I have now lived in Maryland for 27 months, almost to the day. And yet, it rarely occurs to me that I live in Maryland...or at least, that this is somehow meaningful.
I live only a few blocks outside the Washington D.C. boundary line. I moved here for D.C. (that is, for our nation's capital and the policymaking and -implementing apparatus associated with it). Having little familiarity with the area when I moved here, I chose Silver Spring as a place to live based on a combination of proximity to the Metro/car-friendliness/relative size of income taxes/price/safety/appearance. As a bonus, I get Congressional representation of my own, too. But as for living in Maryland being anything more than a matter of convenience...well, I'm just not feeling the Maryland-love, or the development of any sort of Maryland-identity, on my part. This, I should add, is in contrast to the other three states where I've lived. Love them or hate them, living in those places really did mean something.
Last week I was at a conference at the University of Maryland, and they were - shockingly enough - talking a whole lot about Maryland and quality of life in Maryland. It reminded me that I actually live here, that people might actually be concerned about quality of life here (such a snob I've become, I've essentially dismissed the whole east coast in that regard). I also had to go get an emissions test for my car, which further reminded me of the state I live in. So I thought a little bit about living in Maryland (granted, my biased perspective from Montgomery County) and what makes it distinctive. Here's what I came up with:
1. It has a really funny shape.
I drove a good chunk of the way across the country when I moved here, and wound up driving through that long, thin strip of Maryland. Somehow I arrived in Silver Spring from points extremely west without ever going into Virginia. This puzzled me. I'd never thought about Maryland's shape before. But if you look at it, it has to be one of the most bizarrely-shaped states ever, and only partially because of actual geographic features. I know there has to be a pretty good, and probably pretty interesting, historical reason why Maryland is shaped the way it is, but I admit lacking the inclination to look it up.
2. If you're driving anywhere, you'd better know where you're going.
The roads around here are pretty clogged with traffic at all hours of the day. By itself that's not fatal, but add byzantine traffic rules and anarchic planning and it's a disastrous mix if you're trying to go somewhere you haven't been before. I enjoy visiting the "revitalized" downtown Silver Spring on foot, but avoid going there with my car like the plague. Odd turn rules, different numbers of lanes in use at different times, and intermittently closed streets are only a few things that detract from the experience.
Going anywhere in downtown Silver Spring? You'd better be in the correct lane when you get there or you're screwed. You won't be able to switch lanes because of the aforementioned clogging, and everyone will start honking at you like you just ran over a small child. You will miss your turn and attempt to turn around, and that's when the anarchic planning will come into play, because your attempted trip around the block will somehow take you on a wild goose chase of curvy twisting streets that will deposit you somewhere miles from your intended destination.
3. Speaking of driving, the auto mechanics must have an extremely powerful lobby in Annapolis.
Leaving aside for the moment that honest auto mechanics are nearly impossible to find around here, the mechanics clearly also have a big racket of some kind going with the state government.
Exhibit A is car inspections in Maryland. When you move to Maryland, your car must pass a safety inspection before it can be registered. But the state does not do the inspections...oh no, it's the auto mechanic shops themselves that do them. So you go to a neighborhood repair shop (*cough*cough*Forest Glen BP*cough*cough*), plunk down $70 for the inspection, and then learn that the car you just drove 2/3 of the way across the country in without a hitch needs $1400 worth of work to pass the inspection.
"But the car isn't even worth $1400!" you object, but they just shrug.
"Now tell me," you demand, sure you can make them see reason, "just how many tickets I would need to get before it actually makes sense for me to let you do all this work."
But they don't see. They lean on the front of your car and tell you that because it bounced more than once you need $700 of new front struts to pass inspection. And they don't care that you're already out an arm and a leg for other moving expenses.
So what do you do? You leave. You'll take your chances.
You go to another place, plunk down another $70, and when those people tell you you only need $350 worth of work, you almost fall to your knees in thanks.
Then you see some of the piece-of-shit rust-buckets driving down the road with Maryland plates, and you wonder why your new state decided to fuck you up the ass (I mean, you could have moved to Virginia), and especially why they let their auto mechanics do the fucking.
Exhibit B is the emissions test. Now, I understand the value of the emissions test, and both times my car passed by several orders of magnitude. But the kicker is the rules if you fail.
If you fail, you have to go get repairs done to help you pass, and you have to spend a certain amount of money. If you spend the dough, and you fail again, you're fine. Go, drive off, pollute our already-foul Maryland air (please, like anything could make the air in the summer here worse than it already is): the important thing is that you pumped even more money to our auto repair crooks.
4. It's crowded.
I was down at a work event on the southern part of the state and at the hotel where we were staying they were having a conference of Maryland farm bureau people. "Welcome, rural Marylanders" read the sign. And I thought to myself: "Rural Marylanders? Are there such things?"
I would like to see rural Maryland. Maybe I'd like it.
5. Maryland has politics?
Yeah, I know we do. But living only several hundred feet from D.C., I have to say: politics around here seem really skewed. I mean, these are local politics INSIDE THE BELTWAY. If you're not a Washington insider, then you're an outsider. I don't know - it's just incredibly weird. And Montgomery County is this tremendous thing - more a city than a county, it's the size of some of the New York counties I was used to growing up. I will say, though, that I had to go to jury duty in Montgomery County a few months ago, and they were professional and efficient.
6. It's humid and they have no idea how to deal with snow.
We had a moderate snowstorm last winter, the remains of which iced up a day or two later, and Montgomery County was so ill-prepared that they had to close their schools for the better part of a week. And the humidity - ugh. Perhaps my least favorite part of living in this part of the country.
6. Crabs and the Chesapeake Bay and all that.
Blah-blah-blah. OK, I know there are a subset of folks who love their boats. But I've only seen the Chesapeake Bay 2 or 3 times since I moved here, and I don't really understand why I should care about it. Or why I should be surprised that it's in crappy shape when there are 10 gazillion people living right around it. And I love seafood as much as anyone else (well, maybe more than most people), but you're just as likely to get a good crabcake sandwich down in Florida as you are here in Maryland. And it'll probably be cheaper down there. Look, I love crab and I'd be happy to eat it all the time, but it is not a budget food item, not even here where the supply is supposed to be so plentiful. So the whole seafood thing seems overrated to me.
So, in summary, I know I'm being a complete jerk about Maryland. I know a person who hasn't traveled around the state shouldn't purport to be some kind of expert, even if he's lived here for a few years. And maybe it's not so unusual for a person whose existence is all tied up in D.C. to not be so familiar with the state where he actually lives.
Generally speaking, I do like the life I have here in the D.C. a...I mean, in Maryland.
But the undertone of this post is that my heart is still out west.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Welcome to First Draft Central, Hangovers, And A General Update
I am a stickler about writing. Good sentences are hard work, and good writing is rarely achieved in a single draft. (Indeed, I do a lot of writing and editing - of an entirely different sort - at work, and this rule holds true there, too.) Yet, I have already noticed that's what a blog is: each post is a first draft. Coming back later and tweaking and reorganizing is not compatible with the format. So I note this as a sort of apology to readers and to myself. Every post is probably going to have its flaws - weird sentences, odd punctuation choices, stylistic shortcomings. When I kept a personal electronic journal I would often reread later and tweak (not change substance, but tweak for style), but here...well, it would rob this of its spontaneity. So take this observation for what it's worth.
The week has been quite busy at work, with the one day I was very sick with a hangover providing an extra challenge. I went to work and no one noticed a thing, but I couldn't keep anything in my stomach - not even liquid - and I threw up three times. Thank goodness the bathrooms at work receive light traffic: the last thing I needed was an audience. I was dizzy and nauseous throughout the day - just wanted to lay down, really. I came home - finally! - and had some soup at about 8 pm. That I was able to keep down, along with lots of water. Talk about an irrational aspect to ultra-rational me. No way this ever wins in a cost-benefit analysis against more moderate drinking.
It was one thing when I was a grad student or a postdoc. It was so much easier then because rarely was anything expected of you on any particular day. You really could phone it in. But here in the real world, there are consequences, especially if you like your job (and I usually like mine). Lucky me, I never get sick sick so don't feel that terrible using the occasional sick day (maybe one or two a year) for hangover recovery. But really, I am getting too old for this and - even more - I can't stand to waste the time. A hangover day is a useless day. It's nice to be intoxicated for a couple of hours, but the price of a full day in hell is just too high.
This aside, it's generally been a good week and I've felt better - conversations with my SO last weekend and subsequently starting this blog were no doubt major contributors. Yet I know that my moods can wax and wane. Feeling good now - especially feeling that these family issues are distant from me - is nice, but it's also misleading. What my last few visits with my family have shown me is that this stuff lurks below the surface. It doesn't go away without conscious effort. So I have to keep pressing on or this will be with me, in one way or another, until the day I die.
This week, the weather has finally turned and become fall-like. For those of us from the (at least relatively) "north country", the summers here in D.C. are brutal and the rest of the year mild and nice. Now's the time of the year that I marvel at the folks in winter coats and scarves, walking through 50 degree weather to sit on heated trains (the Metro, the subject of many future posts I'm sure). Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll need to put on my coat before Christmas.
I've been spontaneously brainstorming ideas for blog posts during my commute and at other off moments - I'm not going to run out anytime soon.
[Five minutes later: just reread this and noticed an overuse of the word "nice", among other things. But not going to fix it. There must be some value in spontaneity, right?]
The week has been quite busy at work, with the one day I was very sick with a hangover providing an extra challenge. I went to work and no one noticed a thing, but I couldn't keep anything in my stomach - not even liquid - and I threw up three times. Thank goodness the bathrooms at work receive light traffic: the last thing I needed was an audience. I was dizzy and nauseous throughout the day - just wanted to lay down, really. I came home - finally! - and had some soup at about 8 pm. That I was able to keep down, along with lots of water. Talk about an irrational aspect to ultra-rational me. No way this ever wins in a cost-benefit analysis against more moderate drinking.
It was one thing when I was a grad student or a postdoc. It was so much easier then because rarely was anything expected of you on any particular day. You really could phone it in. But here in the real world, there are consequences, especially if you like your job (and I usually like mine). Lucky me, I never get sick sick so don't feel that terrible using the occasional sick day (maybe one or two a year) for hangover recovery. But really, I am getting too old for this and - even more - I can't stand to waste the time. A hangover day is a useless day. It's nice to be intoxicated for a couple of hours, but the price of a full day in hell is just too high.
This aside, it's generally been a good week and I've felt better - conversations with my SO last weekend and subsequently starting this blog were no doubt major contributors. Yet I know that my moods can wax and wane. Feeling good now - especially feeling that these family issues are distant from me - is nice, but it's also misleading. What my last few visits with my family have shown me is that this stuff lurks below the surface. It doesn't go away without conscious effort. So I have to keep pressing on or this will be with me, in one way or another, until the day I die.
This week, the weather has finally turned and become fall-like. For those of us from the (at least relatively) "north country", the summers here in D.C. are brutal and the rest of the year mild and nice. Now's the time of the year that I marvel at the folks in winter coats and scarves, walking through 50 degree weather to sit on heated trains (the Metro, the subject of many future posts I'm sure). Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll need to put on my coat before Christmas.
I've been spontaneously brainstorming ideas for blog posts during my commute and at other off moments - I'm not going to run out anytime soon.
[Five minutes later: just reread this and noticed an overuse of the word "nice", among other things. But not going to fix it. There must be some value in spontaneity, right?]
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
My Family History: Known and Unknown
My grandfather had been intermittently interested in his family history for many years, but had little luck retrieving the records he was looking for. About five years ago, I got involved, promising to go and try and find his own grandfather's immigration record. Progress was at first slow and then came in fits and starts, but ultimately I became pretty darned good at genealogy and managed to reconstruct almost all the branches of my family back to the time they'd immigrated from Europe (with one or two exceptions - in some cases this was only two generations, but in others it was seven). A really good genealogist would be able to go back farther, but I'm not there yet. About three years ago, I was finally able to send my grandfather that copy of his own grandfather's immigration record.
Sure, digging up census and birth records was fun in an academic way. So was fleshing out what had always seemed to me to be a very sparse family history with - by the end - "discovering" several hundred individuals. But the real fun was when these individuals could be fleshed out with pictures, anecdotes, and stories. My grandparents were required for this part. It was really through their efforts (my grandfather eagerly and my grandmother less so, at least at first) that I started to turn these old government forms into real people - some of whom shared personality traits with existing family members and who lived (and sometimes died) in interesting ways.
During his last year or so, my grandfather was too preoccupied with health problems to care much about this, and the last time I asked him about it, he shut me down. So when he lost interest, so did I. And now it's unlikely I'll ever take it much farther. Though if I ever have kids and they ever get interested, I can pass along what I know and see if maybe they make progress. (They will also have an entirely different family history to explore - that of their mother.)
Why do I bring this up now? It was because my interest in the family waned almost entirely as soon as we came to its extant members. My grandparents wrote little remembrances of their parents (one of whom I have a dim memory of meeting once, and another of whom I knew until I was about 11) that included a lot about their own early lives. That was very interesting to me. I wound up posting as much information as I could on the web, and was contacted by a few distant cousins who sometimes had more information to share. That was neat, too.
I was mostly interested in the past. And since my family had lived in one place (New York) from the time they arrived in the New World until this generation (well, a few family members still live there), I loved thinking about how different generations would have had such different experiences over the years and decades, yet all within a few miles. All the joy, all the pain, all the daily work and rare accomplishments. When I visited the New York Historical Society I'd look at the old skyline maps they had from 1860 or 1880 or 1990 and think that my ancestors had actually lived in the shadow of these...and how different they were from the New York of today.
I guess I tried to apply a weird kind of reverse uniformitarianism to my family history. Instead of the present being the key to the past, might the reverse be true?
There were many problems in my family, many family members who didn't get along, lots of intergenerational strife and arguments over money between siblings. (Indeed, the fallout from some of these arguments explained why the family I knew growing up was so small.) Some mental illness and suicide. Some people who clearly never learned and repeated the same mistakes their mothers and fathers had made, with the same results.
But as I said, my interest ceased once we hit those still alive. Maybe I sensed I was moving into much more thorny territory. Certainly I can think of one or two of my extant family members who grumbled I must be doing this because I idealized the past and my ancestors...not because of the potential explanatory power of knowing what happened, which was the real reason.
So despite all I learned and the much deeper appreciation I have because of it, there is lots I still don't know. About back then, but about more recent history as well.
I do not know how my parents met. I mean, I know why they met (they were working in the same school) but I don't know any details.
I know hardly anything about either of their childhoods.
According to the book I mentioned in my last post, controlling parents often experienced a major trauma or were themselves controlled while growing up. I am frustrated by my lack of information about this, and one of the steps I want to take is to try to find some of this stuff out. Though with such a small, scattered, and reticent family - it is going to be very hard work. Here is what I do know:
My mom, as I mentioned yesterday, was not controlling. She had two older brothers (one of whom is still alive and the other dead nearly 20 years now). They were spaced out by about 9 years (so my mom is 18 years younger than her deceased brother). My mom did experience a traumatic event while growing up: her father died when she was about 12 (I don't know why). I also do not know if her own mother ever seriously dated again (she would have been 50 when she lost her husband). She almost surely did not remarry. My mom rarely discusses her childhood, but the little she does say leads me to think she had a warm relationship with her mom (and her dad, if he's anything like the other men on that side of the family, must have been a total softie). My mom remained devoted to her mother until her death in the early 80s, and as a young child my mom would often bring me along on her weekly trips into the City to visit my "Nana", first at her own apartment in Far Rockaway, and then at the nursing home where she ultimately died. (I also remember Nana lived with us for several months, which my dad disliked.)
In retrospect, I'm sure she was very kind. At the time, I just thought she was old - she looked, smelled, and acted old - and I didn't like to kiss her. But she was affectionate with me and her and my mom must have had SOMETHING to talk about all those afternoons in the basement of the nursing home (we weren't allowed upstairs...or at least, I wasn't and my mom couldn't leave me alone).
My mom did not seem particularly close with her brothers in the sense of seeing or speaking with them often. But she never had a bad word to say (still doesn't). She just was not inclined to initiate contact, and neither were they.
My dad is less transparent - was he controlled, or did he experience some major trauma? As I mentioned, he loved to make me listen to his complaining about grandpa. This was probably because he knew I loved grandpa so much, and I wish instead of trying to tear grandpa down he had devoted some time to building himself up by treating me like a human being instead of as a possession. But his complaints were almost always financial. And my grandma would tell stories that made it sound like my dad ran wild as a kid, and my dad - though evidently displeased by the stories - would not deny them, either in front of my grandma or later. So, in general, it seems unlikely he was controlled.
My dad had two younger brothers and they're spaced out just like me and my brothers - one about every four years. One of his brothers has been plagued by medical problems and lawsuits, career and money angst including a bankruptcy. This brother has never been married (though he's had at least one long-term relationship with a woman) and for a while he separated himself from the rest of the family (I never learned why). His youngest brother has been happily married for 20 years with three kids and a bevy of pets. His parenting style couldn't be more different than my dad's, bordering on what I would consider excessive permissiveness.
Once my dad did tell me a story about my grandfather that made me suspicious. My grandfather used to paint - he was quite good at it, as well as at woodworking and other crafts. Apparently he once tried to teach my dad how to point, but so badgered and micromanaged and nitpicked him during the process that my dad failed to learn and even today - as a retiree - would never consider taking up painting.
It blew my mind when he told me this story because that is exactly the way my dad would try to teach my brothers and I anything - through fear, intimidation, micromanaging, and nagging - and it inevitably led to failure. It was an uncle who taught me to ride a bike (my dad tried and failed). My grandfather who taught me to swim. My dad tried several times to teach me to dive and to this day I can't, though I got in trouble every time he tried.
He never taught me to shave. He never even taught me when it was time to begin using deodorant - I had to decide that one myself when I was in 10th grade. And all the housework and home improvement he made us do - painting, plastering, putting in tile, paneling, building a deck, masonry- beyond painting (which is basic) I don't know how to do any of it.
There's also a few pictures of him as an altar boy or something and it's clearly one of those fake smiles where he's really crying because someone off camera has threatened him. (There are numerous pictures of me in the same situation - I wonder what parents can possibly thinking when they do this.) He's maybe 10. To say we were weird about religion in my house growing up is the understatement of the year. But my grandparents never struck me as even remotely religious, so why would they force their kid to do this?
So this makes me wonder if maybe he was sometimes controlled. Also, my grandma and grandpa seem much more equal than my parents, so maybe the discipline was split more evenly in their household? Yet the overall flavor I get from my dad's stories over the years is mostly that he wishes grandpa had paid MORE attention to him as a kid (I would wish, daily, my dad would just go away). And that the major resentment he has came later, and is largely financial in nature.
So here is what I don't know:
The only person I can think to ask who might know and could be relied upon to provide at least somewhat informative, unbiased answers and not immediately tattletale that I was asking would be my uncle, my dad's youngest brother (the married one). But he lives far away and I see him very rarely. So you see my sources of information are limited.
I wanted to ask my grandma some of this stuff on my last trip. But of course she would be biased. And, she would tell my dad immediately I'd been asking (even though I certainly wouldn't reveal reasons why - just say I'm curious). This wouldn't have been such a problem except that, of my 3-day trip down to see my grandma, my parents managed to involve themselves every single day and never thought to ask if I was getting enough alone time with my grandma. So she would have tattled with me sitting right there. Not a situation I wanted to be in.
This is clearly a hard slog, but as time passes and people die, it just gets harder. I need to find some of this shit out. It won't make it alright, but if there's one thing about me everyone would agree on, it's that I'm an extremely rational person. Maybe there's no good reason for any of this, but if there is one, I'd sure like to find it.
Sure, digging up census and birth records was fun in an academic way. So was fleshing out what had always seemed to me to be a very sparse family history with - by the end - "discovering" several hundred individuals. But the real fun was when these individuals could be fleshed out with pictures, anecdotes, and stories. My grandparents were required for this part. It was really through their efforts (my grandfather eagerly and my grandmother less so, at least at first) that I started to turn these old government forms into real people - some of whom shared personality traits with existing family members and who lived (and sometimes died) in interesting ways.
During his last year or so, my grandfather was too preoccupied with health problems to care much about this, and the last time I asked him about it, he shut me down. So when he lost interest, so did I. And now it's unlikely I'll ever take it much farther. Though if I ever have kids and they ever get interested, I can pass along what I know and see if maybe they make progress. (They will also have an entirely different family history to explore - that of their mother.)
Why do I bring this up now? It was because my interest in the family waned almost entirely as soon as we came to its extant members. My grandparents wrote little remembrances of their parents (one of whom I have a dim memory of meeting once, and another of whom I knew until I was about 11) that included a lot about their own early lives. That was very interesting to me. I wound up posting as much information as I could on the web, and was contacted by a few distant cousins who sometimes had more information to share. That was neat, too.
I was mostly interested in the past. And since my family had lived in one place (New York) from the time they arrived in the New World until this generation (well, a few family members still live there), I loved thinking about how different generations would have had such different experiences over the years and decades, yet all within a few miles. All the joy, all the pain, all the daily work and rare accomplishments. When I visited the New York Historical Society I'd look at the old skyline maps they had from 1860 or 1880 or 1990 and think that my ancestors had actually lived in the shadow of these...and how different they were from the New York of today.
I guess I tried to apply a weird kind of reverse uniformitarianism to my family history. Instead of the present being the key to the past, might the reverse be true?
There were many problems in my family, many family members who didn't get along, lots of intergenerational strife and arguments over money between siblings. (Indeed, the fallout from some of these arguments explained why the family I knew growing up was so small.) Some mental illness and suicide. Some people who clearly never learned and repeated the same mistakes their mothers and fathers had made, with the same results.
But as I said, my interest ceased once we hit those still alive. Maybe I sensed I was moving into much more thorny territory. Certainly I can think of one or two of my extant family members who grumbled I must be doing this because I idealized the past and my ancestors...not because of the potential explanatory power of knowing what happened, which was the real reason.
So despite all I learned and the much deeper appreciation I have because of it, there is lots I still don't know. About back then, but about more recent history as well.
I do not know how my parents met. I mean, I know why they met (they were working in the same school) but I don't know any details.
I know hardly anything about either of their childhoods.
According to the book I mentioned in my last post, controlling parents often experienced a major trauma or were themselves controlled while growing up. I am frustrated by my lack of information about this, and one of the steps I want to take is to try to find some of this stuff out. Though with such a small, scattered, and reticent family - it is going to be very hard work. Here is what I do know:
My mom, as I mentioned yesterday, was not controlling. She had two older brothers (one of whom is still alive and the other dead nearly 20 years now). They were spaced out by about 9 years (so my mom is 18 years younger than her deceased brother). My mom did experience a traumatic event while growing up: her father died when she was about 12 (I don't know why). I also do not know if her own mother ever seriously dated again (she would have been 50 when she lost her husband). She almost surely did not remarry. My mom rarely discusses her childhood, but the little she does say leads me to think she had a warm relationship with her mom (and her dad, if he's anything like the other men on that side of the family, must have been a total softie). My mom remained devoted to her mother until her death in the early 80s, and as a young child my mom would often bring me along on her weekly trips into the City to visit my "Nana", first at her own apartment in Far Rockaway, and then at the nursing home where she ultimately died. (I also remember Nana lived with us for several months, which my dad disliked.)
In retrospect, I'm sure she was very kind. At the time, I just thought she was old - she looked, smelled, and acted old - and I didn't like to kiss her. But she was affectionate with me and her and my mom must have had SOMETHING to talk about all those afternoons in the basement of the nursing home (we weren't allowed upstairs...or at least, I wasn't and my mom couldn't leave me alone).
My mom did not seem particularly close with her brothers in the sense of seeing or speaking with them often. But she never had a bad word to say (still doesn't). She just was not inclined to initiate contact, and neither were they.
My dad is less transparent - was he controlled, or did he experience some major trauma? As I mentioned, he loved to make me listen to his complaining about grandpa. This was probably because he knew I loved grandpa so much, and I wish instead of trying to tear grandpa down he had devoted some time to building himself up by treating me like a human being instead of as a possession. But his complaints were almost always financial. And my grandma would tell stories that made it sound like my dad ran wild as a kid, and my dad - though evidently displeased by the stories - would not deny them, either in front of my grandma or later. So, in general, it seems unlikely he was controlled.
My dad had two younger brothers and they're spaced out just like me and my brothers - one about every four years. One of his brothers has been plagued by medical problems and lawsuits, career and money angst including a bankruptcy. This brother has never been married (though he's had at least one long-term relationship with a woman) and for a while he separated himself from the rest of the family (I never learned why). His youngest brother has been happily married for 20 years with three kids and a bevy of pets. His parenting style couldn't be more different than my dad's, bordering on what I would consider excessive permissiveness.
Once my dad did tell me a story about my grandfather that made me suspicious. My grandfather used to paint - he was quite good at it, as well as at woodworking and other crafts. Apparently he once tried to teach my dad how to point, but so badgered and micromanaged and nitpicked him during the process that my dad failed to learn and even today - as a retiree - would never consider taking up painting.
It blew my mind when he told me this story because that is exactly the way my dad would try to teach my brothers and I anything - through fear, intimidation, micromanaging, and nagging - and it inevitably led to failure. It was an uncle who taught me to ride a bike (my dad tried and failed). My grandfather who taught me to swim. My dad tried several times to teach me to dive and to this day I can't, though I got in trouble every time he tried.
He never taught me to shave. He never even taught me when it was time to begin using deodorant - I had to decide that one myself when I was in 10th grade. And all the housework and home improvement he made us do - painting, plastering, putting in tile, paneling, building a deck, masonry- beyond painting (which is basic) I don't know how to do any of it.
There's also a few pictures of him as an altar boy or something and it's clearly one of those fake smiles where he's really crying because someone off camera has threatened him. (There are numerous pictures of me in the same situation - I wonder what parents can possibly thinking when they do this.) He's maybe 10. To say we were weird about religion in my house growing up is the understatement of the year. But my grandparents never struck me as even remotely religious, so why would they force their kid to do this?
So this makes me wonder if maybe he was sometimes controlled. Also, my grandma and grandpa seem much more equal than my parents, so maybe the discipline was split more evenly in their household? Yet the overall flavor I get from my dad's stories over the years is mostly that he wishes grandpa had paid MORE attention to him as a kid (I would wish, daily, my dad would just go away). And that the major resentment he has came later, and is largely financial in nature.
So here is what I don't know:
- Was my dad controlled as a child?
- Did he experience any major trauma?
- What was the deal with religion in the household? Was it a major source of angst?
The only person I can think to ask who might know and could be relied upon to provide at least somewhat informative, unbiased answers and not immediately tattletale that I was asking would be my uncle, my dad's youngest brother (the married one). But he lives far away and I see him very rarely. So you see my sources of information are limited.
I wanted to ask my grandma some of this stuff on my last trip. But of course she would be biased. And, she would tell my dad immediately I'd been asking (even though I certainly wouldn't reveal reasons why - just say I'm curious). This wouldn't have been such a problem except that, of my 3-day trip down to see my grandma, my parents managed to involve themselves every single day and never thought to ask if I was getting enough alone time with my grandma. So she would have tattled with me sitting right there. Not a situation I wanted to be in.
This is clearly a hard slog, but as time passes and people die, it just gets harder. I need to find some of this shit out. It won't make it alright, but if there's one thing about me everyone would agree on, it's that I'm an extremely rational person. Maybe there's no good reason for any of this, but if there is one, I'd sure like to find it.
Monday, October 22, 2007
I Grew Up Controlled
Remember, when you were growing up, that one teacher in your school that none of the kids ever wanted? The one who always had a chip on his shoulder, no sense of humor, and who just generally didn't like kids? The one who transcended strict to reach downright mean? The one that none of the kids ever had a good experience with?
Did you ever think what this person might be like outside of work, when they went home to their own families?
I did, because that teacher was my dad, and he didn't change one iota when he left the school building and came home.
I grew up controlled. Until a few weeks ago I didn't know this...or at least, I didn't know that was the word that best described my childhood.
I never knew what the right word was. I just knew none of my friends seemed to have a home life anything like my own. I envied them all. I often fantasized that my parents would get divorced. I even fantasized about my dad dying. (But then I would think about my mom dying and leaving us alone with my dad, and that would scare me straight.)
It wasn't only verbal/emotional. There was a physical aspect to it. My brothers and I were hit fairly frequently, and sometimes for no particular reason. But only with open hands, and never enough to leave marks. I'd looked up "abusive", but when you do that you quickly find yourself in the realm of raging alcoholics who burn their kids' hands on the stove and rape them. That was not what this was like, thankfully. There was nothing sexual about it, and no substance abuse (or use at all - I've thought on more than one occasion that my dad could have benefited from a couple of drinks now and then).
A few weeks ago I was doing some internet searching and came across the book If You Had Controlling Parents by Dan Neuharth. He also has a website: www.controllingparents.com. This really seemed to apply to me, and I ordered the book immediately. I've already read it.
The beginning of the book has a quiz with 65 questions to help you ascertain whether you grew up controlled. The author says if you answer yes to 22 or more of them, you likely grew up controlled. Here's how I did:
You may wonder why I was thinking about this just a few weeks ago. After all, I am in my 30s now and have spent as little time with my parents as I possibly could from the time I was 18. The book talks about all the effects that strict control can have on adults, including:
I flirted with some of these problems myself, except the homosexuality, the smoking, and the financial ties to my parents. (In fact, I exerted complete financial independence as soon as I possibly could.) But I drank quite heavily for a number of years and almost attempted suicide in college. (Unlike my brother, I wasn't doing it for attention but because I really wanted to die. Had I followed through and done it, I wouldn't have failed.)
In me, the control has mostly manifested itself through being driven while deriving little or no satisfaction or joy from any of my accomplishments (but beating myself up endlessly over any perceived or actual failures). I also channeled a lot of my rage since about the age of 21 into vigorous physical exercise, which is probably one of the smartest things I've ever done. I also had a very difficult time pursuing relationships with women. I am currently in a long-term relationship that will almost certainly last "'til death do us part". But I hesitate about marriage and especially about having kids because these provide avenues for increased involvement by my parents, and because I wonder what kind of husband and especially father I'd be.
My parents are retired and live nearly a thousand miles away. My mom is not controlling but did not stop my dad or protect us. She has never and would never acknowledge that my dad was ever out of line. My dad, in retirement, has mellowed out somewhat. My dad is also a lot happier as the father of three grown men than he was as the father of kids.
OK, so let's get to the crux of it: why is this on my mind now? Over the years, my relationship with my parents evolved to a fairly stable equilibrium. It's not close nor particularly warm, but it's there. I speak with them on the phone about once every week or two, for about half an hour. I visit them about 3-4 times a year, for a few days each. We don't talk about a lot of things, but that's alright. At the end of each phone conversation, they say: "I love you" and I can't say it back.
What happened is that my grandfather died a few months ago. I feel as though I was closer with my grandfather than I was with any other family member, except my brothers. (In general, we're not a close family. We're small, spread thin, and not so great at keeping in touch.) My dad didn't get along with him (this is my dad's father) and often would badmouth him to me when I was growing up - usually about complaints my dad had related to money and favoritism my grandpa had shown my uncles. My grandpa did not die suddenly, and during his last few months my dad and he reconciled somewhat, though I don't think completely. My parents and grandparents currently live about 30 miles apart.
I went to the funeral, of course, and stayed with my parents. My dad evidently was just not going to talk about my grandfather that weekend. I had no idea how he felt, because of the tangled relationship I described above. I tried to be sensitive. But what this led to was spending the whole time I was there not talking about my grandfather - not even with my brothers, mom, or other relatives. (Because my dad lurked the whole time.) I also wrote something to be read at the service. But my dad, who didn't know this, said that anyone speaking at the service would further disturb my grandmother. So again, trying to be sensitive, I put what I wrote aside. No one except the minister (who was about as comforting as a brillo pad) spoke at the service. My grandmother was evidently upset that no one in the family had spoken. Driving down to the funeral, my dad tried to have a conversation with me about whether I should buy a new car.
By the time I returned home after this, I was a mess - much worse than I'd been before I went ostensibly to grieve. Not only was I missing my grandfather as much as I had been before (since the funeral and time I'd spent with the rest of the family hadn't allowed me to actually mourn), but I realized that I had completely subjugated all my feelings and desires to my dad's wishes. This dredged up a whole host of extremely unhappy memories of my dad's awful behavior while growing up...in fact, just thinking of the memories I had of my grandfather, my dad was often there on the side, ruining or detracting them. The good memories always seemed to involve times when my dad wasn't around.
I made a subsequent visit to spend time with my grandmother a few weeks ago. I wanted to really try to establish an independent relationship with her (my dad loves to mediate all family contact for his kids), but the visit left me even more upset and every bit as angry. I'll have to explain why in a subsequent post - I'm running out of steam here. But that is why I am where I am right now. Reading books to help try to shed light on my childhood - for the first time ever - and trying to deal with these problems consciously.
Dealing with my family is one part of my motivation, but I know I really can't ever expect any satisfaction from them. (Though my brothers and I have a good relationship, and can talk honestly with one another, which has been invaluable to all of us.) The bigger part is trying to live up to my full potential. What's happening now is a setback. I was moving in the right direction before my grandfather's death and subsequent events, but glacially. I want to try to take charge now and get over these hurdles.
I am jealous of the folks I see whose social interactions are so easy; who aren't plagued by the endless self-doubt, self-consciousness, and crises of confidence that seem to be my bread and butter. Social skills were not particularly important in some of my past career incarnations, but they are important now. They're also important for making me happy, something I haven't entirely given up on yet.
Did you ever think what this person might be like outside of work, when they went home to their own families?
I did, because that teacher was my dad, and he didn't change one iota when he left the school building and came home.
I grew up controlled. Until a few weeks ago I didn't know this...or at least, I didn't know that was the word that best described my childhood.
I never knew what the right word was. I just knew none of my friends seemed to have a home life anything like my own. I envied them all. I often fantasized that my parents would get divorced. I even fantasized about my dad dying. (But then I would think about my mom dying and leaving us alone with my dad, and that would scare me straight.)
It wasn't only verbal/emotional. There was a physical aspect to it. My brothers and I were hit fairly frequently, and sometimes for no particular reason. But only with open hands, and never enough to leave marks. I'd looked up "abusive", but when you do that you quickly find yourself in the realm of raging alcoholics who burn their kids' hands on the stove and rape them. That was not what this was like, thankfully. There was nothing sexual about it, and no substance abuse (or use at all - I've thought on more than one occasion that my dad could have benefited from a couple of drinks now and then).
A few weeks ago I was doing some internet searching and came across the book If You Had Controlling Parents by Dan Neuharth. He also has a website: www.controllingparents.com. This really seemed to apply to me, and I ordered the book immediately. I've already read it.
The beginning of the book has a quiz with 65 questions to help you ascertain whether you grew up controlled. The author says if you answer yes to 22 or more of them, you likely grew up controlled. Here's how I did:
- Three were about my parents' childhoods, and I didn't know the answers to them because my parents never talk about their childhoods (which is a warning sign in and of itself);
- Of the remaining 62 questions, I answered yes to 47 and a qualified yes to another 11.
You may wonder why I was thinking about this just a few weeks ago. After all, I am in my 30s now and have spent as little time with my parents as I possibly could from the time I was 18. The book talks about all the effects that strict control can have on adults, including:
- an inability to express emotions like anger, fear, and sadness
- confidence problems
- avoidance of confrontation
- difficulty getting close to others, difficulty with intimacy, fear of any sort of dependence
- strong negative reactions around controlling people
- hypersensitivity to criticism.
I flirted with some of these problems myself, except the homosexuality, the smoking, and the financial ties to my parents. (In fact, I exerted complete financial independence as soon as I possibly could.) But I drank quite heavily for a number of years and almost attempted suicide in college. (Unlike my brother, I wasn't doing it for attention but because I really wanted to die. Had I followed through and done it, I wouldn't have failed.)
In me, the control has mostly manifested itself through being driven while deriving little or no satisfaction or joy from any of my accomplishments (but beating myself up endlessly over any perceived or actual failures). I also channeled a lot of my rage since about the age of 21 into vigorous physical exercise, which is probably one of the smartest things I've ever done. I also had a very difficult time pursuing relationships with women. I am currently in a long-term relationship that will almost certainly last "'til death do us part". But I hesitate about marriage and especially about having kids because these provide avenues for increased involvement by my parents, and because I wonder what kind of husband and especially father I'd be.
My parents are retired and live nearly a thousand miles away. My mom is not controlling but did not stop my dad or protect us. She has never and would never acknowledge that my dad was ever out of line. My dad, in retirement, has mellowed out somewhat. My dad is also a lot happier as the father of three grown men than he was as the father of kids.
OK, so let's get to the crux of it: why is this on my mind now? Over the years, my relationship with my parents evolved to a fairly stable equilibrium. It's not close nor particularly warm, but it's there. I speak with them on the phone about once every week or two, for about half an hour. I visit them about 3-4 times a year, for a few days each. We don't talk about a lot of things, but that's alright. At the end of each phone conversation, they say: "I love you" and I can't say it back.
What happened is that my grandfather died a few months ago. I feel as though I was closer with my grandfather than I was with any other family member, except my brothers. (In general, we're not a close family. We're small, spread thin, and not so great at keeping in touch.) My dad didn't get along with him (this is my dad's father) and often would badmouth him to me when I was growing up - usually about complaints my dad had related to money and favoritism my grandpa had shown my uncles. My grandpa did not die suddenly, and during his last few months my dad and he reconciled somewhat, though I don't think completely. My parents and grandparents currently live about 30 miles apart.
I went to the funeral, of course, and stayed with my parents. My dad evidently was just not going to talk about my grandfather that weekend. I had no idea how he felt, because of the tangled relationship I described above. I tried to be sensitive. But what this led to was spending the whole time I was there not talking about my grandfather - not even with my brothers, mom, or other relatives. (Because my dad lurked the whole time.) I also wrote something to be read at the service. But my dad, who didn't know this, said that anyone speaking at the service would further disturb my grandmother. So again, trying to be sensitive, I put what I wrote aside. No one except the minister (who was about as comforting as a brillo pad) spoke at the service. My grandmother was evidently upset that no one in the family had spoken. Driving down to the funeral, my dad tried to have a conversation with me about whether I should buy a new car.
By the time I returned home after this, I was a mess - much worse than I'd been before I went ostensibly to grieve. Not only was I missing my grandfather as much as I had been before (since the funeral and time I'd spent with the rest of the family hadn't allowed me to actually mourn), but I realized that I had completely subjugated all my feelings and desires to my dad's wishes. This dredged up a whole host of extremely unhappy memories of my dad's awful behavior while growing up...in fact, just thinking of the memories I had of my grandfather, my dad was often there on the side, ruining or detracting them. The good memories always seemed to involve times when my dad wasn't around.
I made a subsequent visit to spend time with my grandmother a few weeks ago. I wanted to really try to establish an independent relationship with her (my dad loves to mediate all family contact for his kids), but the visit left me even more upset and every bit as angry. I'll have to explain why in a subsequent post - I'm running out of steam here. But that is why I am where I am right now. Reading books to help try to shed light on my childhood - for the first time ever - and trying to deal with these problems consciously.
Dealing with my family is one part of my motivation, but I know I really can't ever expect any satisfaction from them. (Though my brothers and I have a good relationship, and can talk honestly with one another, which has been invaluable to all of us.) The bigger part is trying to live up to my full potential. What's happening now is a setback. I was moving in the right direction before my grandfather's death and subsequent events, but glacially. I want to try to take charge now and get over these hurdles.
I am jealous of the folks I see whose social interactions are so easy; who aren't plagued by the endless self-doubt, self-consciousness, and crises of confidence that seem to be my bread and butter. Social skills were not particularly important in some of my past career incarnations, but they are important now. They're also important for making me happy, something I haven't entirely given up on yet.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Ground Rules and Motivation
If I am going to be successful at this, ground rules must be established and followed.
Rule #1: This blog is anonymous. Besides perhaps my SO, no one will know who I am. Effort must be made so that in the extremely unlikely event that someone who reads this actually cares enough to want to try to find out who I am, they will fail. Therefore, my places of work (current and former) will not be listed, all names will be changed or withheld, and I will not blog from work or check my blog from work. I will not link to other blogs or try to get other blogs to link to me. Rule #1 is important because it allows for Rule #2.
Rule #2: This blog is a no-bullshit zone. If I cannot be honest here, then this thing is pointless. Surely some things are better left private, and indeed I am a fairly private person (at least by contemporary standards) but experience has shown me that a personal journal doesn't motivate me to write the way a potential audience does. So on one hand I don't give a flying fuck at the moon if anyone reads this - but on the other, the possibility that someone might is motivating. Go figure that.
Rule #3: This blog has no theme. Everything is fair game, though I expect posting about work to be minimal. General career angst is OK (and expect to see some posts about it), but specific work situations are probably not. I don't foresee a problem holding to this. Anecdotes from my ever-so-fascinating daily life; self-exploration exercises; book, movie, and music reviews; science; general editorial; etc - everything else is fair game.
Those are my three rules, the "how". Now, what about the "why"?
There are two big reasons. The first is that over the past few months, I have intermittently been depressed. More depressed than I can remember being for several years. The cause appears to be a family situation that upset me a lot, and made me feel things that I thought were over and done forever. To finally move beyond this, I need to do a better job of knowing myself and understanding root causes, airing the problems to expose paths to solutions. That's part of what I want to do here - basically talk some of my problems out. I have neither the time nor the money for therapy, I am skeptical it would really work, and I certainly do not want to get involved with medication.
The second part is that I'm a frustrated writer who feels on the brink of finally achieving something worthwhile. To be more specific, I've been doing background research for a novel for about 10 months now. In fact, my background research file is long enough to constitute a novel in and of itself (except it's not fiction, and probably incoherent to anyone but me). I am excited about the novel and think it will be a success (this doesn't mean I think I will quickly sell it for a huge sum of money and instantly become the next Philip Roth - it means I think I'll be happy with the final product and, like this blog, I am doing it for me).
I see myself as ready to start writing the novel very soon, and intuitively this would seem like the worst time to set up a blog or anything else that might serve as a distraction. Yet, I am concerned about maintaining momentum once I start writing. With work, the commute, and all else in my life, I am very busy and often don't make time to write. I want to ensure that I write just about every day, be it the novel, something else, or a little of both. I need an alternative outlet so that I can't easily skip writing by just telling myself I don't feel up to tackling the novel that day. I do have the time - I just need to stop spending it playing Internet checkers and watching my Sopranos DVDs over and over again. And I have the strong feeling that my novel will stall or even fail if it becomes a weekend project.
So that's why I'm here, and what this blog is going to be about. We'll see if it works.
Rule #1: This blog is anonymous. Besides perhaps my SO, no one will know who I am. Effort must be made so that in the extremely unlikely event that someone who reads this actually cares enough to want to try to find out who I am, they will fail. Therefore, my places of work (current and former) will not be listed, all names will be changed or withheld, and I will not blog from work or check my blog from work. I will not link to other blogs or try to get other blogs to link to me. Rule #1 is important because it allows for Rule #2.
Rule #2: This blog is a no-bullshit zone. If I cannot be honest here, then this thing is pointless. Surely some things are better left private, and indeed I am a fairly private person (at least by contemporary standards) but experience has shown me that a personal journal doesn't motivate me to write the way a potential audience does. So on one hand I don't give a flying fuck at the moon if anyone reads this - but on the other, the possibility that someone might is motivating. Go figure that.
Rule #3: This blog has no theme. Everything is fair game, though I expect posting about work to be minimal. General career angst is OK (and expect to see some posts about it), but specific work situations are probably not. I don't foresee a problem holding to this. Anecdotes from my ever-so-fascinating daily life; self-exploration exercises; book, movie, and music reviews; science; general editorial; etc - everything else is fair game.
Those are my three rules, the "how". Now, what about the "why"?
There are two big reasons. The first is that over the past few months, I have intermittently been depressed. More depressed than I can remember being for several years. The cause appears to be a family situation that upset me a lot, and made me feel things that I thought were over and done forever. To finally move beyond this, I need to do a better job of knowing myself and understanding root causes, airing the problems to expose paths to solutions. That's part of what I want to do here - basically talk some of my problems out. I have neither the time nor the money for therapy, I am skeptical it would really work, and I certainly do not want to get involved with medication.
The second part is that I'm a frustrated writer who feels on the brink of finally achieving something worthwhile. To be more specific, I've been doing background research for a novel for about 10 months now. In fact, my background research file is long enough to constitute a novel in and of itself (except it's not fiction, and probably incoherent to anyone but me). I am excited about the novel and think it will be a success (this doesn't mean I think I will quickly sell it for a huge sum of money and instantly become the next Philip Roth - it means I think I'll be happy with the final product and, like this blog, I am doing it for me).
I see myself as ready to start writing the novel very soon, and intuitively this would seem like the worst time to set up a blog or anything else that might serve as a distraction. Yet, I am concerned about maintaining momentum once I start writing. With work, the commute, and all else in my life, I am very busy and often don't make time to write. I want to ensure that I write just about every day, be it the novel, something else, or a little of both. I need an alternative outlet so that I can't easily skip writing by just telling myself I don't feel up to tackling the novel that day. I do have the time - I just need to stop spending it playing Internet checkers and watching my Sopranos DVDs over and over again. And I have the strong feeling that my novel will stall or even fail if it becomes a weekend project.
So that's why I'm here, and what this blog is going to be about. We'll see if it works.
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