We play this game in my family, and I’ve always suspected that it’s called “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” but I’ve never really been sure if we were playing that game or if we were playing “Life” or “Mama’s House” or “Gotcha” or some other game–which could be why I was never quite certain what the rules were and why I always felt like I was losing. Or maybe the rules were the same regardless of the game we were playing. Most likely, I wasn’t paying attention when the rules were explained–or even more likely, they never were explained because my mother assumed they were common sense. The problem was, I always felt like Holden Caulfield a little bit, as in I really honestly didn’t know what the game was, or what the rules were, and maybe if I’d been told either of those things I could have opted to play or opted out–and probably, would have opted out anyway but would have been happier knowing I had made an informed decision. Because at the end of the day, my mother’s ideas about what is common sense are somewhat outdated, and her rules, while well-intentioned, can sometimes cause more harm than good.
Instead, I’ve always stumbled along, trying to keep up with the others, wanting to feel like a part of something and yet always feeling like I was fucking up, like the batter everyone hates to see at bat because they know she’ll swing and miss every pitch that comes her way. And the thing is, maybe that terrible batter is actually an excellent baserunner, only she’s never been told to bunt and so never gets a chance to show her team what she can do. That’s how it feels in my family; I don’t play their game well, and don’t really want to be playing it anyway–only I do lots of other things well and they never get a chance to see it.
I tried opting out of the game years ago when I decided to leave the Midwest for the East Coast. At that time, I was engaged to be married, and both our families had pretty serious rules about co-habitating before marriage. Naively, we thought that our engagement would be reason enough to make an exception to this rule. His family shook their heads and told us they were disappointed in our choice but loved us anyway and wished us the best. My family threatened to cut us off, and since they were footing the bill for the wedding, I stupidly convinced my fiance that we should just tell everyone he had changed his mind and would be moving in with a friend of his who just so happened to be living nearby. Looking back on it, I always regretted giving in. The worst that would have happened is we wouldn’t have had such a grand wedding (that neither of us really cared about) , we would have saved my parents tens of thousands of dollars (and they probably would have given us the cash toward a down payment on the house in the end anyway), and we would have established ourselves as independent adults.
Although I didn’t realize it at the time, lying to my parents was the first time I’d truly played by their rules. Obviously, they would have preferred I not lie and simply do as they expected; second best was letting them think I did as they expected, and asking for forgiveness should they discover otherwise. Apparently, this is a tactic any savvy teenager picks up as soon as he or she gets an inkling for independence. Be general rather than specific about who you are with, be vague about what you are doing and noncommittal about where you are going. My sisters, learning from my misguided example four years prior, easily flew under our parents’ radar. Being the oldest, I thought honesty was the best policy (and oddly enough, still do) and told my parents about all of the things, expecting them to trust me and instead getting pre-emptively grounded. Every. Time.
And so, two decades later, I should be reconciled to the fact that the number one rule of the game is, “Don’t do anything that makes us look bad.” And equally important rule #2: “If you do anything that makes us look bad, for God’s sake, make sure nobody knows about it.” But I seem to have a stubborn and insistent need to be seen, to gain their love and acceptance no matter how differently I choose to live my life. I’ve always felt like a fraud with my family, living my life one way on the East Coast and another in the Midwest, all the way down to the clothes and shoes I pack to wear when visiting, the way I style my hair, and the people I see. I hate that my family doesn’t really know who I am, how I relate to people, what I think about the world, and yet it seems clear they don’t value or respect the things I do and have only criticized me for any divergence from their way of thinking.
Rather than listen to their criticism or have to suffer their looks of disgust, I have “learned” to keep my mouth shut, to nod and smile and say “I understand where you’re coming from” and “thank you for your advice” and then go do what I believe to be right. While I don’t discount their points of view, we come from different worlds, they and I, symbolized not only by the places we live but by the values we prioritize. As a grown woman, I no longer need to ask their permission to do what I want or think is important; however, it still feels like I might sometimes need to ask for their forgiveness when we don’t see eye to eye. Maybe one day I’ll learn to validate their beliefs instead of apologizing for my own.
(mostly) full disclosure 