As Rock & Roll saves me

Yes, this is a day earlier than I have been posting. I am trying a little change. 

While I talk about it more on the Sunday blog, I am a religious person. When I talk about "saving"... no, rock and roll is not saving me from death and sin. That is an important distinction. It still really helps me in an important way.

As I have been listening to many new musician and bands for various reasons for a few months now -- much of which I really like -- in this difficult life and world I periodically need to get back to the songs that are for me. They lift me up and revive me. For the most part they would be classified as rock pretty reliably, though one can always quibble about genres.

I need that music. A life without it would be much more miserable than is necessary.

I realize there are people who automatically find that rock is the devil's music, and I don't respect that opinion, even though the rock sometimes references the sex and the drugs.

I also know that my taste is my own, and there is room for disagreement. Without hating them, I am not a really big fan of the Beatles or Led Zeppelin, and I stand by that firmly.

Now if I haven't lost everyone by my unique combination of religiosity and musical tastes (I can only be me), here is a lesson.

I was recently listening to one of my favorite playlists, and being made so happy by it. It occurred to me that it is a shame that I am so bad at playing music. I can hear things in my head that I can never manage to get out, there is not a lot of aptitude even with practice, and (despite the occasional spirited karaoke delivery) I am not really a good singer.

Not only that, but in addition to finding a lot of music through media, I personally know a lot of amazing musicians. Some have a deep understanding of music theory and for some it is much more instinctive. Some have studied and some are self-taught. With all of their variety, I am not like them.

At times in the past I could see a value in appreciating them, because everyone likes to get appreciated and I am good at that, but I still wish I could do it.

This time, just as I found my lack of ability a pity, it came to me that it can be good to like things and want things that we are not good at. 

Maybe it's good for humility (there's a good religious quality), or for persistence or resignation or for perspective on a larger picture where no one has all gifts but everyone can contribute.

It's okay that I am who and how I am. 

And I am grateful for rock. It often emerges from messy lives, but have you seen my life? It fits.

Now, about that listening and new thing I am trying... I have a lot of book and music material that I have not posted. That mainly relates to the various reading months I do, with a good 136 books (some children's) and movies that I could write about, as well as at least two music posts I could easily do.

I am going to try working those in on Friday now. I am switching the type of  post that I have been doing from Wednesday to Tuesday to spread them out a little.  

I hope it won't be overextending myself, but I am at least going to try it.

I have this idea that as I read more and write about everything that I will be able to create excellent reading lists for various purposes and audiences, and I am not there yet. 

It is okay that I am not good at everything I care about.

I am nonetheless pretty good at reading. And listening to rock.

In the way

Prior to my first trip to Italy in 2006, I had only met one aunt, who had been to visit us in the States three times over the years. As the only one without children, she had a little more ability to travel.

Even having spent time with her as a child and teenager, it was different seeing her as an adult and with a better grasp of Italian. I remember her watching me study one morning and saying "Ragazza stupenda!" ("Marvelous girl!", roughly.)

Spending time with people who will love you and appreciate you is amazing and good for the soul, but I was 34 before it happened. That beloved uncle only lived two more years after that. Of all of the beloved aunts and uncles, only one is left.

(The ties are not broken as there are many cousins.)

There are two reasons for my delay, and they do eventually relate.

The first one is the money. We were not a family that could afford to just hop on airplanes, and you can't drive to Italy. As it was, my first flight ever was on my way to the Missionary Training Center at the age of 21, and I had been considering the train before I learned that there was a travel agency that gave missionaries discount tickets.

When I was young we were still able to drive to some pretty cool places. When I have been doing better at some times in my life I have flown to some pretty cool places; I am luckier than lots of people. Economic inequality is nonetheless a real thing, and meritocracy is a myth. 

We should all have opportunities to connect with places and people.

I still could have gone sooner. The other chance that could have worked was when my mother and sisters went. I was focusing on college at the time, so it would have been a challenge, but probably not impossible.

In fact, I was reluctant to go because I was fat. At that time I was still trying to put off everything until I could no longer be fat. Then people would accept me more, and I would not hate pictures of the experience; every aspect of my life was going to be better once I lost weight!

Only I never did.

My extended family loved and accepted me as a fat person. 

(I'm not saying they didn't have any concerns about it, and I did hate that, but that didn't happen until the second trip.)

It was easy to hold off on meeting new people or going new places or even relating to people I already knew in new ways, because my life had to wait to start until I was worthy of it.

Yes, I tried for a long time to lose weight, and gained weight in that time. Stamina and muscle tone fluctuated, but the presence of fat never did. 

Since I stopped trying, I have evened out, but I have evened out as fat. 

It has surprisingly little to do with my health,  unless you know how much of what is generally believed comes via financing by the diet industry, and then it is less surprising. (Hey, there's capitalism again, along with the economic inequality part.)

It is not a moral judgment on my character, though you will find people who believe it is, and at 36 I still did.

That stigma on fatness -- which I fully accepted -- really held me back, without improving my life in any way. It has affected how other people see me. For some it still does, but the bigger impact was on what I did and how I navigated.

It did limit my ability to connect with others.

It isn't always the stigma on fat, because it can be race or class or gender or sexuality or so many other things that shouldn't be reasons to hate each other or abuse each other or have contempt for each other, and yet, here we are.

And obviously, these twin forces of capitalism and bigotry can be folded into dominator culture, that enemy of all that is good.

If what the world needs now is love (I maintain it is), dominator culture is what we are up against. 

It is personal, but it is also very political and religious and economic.

Mr. Rogers again

Back to Won't You Be My Neighbor..  there was another part that stayed with me, regarding his interaction with François Clemmons, the actor who played Officer Clemmons, a character I did not remember at all.

One of the key episodes featuring Officer Clemmons was from 1969, before I was born. The two men share a pool and a towel, just for cooling their feet, but sending a timely message about resistance to integrating pools. The scene was revisited in 1993, well after I had stopped watching.

https://www.biography.com/news/mister-rogers-officer-clemmons-pool

Won't You Be My Neighbor discusses that, and also François needing to stay closeted to keep his place on the show. I don't know if that led to the other story that made such an impression on me.

Mr. Rogers said to Officer Clemmons once, as part of a scene, “I love you just the way you are.” After, François asked, “Fred, were you talking to me?” “Yes, I've been telling you for two years, and you finally heard me."

They had known each other much longer than two years, so I don't know why there had been that length of time to receive the message. This is the man who sang the song "Many Ways to Say I Love You", so there could have been a wide range of efforts.

François said that he had never had a man say that to him before, including his father and stepfather. In that moment Mr. Rogers became a surrogate father to him.

Maybe two years before was when Fred realized that's what François needed.

I don't know that it's exactly a second chance, but there can be other love, at other times and in others ways, sometimes maybe similar ones.

My grandparents had all died before I was born, but there was a couple we knew from church that I really loved. I remember asking if I could call them Grandma and Grandpa. They said yes, but more than that they took it seriously. They never forgot a birthday after that, for any of us, and they were there for important events. They had five children of their own, and I am not sure how many grandchildren, but they accepted the extra five.

My mother left Italy as a young bride just before she turned 18. One aunt made it to visit us three times, but most of her family, even though we would hear things about them, was really unknown.

Finally, at the age of 34, I made it to Italy for the first time. All of them became vivid and real and beloved, but there was something else.

One of my uncles came to pick us up at the airport, along with the aunt I knew. Though this was his first time ever seeing me, I was instantly loved. He greeted me, "Gina! With a smile like the sun."

Later, we were talking about how things were with our father, with this actually being not long after the last disowning. I tried explaining it as best as I could, knowing it sounds wrong. He just said, "Ah Gina," but with such sympathy in his voice. His care was tangible.

With my father's family, it's not like I thought that anyone wished me harm, but love would seem like a pretty strong term. Here there was love and warmth and it was amazing.

Some people will be kind of glib about "found" family. Yes, it is a wonderful thing to happen, but there are no guarantees. When it happens, it is something to cherish.

I may not have had that consistent, reliable support that they'd asked about, but it wasn't all desolation either. I believe there can be more of that.

Deciding

A few years ago I went through many books relating to death and dementia and wholeness, and wasn't sure that it gave me what I needed.

At one point, I noticed that my reading list had a lot of books by Asian-American authors focused on fraught parental relationships. I really noticed when I got to one title, thought I had already read it, and realized, no, that was a different one.

I also had several books with "daughter" in the title. My bright idea was to read the books by the Asian-American authors, then the books with "daughter" in the titles, and then I would see what thoughts came up.

(If it is not already obvious, many of my feelings about death, dementia, and emotional wounds are strongly related to my daughter-hood.)

Now, if my reading ever followed its scheduled path and I only worked on one list at a time... actually, I don't know if I could even recognize my life. Regardless, other books got interspersed, and it appears that fraught parental relationships are more common than not, not bounded by race and ethnicity.

It is not unusual that you can love someone and they can love you, deeply and sincerely, and yet you can cause each other a lot of pain.

It does not always end the relationships. Often it shouldn't.

When I posted about not being in contact with my father, I did not get any negative comments; people were supportive and that is great. I did want to spend a little more time on that decision process, though, in case anyone else is dealing with doubts.

It was kind of in the the last message I sent: dealing with him is so emotionally hard and draining that it becomes physically stressful. If it were harmful to me but good for him, that might be a reason to do it anyway. Back when we were still trying, there was no sign that it made him any happier or better.

When others have pushed back in the past, the general point is that someday he will die, and I will regret it. 

I use that reasoning myself for a completely different scenario, when I discuss visiting Mom with siblings. They find those visits hard, as so I. It is not her fault, and it is questionable how much good it does her. No, she does not know she is seeing her family. We can give her some extra attention, but it may not make a difference. However, someday she will die, and we don't know if we will get much advance notice. Will we be able to live with it if we haven't seen her?  

I will feel bad about my father's death, but I already feel bad about his life. The biggest reason I don't see him is to spare me additional pain. I could be miscalculating, but I don't think so. 

Life is full of uncertainty and all we can do is the best we can. That should mean doing it with kindness and honesty, and that kindness should not only be directed outward from the self, but include the self.

When I was going over all of this before, it was important to me that I go over things that my parents did for me, and also good memories. 

The part that was horrible with my father was how few good memories I could find. Even when he was not actively causing pain, so much of the time there was this air of oppression. In the time before he left, he would leave at 6 in the morning and might not come back until 9 or 10 at night, implausible when he was working and more so when he was unemployed. 

We knew it was not right, and that he had been having a long term affair was not really a surprise, but it was still easy to accept because it was so much of a relief when he wasn't around. 

It wasn't good for him either; he started a late night drinking habit during this time period, but that was something that only he could change. I can accept that he didn't know how, but not that he wouldn't try, and not that he won't even be honest about it now.

I will add that one of the key things that he did provide was financial support and home maintenance throughout my childhood and adolescence. I don't need someone to do that for me now.

However, having recently dealt with home repairs, and being reminded of how overwhelming they feel, does that relate to him? When my inner voice for work-related issues is so harsh, and job issues devastate me so much, does that go back to him? Because yes, I have a pretty nasty inner critic in general, but it is worse for work-related things.

Some of these very harsh parents in the memoirs nonetheless had a lot of good memories and moments with their children too. That must have helped. Some of those parents are also dead now, which may help in a different way. 

I only know how it is for me, and how I am navigating now. Part of the honesty for me is being able to speak it, and not feel a shame and embarrassment about what I could never control.

Part of my kindness is that I will not hold a grudge against him. I do understand and have empathy for some of the things that led him to be this way. It also includes kindness to me in that I am not doing that to myself.

I don't need an apology to forgive him and move on with my life, but for that life to contain him there would need to be more good in the past or promise of change for the future, that was then carried out, even with slip ups. 

Because having boundaries means knowing that sometimes people will lie, and you do need to evaluate whether the efforts are enough, or sincere, or just ineffective but improving, or all of the range in between. Then you can see if new time is mostly good, or better, or subtly worse.

In my case, there is no trying, so there is nothing to evaluate. I know there are better possibilities, but I accept where we are.

Finally, if anyone is curious about the books...

Fraught parental relationships:

by Asian-American authors:
The Magical Language of Others by E. J. Koh
All You Can Ever Know by Nicole Chung
Crying In H-Mart by Michelle Zauner
Fresh Off the Boat: A Memoir by Eddie Huang
The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui
(plus there are some I have not gotten to yet, and some YA that kind of relates ...)

not by Asian-American authors:
Will by Will Smith
Diary of a Misfit: A Memoir and a Mystery by Casey Parks

(The best parents read about recently were Michelle Obama's in Becoming.)

Daughter books: (I have not read any of these yet, but I will.)
Darwin, His Daughter, and Human Evolution by Randal Keynes
Galileo's Daughter: A Historical Memoir of Science, Faith, and Love by Dava Sobel
The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
The Heretic's Daughter by Kathleen Kent
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter by Theodora Goss

An analogy taken from real life

In a process that is going much more quickly than my emotional growth and healing, we are replacing all the floors in the house. 

The house is a year older than I am, and maybe we have other similarities. However, they might finish today, and I certainly will not.

We are not doing the skilled work, but there has still been a lot for us to do. Everything needs to be moved away and moved back -- possibly with a few temporary moves in between -- for the floors to come up.

I have a few new bruises. I felt them before they appeared, but the one that really hurt took longer to appear than the other. I don't know why it was like that, but I could tell it was coming.

We are switching from mostly carpets to all vinyl plank. This is very practical with our penchant for taking in animals, including ones with certain problems.

It looks great, but there is some getting used to it, which we have barely started yet since everything is still in an uproar. One difference is that the sound reverberates more; the carpet dampened that some. It makes perfect sense but I had not thought of it before.

The contractors have had to remove all the carpet and padding, take care of any flooring issues underneath, and then install the planks. That part is done and now the baseboards are being applied, which also requires some removals and a lot of fitting.

This house is comparatively old, which means it has seen some wear. However, it was also built pretty sturdy. We have been pleasantly surprised to discover no dry rot. There was an area that was missing some boards underneath, apparently from when insulation was added. That took care of some creaking, but the biggest help for that was tightening loose boards, of which there were many. Still, the wood was solid; it just needed some reinforcement. 

There is so much garbage to haul away!

I also have been looking below and finding all sorts of things coming up, some with some pain (not always when and how I expect it). It really does make some things feel different, and maybe amplified.

The amazing thing is that I appear to be pretty sturdy. I am not sure where that came from.

A lot of garbage does come up.

And I will not be done tonight.

(I am aware of the C. S. Lewis analogy. It is more involved.)