The next mourning

Getting back to CODA... the title is an acronym for child of deaf adults. These particular adults have two children, a son who is also deaf, and the protagonist, Ruby, who hears and who also loves to sing.

One of the scenes that stuck with me was the family attending a choir performance. A friend tells them that Ruby is good, and they can see other people being moved, and they can clap when they see the other people clapping, but there is so much that they miss.

It occurred to me that they could have had someone signing as an accommodation, but it felt terrible to me that they could not share this important aspect of Ruby's life.

Then, that is not completely true either. Ruby's father is a fan of rap, loving the bass lines. Later, he is able to feel the vibrations of Ruby's singing by putting his fingers along her throat, and she does sign a song for them during her Berklee audition. 

Beyond that, they are a really connected family who love and support each other, as well as annoying each other in very normal ways. As the one who can hear, Ruby has a lot of responsibility, which grates on her, but has also given her confidence and growth.

It appears to have been the right film at the right time.

https://sporkful.blogspot.com/2023/08/black-music-month-2023-serendipity.html

Incidentally, I still cry at movies pretty easily, especially with home and family topics. There isn't that feeling of being overwhelmed to the point of hysteria, but the tears are still there.

Some of my frustration with my mother had been that I felt like she never really understood me. At least that was how I perceived it. 

There has actually been a lot of increased understanding there as recently as Saturday. It does still feel like it can be hard to explain. On the plus side, most of it ends up relating more to my father, which helps with some of the guilt.

I mentioned long ago how my sisters and I tend to over-explain things. We realized once while talking together that it was because of our father. He was easily offended so we would try and make it clear that we were not blaming or insulting or anything like that, but it never worked. That was because he was so determined that nothing could ever be his fault, and he was a jerk. 

Mom was not like that, but I still never felt understood by her. Some of that was probably that we were in fact pretty different, but that had its own similarities. 

Mom obsessed about cleaning the way I do about reading. There was a level on which I thought part of the problem with her not getting me was related to her not being interested in the intellectual, but it's not that she was unintelligent either. 

Those were very different interests, but I see now some similarity in how it functioned for us. I have kind of thought (and still do) that as I gain knowledge about everything, that is how I will be able to understand and fix things. That's how I try to establish safety and comfort. 

For Mom, housekeeping was something she knew how to deal with. She could not make her husband be kind or respectful or faithful, and she had limited control over her children, but she was an amazing housekeeper. I think it gave her a similar assurance. I can't blame her for that.

I know she worried about being stupid, and about not being a good mother, so she would hear those things even if they weren't being said; the same way I heard her nagging me for having a cluttered room and being fat more than she actually said it. 

That made it hard to face the lack I felt from her; it didn't make her a bad mother, but it related to her mothering of me. Then if it did come down to the intellectual difference, what an incredible jerk I would be to hold that against her.

She would want things from me that were hard to give, and not seem to acknowledge that. A lot of that was shortly after coming home from my mission and then after college, when I was newly working and the bulk of my money was going to family needs. It felt wrong to resent it, and I wanted to help, but it was so frustrating. 

Then, I remember once she was mad I was leaving on a vacation; I filled up three yard debris containers trying to get those stupid butterfly bushes (never plant those) into some semblance of order, and it wasn't enough.

The refrain that would come up in various family arguments would be whether I needed endless thanks or praise, which again, makes it sound like I am impossible, but honestly, there weren't many thank you's or compliments. Shouldn't there have been some?

But we were not a family that did that. We didn't really even say "hello" or "goodbye" as people came and went.

I knew that Mom's philosophy was that you correct your kids, but that they should know the good stuff about themselves and you don't need to tell them that. I also knew that was pretty common, and thought about it when observing her family. 

There's a limit to what you can know watching other people -- even extended family -- but it occurred to me that there was so much evident warmth and love that maybe they didn't state those things vocally, and everyone just knew.

My problem was that I didn't know. 

There was a level at which I liked myself and didn't want to be anyone different. I don't know how that happened, but I am grateful for it. 

There was also a deep sense of there being something wrong with me that I didn't know how to fix, except by trying to fix everything for everyone else first. Then maybe I would be worthy, except not if I didn't lose weight.

That mostly came from Dad, though certainly others contributed. 

The understanding I wanted from Mom was for her to fix that.

While I can see how thank yous and compliments could feel like they would help with that, I don't know that any compliment could have been big enough.  

I know she loved me and was proud of me, even if I didn't feel it. I don't think she could have fixed that on her own, and I can make peace with that.

I understand that might sound kind of horrific, but I swear I felt a weight lift off of me when I did realize it, like maybe the compression was removed on a few vertebrae.

We are not ideal people -- certainly no one with the last name Harris is -- but I believe in healing.

I also believe that emotional intelligence is worth pursuing.

Related posts:

https://sporkful.blogspot.com/2023/08/more-about-my-mother.html

https://sporkful.blogspot.com/2023/08/unlimited-carry-on.html