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April 22, 2021 Overprotective Mom April 6, 2021 Without A Church March 30, 2021 Bad Memes March 1, 2021 Hard Lessons February 26, 2021 Random Thoughts IV January 17, 2021 Bad Idioms January 14, 2021 Gone for a month December 19, 2020 Mystery Blog |
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April 22, 2021
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I've done the Bad Dad blogs, but let's be fair. Both parents always have their faults, and Mom was no exception. Now, I've talked about how Mom was the only thing that kept Dad from controlling my entire life until she died and he used the estate to force his ideals on me. I'm not sure if I mentioned it, but I promised her I would take the money and completely repair the house. Instead, Dad used legal maneuvering to put every penny in a trust fund. (This is why I'm #FreeBritney). And the house still desperately needs repairs, twenty years later. As for Mom, her protectiveness is the only reason I had any life at all, but it was still controlled. In high school, I always had a ten o'clock curfew, except for extracurricular activities, and any attempt at negotiation got me grounded. On one occasion, I was one hour late. When I got home, every light was on, Mom and Dad were both out looking for me (even though they were divorced), and my sister and her husband were there to give me the "we love you" talk. What made it even worse is that they had even called the police. Her overprotectiveness was her only real flaw, so far as my life was concerned. And, yes, it went too far on two occasions. The first was at band camp in 1986.
Everything was going well. I had the highest audition score for the percussion section. I led that section in First Band. I played snare drum on Chariots of Fire, and he spoke with me briefly about rushing at one point. Well, Mom called that very first night. I'm not sure how, but she got the idea that he was chastising me in front of the entire band. I told her that wasn't the case. She said okay, then called the camp head to complain. I thought everything was fine until the camp director called me to ask about the non-existent incident. I don't remember much else from that week, but that sticks clearly in my mind. The other time, which I alluded to once before, happened after I went to New Mexico Tech. I went there for the wrong reasons. Basically, I had so many problems at the time that I needed to get away on my own to clear my mind. I tried to get it through to her that I had every intention of going out there myself, but words like "I", "me", and "myself" didn't seem to register. Instead, she would repeat everything, replacing the singular pronouns with the plural. (This is a hallmark of my life.) No matter what I said or did, there was no acknowledgement of any independence. (It took me years to realize this was a symptom of her overprotectiveness.) And after we arrived in Socorro, which she promptly called a dump, it took more convincing to get her to leave. (Convincing her to leave was a great thing because the next day, I got the only black eye of my entire life in an accident involving the Society for Creative Anachronism. She never found out. However, I did get a win over the best swordsman there!) The typical mom averages one phone call a week. She called three times per week. It was disruptive and, again, I couldn't get through to her. I was forced to go elsewhere just so I could study. She never took the hint. She started calling the dean. You can imagine where it went from there. I wish I could forget. At that point, NMT was no longer about my education. It was about trying to recover from humiliation, and I kept getting reminders by whatever means. From Fall 1988 to the end of 1989, I only collected 11 credit hours and a 0.49 GPA. Every moment, I was distracted because I was always wondering what would happen next. Then, 1990 arrived. Or, as I call it, The Year of Hell . . . and the year I learned what love is. The two years preceding--from January 6, 1988 to mid-January 1990--is what shaped it. And from MLK Day to December 27 destroyed me. But here are the lessons I learned from it, and it's the one lesson I wish a lot more people would learn: We cannot decide how other people live their lives, we cannot refuse to listen to what people are trying to tell us, and we must avoid selfishness at all times. There's that word I keep bringing up again and again. "Listening." So, how did I learn about listening? Two words: Boiled okra. Mom made boiled okra all the time. Okra is supposed to be breaded and fried, but Mom never did. Boiled okra is slimy, and totally disgusting to a little kid. I would complain about the slimness, but Dad would shame me into eating it. And then Mom would say I loved it because I ate that crap, and she kept making it. Granted, in this case, it was Dad who wasn't listening, but I still learned the concept, even if not how to vocalize it. Remember: Listening is the key to understanding. Not talking. Not avoidance. Paying attention to the message the other person is trying to get through to you. Those who do the best job of not listening? Bible thumpers. Helicopter parents aren't far behind. Far-right Republicans and Millennials are up there, too. Not listening is what causes more problems than anything. And Americans don't know how. It's a basic skill taught in other countries. But in America, we're expected to know it instinctively. Check this blog for what I said about listening. Until next time . . . |
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