loudears

Mother in laws: Heroine or Villain

loudears — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 22:18:16 +0000

When my husband and I decided to get married, I assumed that I would be accepted as an honorary member of the family. I should have prepared for a worst case scenario, but upon meeting his parents, I thought they were pleasant; kooky, as far as individuals and English, as far as cultural; and I liked that about them. I was nineteen when I met them and wanted them to like and even love me; but twelve years later, I no longer have those inclinations. They are my husband’s parents and my son’s grandparents; and that’s the way I see them, and sometimes that is the best way to see your extended family.

Lady Yorkshire, as we shall call her, is a keen and clever woman; as is the case with many mother in laws. A warning to all young brides; know who you are messing with. Mothers are motivated by their unconditional love for their son. The nature of their love is rooted in something tangible and redeemable; these women have always played the role as the heroine. The problem comes when their role changes and you are the catalyst for that very uncomfortable change; you are the obstacle. The love that they have been dishing out religiously is no longer warranted or that is the way they perceive it and that is where the seed of resentment grows. If the mother feels pushed out, she believes you are the villain, but sadly her inability to share her son makes her the villain. She can’t see that; it’s too painful. This man came from her and she wanted everything for him; she doesn’t understand how simply another woman could symbolize the possibility of everything. I think my mother in law wanted more time to be the heroine; I think she feels I stole that from her. The truth is I did not. I would love to tell you that I chose my husband but my husband chose me and it was as simple as that.

Ladies, there is nothing you can actively do for the mother in law who subscribes to this notion. If she feels you are restraining her ability to love her son then you’re going to be a source of pain and confusion for her. The question is how you navigate through the storm. Let your mother in law love her son; let her love the shit out of him. Set up boundaries that you feel are important as a wife. I did not have boundaries which is why somehow, my mother in law managed to come on part of our honeymoon. There are moments you will have that you cannot fix but there are countless opportunities to illustrate that you are the Lady of this “manor”. It does not matter where you live or how you live, you are still the Lady of this “manor”. Case in point is Lady Yorkshire’s ongoing commentary on my sense of fashion and how expensive my tastes are; she’s right by the way but she has no business asking me how much something I purchase costs or criticizing me about how much I spend. She often tries to control what we spend when we dine out together by making comments like; I’m not hungry; I don’t think I’ll eat very much; Ill just eat an appetizer, and, my personal favorite, that meal is very costly I don’t think anyone should eat that. Please don’t be confused, she is not paying for the meal, but she is more comfortable saving herself and her son as much money as possible. Ironically, her ability to be frugal is a skill and should be applauded but the issue is she infringes her attitudes about money upon others and that is where I set up my boundary. I do not engage in this conversation with her and when it is directed at me; I make it very clear that I work and my husband and I are comfortable with our food and leisure expenses. This is just an example but what is clear is that you must set up boundaries and the sooner the better. If you do not set up a boundary then your mother in law will feel that she is permitted and sanctioned to give unwarranted council in matters that really do not concern her.

Southern Education

loudears — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 04:41:19 +0000

I was eight and firmly believed that I was stupid. This haunting feeling of inferiority was birthed in our relocation to the south. The first day I went to school the teacher seemed bewildered by my presence. It was as if I had found the wrong class. At the time I did not know why I was being ostracized. Nonetheless it pained me; the teachers had to “assess me” so I sat alone while others joined in group study. On the playground the students articulated the subtext of the classroom experience; you’re a stupid nigger. The experience left me feeling scared and wondering if by being black was I implicityly subordinate to my white counterparts. In New York I attended a prominent Montessuri school, they were students of different cultures and I loved and exceled in my academic studies. My parents attempted to re-create this setting by enrolling me into a sounthern private school but I was the only student of color in the class and many kids had never been in contact with a person of color, including my teachers. In fact, there was not one single person of color who taught during my entire six years there. Incidentally my younger brother of eight years who also attended that school was also never taught by a person of color. These factors culminated into one devastating outlook: I actually started to believe that I was not as smart or as talented as all those white kids…and it hurt me deeply. I was too ashamed to disclose my fears to my parents but they sensed it. They had a conference with the teacher and the aid; the clasroom teacher admittedly felt uncomfortable teaching a black student; she had never taught one before and her college classes did not prep her for this sort of thing. The whole “we are all being equal in the eyes of Jesus Christ” thing had eluded her.

It would be years before I recovered from the teasing, taunting, belittling, and prejudice that took place and for the most part the teachers and the institutions never changed. It was me who changed. I learned that quiting was not an option; I stopped thinking about who I was on this racist,classist, elitist spectrem. My only goal was to thrive in any setting under any circumstance. As I grew older my color became its own rich source of intellectual understanding. I learned that because I do not have the invisible back-pack and because I am not white that my experience was uniquely profound. My color enpowered me and not only did I feel intelligent; I felt beautiful.

I am a teacher now and many of my students are minorities and they too feel inferior and as a result want to quit. When I try to teach them about African American history or Hispanic history they roll their eyes; they claim they dont want to hear about how their ancestors were slaves. They are trepidatious when we talk about unknown figures in black history How do I defeat a tradition that insists on exploiting black culture, who unapologetically embraces hate language, and targets blacks and other minorities as sapegoats for years upon years. My students think that the Caucasian or Asian student sitting next to them is smarter…just because. It’s not like I’m handing them textbooks that have been passed through white students for ten years and are in poor condition; in fact I don’t use textbooks because I don’t trust them. The voice of mass media drowns mine: Fox news, Transformers 2, District Nine, Kickass, and Gran Torino. Should my students be able to navigate through this plethora of prejudice…yes; but they’ve been hearing and seeing these messages their entire life. Unfortunately even some of my student’s parents have bought into this pre-packaged, frozen black cultural identity which amounts to an apathetic gaze into a bleak future.

I know we have to fight but which battle is first? If only I could chanel my student’s pain into empowerment. If only they realized that quitting is never an option. If only our voices were in unison, if only to drown out the noise.

* Invisible backpack by Peggy Mcintosh- An amazing and inspiring article

Valcin

Lesson Learned #1

loudears — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 01:33:45 +0000

My little brother, even though he considers himself my older brother, has been badgering me about blogging. There were many reasons why I shouldnt; I hate technology; Im not a good enough writer and who the hell wants to hear from me? But alas I gave in to my brother’s requests and here I am. I am dedicating my first blog to my little/big brother, who has always inspired me. My objective is to write anecdotes and memoirs about various topics. I promise you that some will be dark and others less so.

My family and I often caused pre-mature deaths to all our beloved animals; they were all accidental but I always felt responsible as we dug another hole in our backyard for our pets. I was determined that when I became an adult my pets would not suffer the same avoidable fates as did my other pets. I received Ripley the week I graduated college. I was starting my adult life and moving into my first apartment with my best friend, boyfriend, and my cat.

Ripley was wild. She ate curtains, clawed the furniture, refused to be caressed, hissed at visitors, ate cinnamon crackers, scared my parents 60 pound American Terrior, and made it known that she did not want to be a “pet”. But there were times when she cuddled into me when I was crying; saved me from a spider the size of my hand, and ate every rodent that dared step over our threshhold. To be honest, I wasn’t the best pet partner to her; I often drove from Florida to NY in a car without air conditioning; she would be drenched in sweat, her fur clumped together, panting loudly and supremely pissed. I also forgot her on my apartment’s ledge on the coldest night of the year in NYC…actually that happened twice. The worst of my offenses boil down to one night when she was jumping over a candle and caught on fire; I tried to catch her but I was too drunk and fell over. She was her own savior and ended up droping and rolling in my bath tub…unscarred. She walked back into the living room, her fur emitting clouds of smoke and the stench of burnt rubber. It would be days before she sat next to me on the couch again.

There were many adventures and I loved her dearly. Ripley and I were together for ten years. She was with me for 6 moves, 5 vacations, 10 christmas seasons, a marriage, a house, a dog, who she incidentaly owned, and a pregnancy. A week after I found out I was pregnant, Ripley started peeing on everything. I knew she wasn’t well when she permitted me to pick her up and caress her. I began to really worry when I needed to take her off my lap because she refused to get up if I didn’t. Then she started to pee on me. She stopped eating. She stopped playing with our dog, Mushy. By this time we had been going back and forth to the doctor’s office and then the day came when I picked her up and she was alarmingly light; I hadn’t noticed how small she became because her fur was masking her frailness. Her eyes looked dim but as we drove to the vet’s office I kept saying it was going to be fine. Everything was not ok; she had kidney failure; there was nothing he could do. We had two options: Take her home and let her die in a few days or he could put her to sleep. I was 31 years old; Ripley had been with me since I was 21. Get a grip, I said to myself. I started to feel guilty; I thought about people dying and here I am feeling totally broken about a cat that seemingly hated me. I was heaving in the doctors office, the more I tried to be rational the more irrational I became. I should be relieved, she was going to hate the baby and my parents are always telling me that cats try to kill babies in their cribs with their tales. She was self-expiring…for me. I caressed her as the doctor administered the injection. I thought it was going to be quiet and it was till the very end…then she gave a very loud, audible gasp, her eyes remained open and there she died. It didn’t seem very peaceful.

I kept my promise, my cat didn’t die because I left the gate open on accident; death did not befall upon her because of a mistake or miscaluation. She died and I felt the same unease as I did when I was a kid. I miss my grumpy Ripley. I miss the certainity of knowing that certain parts of your world exisist. The funny thing about pets is often you simply accept them for who they are. Maybe we do this because we know that an animals life span is shorter than a humans; but then again that is not always the case. Or perhaps it is because you cannot argue with them and tell them how disappointed you are. In so many of our adult relationships we try to change or control facets that we simply cannot change or control. I’m not saying we shouldnt change or demmand the best from our loved ones but it does make me think about how much peace I felt when I accepted my cat; it does make me think that for ten years I really enjoyed our time spent together. It does make me question what about my love ones should I simply accept and what, if anything, should I urge them to change.

Valcin

Hello world!

loudears — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 22:53:32 +0000

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