Ripping Off the Scab

While I was looking for something else today, I came across my notebook that I had used while working on my Masters. As I leafed through it, I began to cry. That tiny nondescript notebook was a reminder of what I hadn’t completed. While I did walk across the stage to accept my degree, it wasn’t the degree that I had imagined I would accept. I also cried because of the pain that I read behind the words. Not the girls’ pain but my pain, the ache that I had carried with me, held close to me. The anger that made my bones brittle.

“I am having difficulties writing about body and space. I feel like throwing the whole thigs away, walking away from it. Bury my head, my body and disappear.

I feel like I am being held together by tiny webs – I expect to see hairline cracks all over my body, like clay when it has no more water left. One quick step and I’ll fall into a heap of dust. Pieces too small to be put back together. Broken beyond repair. The heat of my anger evaporating my remains. I want to cut into my shin – peel back the top layers – expose the blood, membranes and bones beneath. Feel the rush of pain – the pieces of flesh underneath my nails. The cakiness of blood on my shin, the fresh running blood underneath. I want to tear it open again and again. I want to scream. I want to hit. I want to break down the walls. I can see myself through them – throwing myself against the walls. I can feel the screams, see my mouth open but I can’t hear them. I watch as my body, my hands slide down the wall over and over again. I watch and then I think ‘good girls don’t yell.’”

I read this and realise just how much it hurt to force myself to be continually thinking about girls, body, space, place and identity. How often when I read the literature and the studies I would feel sick. Looking back now, I should have changed my focus. My gaze should have shifted to me rather than an external analysis. At the time, that felt too self-centered, too egotistical.

Ultimately, I did write about myself and my experience researching and writing:

I was eleven when I was sexually abused by my softball coach. For the next two decades my body remembered what my mind chose to forget. I still can not remember fully what happened. All I have is the image of the sun shining through the leaves hanging above the van, the taste of bile in the back of my throat, and the world becoming still. I remember when the other girls mentioned that the police had come to their house but I don’t remember talking to them. I don’t know at what moment I remembered, I can’t place the trigger. It’s as though I woke up one morning and it was just there. I would look at pictures from my childhood and search my younger self’s face to see if I could witness the change. It became painful to read or hear the stories of adolescent girls. How could I listen to other’s stories when I was having difficulties listening to my own? Each time I sat down to write, read, or listen, my stomach would clench, I’d feel the tears well up and I would turn away.

This is a story about my journey.
(“Pandora’s Box” 2006)

I haven’t opened the document since I sent it off. There are only two people who have read it – my advisor and my second. I don’t think that I did myself justice or the topic justice. It might be one of those things that I have to go back to and do it right.

Next Tuesday, I have a meeting with my advisor. I don’t think that I am finished this journey.

Helicopters & Confetti

Awhile ago we had heard rumors of Toronto finance firms receiving memos from their Human Resources offices on how to deal with parents who come to interviews with their children. That is correct, adults who had graduated from university and wanted jobs in finance were coming to job interviews with their parents. At the time I laughed, because it was so ludicrous and figured it must be an urban myth. Not so. In last week’s Province there was an article in the Finance section dealing with this very topic. (‘Helicopter’ parents breathing down hirers’ necks). What has happened to our society that this is seen not only as ok but concessions are made to meet these parents’ and their children’s demands. A couple of pages over was another article bemoaning the fact that the new crop of 20- something employees are needing constant praise and when not given it fall apart. (“Sadly it Might Be Too Late For The Confetti Generation” I can’t find the link but have the article as a JPG file if you want to read it.)

Does anyone else see the relationship between these two events? We have created insecure, dependent adults that are emotionally stunted. We have infantalised a generation and are on our way to creating more ‘adults’ like this. I am sure that the ‘helicopter parents’ are the extremes but in an educational system where there are no natural consequences for actions (or inactions) we are well on our way to a society that is run by teenagers in adult bodies. This may seem harsh but the time for niceties is long over.

I have seen first hand the results of allowing children continual ‘outs’. We are so paranoid about hurting their self-esteem that rather than helping them build confidence in themselves we teach them that they don’t really need to do anything at all. We no longer fail students because studies show that it does more harm than good. I agree, for the students who aren’t able to do the work because they have a learning disability. However, I have seen more and more kids realise that they don’t have to do anything and they will continue to move on. What lesson are we teaching these students? Worse, what happens when they reach high school or the ‘real’ world where they can fail or be fired? I agree, children should not be berated or belittled. They should not be made to feel ashamed. Doing these things will result in a lower sense of self. But so too, does not having expectations, never being challenged and never failing. How can a person have a true sense of self pride if they have never had to achieve anything on their own merit?  When we lower our expectations, we are telling them that they can not do better. In not having expectations WE are failing our children and our society as a whole.

I also have to question the motivation of parents who are still fighting their children’s battles for them. They may think that they are doing the right thing but in fact it is one of the most selfish acts I can imagine. What happens when the parents have gone and their children have to do it alone? What happens when their children want to establish themselves in a relationship? Have children of their own? How will they ever be successful in these areas of their lives if their parents are still sweeping in to save the day? What need is being fulfilled for the parent?