Vignettes of Seeing Gray, or, Why I am Pro-Choice

My views on abortion remained firmly entrenched in fundamentalism long after the rest of me had liberalized. I had been raised with such deeply emotional views on abortion, had spent virtually my whole life hearing condemning the brutal act from pulpits (“What is the this nation coming to?!”), had as a homeschooler had been appropriately traumatized by graphic descriptions of each of the types of abortion in my high school biology book, that I felt inadequately prepared to re-examine the issue of abortion critically and with an open mind until the past couple of years. The dogma I had been raised on had its appropriated effect. So even as I found myself abandoning, one by one, the right-wing beliefs I realized were not MY beliefs at all, not at all characteristics of the person I wanted to be – viewing gays as second-class Americans, leaving the poor to fend for themselves, my once-hard core views on illegal immigrants (get OUT of our country!) – abortion was one I stowed away at the back of my mind until I was able to work through it.

And I am. Although I was helped along the way by my diagnosis my senior year of college with Huntington’s disease, the genetic degenerative illness that killed my father and will also claim the lives of my brother and sister and me. Suddenly the issue of abortion was personal, suddenly I wondered what would I do in the unlikely chance that I would get pregnant – and I came to the conclusion that yes, I most likely WOULD abort should that happen. I’ve always known I wouldn’t have children should I find out I have the HD gene – who in their right minds would want to put any child, let alone THEIR child, through the hell that has been my life? My first memory ever is when I was two and my poor delusional father was beating up my mother – my brother and I were crying and ran back to our room to hide. Never. I still have that same resolve in not letting history repeat itself. So in my mind it the humane choice to terminate in  such circumstances.

And it really DOES infuriate me when others want to get in on such an intensely personal decision. What do they know about life with Huntington’s? I never knew it was unusual for a little girl of ten to visit her father at a nursing home – it was life. Or  to not have hanging over my head my since Daddy was diagnosed when I was eight that I had a %50  chance of inheriting his terminal disease, to not assume I had my whole life ahead of me. It literally makes me ill to think of continuing the cycle and yet others think that their own personal beliefs on the matter are relevant here, that because their religious beliefs forbid them from having abortions that I am somehow obligated to also not have one. You just DON’T know unless you’ve been there, and how incredibly arrogant to presume that YOU know better than I do when this is a sensitive personal decision for me to make…of COURSE it makes me angry!

Nothing is black and white- I have said this so many times that I feel like it is my mantra – and it’s so immature to look at life that way. I learned when I grew up and learned to think for myself that Christianity is NOT necessarily the most superior belief, that gays are in fact human beings and not the disgusting immoral near-animals that I was taught once, that just because immigrants are here illegally means they should be packed up and sent home, no questions asked. And the same applies for abortion – every woman who gets an abortion is an individual with her own unique story, and  who knows that countless factors going on that might be playing into her decision to get an abortion. How judgmental and narrow-minded to label every one of these women as selfish and monstrous when you don’t even know her – shouldn’t she be the person most informed about her situation and so the best to make such a personal decision? Again, I would probably abort if I happened to get pregnant –but if anyone dares tell me my reasons are selfish or that I’m uninformed on the subject, I would be so highly offended. It would not be an easy experience and an abortion is probably not something I’d have done if I didn’t have this sickness. But this is the responsible, loving thing to do in the case of my hypothetical pregnancy.

And I can't imagine anyone putting the rights of an under-developed, unaware fetus above the rights of a woman traumatized by rape or incest. It is SO obvious that those kind of people have no idea what being in such a state is like, that agony of feeling a child made in such a horrible fashion stirring inside, and having to go through this horror for months...you people must be heartless! I know girls who have suffered through rape or incest whom I love dearly, and the thought that if their abuse had resulted in pregnancies many Christians out there would insist that they carry the child of such monsters for nine months fills me with righteous indignation. The personhood of a brand-new fetus is debated for a reason, but everybody can agree that the victim of rape or incest is living, breathing human being, so why would you deny her this choice?­­ I know of one woman who was raped and impregnated in college and suffered such depression and suicidal thoughts until she terminated the pregnancy – she feels it saved her life. What is wrong with sacrificing a potential person who can’t feel sorrow or pain for a rape victim who can?

Besides, declaring life at conception just doesn’t make sense biologically. When the fertilization process happens, many eggs are fertilized, not just one. If all these fertilized eggs are persons then a literal genocide occurs just through nature – all the poor innocent babies! Should we then accuse the woman of committing homicide for every time she has unprotected sex, since for every one fertilized egg that  survives, thousands more die? Why is that one so special that it must not be touched?

The point when we can all agree on personhood exists is birth – there’s a reason we’re all universally horrified by genocide and murder and infanticide and yet plenty of moral folks believe abortion. There is not scientific answer for when before birth personhood occurs – there are many different answers. But those who argue the fetus has a soul from the get-go and that we should not undo what God has done, well, that is a religious argument and so should have no place being legislated. 

More disillusionment...

Once again I am washing my hands of my sister Melody, once again I am swearing her off, telling myself the emotional turmoil never absent after an encounter with her is just not worth it. Always, always I end up crawling back to her and pouring out my heart to her as she listens with limpid eye and tilted head, only to inevitably have my words, usually twisted, thrown back in my face at a later date. Note the pattern, Rebecca! On this particular occasion, however, she blindsided me completely with a chain of criticism on - my apparently flawed coping mechanisms of my Huntington's disease? What the hell! That is the very reason I have always returned to her, that and the fact that she and I (well, and Jim) share the same history, the same father - Melody and I have more in common with each other than with anyone else in the world. She is the only girl I know who has Huntington's and my sister - that should be enough, right?

Not for her. Last week I saw her, stayed the night at the apartment she shares with our sister Jewell so that we could go see Les Miserables at the Fox Theatre. Now, anyone who is the slightest bit acquainted with me is aware of my affinity for musical theatre; get to know me a bit more and I will be sure to inform you that Les Mis is my favorite musical of all time and has been since the day I heard those first bars of "Look Down." Also Les Miserables and we three oldest sisters go way back: we listened to the music upon pain of death, in secret with the fear of God and our parents looming before our eyes - we knew what they thought of rock musicals and those who listened to them and where they would go. Actually Big Jim did walk in on us - did he even knock when he entered the girls' room? - and heard Eponine in the middle of "On My Own" and demanded, "What in the world is this?!" We stuttered that after reading the book we were curious to hear musical and so procured the recording from the library, which was true enough - actually I read the book and then nightly would relate to Jewell and Melody on what had occurred in my reading since last night, but we were all three lovers of musicals and all interested in hearing this one. Anyway, Big Jim bought our explanation and listened himself for a moment before uttering with a shake of his head, "Ah, yes, the music of the world," and left. We didn't stop listening, though - we were hooked. Big Jim didn't actually tell us not to listen to the recording. Ah, yes, the old letter of the law. We'd listen to it on the way to homeschool choir when it was just us girls, and when we had to return the CD we'd sing it ourselves, every line, and despairing of ever being able to see it on stage in all its awesomeness- too good to be true!

Anyway, even though all three of us had since seen Les Miserables, we saw different productions (Jewell in Atlanta and Melody and me in London at different times), and when I found out a year ago that it was coming to Atlanta again, I was excited beyond words and instantly informed Jewell and Melody that we three were seeing it together this time, we owed it to ourselves and all that, and I at least thought I got enthusiastic responses.

Somehow, however, I ended up almost having to see it alone. Jewell ended up going with Big Jim after unwittingly giving him the idea that they go together when she mentioned the musical was coming into town again (he fancies himself a fan since he and Mama were the ones to accompany Jewell to see it a couple of years previously). So Jewell and her father went to see it the night before I did. And then Melody backed out because she couldn't afford it - or that's what she said, anyway, and so Lydia and I decided to go together since she had been planning on seeing herself. I, good sister that I am, offered to pay for a ticket for Melody as early birthday present but she said she had picked another day of massaging and so would pay for it herself.

Melody told me later on that she didn't even want to go, that she's not a fan of musicals anymore but she felt forced to spend money she didn't have so I wouldn't have to spend money on her, and she didn't even really want me there in her place because she knew we would end up fighting like always. Yeah, that attitude makes for a nice self-fulfilling prophecy. Particularly since she didn't bother to hide that she really didn't want to be with me or at the musical. I felt like a third wheel with Lydia and Melody devoting themselves to each other, wrapped up in each other's drama. They are best friends who live in the same city, go the same church - they see each other all the time. So that evening of course left me a bit disgruntled at Melody.

Jewell and I spent the next morning together before she had to go to work and actually had a nice time. She and Melody are not exactly getting along amazingly, either - she says she no longer tells Melody beforehand when she's going to be hanging around her coworkers after work or on off days because Melody, while not outright forbidding her, expresses her disapproval vehemently. In Melody's mind the church folk should be plenty company for Jewell. Now the house church that Melody goes to is actually the very same church my family went to when we lived in Atlanta right before we found out about Big Jim's incestuous behavior and the fact that both my parents approved of the church demonstrates what a close-minded little community - although in its defense my family was by FAR the most conservative there at the time - the females were allowed to were pants and our girlfriends had jobs (gasp!) and there were many fans of "worldly" music.

Still, the girls that I was closest to are still exactly where they were back when I was one of them - one or two of the daughters have gone to college but ALL of them who are still unmarried live with their parents, under the protection of their parents. The last time I talked to the girl I used to be closest to, she caught me up on what had been happening in her life - she had been considering going to Bible college in Colorado but her parents were reluctant to give their consent, but then the Lord took care of everything, of course, and dropped a job at a local crises center in her lap which she was passionate about. She proceeded to tell me inspiring success stories from the center and and went on one or two angry rants on Planned Parenthood with tears of indignation in her eyes. I seriously felt like slapping her and telling her to get a life of her own - she's 25!

Jewell in consternation told me she felt she had nothing in common with those girls except for their faith. They are all significantly older than Jewell, who will be 19 this July, but because she is in so many ways ahead of them in life, living on her own and supporting herself, those girls kind of have no real life advice to offer.

"And even their Christianity which you say you talk about with the girls, it's not real," I seethed to Jewell. "They genuinely believe they love Jesus more than anything and want their whole lives to be pleasing to Christ - but they haven't had a chance to figure out what THEY believe - not their parents, not their church. They strive to be such good Christians but to them that means nothing but having blind faith and not questioning a thing they were taught growing up!" Yeah, that's me on my soap box. But Jewell, she was right there with me (Jewell! I know!) - she had told me she didn't know how she herself felt about God and Christianity.

Anyway, Jewell went to work while she and I still had so much to discuss, and she asked if couldn't I stay another night, could she call Melody to see if that would be all right?

Well, Melody returned to the apartment after dark, sweaty from her day of massaging and demanding, scowling, why Jewell wanted me to stay another night?

"Never mind," said I coldly. "It's clear YOU don't want me here any longer than necessary. Take me to the shuttle and I will be out of your hair."

So she did. And our heated conversation continued. I told her she should lay off Jewell, that I was worried because of Jewell's depression. "She said earlier this week she just drove around after work until three in the morning because she just couldn't stand the thought of going back to the apartment. I know how disabling and scary depression can be..."

To which Melody replied that if Jewell had a problem she could bring it to Melody, herself, and it was none of my business.

This infuriated me all the more, but I was determined to press on until I had had my say. For some reason I kept hoping she would thoughtfully reconsider our conversation later on. Ha. I told her Jewell hated that Melody's only list of pre-approved friends were the church girls. "You of all people should know where she's coming from. You are the one girl living on her own and have been frustrated so many times with the church people who didn't respect your independence. Those girls are in their mid-20s and still living at home!"

"YOU'RE living at home," said Melody. That was so mean and completely caught me off guard. She knew as well as anybody how determined I was not to move to Montezuma after college. I was in the same boat as many other graduates in having no clue what was coming next, but there was no way in hell that I was moving back in with my parents - I had finally tasted independence! Again, she was aware of how much I had struggled since being forced to go home to Mama last summer, how low I had been. She knew.

And when I had recovered myself I told her as much. But she wasn't finished. She said that I use my Huntinton's disease to manipulate people, that I feel way too sorry for myself on account of my illness.

"What? What does that even mean? Why would you even say that?" I frantically searched my mind for any memory to make sense of this, and the only thing that came to me was a recent conversation in which Melody wanted to know how my relationship with Mama was and one thing I mentioned was how Mama thinks I'm wallowing in self-pity if ever I share something I'm going through or some aspect of Huntington's I haven't thought of previously - I never know what's going to trigger a surge of wistfulness. "But," I told Melody then, "the thing is, I really don't feel like I have more moments of self-pity than the average person would if they were in my situation. I know there would be those who handle this so much better, but certainly those who would be worse as well." Melody emphatically agreed with me and expressed outrage at me treatment.

So that was what I came up with. "Wow," I said to Melody, "that was a low blow. Why do you invite my confidence only to bite me in the ass later on?"

How can Melody, of all people, be so callous and insensitive about my Huntington's, she who will in just a few short years be exactly where I am? I felt something akin to the shock of discovering how one-sided my relationship has been with my mother. I told her that, reminded her how devastated I was when she tested positive, having told God for years that I would gladly take on the burden of this illness if only he spared my sister, how honestly happy I was that she was still presymptomatic even I couldn't be. What is it about me that causes me to spend an unhealthy and inordinate affection on my family members and to assume they felt similarly towards me? It must be some kind of Oldest Child Syndrome...

And yet the irony of the emotional distance between me and my individual family members is hardly lost on me. Necessarily I was close growing up to my siblings, best friends with Melody and maternally affectionate towards the younger set. Mama reveled in our love for each other, reminding us often that she, one of three kids, had never known what it was like to feel that way towards a brother or sister. When we eight kids and the parents would be out together, riding bikes by the river or playing hide-and-seek and an affected stranger would approach us to tell us how blessed they were by our sheer happiness, maybe even press a few bills into Mama's hand, Mama glowed at our testimony, our manifestation of what a truly joyful Christian family should look like. Oh, if only those people could see us now...

My whole life I have been schooled in the homeschooling mindset that it both unnatural and unhealthy for children to be primarily surrounded by their peers, in a school setting amongst children of the same age. Peer pressure was an evil to avoided at all costs. So the fact that the people in my life who care about and love me the most are my friends, my peers and NOT my family, still fills me with astonishment.

A Critique on who is now a Former Republican Candidate

I had already commenced writing this post when I heard that old Santorum finally called it quits – THAT is cause for much celebration (and relief since he stuck it out this long, this well?) - so this will be anti-climatical. Also my Microsoft Word was seized with a temperamental fit and not only refused to let me alter the document on which I writing this post but also wouldn't so much as allow me to copy and paste what I had already written. I was too lazy to rewrite the whole thing from scratch and it took me literally days to finally, after many failed experiments, outsmart the program. I thought about tossing the post altogether, but then this ignorance is hardly limited to Santorum and the Duggars.


I must indulge in a necessary political rant. What the hell is Santorum still doing around? He was the one taken the least seriously, the clown who should have gone out with the likes of Perry and Cain! (Of course, to be fair, the other candidates who have lasted are also quite ridiculous.) Every time I notice yet another positive comment about him on Facebook – and believe me, considering the vast majority of my friends are fundamental evangelical Christians, this occurs frequently – the logical/history major part of me is astonished and outraged at the amount of foolishness being so blatantly promoted.


And now, it seems, Rick Santorum has joined forces with the Quiverfull/patriarchal in the shape of the Duggar family, they of “19 Kids and Counting” fame. I detest the Duggars…. well, the parents, anyway. I feel intense pity for the poor kids: I know all too well the toxic beliefs the family subscribes to and the sapping effect it has in demanding perfection. Also the show seems rather boring to me. The one time I watched it when my roommate had it on (Hi, Abs!), the camera was trailing one of the boys into the kitchen so it could capture him making a sandwich. Fascinating stuff, that!


Anyway, I was over at Kathryn Joyce’s blog (I’m a avid fan of both her blog and book) and noticed that the Duggars have declared there support of Santorum and even “released a folksy video in support of Santorum: ‘19 Reasons & Counting to Vote for Rick Santorum,’” reasons one and two of which are the fact that the Santorums have been married for a significant amount of time and then that they have seven “blessings.” (Read the article here:
http://www.religiondispatches.org/archive/atheologies/5844/%E2%80%9Cone_of_us%E2%80%9D%3A_rick_santorum_and_the_politics_of_%28very_big%29_family/#comments ) Is it just me or are these irrelevant reasons to vote a guy into office? A lengthy marriage and a bevy of children sure don’t make a candidate more qualified to run a country - in fact, the men I know thus endowed would make particularly horrible political leaders! And I consider Santorum little better: his economic and foreign policies are naive at best and even his home state views his stint as senator as disastrous, but Jim Bob and Michelle interpret his many kids as being nothing less than an the endorsement of God, himself. So passionate are they about this that they are even on the campaign trail with Santorum, determined, as Jim Bob put it, “get the word out… that this is the family-values candidate.” Like the Duggars, Santorum condemns contraception altogether, as children are a blessing and having tons of them will outnumber the liberals and turn this nation from its wicked ways. “We need to be a hopeful country that wants more children,” Santorum declared.


This kind of thinking - the whole cramming of God down our throats via legislation - has no constitutional nor historical foundation and  gets me so frustrated, and yet, oh, so many Christians accept it. A bright young philosophy student from Liberty University, steeped in the wisdom of the magnanimous Jerry Falwell, actually told me that if we were faithful to God and voted in a president of high morals - namely, one will vow to do away with abortion and allow to fewest rights to gay citizens - God will reward our country and infuse that President with the wisdom to do an all-around good job. What the - ? And when I pointed out the obvious, telling him I felt there were other, larger issues at hand to be considered when voting for a President, he accused me of having my priorities screwed up, of caring about money more than life. 


If you know anything about early American history and the founding of the nation, which apparently is knowledge that many of my Facebook friends are lacking, it is so overwhelmingly obvious that the whole premise of Santorum’s campaign, that of forcing his own personal beliefs and morals on others, is oh, SO unconstitutional! I even went to a little Christian college where we naïve little freshman were told to our wide-eyed astonishment that everything about American history we’d been taught as homeschooled or Christian school students was incorrect. This is where I really am tempted to go into a full-blown argument to support this – I actually did this in my first draft, but the original point was somewhat overshadowed. Let me just say that that the intelligentsia of the colonial era were obviously, by their writings and actions, for the most part not Christians in the sense of what Americans normally think of today. They admired the prominent men of the European enlightenment which was in progress at the time who pursued logic over spirituality. Thomas Pain, the “Father of the American Revolution” himself, was a deist. Oh, this is really trying to turn into a lecture, which I really don’t want…


Okay, so most of the Fathers didn’t outright claim to be deists, but they denied aspects of Christianity like the divinity of Jesus or the legitimacy of the Bible or wrote their own Bibles (I’m looking at you, Thomas Jefferson!). Christianity really didn’t take over the nation until right around 1800, when the Second Great Awakening overtook us.


My point is that the Constitution was written for a secular country and America is NOT at theocracy. Christianity is never mentioned in the Constitution but freedom of ALL faiths is, which was actually a radical concept at the time. This is why I believe so strongly that gays should be allowed to marry, since the only possible way homosexuality could be conceived to be wrong is through the lens of religion and we are NOT a theocracy and  therefore should not favor one faith over another. If churches disagree with homosexuality and don’t want gays to darken their doors, that’s their choice, but there is supposed to be a separation of church and state. If Santorum wants to be a good conservative Catholic with his stellar "family values," good for him, but it’s wrong on so many levels for him to desire as President to force his morals on the rest of us who aren’t him, to have us act according to his ideas on reproduction, abortion, and homosexuals. He might and probably does have the best intentions for this country, but we're NOT his children to be told what is right and wrong. No wonder Satorum was overwhelmingly voted out his Senatorship in Pennsylvania. Forcing religion on the people never turns out well – need a lecture from the history major?

Fond memories of the Stepfather

I was recently, in a conversation with Georgia, referring to the snake in the Garden of Eden, and she looked perplexed, so I clarified, "Remember, when Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden?"

Georgia rolled her eyes. "Becca, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

I started laughing out of sheer astonishment. It's true that the family doesn't attend church down here in Montezuma and the last time they attended regularly she was quite small. I just can't help but wonder what Mama and Big Jim would have thought had they been able to foresee this, their youngest's ignorance in the matters of God and the Bible, back when George was born eight years ago. Wow, eight years ago we were still living in Columbus with Big Jim's parents, twelve people in impossibly small quarters, with no visible end in sight after having lived in those conditions for six years. I can't believe how many dreams have come true since then, but, oh, at what a steep price they have come!

Eight years ago the family spent an hour in the morning together, reading Psalms and praying and learning our hymn and verse of the week and then at least that much time in the evenings in Bible studies led by Big Jim - who, let me assure you, was NOT gifted in the area of teaching. He would drone on and on and follow rabbit trail after trail. One night a week was designated Testimony Night, another Prayer Night, and then we also "home churched" on Sunday mornings if we happened to be between churches - which was often. When I look back on those years, I feel like I spent most of my time back in Mama and Big Jim's room, that unfinished dark room with one mere tiny window set high in one wall, prison-like. Mama would be in her rocking chair, we kids lined up on the couch or sprawling on the bed or floor. At least I didn't sleep back there as well, like the boys and Georgia did. Not that they knew anything else - Clay was three when we moved down there and Josiah just one. They had no idea, those poor tow-headed boys, that there was anything unusual or unhealthy about our lifestyle.

I often think what a hey-day the Department of Family Services would have had had they stumbled upon that shoe box of a house on Ventura Drive. We of course, as a homeschool family, had grown up on the horror stories, the destruction the Department had wrought on other such innocent families, but in this case I wouldn't blame Family Services for being concerned about our situation. We were stacked in where ever there was room. I shared a tiny room with Melody and Jewell. Jim had his own room by virtue of being insane, but the poor three younger boys had to live in the same room as the parents and the baby. Big Jim had become inventive in the sleeping arrangements when the couch and floor and crib were occupied and designed a nifty little pallet on chains that swung down from the wall at night for Sam.

The reason we supposedly were living with Mama Jean and Daddy Al was for Big Jim to minister to his father, who had had a stroke and was wheelchair bound. Big Jim always violently denied accusations of mooching, but since he never held a single job that whole time and his mother supported all of us, one could be forgiven for suspecting as much. Big Jim’s line was that his mother was only reimbursing him for the job of taking care of his father. I always wondered why he was so enthusiastic about doing the right thing by his father when his first responsibility was to his wife and eight kids.

 

In defense of my newly-adopted beliefs:

Allow me to further expound upon my recently-adopted belief that the Bible is not inerrant. Thanks to my fundamental evangelical Christian upbringing, just about all my acquaintances today are of the opinion that the belief in the Bible as God’s exclusive and perfect Word is a vital part of being Christians; indeed, not long ago I would have dismissed without question those who engaged in such heretical views as “not TRUE Christians.” But honestly, where does God ever say you have to believe in the complete and exclusive authority of the Bible to get to heaven?

Like I said in my earlier post on this subject, the reason I returned to Christianity was because I came to the profound realization that one could in fact be a Christian and yet not be required to believe that the Bible is perfect, that moreover there is even quite a thriving community of “true Christians” who reject the Bible’s inerrancy.  I honestly don’t believe that I am less genuine in my faith or that God views me as less of a Christian on account of this newest development in my beliefs – especially since, I have already stated, this is the most real my faith has ever been to me as a person.

Furthermore, at the risk of sounding flippant, if I ever came to believe again that the Bible was NOT written by mere mortal men and thus much of its inspiration was lost in translation, I’m pretty sure I would have zero desire to remain a Christian - period. The angst-filled God of the Bible and particularly that of the Old Testament is, I hope, nothing but the ideas of the authors’ flawed interpretations of who God is. Seriously, if the Bible is in fact an accurate depiction of who God is, WHO would be okay worshipping such a God? His cruelty is much more bountiful than his love in the Old Testament. Since the Bible was written by all men and the culture at that time favored men far more than women, I’d rather believe that God was not blatantly sexist but that the writers’ perspectives were clouded by their times and cultures. Christians proclaim that God is not sexist and that it is only our human perception which might make it appear so, but I’m sorry, anyone who would favor masculinity in Israel the way the Bible portrays God does is sexist – God or not. I hate how God gets away with so much because he’s “God,” like sexism and genocide. It’s the epitome of irony to me how he can commit such “unchristian” behavior and yet come across to Christians as being perfect. What? How exactly does that work? If that God, the same who had those boys who made fun of Elisha mauled by bears, comes across as capricious and cruel, well, that is our lack of understanding, and who are we to question God? We need to accept it with blind faith.

Only God himself seems to encourage self-examination on our part, asking questions rather than trying to get rid of our doubts with blind faith.

I am perfectly aware that I could be accused of “creating God in my own image,” as the stepfather used to say, but, as I said, I am not an isolated case. There are plenty of intelligent, earnest Christians who do not accept the Bible’s perfection, who maintain that “the Word was God” and NOT exclusively to be found in the Bible. Please do not be “concerned” for me, as that is implying that you are right and I am wrong and on a heretical bent. God has not, I confess, bequeathed me with the absolute truth, but nor has he done so for you. Anyone who knows me knows that I am by nature an analytical person who does my research, so please, please, respect where I am at. 

The Decanonization of a Saint

Mama and I had an explosion of sorts a few days ago. I divulged at last to Mama my mounting internal bitterness at her suffocating methods of child-raising when I was living at home, and I experienced afresh just how badly my mother takes criticism.

My whole life Mama has been my rock, through my adoring eyes the one constant in my far from stable life, the person I have always loved most in the world - and now I abruptly find myself feeling so curiously lost. I have actually on more than one occasion called her a saint, as more than one in my acquaintance will attest. I proclaimed that my mother was the bravest person I knew, her with the tragic life and complete lack of self-pity.

The illusion has been shattered. How I have had myself convinced all these years that her affection for me was equal to mine for her, I have no idea. I have always, as far back as I can recall, strived to be worthy to be called my mother’s child and thus have made the effort to make life easier for her – while Melody and Jim were constantly having to be reminded to do their chores and quite racked up the number of spankings earned between them, I was the good girl and went out of my way to do more than my share of work. I have given up so much for her! Even before I was forced to move down here because of the manifestation of my Huntington’s, I told Mama I was moving back home when she initially told me about the divorce. And even last Mother’s Day I bought her a gift card for a weekend at a bed and breakfast in Asheville and told her with conviction that I wished I could afford a month on an island in Greece since that was what she deserved. (I know, cheesy, right?)

I even put off the conversation that we just now had a good couple of years because I was positive that she would be so affected by my pain that she had caused that it would add yet another burden to her heavy load. Oh, if only I had known…

Mama was hardly contrite when I faintly informed her that she had never said one word of regret about subjecting us, her children, to the scarring life of patriarchy and legalism. She told me that I was living in the past, this bringing up of my issues with my years in rank fundamentalism. I couldn’t believe my ears! I sat in shocked silence for a few seconds. I had waited so long to address my problems with my upbringing out of concern for HER and had dreaded the day, positive that would cause HER great pain – and she just dismissed it all in that phrase. She didn’t feel guilty, she went on, about her role in my upbringing since she had had the purest of intentions.

I gathered my thoughts and told her hotly that she had been more concerned about following through with her theories than she had about us children as individuals.

“Maybe I did,” Mama said, “but it was because of my love for you.” As if love justifies evil!

I asked her through my tears if she was at least going to apologize, and she offered an “I’m sorry! There, are you happy?” And then she walked away, crying angry tears, throwing over her should that she was such a horrible mother which also reeked of sarcasm.

And you know what? The sight of her tears and unhappiness that I had caused wrenched my heart within me. I had to stop myself from running after her and putting my comforting arms around her. How messed up is that? I felt ill with guilt for the rest of the day, even though I knew in my head that I had done nothing wrong and my grief had been legitimate. The anxiety came on, as it always does when I make Mama unhappy, and I soon had a headache.

I remember the first time I had an inkling that my obsession with my mother was neither normal nor healthy. Sometime when I was in college, Melody, who moonlights as a psychologist, gave me a book on personality types by Don Richard Riso with the page folded down on my type as she had diagnosed it: Type 6, or the Loyalist, and besides being blown away by how accurately the profile described me, I also found the section on the Loyalist’s relation to a parent figure enlightening. “As children, [loyalists] wanted the security of approval by their protective-figures, and felt anxious if they did not receive it… [loyalists] powerfully internalize their relationship with that person…They continue to play out in their lives their relationship with the person who held authority in their early childhood years. ”

And then my senior year the crack grew considerably in the veneer of my mental portrait of Mama. Melody, who had come up to Chattanooga for the weekend, told me that she was seeing a new therapist who said that The Affair, as Mama and Big Jim had always referred to the incestuous relationship between Melody and our stepfather was nothing but sexual abuse and emotional manipulation by Big Jim, and for me that suddenly made perfect sense. Mama had never even considered it was anything BUT an affair, and of course I never questioned her judgment, for which I am filled with remorse. But I remember starting to wonder why the hell would a mother with a monster of a husband like she had not even consider that, well, her teenage daughter might NOT be to blame for the incest. I feel like that would be my first thought were it my child! And I began to grow a bit angry that my mother had bought into a lifestyle where incest could happen so easily, promoting as it did virgin adult daughters living with their king-like fathers.

And then since I’ve been down here I have been noticing all the more Mama’s imperfections. I have stopped baring what’s on my heart to her, as she invariably maintains a disapproving silence – even when I’m chattering about what’s wrong with Santorum as a president or the inherent evils of the Quiverfull lifestyle. She has told me I am judgmental and expect the world to toe my line. And when I so much as mention my Huntington’s, she rebukes me for feeling sorry for myself – which I think quite unjust since I honestly feel like I’ve been doing better these last few months with the self-pity. I process through talking and sadly she is the only person down here I know. Like when I told her when I had had an unexpected moment of wistfulness when she and I were up in Atlanta at Melody and Jewell’s apartment and I suddenly realized that my time of independent living was over – Jewell and Georgia and the boys have their whole lives ahead of them, and two of my little sisters are living on their own and Clay is driving…it’s just the oddest sensation as the oldest, or at least the first to do all that, to reflect upon how helpless I am compared to my younger siblings. But when I told Mama what I was feeling, she told me that I should be GLAD that the kids are all moving on, taking steps, and that I was feeling sorry for myself.

Here’s the thing – she is the individual the least emphathetic to my troubles. She is my mother. She is supposed to be on my side. I have been so blessed to have the most concerned, loyal circle of supporters, but she, more than anyone, is supposed to be on my side.

It used to be something, if not enough, that my banishment in Montezuma would at least allow me to be a help, emotionally and otherwise, to my mother. Now I don’t even have that.

A link!

An interesting read...I'm not sure the author supports his argument in the best manner, but it DOES make you think, and I'm all about that!

http://www.elroy.com/ehr/abortion.html