This past Sunday was Father’s Day. I talked on the phone with my stepdad and my dad and then with my daughter for a bit. While none of the calls felt forced, I don’t know that they would have happened were it not for the day. I talk to my mom once a week. I enjoy that. I speak with my other family members considerably to less frequently. My people are not phone people – which I say as though we hail from some hinterland where the men come from a long line of ox herders who use a rudimentary system of grunts and hand signals to communicate. Or maybe we’re not talking people. Or maybe, gasp, we’re not family people. I can never tell if this low need and desire for communication is a “me thing” a “them thing” or a “we thing.” Given that I don’t talk to any of my friends on the phone, I’m willing to accept it as a me thing – or I’m at least willing to own my half of the distance.
I often have this sneaking suspicion and slight twinge of guilt that other people talk with their friends and relatives more frequently than I talk with mine. When I think about general family dynamics (not just mine specifically) I’m often tempted to add, it’s a shame we don’t talk more, or aren’t closer, or something like that. Then I pause. To say “it’s a shame” feels forced – like that’s what we’re supposed to say about family connections that might be weaker than what society expects family connections to be. And I can’t even prove that it’s what society expects… it’s my interpretation of what I think society expects. I guess the way I look at it is that everyone has their own lives and their families of choice – by which I mean to say those people with whom they choose to spend the bulk of their time. Some people avoid other people all together – we call them anti-social and hermits and odd. We could be more accepting. In this realm, I’m not sure an ideal exists.
I think about this notion of family of choice vs. family of obligation (origin) quite a bit when I think about my relationships and especially the estranged relationship between my brother and my father. They haven’t spoken for years – to which I am tempted to say, “it’s a shame.” But them not speaking is also a choice. Presumably, they both feel they’re better off this way – or that the hurdles to reconnecting are far too great and/or humiliating to overcome their estrangement. Welcome to the cost/benefit analysis of familial relationships portion of my TED talk. I suppose if they don’t think about their estrangement and they don’t miss the relationship, I’m not sure we can really say that it’s a shame. It is what it is, but it’s not necessarily a shame.
As I scrolled through social media on Father’s Day, I saw multiple angles on the nature of complicated family dynamics. There were lots of posts on Facebook – pictures of kids with their dads or tributes to husbands and fathers. There were a few posts from people who had lost their fathers. They missed them. On twitter, I saw reminders that it’s ok not to have a good relationship with your father – sometimes dads are abusive or absent. Generally speaking, the problem with “holidays” like Father’s Day is that they set a societal expectation that isn’t appropriate for everyone and leads to a sense of shame and guilt for those whose relationships don’t fall into the typical appreciative categories. We love reunion stories precisely because against the odds, they show the triumph of familial love over pettiness, but also because they reinforce the familiar notion that blood relations are important (perhaps of utmost importance). Of course, shame and guilt are internal things that those individuals who are estranged have had to make peace with on a frequent basis. This is often the case when an individual isn’t part of the dominant, “normal” culture.
For those of us whose beliefs align with cultural norms, it’s hard to even recognize how often and how casually we reinforce those norms. As an example of this, I have a friend whose parents passed away when she was younger. When the subject of spending time with family comes up, she’ll often implore people to appreciate that their parents are still around. While it’s well-intended advice, it’s also a projection of her feelings and experiences on to others. She would give anything to have her parents around. But the truth is, not everyone likes their family or misses their family. Moreover, we’re greedy in our grieving. When people leave us, no amount of time seems like it could have been sufficient. We’ll often wish we had done more. While unintended, the suggestion that you’ll miss them when their gone can be interpreted as a form of judgment. With my friend, it can seem like she’s saying “you’ll miss them when they’re gone (because everyone does, or at least I do, and there might be something wrong with you if you don’t).” It’s a shame.
In the man vs. man, man vs. society, and man vs. self categories of literary themes, family dynamics is a major source of tension and conflict – both internal and external. Countless movies have used the going to the in-laws joke – roll eyes, what a drag, aren’t they the worst. Tracy Chapman’s song “Fast Car” epitomizes the desire to escape the family dynamics of a drunk, do-nothing parent. The Raconteurs song “Carolina Drama” is an even darker version of family dysfunction with a southern scarlet letter twist. The entire tale of The Odyssey is about leaving one’s family in pursuit of honor and the trials of returning home. In a more tragic fashion, Romeo and Juliet rebel against their familial obligations in favor of their forbidden love for each other. Stripped of these conflicts, one could imagine that Odysseus and Penelope live a normal life in which they stop at the grocery store to pick up a pie for the family reunion or that instead of dying by suicide, Romeo and Juliet get married, have kids, and bitch about soccer practice, PTO obligations, and aunt Susan’s 75th birthday party – which even Lady Capulet would rather avoid. The point here is, family obligations and conflict are ubiquitous and much of life can be boiled down to a series of departures and arrivals.
This is where it gets muddy….
As I plan to move and think (somewhat obsessively) about what’s next, this notion of external obligations and abandonment and choice plagues my thinking. There’s a guilt I feel for not wanting to go back to the Philly area. Wanting to experience something new, choosing something new (to live on a different coast and in a different city) doesn’t feel like it’s an adequate justification for putting such geographical distance between me and my family and friends. Yet when I get asked the “why so far away” question, the best answer I can come up with is: I’ve already been there and done that – I want (maybe need) something different, and they have better weather.
That said, I can’t rule out that something deep below the surface is telling me I’m not ready to go back, that I need to stretch further. Yes, California has mountains, ocean, sunshine, and a more laid back vibe – all things that I would like to have more of in my life… but when I think about my other priorities of finding a partner, finding reasonable enough work to keep myself alive, and having greater access to cultural distractions (restaurants, museums, different people), I’m forced to acknowledge that I can do that in just about any city. To which a lot of people have responded, so why not Philadelphia: you like the city, it’s cheaper, you have friends and family there, you know your way around…. All of those things are true and reasonable. I never claimed to be reasonable and I’m often tempted by what moving back might offer. Yet, either out of avoidance or desire (or maybe avoidance and desire) I don’t feel like the east coast is the right move for me – not yet, not now.
But it’s more complicated than that. I get hung up on choice vs. obligation vs. commitment because it’s been a recurring theme in my life. Quite a few of my closest relationships ended with others making choices that were not me, or staying with me mostly out of duty as opposed to choice (all of which could be my twisted interpretation of things).
If I don’t have a good compass for these things, it’s partially because I grew up with a father who sometimes withheld love and affection as a form of punishment. If we didn’t get good grades or do some of the things that we were expected to do, he would stop talking to us. It was a young life of “actions have consequences” and never knowing which way was north.
He left when I was young though he remained a very active part of our lives. He coached our teams and took us on trips. We saw him two or three times a week. We also knew what a pain in the ass it was for him to drive from the city to the burbs for basketball practice or baseball games… and as punishments, especially for my brother, he might choose not to spend time with us. I don’t doubt that his love for us was at least part of the reason he made the efforts he did. But I also suspect that in the back of my third and fourth grade mind (and for years afterwards), I sensed some of those efforts were partially out of guilt and obligation. We always knew it could be taken away. It was a constant threat. My brother, who may have gotten poor grades and acted out at times, was by most standards a really good kid. We both were. Yet, the threat of being sent away to military school was ever present.
As a result, we may not have the closeness other families have. As a result, my brother and I became hyper-aware of and vigilant against other people’s displeasure. As a result, I have a hard time believing people when they praise me or say kind things to me or tell me that they enjoy my company. Not because I don’t think I’m worthy (I’m actually pretty confident in my likability), but because it hasn’t always been my experience – and not just with my father. My first serious relationship resulted in infidelity (not mine), my marriage grew apart, and my engagement ended because she didn’t have the patience to deal with my needs. If I strive for over-the-top authenticity and the unconditional – if I demand it, it’s because I don’t have the best track record of receiving it. For me, the only way to show that it can’t be taken away is to constantly choose each other over and over again. This is one of my bigger insecurities… which, ironically, often leads to the results I wish to avoid.
But it’s more complicated than that. As someone who has felt abandoned in some of my more significant relationships, I’m overly sensitive to making others feel abandoned. I stay in burning buildings longer than I should – which might also be why I’d have to leave, because I’ve so seldom been the one to leave. Perhaps only distance helps me know that the ties that bind go beyond proximity. Perhaps going back feels a little too much like I’d be doing it out of duty as opposed to choice, and I think I need to hold myself to the standards of actively choosing me – standards that several others have failed.
I had intended to write more about how life is short and we (I) have miles of desire. I had intended to write about how I don’t know where to put my very best self and how exhausting and demoralizing it is to always feel spread thin and inadequate. I had intended to write about how going back feels like I’d be going back to a type of autopilot and how comfort and novelty are both crutches and motivators and how right now I want novelty. On another page, I have another six or seven paragraphs about god knows what. I’ve pretty much punched myself out on this one – enough so that I’m dizzy in my own thinking and grasping to understand my motivations. As I finish this (or end abruptly), the song “Home Again” by Michael Kiwanuka is playing. Go give it a listen – but only if you want to, only if you choose to.