Shoved to Them
A funny thing happens when you sit down to write the story of your life up ’til now, you actually have to think about your life up ’til now. You have to examine your own bad behavior, stare it square in the eye ball, and that of the people who impacted your life for the good and the bad. It’s amazing what happens when you add in the perspective of 20-something years, you gain a bit of insight.
The villains don’t look so villain-y (is that a word?) any longer. They look like women whose lives I never knew or understood. My mean and bossy aunt who swooped into my life in a time of turmoil, reproached me for being emotional, and demanded maturity and work from a spoiled 14 year old (I hated her), I now realize was just the no-nonsense mother of a passel of boys. Her life of farming, rodeo and football didn’t prepare her for the emotional neediness of a frightened teenage girl. Her life philosophy of “suck it up and move on” is one I now can relate to so well. It makes me a little sorry that I spent all that time being offended and not even a little bit learning her tenacity.
The grandmother I thought had abandoned me, who advised me to drop out of school and “just take care of my men” was not evil, she was speaking from her own life. She had stopped school halfway through the 3rd grade to work in the cotton fields because her family needed the additional income, it did not seem unreasonable to her for a girl-child to stop school in the 9th to keep house. What did a diploma mean to someone who was just going to get married and have babies? (No way! I was going to be an Egyptologist.)
Then there was the hero. I’ll admit to taking her actions for granted at the time, of course there would be someone to save me; I just never expected that she would be the one to do it. Glamorous and fun, never married and with no children of her own, I was a bit in awe of my father’s sister. When we saw her on holidays and birthdays, she would swoop into our house of sensible brown as a splash of vibrant color accented with sparkling laughter. Her presents were easy to spot on Christmas morning, covered in bows and glitter and done up with fantastic papers, they were a child’s fantasy of how presents should always be.
When my life was at its bleakest, its scariest and most desperate, she took me in. At the time, I never thought of the sacrifice it must have been. She cleaned out her guest room and made space in her life for an angry, nasty 15 year old me. Her friends must have advised her against it, and it must have been terribly hard, but she never showed it to me. Instead, she taught me all she knew about life. Important lessons about jewelry (big), hair (it’s Texas, baby, tease it a bit higher there), stopping the mad rush of life for a mental health day, cheese dip makes a decent breakfast, walls should be a color, houses should be decorated deliberately not just happenstance, life should be fun, family should be fun, friends should be loyal and fun, and people should laugh. I had forgotten how to laugh. She reminded what it was to be a girl.
It’s funny what 20 years perspective will do for you. It smooths out the ruffled feathers which were a might bit too ruffled in the first place, and shines light on the quiet heroics that I wasn’t mature enough to fully comprehend. My only regret is that I didn’t have 20 years worth of hindsight 20 years ago.
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