Monster in my Belly, Part 2

After wallowing in my Momma's rejection, my thoughts gave way to memories. Growing up in the early 60's and 70's, was a treat for those of us experiencing such and we didn't even know it.  I believe our generation was the "F"bomb of the times.... gaining attention by questioning and rebelling from the conservative world of picket fences and high heels. 

I remember wearing little white gloves to church on Sunday. They had a little pearly button that gently and perfectly kept them closed.  The gloves encased my little hands, and hid the flaws of my nature.  My nails were bitten down to the nubs, sometimes holding a bit of the earth around the quick from my last minute play in the garden while I waited for the family to get into the car.  The little white spotless gloves covered my "all-to-real" skin of my hands. 

That epitomizes the 50's and 60's to me.  Being taught to "cover" anything real and precious, and not to make waves by shedding the beautiful covers of dress that our mothers put us in.  "Misbehaving" meant simply doing or saying anything that questioned the strict norms of every day routine.  So exactly portrayed in the black and white portion of the movie, "Pleasantville"...

I remember some of the things I learned from my momma.  I learned to tie my shoes, at first with the Butterfly method, and then later perfecting the more grown-up version...... I learned to ice skate, with my mom's arm wrapped firmly around my waist as I tried to balance on my double blades strapped to my boots.  Looking back with great respect, I am remembering how my mom single-handedly shoveled a huge ice skating rink for us to use, in front of my house on the Kawkawlin River.  I'm sure I learned something from watching her struggle with the piles of snow making our rink the smoothest and safest in the neighborhood.  She was so tiny, and the piles of snow were so large.

She taught me how to read, while cuddled up next to her with our Book-of-the-month selection all fresh and new from the mailbox.  I could read before entering kindergarten, so I could concentrate on other things...like learning to open the icky cartons of milk they made us drink.  Learning to read was the best lesson... I have practiced much and because of it, I experienced many many worlds and characters that otherwise I would not know or understand. 


Then I started thinking about the "conversation" that prompted such anger in both of us.  Where did I learn to start thinking for myself?  When did I take those little white gloves off?  Early on, I'm remembering.  I was a natural rebel.... and I realize that taking off those gloves, refusing to put on the dresses that were so itchy and confining was the beginning of the volatile relationship that defined us.  I started asking why, and demanding some reason to base the behavior expected of me from her.  It began then.

She taught me shame.  She is the one who caught me picking my nose.  She did teach me not to.  I rarely pick my nose to this day.  She taught me shame for my body... not to touch it, not to bring attention to it, and certainly not to share it.  I couldn't look at myself, as I grew up, and grew breasts, and changed shape, without feeling a bit of shame for it.  Betrayal.  It happened in spite of my attempt to "behave."

I was ugly with my rebellion.  That's what she called me, often.  (I was often rebellious....) and I internally substituted the word "ugly" for "rebelling. "  There was nothing stopping the fire in my belly, from growing.  I was often in dispute with her on something, and everything.  She chased me around my bedroom with a stick when I was getting bigger than her..... the visual makes me laugh, today, but I remember the day I stopped running.  I turned and faced her, and demanded she hit me.  She spit in my face saying "you.....lit..tle....shit."  but she did not hit me.  That day I discovered the fire made it up to my heart.  I won something that day, but I realized in some way that innocence was lost.  I found the beginning of my power.  I stopped accepting the shame.  So, I guess in a roundabout way, that day...my mom taught me that, too.

That day I stopped going to church.  I stopped wearing the clothes my mom required of me.  I stopped "behaving."

That free'd me to start gaining.  I learned how much I liked to apply myself for good grades.  I actually LIKED making my body strong and fast and muscular.  I learned that I wanted to jump off the earth and fly.  That was the day I started to BE.

I can look back on the other day, on our devastating phone conversation and realize that my mother does not get to "feel" ashamed of me and she doesn't GET to feel embarrassed by me...I am not HERS.  I think I understand now, that she hasn't figured that out yet, and maybe she is afraid to let go of "me."  And with that, she has taught me a huge lesson that I will never forget and always appreciate.  With my own children... I send them off without restraints that I personally put upon them...they are not MINE, anymore... I taught them what I could, some things good, some things not so good...but they are their own persons now and there is nothing they can do that will embarrass me or shame me... they will continue to intrigue me, and to interest me and to feel pride in, but I will never feel ashamed of them.  And that, I learned the hard way.