue, though I do brainwash her. :)
Posted by: Anon - for this entry at March 21, 2003 12:20 PMthank you for not letting your childhood ruin the rest of your life.
i know i'm still trying.
Posted by: helenjane at March 21, 2003 12:43 PMclap clap, fishy. you're twice as strong as we all think you are.
Posted by: k at March 21, 2003 04:31 PMthis is excellent. thanks for writing it.
Posted by: lolana at March 21, 2003 04:43 PMGo, Fish, go.
Posted by: Ivy at March 21, 2003 04:50 PMAmazing entry. Glad things are better for you now and you learned to take care of yourself. I used to get coat hangers and phone books, etc. thrown at me as a kid. Mostly because I was pretty evasive.
Posted by: Indigo Steve at March 21, 2003 05:23 PMI grew up in The Hitting House, too. One of my most vivid memories is when I was 18 and seeing my dad pull his belt out of his pants and flog my 15-year-old brother right in the middle of Bourbon Street. And everyone looking, but acting as if it wasn't happening.
It's a good thing I was drunk at the time.
Remember when I said you were together? I was wrong. You are so beyond together you make together look like the guy in the padded room with the rubber gag and the stylish jacket with the VERY long sleeves.
Posted by: Ralph at March 21, 2003 05:26 PMand smart girls realise that talking about these things breaks the pattern - if we keep talking our kids won't have to deal with this stuff - well I hope not anyway.
Way to go fish!
Posted by: alt31 at March 21, 2003 06:19 PMYou amaze me.
Posted by: Bob at March 23, 2003 01:00 AMI don't know how you do it time after time. But you do. Every time.
Posted by: michael at March 23, 2003 07:54 PMcan only post general comment as I stumbled accross by accident about 20 minutes ago when looking for serious info on bone eating diseases illnesses.Its a long story & not me & am not a Doctor. Have now saved you on favourites to read later because what has been read is obviously written from within & is the sort of stuff that has us all nodding in agreement even though I am not female.For the moment all I can say is keep writing about the moments because each time you do I am sure that a large number of readers are getting the boost to get them through another day hour or minute.
sTEVE
"And also maybe because this generation should be free to talk about things our parents are too ashamed to."
I realize this is an older entry, but I'm catching up on your archives.
I'm starting a journey through a book called "Long Shadows - truth, lies and history" by Erna Paris. And the quote of yours above reminds me of something she emphasizes - that victims always outlive their tormenters. Either they survive beyond the regimes that perpetuated lies and enforced silence, or they are unearthed by future generations who will delve and tell the story. Truth is eventually revealed. It's important to tell one's truth, and you do it admirably, hitting the nail on the head regularly. Your mother would do well not to be her own excuser (even if she has a point, it's for her shrink to hear, not the children she burdened; the rule at large being...that adults must be responsible for their actions). To you and your siblings, she should ask how she can make it up to you...the how being up to you. But it sounds like your mother resorts to self-pity when it's convenient and is unwilling to unravel her scary neuroses. It's amazing that you came out of her unenlightened being; you're transcendent.
Perceptions do not limit reality.
Posted by: Maisel Mel at December 10, 2003 05:00 PMHello, this is a nice site you have
Posted by: McKelvey Janet at January 9, 2004 01:13 PM