This long weekend I will be spending my annual "Foundation Day" with my daughter and my dad at the Association Cup for Netball W.A.. My girl will play about 6 or 7 games over the course of the three days (depending upon whether her team gets into the final or not) and then she and I will spend the evenings at my dad's flat as he cooks her her favourite high-carb hot meals and spoils her silly with custard and mini Magnum ice-creams with crushed almond coating.
It's a weekend to which I always look forward, as the weather is always beautiful with winter sunshine and its carefree ambiance, on the side-lines screaming for our team, and wandering around between games drinking coffee and reading on the grass, holds a great pleasure for me. Things I would normally worry about are whisked away that weekend and there is just me, my daughter and my dad to think of. And there are things to look forward to every hour - whether it be a tense and energetic match or that lovely feeling of the sun withdrawing its heat and the chill of early winter evening setting in, or the coming small joy of knowing you will soon be under a hot shower with a glass of wine waiting and a warm bed with your 79 year-old father cooking contentedly in his kitchen just for us.
He's been planning the menu for this weekend for weeks, I'll let you know. He is a chemist (or was) and his planning of meals is legendary. He still thinks of recipes as 'formulas' - which they are! He used to cook for his 98 year-old mother before she spent her final year in the nursing home. He would label every container and freeze them in batches for single meals and bought her a microwave to heat them (which she never used, instead preferring to thaw naturally and then heat in a saucepan). He is a wonderful cook and his specialities are minestrone, creamy pasta, the finest cuts of steak and fish, and an array of colourful Bulgarian salads.
I have been reflecting on how very fortunate I am to have both my parents still living and very much in our lives. They have been divorced since I was nine (my father left the family home when I was six) and the years have been turbulent and angst-ridden much of the time, with long periods of estrangement and confusion between me and my father. But we have something now that is truly lovely. It took effort and time and patience and long nights up talking and opening up to one another. But it's been worth it. One of the great sadnesses of my life is that my brothers do not share that same love with our father that he and I do. It's taken me most of my 42 years to realise that I cannot do anything about that fact, but learning to understand it has proved much more difficult.
So this weekend, as every Foundation Day weekend in June, I will spend it with my girl and my dad and I will not take for granted that I have both a beautiful, intense but warm-hearted daughter to watch play a sport she loves and to cheer her on as only a Tofu-hearted mother can; but also a beautiful, sweet, loving father whom I adore and dearly love in return.
There may not be many of these weekends left in the future for us but I have this one. And I only too well know that, as Robert Frost knew, "[Life] lives less in the present /Than in the future always,
And less in both together /Than in the past. The present /Is too much for the senses,/ Too crowding, too confusing—/Too present to imagine."
But I will try regardless.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
With gratitude to Philip Roth...
When Philip Roth wrote the following, I dog-eared the page and did what I always do when I find a moving or resonating passage; I wrote it down in my own handwriting to truly 'feel' the words on the page and, hopefully, have them somehow or other seep into my brain-cells and my sub-conscious and allow me to become a better writer. But it was more than that. It serves as a perfect prologue to this post as, last Friday, I did almost the exact same thing as Roth's "Everyman" narrator; I sat by the bones of my ancestors and "listen[ed] to them when they spoke."
"They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones, and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though proximity might link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing his future and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and a half, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all that mattered despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environment of decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn't not talk to them when they spoke. Between him and those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than now transpired between him and those still clad in their flesh. The flesh melts away but the bones endure. The bones were the only solace to one who put no stock in the afterlife and knew without a doubt that God was a fiction and this was the only life he'd have."
My brother died the year before I was born, when he was five. This means I was conceived in grief. I think there must be something to that as I have had, not only an affinity with cemeteries all my conscious life, but also a deeper need to explore the unknown and unknowable. That is not to say I am a believer in pseudo-science or the paranormal. I am a firm skeptic and have come to the conclusion that, apart from perhaps a physical energy-exchange, there is no 'passing' (that awful American euphemism) on to some other consciousness or place. At least no more consciousness than could be found in the sky or a 265, 000 year-old piece of granite. I suppose the philosophy that most interests me is existentialism (and the anxiety with which it is related).
How does this relate to being Tofu-hearted mother? In many ways. Firstly, I seem to have an inherent understanding that life is short and what you make of it. This means that I don't, when I can help it, over-emphasise the trivial. To me, it's the big things that matter - family, love, friendship, compassion, courage, forgiveness, loyalty and generosity. Pettiness and greed make me physically ill and I will retreat from unnecessary anger, self-centredness and spite. This doesn't, however, mean I will shy from a fair fight or from one based on justice and fairness when I need to. Secondly, I will always apologise when I have been in the wrong. And, thirdly, but probably most importantly as it intersects with my role as a mother, is the need to feel (like Atticus explains to Scout) that I have stood in another's shoes and walked around in them.
When I sat at my brother's graveside last Friday, all I could think about was my children and how close both they and I are to the little boy who we never met. The ripples in the pond that spread from such a death as that of a five year-old, cannot be underestimated. And I was overwhelmed by the events of last week and how my son, at thirteen, is still so close to being that little boy he was at five and the fears and tiny disappointments any child feels as part of growing up. I wanted to protect him in the way I couldn't protect my brother. It sounds crazy, I know, but that's kind of how I have felt all my life. What a thing to carry! What an effect it has had!
Having seen the effects of a death on an entire extended family (and on me), I couldn't help but reflect on how special the childhoods of humans are. That innocence is far more than the cliche it has become - in fact, it is everything when you really look at it. I am constantly torn between wanting to protect my children and wanting to set them free to learn their own lessons. I do not believe I am an over-protective mother; nor am I one who wishes to prevent them from feeling pain. My own pain has made me who I am and I would not wish to change anything that has given me pain. But it's always a fine line between that and knowing when to stand back and allow them to take their own stand against the world.
Last week, my son was verbally and physically attacked (not too badly) and he stood his ground and the perpetrators were punished. Whilst my own anxiety over the exchange was a catalyst to a weekend of deep melancholy (as happens and I know will pass), he did learn a few things about himself that are indispensable: when to stand your ground and when to let something go; when to know that your own actions or words have helped cause your current predicament; and when to seek help and when to see it through alone. All these things were spinning through my mind in that cemetery, and over my weekend, but the questions in my mind can never be fully answered as they are essentially unanswerable. They change with each day and each situation. All any of us can do is fill that shadow between action and reaction with the best of ourselves. Whether he did that or not is unknown. But I am pretty sure he tried.
I suppose part of me, in having children, has seen the opportunity to have my brother with me in some sense. To have the time over and this time make it last. I have always felt I owed it to him to be the best parent I could be - mistakes and all. I was never there when he lived, but my children have the 'miracle' that is life and I want them to always know how lucky they are to even be here, let alone living the life they have.
Roth's Everyman also speaks of the "tenderness [being] out of control. As was the longing for everyone to be living. And to have it all all over again." I understand this only too well. And as I sat at that grave-side and ran my hand over the weeping headstone that bears my name, along with my brothers, I felt exactly this longing. And for the first time I recognised the completeness of such a 'longing' and both the universality of it and the inherent privateness of it. To have it all over again is exactly the gift I have been offered. And to not realise that, nor to rejoice in the opportunity, would mean to be undeserving of such a tender gift.
"They were just bones, bones in a box, but their bones were his bones, and he stood as close to the bones as he could, as though proximity might link him up with them and mitigate the isolation born of losing his future and reconnect him with all that had gone. For the next hour and a half, those bones were the things that mattered most. They were all that mattered despite the impingement of the neglected cemetery's environment of decay. Once he was with those bones he could not leave them, couldn't not talk to them when they spoke. Between him and those bones there was a great deal going on, far more than now transpired between him and those still clad in their flesh. The flesh melts away but the bones endure. The bones were the only solace to one who put no stock in the afterlife and knew without a doubt that God was a fiction and this was the only life he'd have."
My brother died the year before I was born, when he was five. This means I was conceived in grief. I think there must be something to that as I have had, not only an affinity with cemeteries all my conscious life, but also a deeper need to explore the unknown and unknowable. That is not to say I am a believer in pseudo-science or the paranormal. I am a firm skeptic and have come to the conclusion that, apart from perhaps a physical energy-exchange, there is no 'passing' (that awful American euphemism) on to some other consciousness or place. At least no more consciousness than could be found in the sky or a 265, 000 year-old piece of granite. I suppose the philosophy that most interests me is existentialism (and the anxiety with which it is related).
How does this relate to being Tofu-hearted mother? In many ways. Firstly, I seem to have an inherent understanding that life is short and what you make of it. This means that I don't, when I can help it, over-emphasise the trivial. To me, it's the big things that matter - family, love, friendship, compassion, courage, forgiveness, loyalty and generosity. Pettiness and greed make me physically ill and I will retreat from unnecessary anger, self-centredness and spite. This doesn't, however, mean I will shy from a fair fight or from one based on justice and fairness when I need to. Secondly, I will always apologise when I have been in the wrong. And, thirdly, but probably most importantly as it intersects with my role as a mother, is the need to feel (like Atticus explains to Scout) that I have stood in another's shoes and walked around in them.
When I sat at my brother's graveside last Friday, all I could think about was my children and how close both they and I are to the little boy who we never met. The ripples in the pond that spread from such a death as that of a five year-old, cannot be underestimated. And I was overwhelmed by the events of last week and how my son, at thirteen, is still so close to being that little boy he was at five and the fears and tiny disappointments any child feels as part of growing up. I wanted to protect him in the way I couldn't protect my brother. It sounds crazy, I know, but that's kind of how I have felt all my life. What a thing to carry! What an effect it has had!
Having seen the effects of a death on an entire extended family (and on me), I couldn't help but reflect on how special the childhoods of humans are. That innocence is far more than the cliche it has become - in fact, it is everything when you really look at it. I am constantly torn between wanting to protect my children and wanting to set them free to learn their own lessons. I do not believe I am an over-protective mother; nor am I one who wishes to prevent them from feeling pain. My own pain has made me who I am and I would not wish to change anything that has given me pain. But it's always a fine line between that and knowing when to stand back and allow them to take their own stand against the world.
Last week, my son was verbally and physically attacked (not too badly) and he stood his ground and the perpetrators were punished. Whilst my own anxiety over the exchange was a catalyst to a weekend of deep melancholy (as happens and I know will pass), he did learn a few things about himself that are indispensable: when to stand your ground and when to let something go; when to know that your own actions or words have helped cause your current predicament; and when to seek help and when to see it through alone. All these things were spinning through my mind in that cemetery, and over my weekend, but the questions in my mind can never be fully answered as they are essentially unanswerable. They change with each day and each situation. All any of us can do is fill that shadow between action and reaction with the best of ourselves. Whether he did that or not is unknown. But I am pretty sure he tried.
I suppose part of me, in having children, has seen the opportunity to have my brother with me in some sense. To have the time over and this time make it last. I have always felt I owed it to him to be the best parent I could be - mistakes and all. I was never there when he lived, but my children have the 'miracle' that is life and I want them to always know how lucky they are to even be here, let alone living the life they have.
Roth's Everyman also speaks of the "tenderness [being] out of control. As was the longing for everyone to be living. And to have it all all over again." I understand this only too well. And as I sat at that grave-side and ran my hand over the weeping headstone that bears my name, along with my brothers, I felt exactly this longing. And for the first time I recognised the completeness of such a 'longing' and both the universality of it and the inherent privateness of it. To have it all over again is exactly the gift I have been offered. And to not realise that, nor to rejoice in the opportunity, would mean to be undeserving of such a tender gift.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Save-a-Mate
The other day I wasn't working and so I took a trip back through memory lane to the place I used to live a few years ago when the kids were small. I wandered around the suburb and the new shops and passed our old house and saw all the changes that have happened in the area.
I drove past the kids' old primary school and the pre-primary centre and imagined my children when they were little, playing in the playground and finger-painting at the old playgroup they attended where I used to be president and occasional play-leader.
It was both melancholic and sweet to remember those moments when the children were so little that their arms were still squishy with baby-fat and their fair hair soft and wispy under my touch. It's bittersweet because they are teenagers now and I have to stop in my tracks and form the image of those memories in my head before they come to me consciously.
They come to me in my dreams, though. In my reminiscences, those days were carefree and sunny with a light breeze blowing softly on my skin whilst I walked with the kids in a double pram to the shops: whilst I sat in the front yard of our rented fibro cottage and watched them play in their little sand-pit or help them shape the vibrant fuchsia play-dough that I had cooked up earlier in the week.
Of course the days were not truly like that, but, in my memory, enough were to make this image the strongest one in my mind when I close my eyes and think back; or when, as I did on that work-free day last week, catch myself day-dreaming about times and moments passed.
It was with these honey-sweet memories in my head that I was called over by the Red Cross volunteer at the new shopping centre that was built on a park in my old neighbourhood. I knew I had no money to give to a new cause. My husband and I had recently given up sponsoring two children in Equador and Guatamala due to the high cost of living here in Australia and the financial needs of raising two teenagers. But I went over anyway to give my support to the young volunteer as, having volunteered my time for both Amnesty International and Greenpeace in my own youth, I felt that even verbal and emotional support was better than nothing (and the fact that my middle class guilt gets me every time).
It turns out it was a new initiative for rural areas (particuarly) that the Red Cross had set up called Save-a-Mate (S.A.M). It is for young people at risk of suicide, mental health issues, drugs and alcohol who need a friendly voice or a helping hand to get them through the tough times. It turns out that, not only is youth suicide at a shocking high - especially in rural towns and farms where there is little contact with means of support - but also that the help-lines that have been set up for kids to call are not being utilised nearly as much as the organisers of those help-lines would like. Kids are not phoning the support agencies and they are still hurting themselves regardless.
So the Save-a-Mate initiative allows youth workers and volunteers to ring these kids themselves to see how they are going and to help them in any number of ways. If you know of a friend who is in need of support, you can give the Red Cross their name and they will add them to their support list. Hopefully it will save lives and hearts. But, of course, as with all things, it takes money.
I ended up signing to give only a small portion of my monthly salary to S.A.M. but it's all I can afford at the moment. My own son has been through a hell of a time recently and he has loving, supportive parents, a warm house, nutritious food and lots of opportunity for cuddles and acceptance for the unique person he is. There are hundreds and thousands of teenagers and young adults in this country that have no one and nothing to rely on. And , if they do have a family and friends, they may be feeling as though they can't truly be themselves for the fear of having their humanity negated or their special sense of themselves and their place in the world no longer nurtured.
I am giving to S.A.M for that anonymous kid out there, in the privileged country I've grown up in, to feel accepted and loved - even if they never know where it's coming from.
I drove past the kids' old primary school and the pre-primary centre and imagined my children when they were little, playing in the playground and finger-painting at the old playgroup they attended where I used to be president and occasional play-leader.
It was both melancholic and sweet to remember those moments when the children were so little that their arms were still squishy with baby-fat and their fair hair soft and wispy under my touch. It's bittersweet because they are teenagers now and I have to stop in my tracks and form the image of those memories in my head before they come to me consciously.
They come to me in my dreams, though. In my reminiscences, those days were carefree and sunny with a light breeze blowing softly on my skin whilst I walked with the kids in a double pram to the shops: whilst I sat in the front yard of our rented fibro cottage and watched them play in their little sand-pit or help them shape the vibrant fuchsia play-dough that I had cooked up earlier in the week.
Of course the days were not truly like that, but, in my memory, enough were to make this image the strongest one in my mind when I close my eyes and think back; or when, as I did on that work-free day last week, catch myself day-dreaming about times and moments passed.
It was with these honey-sweet memories in my head that I was called over by the Red Cross volunteer at the new shopping centre that was built on a park in my old neighbourhood. I knew I had no money to give to a new cause. My husband and I had recently given up sponsoring two children in Equador and Guatamala due to the high cost of living here in Australia and the financial needs of raising two teenagers. But I went over anyway to give my support to the young volunteer as, having volunteered my time for both Amnesty International and Greenpeace in my own youth, I felt that even verbal and emotional support was better than nothing (and the fact that my middle class guilt gets me every time).
It turns out it was a new initiative for rural areas (particuarly) that the Red Cross had set up called Save-a-Mate (S.A.M). It is for young people at risk of suicide, mental health issues, drugs and alcohol who need a friendly voice or a helping hand to get them through the tough times. It turns out that, not only is youth suicide at a shocking high - especially in rural towns and farms where there is little contact with means of support - but also that the help-lines that have been set up for kids to call are not being utilised nearly as much as the organisers of those help-lines would like. Kids are not phoning the support agencies and they are still hurting themselves regardless.
So the Save-a-Mate initiative allows youth workers and volunteers to ring these kids themselves to see how they are going and to help them in any number of ways. If you know of a friend who is in need of support, you can give the Red Cross their name and they will add them to their support list. Hopefully it will save lives and hearts. But, of course, as with all things, it takes money.
I ended up signing to give only a small portion of my monthly salary to S.A.M. but it's all I can afford at the moment. My own son has been through a hell of a time recently and he has loving, supportive parents, a warm house, nutritious food and lots of opportunity for cuddles and acceptance for the unique person he is. There are hundreds and thousands of teenagers and young adults in this country that have no one and nothing to rely on. And , if they do have a family and friends, they may be feeling as though they can't truly be themselves for the fear of having their humanity negated or their special sense of themselves and their place in the world no longer nurtured.
I am giving to S.A.M for that anonymous kid out there, in the privileged country I've grown up in, to feel accepted and loved - even if they never know where it's coming from.
Friday, May 18, 2012
"Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today."
My son has just gone off to his fourth day at his new high-school. And he seems like a new kid.
He has somehow 'lightened' over the past three days and, even though it was difficult starting at a new school at 13 (and halfway through the term), he seems to be thriving there.
He has made new friends and re-connected with old ones. The girls seem to like him and he's having fun. He even enjoyed sport this week which is unusual for him. The class was small and more relaxed and no one was 'watching' him like he felt they were before. He has always hated being watched. As a little boy of three years, we took him to play a little soccer at our local oval with other three year-olds all kicking the ball and running amok. He hated it because everyone was 'watching' him. We couldn't understand it because, in truth, we were the only ones watching him; all the other parents only had eyes for their kids. But he wouldn't participate and so we let it go.
Funnily enough, in grade three, he took up netball! A sport that is often associated with girls was perfect for him because it is truly a team game; as you can't run with the ball but only pivot on one foot, you must rely on your other team-members to achieve a goal. He didn't care what the other boys said about him for playing a traditionally 'girls' game; he said, I just want to play. And play he did - until he turned 13 and wasn't allowed to play on a mixed team any more.
He also persevered with basketball but it was tough going as he's not a naturally aggressive person and likes to share. But he stuck at it throughout the summers (netball is a winter sport here in Australia) and gradually grew taller and stronger than most of his team-mates and started to thrive on the court and on the competition. It was wonderful to see the evolution of his abilities and his father and I were there to cheer him on every week.
But last year and this year at his old school, he was forced to swim and he hated it. He's never been a strong swimmer and getting into your bathers and thrashing around in front of kids who love to give you shit already, was not something that endeared him to the pool or the subject of Physical Education on the whole. He ended up not taking his bathers and getting detentions. And when he was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive and Tic Disorder, he became a little obsessed with being 'watched' again. He got all worked up over the sport aspect of school, although he still seemed to enjoy long jump. Teenagers find the whole idea of others looking at them problematic at the best of times; it's a natural and normal part of growing up and being obsessed with 'self'. But he took it further than most and it seemed to compound all his other fears and slipped over into his academics.
Anyway, this week has been great. He seems to have really come into his own. Having a relaxed uniform helps - no stupid tie or belt or blazer and no silly regulations about rolling up the sleeves etc. Also, no prayers or religion classes has also helped! He looks good in his new uniform but he looks relaxed and comfortable. He feels as though he can be himself for the first time in ages. He's doing well so far in the academic stream and, although he has had no homework as yet, I have every confidence that he will be more organised and more willing to complete his tasks without being hounded by me. Not that I am into 'hounding'; as a high school teacher myself and used to motivating teenagers to read and put pen to paper and think on a daily and hourly basis, I was never really into coming home to my little nest and having to motivate my own children! My patience was pretty-much used up from the day's efforts already.
So this has been, for now anyway, a story with a happy ending. Of course, being a teacher of language and literature and cultural and media studies, I know there is no such thing. Life goes on like a series of bumps and ditches - unlike a traditional narrative with its climax and denouement. But for now I am going to enjoy the fact that we won this little battle and that my husband and I have been the best parents we know how to be. That, of course, doesn't mean we are always good parents (I especially am not always a great mother - believe me!) But we will celebrate the fact that today we were. And that's all any of us can ever do.
To quote the Victorian novelist Samuel Butler, "Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day."
He has somehow 'lightened' over the past three days and, even though it was difficult starting at a new school at 13 (and halfway through the term), he seems to be thriving there.
He has made new friends and re-connected with old ones. The girls seem to like him and he's having fun. He even enjoyed sport this week which is unusual for him. The class was small and more relaxed and no one was 'watching' him like he felt they were before. He has always hated being watched. As a little boy of three years, we took him to play a little soccer at our local oval with other three year-olds all kicking the ball and running amok. He hated it because everyone was 'watching' him. We couldn't understand it because, in truth, we were the only ones watching him; all the other parents only had eyes for their kids. But he wouldn't participate and so we let it go.
Funnily enough, in grade three, he took up netball! A sport that is often associated with girls was perfect for him because it is truly a team game; as you can't run with the ball but only pivot on one foot, you must rely on your other team-members to achieve a goal. He didn't care what the other boys said about him for playing a traditionally 'girls' game; he said, I just want to play. And play he did - until he turned 13 and wasn't allowed to play on a mixed team any more.
He also persevered with basketball but it was tough going as he's not a naturally aggressive person and likes to share. But he stuck at it throughout the summers (netball is a winter sport here in Australia) and gradually grew taller and stronger than most of his team-mates and started to thrive on the court and on the competition. It was wonderful to see the evolution of his abilities and his father and I were there to cheer him on every week.
But last year and this year at his old school, he was forced to swim and he hated it. He's never been a strong swimmer and getting into your bathers and thrashing around in front of kids who love to give you shit already, was not something that endeared him to the pool or the subject of Physical Education on the whole. He ended up not taking his bathers and getting detentions. And when he was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive and Tic Disorder, he became a little obsessed with being 'watched' again. He got all worked up over the sport aspect of school, although he still seemed to enjoy long jump. Teenagers find the whole idea of others looking at them problematic at the best of times; it's a natural and normal part of growing up and being obsessed with 'self'. But he took it further than most and it seemed to compound all his other fears and slipped over into his academics.
Anyway, this week has been great. He seems to have really come into his own. Having a relaxed uniform helps - no stupid tie or belt or blazer and no silly regulations about rolling up the sleeves etc. Also, no prayers or religion classes has also helped! He looks good in his new uniform but he looks relaxed and comfortable. He feels as though he can be himself for the first time in ages. He's doing well so far in the academic stream and, although he has had no homework as yet, I have every confidence that he will be more organised and more willing to complete his tasks without being hounded by me. Not that I am into 'hounding'; as a high school teacher myself and used to motivating teenagers to read and put pen to paper and think on a daily and hourly basis, I was never really into coming home to my little nest and having to motivate my own children! My patience was pretty-much used up from the day's efforts already.
So this has been, for now anyway, a story with a happy ending. Of course, being a teacher of language and literature and cultural and media studies, I know there is no such thing. Life goes on like a series of bumps and ditches - unlike a traditional narrative with its climax and denouement. But for now I am going to enjoy the fact that we won this little battle and that my husband and I have been the best parents we know how to be. That, of course, doesn't mean we are always good parents (I especially am not always a great mother - believe me!) But we will celebrate the fact that today we were. And that's all any of us can ever do.
To quote the Victorian novelist Samuel Butler, "Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day."
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The last 36 hours
It's been a rough road the last 36 hours. My son was hoping to change schools and we, as a family, had been working towards a smooth transition and a new start. But being Tofu-Hearted Mother, these things are always difficult.
Saturday night I had four boys over at my house and I made a huge meal of free-range pork chops, vegies, roasted potatoes and garlic bread - and a chocolate cake to finish. I bought a few packets of chips and let the boys out on the street (we live in a little village in the hills) to talk and ride around on their long-boards.
I set up the back room for them with the pull-out couch and mattresses and blankets and I felt a real sense of happiness that I was helping to make my son's life just that little bit easier by doing it. These were his good friends and all lovely boys who are caring and fun and a little alternative. One of the boys was a former student of mine and he goes to the school my son is starting at. The others are from various schools but they all love the same music and have the same ideas about life.
One of the boys has a gay father and the others are understanding and sensitive to this. They still rib each other about being 'gay', but they also know it's all just jokes. They showed interest in attending the next "Rally for Marriage Equality" in August and I said, if their parents were okay with it, I would take them.
On Sunday night, things changed. My son received a series of harassing face book posts calling him a 'fag' and a 'faggot' and threatening him and commenting on his 'twig-thin' body (which is far from the truth - he's actually quite muscular under that shirt!). These were received on my daughter's face book page and she was anxious and scared for him because one of the boys commenting was a supposed friend of hers.
We went into his room and he'd been crying silently for an hour and each of us sat with him while he cried and screamed and kicked and punched. We just held him and tried to comfort him as much as possible. He said he wanted to die and he was trying hard to hurt himself by physically punching and kicking the metal-frame bed and wall. It was scary stuff and my daughter (who turned 15 yesterday) was crying, shaking and traumatised. He accused her of not caring enough to help her - and, of course, this is not true. But he was lashing out at anyone and anything he could and, as often happens, the ones he loves the best are in the firing-line.
Eventually, I got him to take half a sedative so he could calm right down and go to sleep. This he did and then my daughter and I had to try to sleep ourselves.
The problem with cyber-bullying is - it comes home with you and enters your most private spaces. Anyone can come up with the answer "Well, turn it off!" but there is a part of me that rages against this idea as well because I ask "Why should he?". And, if I can make an analogy here, it's similar in my mind to saying to women, "Well, just stay off the streets at night if you don't want to get raped!" Yeah - give in to the bullies and the rapists and all will be fine.
So anyway, the whole family stayed home from school and work the next day to love and support our boy. He was embarrassed in the morning and explained that he'd over-reacted. And I am hoping that was the case. But a threat of self-harm has to be taken seriously even if it seems a bit over the top. Every day I read on the face book page "Stop Teenage Suicide" a list of teens who have killed themselves - and it doesn't matter if a kid is gay or not, most of the bullying and harassment is homophobic in its origin.
But know this: if you love your child, you must take these matters very seriously. Most of all just be there with no judgement and lots of courage to stand up for them. No. Matter. What.
Our kids don't need their problems swept under the carpet or trivialised. And we as their protectors must not let these little bastards get away with this harassment. Whether you phone the school and report them, as I did, or contact the police or their parents (if you know them), do it fast and gather as much printed evidence as you can. And flag them to face book so they also have a record.
Whatever you do, don't underestimate the reality of teenage suicide and don't underestimate the depth of your child's feelings - both anger and terror.
Love them through all of it - and watch them like a hawk (just don't let them know you are doing it).
Saturday night I had four boys over at my house and I made a huge meal of free-range pork chops, vegies, roasted potatoes and garlic bread - and a chocolate cake to finish. I bought a few packets of chips and let the boys out on the street (we live in a little village in the hills) to talk and ride around on their long-boards.
I set up the back room for them with the pull-out couch and mattresses and blankets and I felt a real sense of happiness that I was helping to make my son's life just that little bit easier by doing it. These were his good friends and all lovely boys who are caring and fun and a little alternative. One of the boys was a former student of mine and he goes to the school my son is starting at. The others are from various schools but they all love the same music and have the same ideas about life.
One of the boys has a gay father and the others are understanding and sensitive to this. They still rib each other about being 'gay', but they also know it's all just jokes. They showed interest in attending the next "Rally for Marriage Equality" in August and I said, if their parents were okay with it, I would take them.
On Sunday night, things changed. My son received a series of harassing face book posts calling him a 'fag' and a 'faggot' and threatening him and commenting on his 'twig-thin' body (which is far from the truth - he's actually quite muscular under that shirt!). These were received on my daughter's face book page and she was anxious and scared for him because one of the boys commenting was a supposed friend of hers.
We went into his room and he'd been crying silently for an hour and each of us sat with him while he cried and screamed and kicked and punched. We just held him and tried to comfort him as much as possible. He said he wanted to die and he was trying hard to hurt himself by physically punching and kicking the metal-frame bed and wall. It was scary stuff and my daughter (who turned 15 yesterday) was crying, shaking and traumatised. He accused her of not caring enough to help her - and, of course, this is not true. But he was lashing out at anyone and anything he could and, as often happens, the ones he loves the best are in the firing-line.
Eventually, I got him to take half a sedative so he could calm right down and go to sleep. This he did and then my daughter and I had to try to sleep ourselves.
The problem with cyber-bullying is - it comes home with you and enters your most private spaces. Anyone can come up with the answer "Well, turn it off!" but there is a part of me that rages against this idea as well because I ask "Why should he?". And, if I can make an analogy here, it's similar in my mind to saying to women, "Well, just stay off the streets at night if you don't want to get raped!" Yeah - give in to the bullies and the rapists and all will be fine.
So anyway, the whole family stayed home from school and work the next day to love and support our boy. He was embarrassed in the morning and explained that he'd over-reacted. And I am hoping that was the case. But a threat of self-harm has to be taken seriously even if it seems a bit over the top. Every day I read on the face book page "Stop Teenage Suicide" a list of teens who have killed themselves - and it doesn't matter if a kid is gay or not, most of the bullying and harassment is homophobic in its origin.
But know this: if you love your child, you must take these matters very seriously. Most of all just be there with no judgement and lots of courage to stand up for them. No. Matter. What.
Our kids don't need their problems swept under the carpet or trivialised. And we as their protectors must not let these little bastards get away with this harassment. Whether you phone the school and report them, as I did, or contact the police or their parents (if you know them), do it fast and gather as much printed evidence as you can. And flag them to face book so they also have a record.
Whatever you do, don't underestimate the reality of teenage suicide and don't underestimate the depth of your child's feelings - both anger and terror.
Love them through all of it - and watch them like a hawk (just don't let them know you are doing it).
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Buzzword: Bullying
I always cringe at the term 'bullying'; not because I think it doesn't exist but because the word seems to imply victimhood. Children can be and are the main victims of bullying because they lack power just by being kids. They are emotionally vulnerable and inexperienced in dealing with versions of social isolation and emotional cruelty. They go from being in a family where they are (hopefully) nurtured and protected to a certain degree, to having to deal with school and loneliness, other people's problems and attitudes on a daily basis.
It's hard to know where to turn when you are bullied as a child because no one but you is living it and, with social media, it follows you home and even into your bedroom and under the covers if you let it.
But adults are also bullied; except I refuse to believe adults are victims of it most of the time. You are only a victim if you let yourself be. As an adult, we have life experiences and strengths to make our way through the world; other people's values constantly impinging on our own, challenging us and changing us. You must find the centre core of yourself and hold true to that if you can. But that doesn't mean you don't also have to look at yourself and your own attitudes to others in a cold, harsh light: are you being weak and insecure and what do you need to do about it? Are you causing some of the problems you keep encountering and, if so, how can you learn to change? Are you being kind and generous to yourself and making the best choices in your behaviour, demeanour and responses to the situation? Or is this truly a matter of just being surrounded by arseholes who will never understand you?
My daughter has never felt the cold edge of isolation or cruelty; she seems to have missed out on such experiences in her years so far. And she's lucky. But, on the other hand, she hasn't learned first-hand what it means to feel such things and therefore has not the depth of compassion that others may have.
My son has experienced it all his school life; all the versions of bullying - physical, mental and emotional. But yet he remains a non-victim in many ways. I too have felt its knife-edge and I am certainly not a victim of it. I have it at my present work place every day I work there. Mine is a form of social isolation and being ignored. I hold my head high, knowing (after much soul-searching) that I have done nothing wrong except do my honest best and tell the truth. Sometimes that's all it takes. To tell the truth and have someone else resent it.
My doctor said to me once that, if a situation keeps occurring over and over but in differing scenarios and with different people, then we really must look to ourselves to find the problem. But if it happens only once and we deal with it as best we can without too many histrionics; just a calm, rational sense of self-awareness, then we can pretty much guarantee that it's not us, but someone who would like to gain control of us in some way.
As a high school teacher, I have been bullied only once by a group of girls who acted towards me like a pack of hungry hyenas. They surrounded me in a metaphorical way and took me by surprise. And, like hyenas, they had a system to bring done their prey. But I too found a system and it was stronger than theirs and they didn't succeed in breaking me. Instead I found a strength I didn't know I had, but more surprisingly, didn't know I needed.
The teen singer, Taylor Swift said, “If you're horrible to me, I'm going to write a song about it, and you won't like it. That's how I operate.” and I operate in that same way. I don't write songs but I do find my feet and I keep, in my own quiet way, coming back and just silently staying there - successful and happy and at ease in my own company - and there's nothing that gets a bully's back up more than that: silence, watchfullness and resilience. I find my own way to turn the situation around and I have all the patience (and stubbornness) in the world with which to do it.
Some may call that 'passive-aggression', (another buzz-word); I like to think of it a emotional intelligence. Something not many bullies have.
It's hard to know where to turn when you are bullied as a child because no one but you is living it and, with social media, it follows you home and even into your bedroom and under the covers if you let it.
But adults are also bullied; except I refuse to believe adults are victims of it most of the time. You are only a victim if you let yourself be. As an adult, we have life experiences and strengths to make our way through the world; other people's values constantly impinging on our own, challenging us and changing us. You must find the centre core of yourself and hold true to that if you can. But that doesn't mean you don't also have to look at yourself and your own attitudes to others in a cold, harsh light: are you being weak and insecure and what do you need to do about it? Are you causing some of the problems you keep encountering and, if so, how can you learn to change? Are you being kind and generous to yourself and making the best choices in your behaviour, demeanour and responses to the situation? Or is this truly a matter of just being surrounded by arseholes who will never understand you?
My daughter has never felt the cold edge of isolation or cruelty; she seems to have missed out on such experiences in her years so far. And she's lucky. But, on the other hand, she hasn't learned first-hand what it means to feel such things and therefore has not the depth of compassion that others may have.
My son has experienced it all his school life; all the versions of bullying - physical, mental and emotional. But yet he remains a non-victim in many ways. I too have felt its knife-edge and I am certainly not a victim of it. I have it at my present work place every day I work there. Mine is a form of social isolation and being ignored. I hold my head high, knowing (after much soul-searching) that I have done nothing wrong except do my honest best and tell the truth. Sometimes that's all it takes. To tell the truth and have someone else resent it.
My doctor said to me once that, if a situation keeps occurring over and over but in differing scenarios and with different people, then we really must look to ourselves to find the problem. But if it happens only once and we deal with it as best we can without too many histrionics; just a calm, rational sense of self-awareness, then we can pretty much guarantee that it's not us, but someone who would like to gain control of us in some way.
As a high school teacher, I have been bullied only once by a group of girls who acted towards me like a pack of hungry hyenas. They surrounded me in a metaphorical way and took me by surprise. And, like hyenas, they had a system to bring done their prey. But I too found a system and it was stronger than theirs and they didn't succeed in breaking me. Instead I found a strength I didn't know I had, but more surprisingly, didn't know I needed.
The teen singer, Taylor Swift said, “If you're horrible to me, I'm going to write a song about it, and you won't like it. That's how I operate.” and I operate in that same way. I don't write songs but I do find my feet and I keep, in my own quiet way, coming back and just silently staying there - successful and happy and at ease in my own company - and there's nothing that gets a bully's back up more than that: silence, watchfullness and resilience. I find my own way to turn the situation around and I have all the patience (and stubbornness) in the world with which to do it.
Some may call that 'passive-aggression', (another buzz-word); I like to think of it a emotional intelligence. Something not many bullies have.
Friday, May 4, 2012
My hurting tofu-heart
My son seems angry and reactive all the time lately. He's like a gun, fully loaded and ready to fire. Or a box of fire-crackers waiting unlit in their box - and a bushfire sweeping this way. Either that or I am the match. Or his father. Or his sister. All the people he loves best in the world. And the ones who love him through all of it.
He's thinking of changing schools but, to be honest, I'm not sure if it's going to do any good. That saying keeps coming into my mind: "Wherever you go. There you are!" There's much truth to that and I am just hoping he doesn't have to learn the hard way. But what other way is there? All the lessons are hard ones. They all cause us pain. They all leave an imprint like a bruise that turns yellow.
He was having a tour of the new school today (it happens to be the one I work at - or used to - the local high school) and so a colleague of mine took him around and showed him the various facilities and, particularly, the music auditorium and percussion suite (where he would have his lessons - he's a drummer). He was in his private school uniform but we all decided it would be best for him to take off his tie and blazer and pull out his shirt to take the tour, so he didn't draw unwanted attention to himself. When they were in the Design and Technology section (woodwork and metal work etc) some kid told my son to "pull up his pants". Now, he does wear them low (a look all adults detest, but it's something they have to go through) but, instead of ignoring this potential fellow-student, my boy gives him the finger (and probably told him to fuck off, although he didn't admit that)! I immediately thought NO. You can't start like this! But that's my fear coming into it. My fear that he will never find a safe place to land, a place where others will stop judging him all the time and gaining kudos from his inability (or complete lack of desire) to fit in.
I never fitted in at school. My whole early life was an elaborate exercise in fitting in. And I never cracked it. We come from a family of artists, teachers and scientists. We are often outspoken and opinionated but, conversely, sensitive and easily broken. We are a complex combination of optimism and melancholy; strength and susceptibility; fortitude and weakness. And my son is no different.
I often feel overwhelming injustice for that which I see happening around me which often serves to break me into defenceless pieces, rather than be a catalyst for action. I shy away from confrontation in all its forms but then I will spring without thinking to someone's defence. I will make rash decisions and have to live with the consequences. And often those consequences will require a greater amount of fearlessness to live with, and through, than the original decision.
But one thing, through all this, that I always require from myself is to be myself. I don't need to be like anyone else and neither does my boy. But that's taken a life-time to realise. He is only 13.
So my original reaction to his "inappropriate" finger sign to the boy who chose to comment without invitation, was NO!!! Don't do that. Keep it inside. Hide away your true feelings lest you get hurt more than you have already been. Don't let them see what you really feel. Ignore the bastards.
But that's the 'good' mother talking. The one with the brittle honey-comb heart. The one who always says and does the right things and doesn't upset anyone. The one who so badly wants her son to fit in that she'll say or do anything to make that happen. Even if it goes against her knowledge of what courage is.
And I am, whether I like it or not, tofu-hearted mother. And I will continue to cheer on my son regardless of his choices. Regardless of the fine messes he will inevitably get himself into. Regardless of my initial reaction to some of the things he does. He can put the finger up to the whole world if he so wishes. And he can say "fuck you" as well to the haters and the bitches and the cruelties of life. Because he's not me. He is himself. And he has courage and guts like I never had. And I am so proud of him. No. Matter. What.
And isn't that all any of us ever want?
He's thinking of changing schools but, to be honest, I'm not sure if it's going to do any good. That saying keeps coming into my mind: "Wherever you go. There you are!" There's much truth to that and I am just hoping he doesn't have to learn the hard way. But what other way is there? All the lessons are hard ones. They all cause us pain. They all leave an imprint like a bruise that turns yellow.
He was having a tour of the new school today (it happens to be the one I work at - or used to - the local high school) and so a colleague of mine took him around and showed him the various facilities and, particularly, the music auditorium and percussion suite (where he would have his lessons - he's a drummer). He was in his private school uniform but we all decided it would be best for him to take off his tie and blazer and pull out his shirt to take the tour, so he didn't draw unwanted attention to himself. When they were in the Design and Technology section (woodwork and metal work etc) some kid told my son to "pull up his pants". Now, he does wear them low (a look all adults detest, but it's something they have to go through) but, instead of ignoring this potential fellow-student, my boy gives him the finger (and probably told him to fuck off, although he didn't admit that)! I immediately thought NO. You can't start like this! But that's my fear coming into it. My fear that he will never find a safe place to land, a place where others will stop judging him all the time and gaining kudos from his inability (or complete lack of desire) to fit in.
I never fitted in at school. My whole early life was an elaborate exercise in fitting in. And I never cracked it. We come from a family of artists, teachers and scientists. We are often outspoken and opinionated but, conversely, sensitive and easily broken. We are a complex combination of optimism and melancholy; strength and susceptibility; fortitude and weakness. And my son is no different.
I often feel overwhelming injustice for that which I see happening around me which often serves to break me into defenceless pieces, rather than be a catalyst for action. I shy away from confrontation in all its forms but then I will spring without thinking to someone's defence. I will make rash decisions and have to live with the consequences. And often those consequences will require a greater amount of fearlessness to live with, and through, than the original decision.
But one thing, through all this, that I always require from myself is to be myself. I don't need to be like anyone else and neither does my boy. But that's taken a life-time to realise. He is only 13.
So my original reaction to his "inappropriate" finger sign to the boy who chose to comment without invitation, was NO!!! Don't do that. Keep it inside. Hide away your true feelings lest you get hurt more than you have already been. Don't let them see what you really feel. Ignore the bastards.
But that's the 'good' mother talking. The one with the brittle honey-comb heart. The one who always says and does the right things and doesn't upset anyone. The one who so badly wants her son to fit in that she'll say or do anything to make that happen. Even if it goes against her knowledge of what courage is.
And I am, whether I like it or not, tofu-hearted mother. And I will continue to cheer on my son regardless of his choices. Regardless of the fine messes he will inevitably get himself into. Regardless of my initial reaction to some of the things he does. He can put the finger up to the whole world if he so wishes. And he can say "fuck you" as well to the haters and the bitches and the cruelties of life. Because he's not me. He is himself. And he has courage and guts like I never had. And I am so proud of him. No. Matter. What.
And isn't that all any of us ever want?
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