I was in college, but likely on holiday. Mother and Daddy and I were driving home from somewhere—the Dreshers maybe. I considered myself grown up and wise but was still in the backseat of the 1964 Dodge Dart. I watched Mother loosen her coat and start fanning herself—while the car heater roared. So, with new found cockiness, I said something like, “Mother, why don’t you ask Daddy to turn down the heat rather than suffering silently.” To which my dad said, “But I’m cold. Now what do we do.”
Our family, our church took the admonition to “turn the other cheek” seriously. To the point of pacifism. To the far wall of loving our enemies. Of all the Church of the Brethren beliefs, our response to violence defined us most. My church ancestors were imprisoned for refusing to fight in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars and in World War I. During World War II, they were shamed but offered alternative service.
I understand the inherent rightness and goodness of seeking peaceful solutions to violence.
I’ve also come to believe that in global matters and daily life the precept can be deceptive, disorienting, destructive.
I’m not advocating war. I so wholeheartedly believe in employing diplomacy and sturdy resolve rather than fists or missiles—when at all possible. But I was born at the end of a war that witnessed the Nazis systematically kill 15 to 20 million people. There are always historical “what ifs” that might have changed the course of twentieth century events. But scholarly speculation now cannot save those 20 million.
Nor am I advocating personal cruelty or ridicule or small sabotage or ugliness among friends and colleagues. I believe passionately in kindness and understanding and good manners. For walking those miles in others’ shoes and lives.
But—astonishing and silly and obvious as it may now be in this time of my life—I have come to realize that pacifism and a family penchant for avoiding conflict created deeper injustices, more insidious pain. Small martyrdoms, silent suffering, behaviors and words that ate at our souls. Maybe not fatally, but debilitating nonetheless. That in being unguardedly open to the arrows of others’ discontent or anger or unreal expectations or demands, I missed out on joy and dignity—and energy. As did our family – and as did and do many good families.
This is so not a new concept. Thirty years, at least, of self-help books have preached the importance of setting personal boundaries, of keeping “toxic” people at bay, of self-care as a foundation for loving others. Albeit some of that talk is mildly nauseating and unbalanced in other ways.
But I’ve found that my passive upbringing sent down hellishly deep roots. In fact, at the moment I’m picturing an exuberant weed common in Helena’s older neighborhoods. I know it only as “hell’s bells.” It produces a stalk of leaves with little purple flowers. It mimics its neighbors. In a tulip bed, it grows only eight or nine inches high. Next to the delphiniums, it surges up to match their lofty spikes. And worst of all, it sends down nests of white carrot-like roots that no amount of excavation or Round-Up kills. If anything, eradication efforts spawn a new crop of healthier plants.
I feel like the words and examples of my childhood match those evil weeds. By spells in my life, I’ve known and felt the moments where a small, clear “no” or, as we do with pets and toddlers, a hand raised as a stop sign, would have been warranted. Would have saved hours of second-guessing, of hurts savored rather than resolved, of unexplained distancing. I’ve remained silent. My head knows better. But the best my heart and tongue could muster were forms of doublespeak and silence.
In the months after Dave’s death, I didn’t have the emotional energy to pretend agreement or tolerate ill-advised remarks or behavior. I remember the clearness I experienced when I said—nicely I think—what I wanted and needed.
I know—pretty deep in my gut—that setting limits, drawing the line, when faced with something antithetical to my heart or integrity will be hard. Maybe among the toughest challenges of these years. That—if I succeed at all–I may well be written off as old-lady-crabby or newly deluded. I’m quite sure that I’ll bungle and misjudge moments and choices. And I don’t wish to erase or dilute the impulse toward joy in which I spend most days.
But I still crave learning to utter the occasional “no.” The periodic but firm, “I don’t agree.” The rare but heartfelt, “Not now.” Or as a friend suggested, finding modest, non-inflammatory words that still convey honest feelings: “Ouch” for instance.
Summoning and speaking that honesty might just be a winter’s project. I can practice on the kittens.
And, those long years ago in the car with my parents? Of course I had no ready answer! ©
