Hello! As you may have noticed, the writing's slowed down here -- we are in the midst of a heavy rotation of back-to-back visitors. (Our friends and family know the best time to come to Seattle is in summer, when the sun is out.) We're nearly done with B&B duty, though, so please stay tuned for more!
Dinner is easier -- just family. Although this is the first time we've all been in this city together, most of us have visited my sister enough individually to have dined with her at the place she's chosen for this evening, one known for its seafood. We settle in at the table together, laid with heavy silverware and votive candles, as if we've been doing this for a lifetime.
In a way, we almost have. Fine dining -- whether it's while traveling or at my parents' house -- is what my father has come to enjoy, of very little else, in the last fifteen years, so this is what we do with him. He cites his busy hospital schedule as an excuse for his lack of hobbies. I look at Almost Dr. Sis, who'd usually rather be out -- alone or with friends -- than in on free afternoons and evenings, and know my father's limits are more a product of temperament than anything external.
I'm an admitted homebody. And maybe, just maybe, if I'd become a doctor myself, I would be, like my father, too exhausted to do more than eat. That I resemble him in many ways -- habits, aversions, quickness to anger -- has been undeniable all my life, as much as I've been dismayed as I've grown more and more aware of these similarities. On a scale of predictable to spontaneous, we both skew away from the impromptu and, as a result, miss out on the joys of surprise, happenstance, discovery. Or so I believe, when I see the tension in his small, dark eyes, which mirror my own, as a well-laid plan goes astray.
My father is also, more often than not, testy and demanding, intolerant of change or other people's differing opinions. When these tendencies are at their worst, he's able to clear the living room at home just by walking into it, each daughter conveniently finding a reason to disappear, if only because conversation among us is impossible -- too likely to invite a lecture or judgment from him, born of his need to be in control. Left alone, then, he dissolves into the couch cushions, remote in hand and laptop on his knees, lost to their steady stream of I'm not sure what for the rest of the night, save for our evening meal together. Even then, the news blares from across the room. We try to ignore it; he does not.
I see what he misses -- and what I miss -- because of who we are, and the fear that I will become him tightens around me like a straitjacket. It's irrational; I know I have a chance at a different life than he may ever have because I do see, do fear. Still, when I'm feeling frazzled or inflexible, I have to remind myself that I'm not my father's carbon copy, even as I resist and moderate the tendencies we share, perhaps more rigorously than necessary.
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5 comments:
This line really resonated with me: "I see what he misses -- and what I miss -- because of who we are, and the fear that I will become him tightens around me like a straitjacket." The tendencies I've inherited from my parents aren't the same, yet I too have to remind myself that I have my own path to forge, that the die isn't cast yet.
Sorry I have been such a lousy commenter of late. Needless to say, the wee ones are asking for lots of my attention these days, but it's good to be here today.
Recognizing similarities with a parent is a far cry from - as you say - becoming a carbon copy.
My mother was such a jumbled set of extremes - some highly admirable, and others, destructive beyond measure to herself and others. Elements of a personality that I will never understand, and even in death, her legacy chases me - at times.
I used to worry when I saw anything in myself that resembled her - and of course, there are aspects in which I am very much her daughter. But as I've grown older, I have come to realize that awareness, differing experiences, and my own choices all lead me far from her own dark place.
I think your awareness will take you to the reaches of your developing self, as will your choices. You are not the carbon copy of your father, and you need never be. But you can find the good in him with distance - that you choose to mirror.
Kristen -- glad you were able to stop by. I can imagine the demands on your time these days are many! And yes, it's hard to remember that we get to forge our own path, especially when imitating what we are familiar with is sometimes easier.
BLW -- awareness, differing experiences, and choice, YES! I hang on to these like worry beads. As for seeing the good and selective mirroring, that's where I'm hoping to head next in this writing :). I think it took these first few posts (and time) to get that requisite distance. (I could be wrong, though, so no promises ... I keep reminding myself it's an exploration, not a predetermined story.)
It's interesting and surprising to read that you are quick to anger. Your writing voice (and commenting voice) are so gentle and calm and reflective. And though I know what it's like to have undesirable family traits, it's hard for me to imagine being just like your father. He does not sounds like an introspective man, whereas as you are an introspective woman. And therein, I should think, lies the difference.
It's a difference I cherish, GEW. And yes, my writing and commenting voice is the reflective one -- a much slower to surface one -- that gets passed up by the quick-to-anger one that I have to keep from coming out of my mouth whenever painful emotions get stirred. (I guess it's like the difference between fast-twitch and slow-twitch muscles?) So the writing is the more measured form of processing the hard stuff or thinking about what others say or do. I think my writing voice is the one I'd like to aim for in my spoken interactions, though I miss the mark regularly! I am a s-l-o-w processor, so even when I do manage to suppress the temper, I don't often have enough insight on what's upsetting me to produce a measured response in conversational time. I make interesting faces, I imagine, in those moments ... ?
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