Monday, June 24, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Father's Day
Back to the Suburban Grind: Father's Day: I have to confess that no matter how hard I've tried to distance myself from some of my dad's behavior, there is no denying it. My ...
Father's Day
I have to confess that no matter how hard I've tried to distance myself from some of my dad's behavior, there is no denying it. My mom is as cool as a cucumber, but my dad, all moist-eyed and sensitive, all curious and excitable, all passion and rage and angst and joy, is me. A girlfriend of mine has told me repeatedly to cherish the time with my parents, to celebrate and relish who we are to each other while we can as both of her parents are no longer living. I have listened, though often not heard her because I am all moist-eyed and sensitive, all passion and rage and angst and joy. I am, in so many ways, the Mini to his Me.
He and my mother visited this Father's Day, stayed in our home for the first time (not including Barbados which was not actually ever our home), spent real adult time, played with the girls, went on our errands, meandered through our town, and enjoyed ourselves together. We visited with family friends and I felt adult and grown and proud to be with them. I am not sure if it is my midlife crisis which looks more like actualization than crushing breakdown, my recent interest in meditation and reiki, my return to dance, or the shifting of our collective consciousness, but I have found acceptance of who and what I am and therefore in who and what everyone around me is. I have found the desperate need to hold on to past hurts and wounds to be exhausting and have forgiven them, though more than likely not forgotten them. (I am, after all, a Penn.)
I have spent much of my life recognizing my role as a member of my family and feeling that I was failing miserably. No matter how this thinking came about, I felt overwhelming pressure at being "the daughter of/big sister of/first grandchild of." The burden of carrying on the line of two incredible families, the credits, achievements, and successes of which are extraordinary by any standard, but given that they were done by those poor and black, largely undereducated, during the dark days of our country's history, made them mythic, epic, heroic. I felt like a straight up fraud. Middle class, indulged, allowed my mood swings and artistic tendencies. I didn't have to give up my dreams, whatever they were, in order to put food on the table or a roof over my head. The fight over outright racist and sexist policy was fought on their backs while they were striving for the promised American dream. I had a kind of survivor's guilt because I did not struggle to achieve what was seemingly handed to me, because the racism, sexism, and white privilege that I faced was more subtle, because I had been walked to third base by a family that persevered in getting into the stadium and onto the field. Though I know now that I did not need to apologize for myself, I was then so sorry and ashamed.
Under the weight of that, my father and I would look at each other, mirror to reflection, reflection to mirror and declare, under our breaths, "What?" There was so much expectation, so much want, so much need and no real way to express it. So there was moist-eyed, sensitive, curious, and excitable passion, rage, angst, and joy. I would cower in his presence, hold my breath, not feel safe expressing myself as I did when "away from home." I was miserable to be around, was either pulled in and tense or exploded when provoked(like someone I know), hated family get-togethers because I did not feel like I could be myself, because what I reflected back to Mr. Penn was too much for him to see. It might even still be.
But there are new facets to this diamond. The glittering, fascinating shine of my children. And in my children and how they are being raised and how they behave and love and give, I believe that my dad and I can share something, love something together. We can see that part of each other that loves, that cares, that is all moist-eyed and longing. Like two shy, nervous baby birds we just might dare to fly, helping each other do so but also concentrating on our own flight. As I see him soar, I feel joy. He might not tell me, but he feels the same for me. We have this story to tell, this epic tale in which to contribute. Like that game where one person starts the story and another picks it up where he leaves off and then another picks up and so on and so forth until an incredible tale is told, we are living and weaving our lives.
We are much alike, but not entirely the same. My father wanted to be a journalist but that gig did not pay well enough for a young man who had the obligation to help put his younger siblings through school as his older siblings had done for him. He has something to say but often chooses his words carefully, sparingly, and certainly does not express his feelings or wear his heart on his sleeve. I, on the other hand, did not have that financial responsibility, did not make a choice based on monetary need, cry, laugh, love, freak, and respond to every stimulus, and even when I might keep my mouth shut, cannot do so! I want to say something; I have to, come what may. I respect his choices, his sacrifices, and know that he loves us. I hope, hope, hope that he feels the same for me because this Father's Day, I allowed myself to love him like I did as a girl. With wonder, curiosity, awe, and the first twinkling of autonomy that a toddler shows when she realizes that she and her parents are not indeed the same entity. It was truly a great day to celebrate having and being a father.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
He and my mother visited this Father's Day, stayed in our home for the first time (not including Barbados which was not actually ever our home), spent real adult time, played with the girls, went on our errands, meandered through our town, and enjoyed ourselves together. We visited with family friends and I felt adult and grown and proud to be with them. I am not sure if it is my midlife crisis which looks more like actualization than crushing breakdown, my recent interest in meditation and reiki, my return to dance, or the shifting of our collective consciousness, but I have found acceptance of who and what I am and therefore in who and what everyone around me is. I have found the desperate need to hold on to past hurts and wounds to be exhausting and have forgiven them, though more than likely not forgotten them. (I am, after all, a Penn.)
I have spent much of my life recognizing my role as a member of my family and feeling that I was failing miserably. No matter how this thinking came about, I felt overwhelming pressure at being "the daughter of/big sister of/first grandchild of." The burden of carrying on the line of two incredible families, the credits, achievements, and successes of which are extraordinary by any standard, but given that they were done by those poor and black, largely undereducated, during the dark days of our country's history, made them mythic, epic, heroic. I felt like a straight up fraud. Middle class, indulged, allowed my mood swings and artistic tendencies. I didn't have to give up my dreams, whatever they were, in order to put food on the table or a roof over my head. The fight over outright racist and sexist policy was fought on their backs while they were striving for the promised American dream. I had a kind of survivor's guilt because I did not struggle to achieve what was seemingly handed to me, because the racism, sexism, and white privilege that I faced was more subtle, because I had been walked to third base by a family that persevered in getting into the stadium and onto the field. Though I know now that I did not need to apologize for myself, I was then so sorry and ashamed.
Under the weight of that, my father and I would look at each other, mirror to reflection, reflection to mirror and declare, under our breaths, "What?" There was so much expectation, so much want, so much need and no real way to express it. So there was moist-eyed, sensitive, curious, and excitable passion, rage, angst, and joy. I would cower in his presence, hold my breath, not feel safe expressing myself as I did when "away from home." I was miserable to be around, was either pulled in and tense or exploded when provoked(like someone I know), hated family get-togethers because I did not feel like I could be myself, because what I reflected back to Mr. Penn was too much for him to see. It might even still be.
But there are new facets to this diamond. The glittering, fascinating shine of my children. And in my children and how they are being raised and how they behave and love and give, I believe that my dad and I can share something, love something together. We can see that part of each other that loves, that cares, that is all moist-eyed and longing. Like two shy, nervous baby birds we just might dare to fly, helping each other do so but also concentrating on our own flight. As I see him soar, I feel joy. He might not tell me, but he feels the same for me. We have this story to tell, this epic tale in which to contribute. Like that game where one person starts the story and another picks it up where he leaves off and then another picks up and so on and so forth until an incredible tale is told, we are living and weaving our lives.
We are much alike, but not entirely the same. My father wanted to be a journalist but that gig did not pay well enough for a young man who had the obligation to help put his younger siblings through school as his older siblings had done for him. He has something to say but often chooses his words carefully, sparingly, and certainly does not express his feelings or wear his heart on his sleeve. I, on the other hand, did not have that financial responsibility, did not make a choice based on monetary need, cry, laugh, love, freak, and respond to every stimulus, and even when I might keep my mouth shut, cannot do so! I want to say something; I have to, come what may. I respect his choices, his sacrifices, and know that he loves us. I hope, hope, hope that he feels the same for me because this Father's Day, I allowed myself to love him like I did as a girl. With wonder, curiosity, awe, and the first twinkling of autonomy that a toddler shows when she realizes that she and her parents are not indeed the same entity. It was truly a great day to celebrate having and being a father.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Cicadas love
Back to the Suburban Grind: Cicadas love: A while back I posted on Facebook or somewhere that I really loved nature and my claim was disputed, almost immediately, by a friend w...
Cicadas love
We are in the midst of a natural phenomenon here in Northern New Jersey, one that is incredibly profound and exciting and terrifying. The rise of the cicadas after their 17 year slumber has brought a buzz throughout our community. Really. The sound echoes everywhere. My husband, the chef, likens it to working in the kitchen all evening and having the hum of the hood droning on in the background. It doesn't really bother him. He doesn't realize it's on until it is finally turned off and then there is a sound to the silence. Only then does he recognize that the hood was enveloping him in sound.
I won't lie, those beady, red-eyed, stain-glass winged chirpies give me the willies. And don't let one land on me or near me or by me or around me, but I am still utterly fascinated. This afternoon, on my hubby's day off, we trekked through the reservation in our town and did a bit of hiking through clouds of cicadas. As we got deeper into the woods, the sound was all enveloping; each individual song rising in unison like the breath, Ohm, in a meditative state. We walked in silence, almost unable to speak or hear one another above the rising chant. We did not see cicadas with every step, were not wading through a sea of carcasses, nor did we swat at swarms of cicadas moving in a black cloud formation like I saw in multiple videos on the internet. We did have to duck down as a few seemed determined to attach to us or fly through the space we were occupying. Didier's red shirt seemed to be a draw. I was sure to stand not quite next to him. I still love it, nature I mean, but I didn't need all that nature all over me too!
The cicadas came out of the ground when it got to a comfortable sixty-two degrees in the soil. The dime-sized holes pocked the ground where they'd made their climb. The short life span allowed for just one life goal and that was to mate. From the looks of it, there needed to be billions of them if the species was going to survive. So many of these ding-dang things were crushed, floating in puddles, getting snacked on by birds and squirrels and probably somebody else out there. The ones that did make it at least out of the ground and out of harm's way were meeting wing to wing and then making the Chinese finger torture love. They would connect and one would be moving forward and the other backwards, like the bug world Fred and Ginger. Truly, the connection when made, which we witnessed many times over, is just stunning. As a metaphor for love, the overlain wings, rhythmic, unified walk, determination, will, these partnerships are amazing.
Walking in the woods with my husband of nearly five years, trying to keep up our connection when the demands of raising children and working and living and expanding and contracting threaten to kick our asses, we rooted for the cicadas to thrive and survive. We got angry, frustrated, and annoyed with the ones that landed in the water and then kept trying to walk through the water. We rescued the ones that were nearly on the edge and felt sad for the ones that had just been trampled underfoot, run down by bikers and joggers carelessly moving on the path. We watched them. We studied them. We felt thankful for the chance to be here. Be here NOW while this incredible phenomenon took place in real time and we were able to live it.
Lily is terrified out of her mind at the sight and sound of the cicadas. After a boy in her grade threw one at her, I figured she'd never come around to seeing the magic. When I told her she'd see them next when she was twenty-three or twenty-four years old, she considered it. She said she does feel like it's special. Just not for her. I get it. There are people who love to be out in it, sleeping in the dark, in a tent, in places they've never been or even in their backyards. Who might revel in the sight of monkeys coming to their door or lizards scurrying across the floor of their home. There are those who offer nuts to the squirrels and let enormous cockroaches crawl on their hands. I confess. I am not one of those. I am afraid, cautious, anxious, hopeful; it's the way I approach everything I love.
I love that the cicadas came out and that I got to be here to see them.
When they go, it'll be like the hood has been turned off in the kitchen. There will still be buzzing and then there will be silence. We will just then realize that the hum is no longer with us and that it stirred and amplified us and then let us go. When I say I love nature this is what I mean. I am genuinely shocked, awed, and humbled and though I may be scared or freaked out of my wits, I welcome the chance to love.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)