The earliest friendship I can remember ended when I was 4. Katie B. Our families lived down the street from each other in Sacramento. Our families had been close for two generations. My mom had been friends with all the B brothers, growing up with them in Palo Alto in the 50s. They had children which mirrored ours in age. Katie was my double. She had white blonde hair, and had a huge smile. Honestly, I don't remember have many distinct memories of our friendship, but I remember two things clearly. First, I remember sitting on the steps outside our side door, eating homemade orange juice Popsicles and laughing together in the hot sun. The second was just how happy I was when I knew I was going to have a play date with her.
Then one day, it was over. As we were finishing our play date, my mom said something like, "Ok, let's give Katie a big good-bye. She's moving, so this is the last time she'll be coming over." I can't say that as a 4 year old I can remember a sense of loss at the time. At that point, the concept of time and never hadn't really sunk in yet, so I the finality of that statement didn't create a lasting impression. But what I do remember is wanting to have more of those times of eating Popsicles on the steps. I never had to worry about being picked on with Katie (a fact of life, as the youngest of 5 children), or put down in order to raise herself up (which happened far too often with my particular set of childhood 'friends').
Over the next few years, this pattern of repeated multiple time. A stream of happy moments of friendship, cut off by the decision of the friends' parents to move.
Alex lived in the house behind us. Our parents had a section of our shared fence cut out, replaced by a gate which made it easier to visit each other. That gate was rarely used. Just for a year. After his sixth birthday, it was time to say goodbye. 30 years later, and the gate is still there, though barely visible through the overgrowth. It sits there unused, except to remind me of another lost friend on my visits to my parents' house.
Usually when something bad happens to you repeatedly, you kind of get
used to it, and learn to adjust. Normally, the emotional response is
worst the first time it happens, and then coping mechanisms kick in on
subsequent occasions. That wasn't the case for me for friends who moved.
I barely noticed Katie's move. When Alex moved, it hit a little harder. Then Bryan in second grade. Adam, Eric, John, James. They began to hurt, and hurt bad. A pattern was established in my mind, and each time it happened again, it brought up the pain of the previous ones. It compounded and got worse.
When I was 10, we had a German exchange student, Florian, stay with us for a semester. He was 16, the same age as my older brother. He was supposed to be my brother's friend -- after all my brother would stay with his family later in the year. But the thing is, I think I spent more time with him than he did when he was at our house. My brother was busy all the time with sports, activities, and studying. Too busy to play games with Florian. Too busy to play laser tag with him. Too busy to play endlessly on the Atari with him. Too busy to double bounce him on our backward trampoline, or admire his amazing artwork.
Over the fall months, I became good friends with Florian. His Euro tendencies to not shower or change clothes or do his hair like Val Kilmer didn't bother me. Not in the slightest. Florian brought a lightness to a household in serious need of a chill pill. He would mock my intense focus on beating the high score on video games. When I did get the high score, he would quickly take over the keyboard and type in and say "BigMac" in his euro manner that I just found hilarious.
It all ended so quickly. With this one, I knew it was going to end. Intellectually, there were no surprises. He was due to go home end of January, and he went home end of January. I don't think Florian really considered me that much of a friend. I'm not sure I would have ever listed him as a friend. But something about this one just made me crack. I cried. No, I bawled. No one understood it. They all looked at me like I was having a heart attack or something. So I just ran to the bathroom and shut the door. I didn't come out for dinner, and I didn't come out to go to bed. Eventually I fell asleep on the floor, exhausted by my mourning.
Years later, I can see that these experiences have had a devastating effect on my ability to develop strong relationships. Friendship to me meant eventual pain.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Dawn
I look back on the Decembers of my childhood with fondness. My parents went above and beyond to make the Christmas experience exceptional. As the fifth of 5, and born when my parents were both ~40, my parents were old hands at the routine by the time I came around.
My mom had this beautifully crafted felt advent calendar. The calendar itself was red, with the Christmas tree covering the top two thirds of the calendar. The bottom third was occupied by three rows of numbers: 1-8, 9-16, and 17-24. Behind each number was a small pouch, pinned shut with a mystery decoration for the tree. Each morning the kids would rotate opening that pouch and pinning the ornament to the tree. I remember standing in front of that calendar for long minutes, counting the total number of days I got to open the pouch throughout the month.
A few days before Christmas, we would drive down from Sacramento to Palo Alto, where our grandparents lived, and spend a day there. They had a small backyard with a croquet set, and an archery set which we could use at the local elementary school down the street. So the days spent there weren't as boring as you might imagine. Even without those distractions, I still looked forward to the visits. My grandmother made truly delicious food. Her specialty were crescent rolls and lightly frosted cinnamon bread. When it was time for dinner, other relatives who lived in the area came over, and I remember several years eating with distant cousins in the living room on a small fold-up card table. It was great.
There were other traditions. On Christmas Eve we moved on down to San Ramon and spent the day at my aunts house, and experience yet more tasty food. We would drive back home that night, making it a bit easier to fall asleep.
I imagine our Christmas mornings were similar to those of many children. We would wake up with anticipation, but then had to sit in our rooms and wait for Dad to 'turn off the alarm'. For years, our Dad had successfully threatened us that on Christmas Eve, he turned on some sort of supped up alarm, in which secret invisible lasers in our main hallway were activated, and would cause a neighborhood panic if they went off.
But one year -- 1984 -- it didn't work. My brothers were convinced that we were getting some wonderful present that was far better than anything we had seen before. So eventually they eased my fears of tripping the invisible alarm, and coaxed me into checking out our loot before my parents woke up.
I was able to make it through the hallway ok, but as I neared the family room, ie the treasure room, I became nervous about the creaking floorboards. My parents room was just down the way from where I stood, and I nearly lost my nerve. But I told myself that I had come this far -- let's finish it. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I opened the giant twin doors to the family room, and crept inside.
It was still pretty dark, and I didn't dare turn on the light. But I definitely saw something that would interest them. Something pretty rad (as we said then). What I told them was that it was an awesome new TV. It had a big screen, but wasn't giant like normal TVs. But the strange thing about this TV was that there were other things connected to it: two big plastic boxes, and a typewriter.
My older brothers looked at me with a look of gleeful derision. "That's not a TV," they laughed, "that's a Commodore."
My mom had this beautifully crafted felt advent calendar. The calendar itself was red, with the Christmas tree covering the top two thirds of the calendar. The bottom third was occupied by three rows of numbers: 1-8, 9-16, and 17-24. Behind each number was a small pouch, pinned shut with a mystery decoration for the tree. Each morning the kids would rotate opening that pouch and pinning the ornament to the tree. I remember standing in front of that calendar for long minutes, counting the total number of days I got to open the pouch throughout the month.
A few days before Christmas, we would drive down from Sacramento to Palo Alto, where our grandparents lived, and spend a day there. They had a small backyard with a croquet set, and an archery set which we could use at the local elementary school down the street. So the days spent there weren't as boring as you might imagine. Even without those distractions, I still looked forward to the visits. My grandmother made truly delicious food. Her specialty were crescent rolls and lightly frosted cinnamon bread. When it was time for dinner, other relatives who lived in the area came over, and I remember several years eating with distant cousins in the living room on a small fold-up card table. It was great.
There were other traditions. On Christmas Eve we moved on down to San Ramon and spent the day at my aunts house, and experience yet more tasty food. We would drive back home that night, making it a bit easier to fall asleep.
I imagine our Christmas mornings were similar to those of many children. We would wake up with anticipation, but then had to sit in our rooms and wait for Dad to 'turn off the alarm'. For years, our Dad had successfully threatened us that on Christmas Eve, he turned on some sort of supped up alarm, in which secret invisible lasers in our main hallway were activated, and would cause a neighborhood panic if they went off.
But one year -- 1984 -- it didn't work. My brothers were convinced that we were getting some wonderful present that was far better than anything we had seen before. So eventually they eased my fears of tripping the invisible alarm, and coaxed me into checking out our loot before my parents woke up.
I was able to make it through the hallway ok, but as I neared the family room, ie the treasure room, I became nervous about the creaking floorboards. My parents room was just down the way from where I stood, and I nearly lost my nerve. But I told myself that I had come this far -- let's finish it. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I opened the giant twin doors to the family room, and crept inside.
It was still pretty dark, and I didn't dare turn on the light. But I definitely saw something that would interest them. Something pretty rad (as we said then). What I told them was that it was an awesome new TV. It had a big screen, but wasn't giant like normal TVs. But the strange thing about this TV was that there were other things connected to it: two big plastic boxes, and a typewriter.
My older brothers looked at me with a look of gleeful derision. "That's not a TV," they laughed, "that's a Commodore."
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Shame
Nothing can better describe my early association with the Mormon Church as the regular routine of going to Church each Sunday. There are three distinct services that take place each Sunday. The first part is the Sacrament Service, which takes place in the chapel, and in which everyone in the local congregation gathers to pray, sing hymns, listen to announcements, and listen to three 10 minute talks given by regular members. The next part is Sunday School: classes are divided by age and experience, and instruction is given by lay members called to teach the class. The third part is different depending on your age and sex: Priesthood for boys & men over 12 yrs, Primary for children, Young Womens for teenage girls, and Relief Society for grown women. This last service is basically a second session of Sunday School, with emphasis given to the specific responsibilities for Priesthood holders or the women of the Church.
It used to be that each of these services were done separately -- everyone would gather for Sacrament Service, and then go home, and then come back later in the day for Sunday School. I think -- but am not sure -- that Priesthood/Primary/YM/RS was given during the week sometime. But at some point before I became self aware, it was changed to a "block schedule", and all three hours were done after another.
Going to church for three hours each Sunday is basically torture for small children with lots of energy. I suppose that we got used to it, and by the time I was 8 or so, it didn't seem so bad. And in between each hour we got to get up and move to another room. But I remember as a small child hating being dressed up in Sunday clothes. And I remember sitting through Sacrament meeting -- where "reverence" was the most prized attribute one could have -- trying to think of anything that would pass the time. Drawing on paper, drawing on my brothers' backs, playing tic-tac-toe, playing footsies. Whatever. I suppose I never thought of acting out so that my parents would have to take me out of the room of reverence. Other kids certainly pulled that one off.
So when something happened that was unexpected -- even just something small -- it was enough to rouse excitement in my young, bored, mind. In one particular case, a severely handicapped person got up to bear his testimony (the first Sunday of each month is reserved for "Fast and Testimony Sacrament Meeting, which replaces the normal talks with an allowance for anyone to come up and bear their testimony of the Gospel and of the Church). Although time has worn away some of the details, what I remember is an older man struggling down the aisle and up the steps to the podium. I remember his awkward and strained breathing patterns once they hit the microphone. I remember him struggling for breath. So as he began to talk, I was already perked up, ready for something strange and funny to happen.
When he started to speak in his extremely awkward, broken voice, I couldn't help myself anymore. I burst out laughing. Laughing like I never have before. Even though something inside me told me this was not the correct response, I had been taken over by the giggle bug. Almost immediately, my 4 older siblings took me to the floor and cover my mouth. But still, the scar that one caused is permanent.
It used to be that each of these services were done separately -- everyone would gather for Sacrament Service, and then go home, and then come back later in the day for Sunday School. I think -- but am not sure -- that Priesthood/Primary/YM/RS was given during the week sometime. But at some point before I became self aware, it was changed to a "block schedule", and all three hours were done after another.
Going to church for three hours each Sunday is basically torture for small children with lots of energy. I suppose that we got used to it, and by the time I was 8 or so, it didn't seem so bad. And in between each hour we got to get up and move to another room. But I remember as a small child hating being dressed up in Sunday clothes. And I remember sitting through Sacrament meeting -- where "reverence" was the most prized attribute one could have -- trying to think of anything that would pass the time. Drawing on paper, drawing on my brothers' backs, playing tic-tac-toe, playing footsies. Whatever. I suppose I never thought of acting out so that my parents would have to take me out of the room of reverence. Other kids certainly pulled that one off.
So when something happened that was unexpected -- even just something small -- it was enough to rouse excitement in my young, bored, mind. In one particular case, a severely handicapped person got up to bear his testimony (the first Sunday of each month is reserved for "Fast and Testimony Sacrament Meeting, which replaces the normal talks with an allowance for anyone to come up and bear their testimony of the Gospel and of the Church). Although time has worn away some of the details, what I remember is an older man struggling down the aisle and up the steps to the podium. I remember his awkward and strained breathing patterns once they hit the microphone. I remember him struggling for breath. So as he began to talk, I was already perked up, ready for something strange and funny to happen.
When he started to speak in his extremely awkward, broken voice, I couldn't help myself anymore. I burst out laughing. Laughing like I never have before. Even though something inside me told me this was not the correct response, I had been taken over by the giggle bug. Almost immediately, my 4 older siblings took me to the floor and cover my mouth. But still, the scar that one caused is permanent.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Why
I've got to make this one work.
Over the last several years, I've made several failed attempts at keeping a regular online journal via Blogger. Well, kind of. I've only published a handful of posts beyond the ones used to post pictures of my kids and family for others to see. I even aborted that project once I had the bright idea of using Facebook to post photos and random posts because Facebook is where people go. But then I realized that every time I was about to post something to Facebook, I feel stupid for posting it, and usually just cancelled it. One time, my post expressed a political opinion which in retrospect I thought inappropriate; another would make a joke that half my friends wouldn't understand; and anytime I mentioned anything relating to my religion, I get that nagging sensation, knowing my non-Mormon friends might be turned off. Soon I was even having second thoughts about posting mundane stuff that wasn't thought out very well and sounded stupid in hindsight. Eventually I just stopped altogether -- in almost every case when I was going to post, there was some portion of my 'friends' who I didn't want to receive my post. Maybe there's a way to set up Facebook to easily post things that can only be seen by certain friends. Honestly though, I just don't trust Mark Zuckerberg. It feels like his mission is to make everyone's personal life open to everyone. I for one have certainly learned tons of personal stuff about people on Facebook who aren't my 'friends' -- I'm not going to make the same mistake.
So now I don't post anything, anywhere. My current solution that I'll go with is to make this blog anonymous. Of course that probably means that no one will actually read the blog, but that's not really my concern. The goal of this blog is to basically put to words what's in my heart. I don't spend lots of time feeling sorry for myself, but after thinking on it for 30+ years, I've concluded that I'm an extraordinarily misunderstood person. There isn't a soul on earth who really understands what I'm about, family included. It's not for lack of trying, though it's likely that I haven't tried hard enough. But that isn't to say I haven't tried. It's more like I've come to be skeptical of my ability to accurate express myself when talking to others, and most people aren't interested enough in me to be curious enough to dig past the surface.
So now I take a deep breath, take a vow to see this through, and do my best to be understood.
Over the last several years, I've made several failed attempts at keeping a regular online journal via Blogger. Well, kind of. I've only published a handful of posts beyond the ones used to post pictures of my kids and family for others to see. I even aborted that project once I had the bright idea of using Facebook to post photos and random posts because Facebook is where people go. But then I realized that every time I was about to post something to Facebook, I feel stupid for posting it, and usually just cancelled it. One time, my post expressed a political opinion which in retrospect I thought inappropriate; another would make a joke that half my friends wouldn't understand; and anytime I mentioned anything relating to my religion, I get that nagging sensation, knowing my non-Mormon friends might be turned off. Soon I was even having second thoughts about posting mundane stuff that wasn't thought out very well and sounded stupid in hindsight. Eventually I just stopped altogether -- in almost every case when I was going to post, there was some portion of my 'friends' who I didn't want to receive my post. Maybe there's a way to set up Facebook to easily post things that can only be seen by certain friends. Honestly though, I just don't trust Mark Zuckerberg. It feels like his mission is to make everyone's personal life open to everyone. I for one have certainly learned tons of personal stuff about people on Facebook who aren't my 'friends' -- I'm not going to make the same mistake.
So now I don't post anything, anywhere. My current solution that I'll go with is to make this blog anonymous. Of course that probably means that no one will actually read the blog, but that's not really my concern. The goal of this blog is to basically put to words what's in my heart. I don't spend lots of time feeling sorry for myself, but after thinking on it for 30+ years, I've concluded that I'm an extraordinarily misunderstood person. There isn't a soul on earth who really understands what I'm about, family included. It's not for lack of trying, though it's likely that I haven't tried hard enough. But that isn't to say I haven't tried. It's more like I've come to be skeptical of my ability to accurate express myself when talking to others, and most people aren't interested enough in me to be curious enough to dig past the surface.
So now I take a deep breath, take a vow to see this through, and do my best to be understood.
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