Not too long after the jellyfish incident, I was standing in our kitchen, talking to my father. It was kind of a big deal, as I was still learning how.
I have no recollection of what I was saying, but it must have been a little too much, because my father stopped me and said, in a tone new to me, “Are you asking me or telling me?” He seemed to feel that I had somehow challenged him. (At the time he was in his midtwenties, back when it might have seemed perfectly normal -- necessary even -- to intimidate your toddler daughter.)
I didn’t know what my father was talking about, I only knew something big had shifted. One response was right and would keep me in his good graces, the other was wrong and would lead to who knows what. When I couldn’t answer, he asked me again and again, which did no good; he must have thought he was teaching me.
But what I learned was this: the love and acceptance you had assumed were yours forever can disappear in a moment if you don’t know the right thing to say. The lesson became a largely subconscious obsession, yet in many ways a valuable one. I learned a lot by trying to always say the right thing -- even made a career out of it, corporations being always in need of help that way. (I knew I’d gotten there, obsessionwise, one day when I caused a roomful of coworkers to gasp by topping a rude remark before the speaker was able to discernibly deliver it. It had shocked me too but I didn’t let on.)
And finally, eventually, I learned to stand up and fearlessly (usually) speak my truth. I also grew to see “free speech” with someone as a sign of real love.
I suppose just a few pages in it’s already psychologically obvious why I’m writing: still trying to explain myself enough to be loved, a lifetime later.
I do hope you’ll get something out of it too.
I have no recollection of what I was saying, but it must have been a little too much, because my father stopped me and said, in a tone new to me, “Are you asking me or telling me?” He seemed to feel that I had somehow challenged him. (At the time he was in his midtwenties, back when it might have seemed perfectly normal -- necessary even -- to intimidate your toddler daughter.)
I didn’t know what my father was talking about, I only knew something big had shifted. One response was right and would keep me in his good graces, the other was wrong and would lead to who knows what. When I couldn’t answer, he asked me again and again, which did no good; he must have thought he was teaching me.
But what I learned was this: the love and acceptance you had assumed were yours forever can disappear in a moment if you don’t know the right thing to say. The lesson became a largely subconscious obsession, yet in many ways a valuable one. I learned a lot by trying to always say the right thing -- even made a career out of it, corporations being always in need of help that way. (I knew I’d gotten there, obsessionwise, one day when I caused a roomful of coworkers to gasp by topping a rude remark before the speaker was able to discernibly deliver it. It had shocked me too but I didn’t let on.)
And finally, eventually, I learned to stand up and fearlessly (usually) speak my truth. I also grew to see “free speech” with someone as a sign of real love.
I suppose just a few pages in it’s already psychologically obvious why I’m writing: still trying to explain myself enough to be loved, a lifetime later.
I do hope you’ll get something out of it too.
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