THE FINAL ASSIGNMENT (you gotta swear, not a word to Mom!)

BAGGAGE

My instructor said to “write a story about failing,” and there went my enjoyment of this class, straight down the tubes. I know this shouldn’t be all that difficult. So why is it I can’t think of a single thing to write about? Is it because I am just so special that I excel at everything I set my hand to? Oh good lord, if only! When I cried on my husband’s shoulder about the assignment, he comforted me with “Well, you can always write about the time you failed to complete the final assignment in your writing class.” Any normal person could easily pluck a dozen memories of failure from their head, so why not me? Probably because, in order to fail at something, one must first take a stab at it, and in my family, that was a very risky thing to do.

The one thing that has always flabbergasted me about my husband is his complete willingness to “make a fool of himself.” If he wants to participate in a golf tournament or join in on a baseball game, is he deterred by the fact that he is fairly lousy at both sports? Heck no! He jumps right in and has a great time. I could no more do that than I could get up on a stage buck naked. He is equally confused by my unwillingness to work my way through the learning curve on anything. If I can’t be fairly proficient right from the get-go, then forget about it. I never really understood it myself, and just figured it was a character flaw I was born with. Now I’m not so sure.

There is a blog I have discovered, called Eyes of Wonder. It is written by a woman with ten children, all home-schooled, and is mostly just photographs of their simple country life. There have been several occasions of late, when I have come across photos there of the parents or older siblings teaching one of the “littles” to sew a skirt for herself, or finger-knit, or bake some cookies, or ride a bike, and found myself with quivering lips and reddened eyes. Why on earth would the beatific smiles on those kid’s faces reduce me to tears? Don’t my siblings and I have plenty of great stories to tell about Dad teaching us to do stuff? For instance, everyone loves the story about the time when my brother got his first football. It wasn’t five minutes of tossing it around in the yard with Dad before he came running back into the house, face red with anger, and hid the ball away so he would never have to do it again! Oh, and what about the time Dad was teaching my older sister to drive? You should hear the way she describes how he grabbed hold of her ponytail, while screaming “I (yank) said (yank) stop!” (yank her head completely backwards). My personal favorite was the time I was foolish enough to ask him to take the training wheels off of my bike, and help me learn to ride without them. Unfortunately, I didn’t make sure he set that wrench down first, and I ended up getting rapped on the knuckles with it, every time I did something wrong.

So what about Mom? Why didn’t she take over the role of teacher, since Dad so obviously had not the temperament for it? She was an excellent seamstress, loved to bake, and was a much better driver than my father. Why was I never at her side, learning to do anything other than clean bathrooms or mop floors? Well, it was her “poor shattered nerves,” you know? Just the thought of being in a car, with one of us kids behind the wheel, would surely have caused her to take to her bed!

I suppose this explains some of why I hate learning new things, but it’s not the entire picture. It didn’t take us long to realize we were better off just figuring stuff out on our own, but like any kid, we still yearned for someone to notice our accomplishments. Everyone comes to parenthood with their own set of baggage, and Dad certainly had his share. I can look back now and say he was probably doing the best job he could do, with the tools that he was given, but oh, the damage he could do with his words. He firmly believed that criticism was the only way to get a child to strive harder. “Look Dad! I shined your shoes for you!” “You call that a shine? Why didn’t you buff them properly?” “Guess what Dad? I got straight A’s!” “But you’re still in the regular old dummy class. Why can’t you get into accelerated?” “Dad, our choir is having a concert this weekend, if you and Mom want to come.” “Why did you join that choir? You know the one your sister was in is better.”

Once, when I was nine or ten, I was in a shop with my mom. I wandered around the corner from her, came across a little framed poster titled something like “A Father Is...,” and stopped to read it. I don’t remember exactly what it said, but it listed all the qualities of a good father, and talked about how a loving father would never belittle or ridicule his child. He would teach with praise and loving encouragement. When Mom came around the corner, I was standing there with tears streaming down my face. “What on earth is the matter?” she asked. “I wish someone could show that to Dad,” I replied, pointing to the poster. I think that poster planted a seed though - one that took decades to mature. I began to wonder if maybe I wasn’t really so terrible at everything after all. Maybe it was him, not me. I am just now, in mid-life, overcoming my fear of failure, but at least, thank God, I didn’t pass this particular piece of baggage along to my kids.

When my son was eleven or twelve, he wanted to learn how to mow the lawn. My folks came over one day, and I saw Dad eyeing the lawn critically. My son was not out of ear shot, so I quickly said, “Can you believe it, Dad? Your grandson volunteered to start mowing, all by himself!” “Do you call that mo...” Dad started to ask, but I grabbed his arm before he could finish, digging my fingers into his flesh. “Stop right there!” I said in a low, fierce voice. “That’s not how we do things around here. We are very proud of that kid’s efforts, so if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!” He stared at me for a moment with raised eyebrows, made some grumbling, harrumphing noises, then finally turned his head slightly, and begrudgingly tossed back, “Good job, son.” Now you see Dad? That really wasn’t so hard, was it?

* * *

Our instructor normally doesn't reply to our submissions for about 48 hours, but within minutes, I received this message: "Hello Becky, Okay, I've just given this a quick read-through, and I wanted to get back to you about it. I read the first paragraph and was so ????? -- oh dear, to think I'd made you cry?! But by the end I didn't care -- this is soooo good! If you had to shed a few tears to get this good, I can live with that. This is your authentic voice, this is a memoir. You're a good writer, but you have often written from a distance; this is up-close and personal. I am so pleased for you. Keep writing, Robin"

So...I've delved into the dark side. Hope you're happy. Don't expect a repeat any time soon. I suppose it was educational. Might explain why, the minute I start feeling like nothing that I do will ever satisfy a person or boss, I switch into bail-out mode, but if you show even the slightest appreciation for my efforts, I'm your willing slave forever! It might also explain why I can't abide anyone who finds humor in poking a finger at someone's (emotional) bruises. Still, I can't say I actually enjoyed this foray into being a "real" writer. In fact, I'm startin' to see why so many take to the bottle!

And don't forget, mum's the word!