Self Reliance: Don't Leave Home Without It

A subject which has cropped up lately relative to family life is the individual's process of becoming an adult and separating from one's parents.

Some parents, my mother the main poster child among them, adopt a laissez-faire attitude towards the impending adulthood of their offspring. They encourage independence at an early age; very often this encouragement backfires when they saddle their children with too much independence or responsiblility. Taken at its extreme, the non-clinging parent can often become falsely reassured of the emotional maturity of their child; this false reassurance goes a long way to assuage the parent's feelings of guilt about their neglect, whether it is benign, unintentional, or because they are simply self-absorbed.

No child should become the confidante of their adult parent. No child should be confronted with adult realities before they are of an age to understand them. (There are many instances in human history and places in the world today where there is no such stage as childhood; it should be clear I'm writing about this in the context of a generalized Western middle class background.)

A child confronted with adult realtities is experiencing a subtle form of child abuse - believe me, I know that score only too well and would have been likely more socially well-adjusted had I not been forced to join that particular orchestra.***

Other parents hold their children so tightly and hover over their lives so closely that the boundaries between them are either terribly blurred or, and this is more damaging, completely indistinguishable. In its milder incarnation, these parents are known as "helicopters" - they hover over their children and monitor their lives, both inner and outer, at what is acknowledged as an extraordinary level of attention. The helicopters are completely aware of what they are doing, and most of them finally let go, eventually and with the proper show of reluctance.

At the extreme end, the symbiosis is so complete and overwhelming that neither knows where they end and the other begins, and the child is forced to struggle against tremendous odds and lashings of parental guilt to achieve even the smallest amount of independent adulthood. I also consider this a subtle form of child abuse, as the individual person's progress towards independence is hampered at every step, rendering it a much more difficult process to achieve.

Having never experienced the latter sort of parent, perhaps nurture triumphs over nature in this category. For the life of me, no matter how empathetic I try to be, I simply cannot understand the need of a parent to telephone their adult children (or even college age children) on a daily or twice daily basis. I cannot understand the need of a parent to micro manage the decisions of their adult child. As much as I have tried, I simply cannot understand or respect an adult child who accepts this kind of parental intrusion as par for the course and never attempts to become their own person. I save my sympathy for the fellow travelers on the way, however, and I encourage them to persist in the difficult journey towards true selfhood.

Because I have never been and will never be a parent, I fully recognize that I am at a disadvantage in understanding the truly unique bond that can be formed between parent and child.

But everybody at one point has to cut the umbilical cord and join the greater world; the comforting notion of a Super Daddy or Super Mommy who will swoop in and fix all disasters can sometimes be a difficult one to abandon, but learning to stand on one's own two feet and take on the world, come what may, is the most valuable lesson of all.




***But join it I did - I had no choice at the time, as my very survival was at stake, and one of the traits that is most important to me now and often defines me is an intense self-reliance. That trait reluctantly drags along its own double-edged sword, but that's a whole 'nother post on its own.

To The Genius I Can't Read, or Damn You Blogger

Rumor has it that commenting has been difficult lately. According to the tiny robots of blogger, this has all been resolved.

Harumph. Don't believe that for a second, do you? Well, neither do I. According to my loyal and extraordinarily small group of readers, I have been missing various gems from the treasure chests of their prodigious minds (I know - I want to know what I'm missing as well.)

Damned if I can find a place to connect with a blog bot and ask the question.

I may have to [gasp] actually pay for the right to pour my drivel onto the information highway, or alternatively [double gasp] live without comments.

Unfortunately, our moment of blog silence is continuing - hopefully more very soon - but of course, you can't comment on it so how thrilling is the news that I won't be able to write for a little while yet? And so this snake swallows its own tail yet again.

Blog Silence II

There will be a few days of silence here - family emergency to wade through. I'll be back wowing the crowds in a few days.

File Under: God, In Whom We Question Yet Again

Are overly passionate people somehow better suited than those whose heads rule their hearts? It may sound like a silly question, but it seems to me that a lot of the raging debates overheard throughout the world and reported, recorded, repeated and rehashed in all corners of Blogistan consist of collisions between Passion and Reason.

Recently religious passion, notwithstanding one's religion (except maybe Buddhists, who always seem very calm to me) is displayed not as a private pact between the believer and his deity but a barometer or gauge as to one's fitness to participate in the political sphere.

I just fail to understand why it matters so much how a political person feels about religion. Why is the whole question of belief in God one every person hankering for a political position, from dogcatcher of Teenyburg, Nowheresville to President of the United States, is obliged to answer to satisfy the populace?

Oh I know why it matters from a reasonable standpoint - after all, presumably one feels more inclined toward a candidate who could further one's deeply held personal agenda. The xenophobic citizen, of which it appears we sport legion, are happy because they have the weapon they insist on - the knowledge that a candidate is one of Us versus one of Them. Why? The better to hate you with? Those of us for whom the God question truly doesn't matter are a group that is dwindling day by day, pushed into marginality by those for whom religion matters more than anything. And here I thought the transcendent light of Reason would someday trump all? (Damn you Enlightenment! I've been cheated. Cynicism, table for two please - and make that the smoking section!)

There's also the whole "my god is better than your god" tug of war that invariably becomes raised in these discussions - I believe the relative deities have never been known to extend their omnipotent pinkies to sort things out, so I just can't see how it matters.

I'll tell you what I'd like to see in a presidential race - just once. I'd like to see a well-qualified candidate with an impressive grounding in domestic and international affairs, a desire for good governance, a profound adherence to the rules of freedom and responsibility inherent in democracy, a unswerving belief in the dignity, intrinsic worth and equality of each citizen, and absolutely no interest in, even a refusal to answer, the religious questions.

I would wholeheartedly prefer to know the person who might hold the office cares more about doing a superlative job, and focusing his or her attention and energies on that, than whether he or she prays in the right way.

The revisionist history that is often spuriously used in public debates is that this country was intended by its founders to be a Christian country foremost, and that the Christian God did indeed extend an omnipotent finger and brand this country forevermore his own.

It sounds foolish when it's written like that - the revisionists usually use more high-flying language and less concrete analogies when they attempt to make their case. In the end, however, that's exactly what they believe.

But the case has already been made and closed long ago. It can be found in the writings left by the founders of this country - things they believed and wrote about in their own words, statements that were solemnly preserved for a reason.

So there's no need to take me at my word - in fact I'd prefer a person try to find otherwise, as the very words exist to refute any modern interpretation of their intent.

Of like mind was Thomas Jefferson, who wrote:

Say nothing of my religion. It is known to God and myself alone. Its evidence before the world is to be sought in my life: if it has been honest and dutiful to society the religion that has regulated it cannot be a bad one.

Now that's a candidate I could endorse.

In Which We Determine That Life is Indeed Stranger Than Fiction

As reported by The Washington Post, apparently Bush believes that this country is heading towards a "Third Awakening", a resurgence of religious devotion that coincidentally (or not) is occuring during this nation's struggle with international terrorism.

Bush told a group of conservative journalists that he notices more open expressions of faith among people he meets during his travels, and he suggested that might signal a broader revival similar to other religious movements in history. Bush noted that some of Abraham Lincoln's strongest supporters were religious people "who saw life in terms of good and evil" and who believed that slavery was evil. Many of his own supporters, he said, see the current conflict in similar terms.

Good and Evil - how refreshing! How novel! My, we haven't seen such a cosmic struggle play itself out in human society in ever so long. Fabulous! Erasmus & Co. are likely spinning madly in their graves, calling out "Humanism? Table for One?" I wish I could say "Frankly, sir, I know Abraham Lincoln and you, sir, are no Abraham Lincoln." (He too is probably spinning in his grave, now that I think of it.)

"A lot of people in America see this as a confrontation between good and evil, including me,"Bush said during a 1 1/2 -hour Oval Office conversation on cultural changes and a battle with terrorists that he sees lasting decades.

Way to go there, Sparky! Take a side publicly - damn that separation of church and state! It was a novel concept really, but outdated. Let's just smash an entire precept that has been a standard and hallmark of the founding of this country to bits and really wallow in it. It'll be like female mudwrestling, but better, cuz there will be more mud and boobs and stuff! And lasting decades? Quoi? I can't wait to be a Templar - they were so like James Bond and everything, but cooler. (Why do I feel as defiled as if I'd barged into the dreams of an adolescent boy?)

Bush has been careful discussing the battle with terrorists in religious terms since he had to apologize for using the word "crusade" in 2001

Yes, but his recent use of the term "Islamofascist" is so much more acceptable and fun; it's very early to mid 20th century, as opposed to referencing the Crusades, very late 11th to 14th century, so passe - plus there's a buncha history to learn about and all before you can actually talk about it but dude, those Templars kicked some serious ass!

And of course, the apology for the Insane Nut Job:

"He's drawing a parallel in terms of a resurgence, in dangerous times, of people going back to their religion," said one aide, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because the session was not open to other journalists. "This is not 'God is on our side' or anything like that."

Ya think? It's exactly like "God is on our side". Whose God? Whose side? I swear, I can't make this shit up, and if I could, I'd be steering wheelbarrows full of cash to the bank. Life is far, far stranger than fiction. This, folks, is Exhibit A.

Ah - go read the whole thing.

It Was a Clear Day, Then

I didn't write about September 11th yesterday, on the 5th anniversary, although the media saturation, plus discussions, memoirs and tributes found all over the net did force me to think about what happened that day.

I've been trying to avoid the overly maudlin, or what I call "tragedy porn". It seemed as if there was a sort of diabolical glee in viewing video of the towers being hit again and again, or of CNN running their footage exactly as it unfolded that day.

I think most people will remember where they were and what they were doing on September 11th - for most Americans, the televised images were all they had and the only way they received the news and the story.

As a New Yorker, though, I did have a very different experience that day, so as I've already shed my private tears I'll write my more public thoughts here about September 11th, in no particular order.

It was an absolutely perfect morning - everyone agrees on and remembers that. The reason it surfaces in so many memories is that there are so few days in New York when the weather is that pristine and clear. The day was an anomaly for that reason alone.

The first plane hit a few minutes before I emerged from the subway station at Union Square. Unaware, I walked west on 14th Street towards 5th Avenue on the way to my office. By the time I got to the corner of 5th, there were small knots of people standing there looking southward. That section of 5th affords a perfectly clear sight down to the WTC (and for months afterwards the gap in that section of the skyline was like a blow to my heart). I saw a huge hole in the North Tower. Nobody standing there had really seen what happened, until one man said he'd seen an airplane fly directly into the building. Pilot error? Heart attack? Nobody seemed to know.

As I was crossing 5th I'll never forget seeing one of the first fire engines careening down 5th at 50 miles an hour and cheering the young firefighters on along with the crowd; realizing later that as one of the group of first responders, that truckful of young men are no more.

My office is located on the penthouse floor of a 17 floor building about 2 miles north of Ground Zero. As is natural in a penthouse, there are huge office windows - ours face south, and we have a rooftop terrace with eastern and southern views. There are no other taller buildings facing south, so the view of the WTC from the executive offices on 17 and the terrace were unparalleled.

Having seen through a floor to ceiling office window the second plane hit the South Tower, I can testify that the resulting fireball was so much more enormous than any camera lens or film can record; enormous panels flew off the building with the impact and the billows of black smoke coming out of the bulding were huge.

The entire agency swarmed the terrace all morning and we were there, watching, when the towers collapsed - the first at a little before 10:00 and the second a half hour later - I've never smoked so many cigarettes in such a short time. Many of my colleagues had friends and relatives who worked in the WTC. The mood was somber and frightened. We called local hospitals to donate blood; they'd had a rush of donors already, from others who wanted to help as we did, and so they told us not to come. What we could guess was that the hospitals knew they would have no survivors.

We lost phone service fairly early in the day; since Mr. FH works at night, I knew he wouldn't be awake before noon. Before we lost the phones, I left him a message to turn on the TV, that I was okay, that I would call if I could. The bridges and tunnels out of Manhattan were closed for many hours, so by the time the subway opened up again and I got home that night at 6:30, I was so thankful just to be able to see him. During the course of the late morning I'd been able to reassure my family living elsewhere in the States that I was alright, and he at home had been fielding calls from family in France, Morocco, and Algeria, reassuring them that we were okay.

That became a litany over the next few weeks - making sure everyone was okay.

Even though airspace over Manhattan was closed to commercial traffic, we heard the sounds of fighter planes circling the island all of September 11th and if I remember correctly they flew for at least a week. And I'll never forget the sirens; they were a constant sound all of the 11th and for days afterwards.

When the wind changed a few days later and the smoke began blowing eastward, the weather was still fine enough that all our apartment windows were still open - we live about 15 miles east of Ground Zero. The smell and the lingering smoke are part of the small things that can't adequately be described; the smell lingered in our apartment and the city and was very strong as far north as the Village (roughly a mile and a half north) and lasted until the middle of November.

Despite living here, I've never been to Ground Zero. Never will go, frankly, and I'm adamant about avoiding it. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I worked briefly on the 93rd floor of the North Tower. I hated working in the building then. I don't believe going to the site now would change anything for me. I don't necessarily have to have an anniversary to remember; I do remember. It doesn't paralyze me but I it has affected me.

But I always remember it didn't happen to me; I'm still here - to write, love, laugh, argue, work, play. There are so many others who cannot say the same. They should not be forgotten.

File Under: Tripped Up By The Past

Yesterday I had to take a "road trip" for my boss to the Upper East Side -I had to deliver an envelope to one of our clients at his extremely exclusive address in a neighborhood teeming with exclusivity. I rarely go to this neighborhood, as most of my life occurs more conveniently much further downtown.

Down a dead end street, hard by the East River. The house number was barely noticeable, the apartment lobby small, discreet and opulent but nearly maritime in its spare elegance - very unusual for the Upper East Side, where most building lobbies strive to outdo their neighbors in size and marble acreage.

Walking to the subway after making my delivery, I had ample time to observe my fellow pedestrians. Every blonde, blue-eyed child, either walking or in a stroller, was accompanied by an older, darker woman - Caribbean, West Indian, African-American.

The Nanny Brigade was out in full force. It was early afternoon in early September, the weather balmy but the children back in school. It brought back many memories for me.

Once upon a time, 24 years ago, I was one of the nannies taking care of a pair of upper crust New York children.

In my day it was fashionable to import one's nanny, or "au pair" as we were called, from Europe - most of my peers and friends among the ranks were Swedish, French or British. Also fashionable was importing naieve religious girls from the West - many a good Mormon girl from Utah did her time as a nanny in the wicked city. Mormon girls were prized for several reasons - they didn't drink, smoke, or consort with men; all of them had a lifetime of experience in caring for small children, and it was nearly guaranteed that all of them would be afraid enough of a city and innocent enough that they would never suspect the cold facts of their servitude.

Perfect little puppets, in fact. Little soldiers sent to a different war, in fact.

I got my post from an ad placed in a Salt Lake City newspaper. My situation was different; I was older than most of the au pairs, I'd been to college and had lived on my own. At the time I was certainly not by any means a good Mormon girl, but I acted my heart out to convince the family by long distance that I wouldn't dare break the mold.

It was my ticket out, I confess. I wanted to leave Utah desperately. There was nothing for me there, and I was more than ready to leave a dead-end job and a disastrous relationship without a backward glance. I had always wanted to live in New York - it was my dream - and if I could get there using people who were bent on using me, I was keen to get the suffering over with and move on.

The memories I recalled yesterday are not happy or comfortable; on the contrary, much of that time I prefer to remember not at all.

The job I held lies in a hazy strata of paid servant, one notch above the housekeeper, one noticeable notch below everyone else. Depending on where one landed, one could be consistently ridiculed, debased, scorned, repeatedly shouted at, shamed, expoited or sexually harassed.

Never underestimate the cruelty of rich parents, for it can be infinitely varied and catch you unaware until you feel the knife in your back. Never underestimate the cruelty of priviledged children, for it can be breathtakingly cunning and aim precisely for your heart.

Perhaps there are situations where a nanny is loved and respected by the entire family - situations where her contributions to the children's welfare are openly and graciously acknowledged. Perhaps.

But the stories I heard and what I experienced during my very short tenure as an au pair belie that wish, grand as it may be. I was able to leave that life, fairly shortly after I'd begun, by getting a promising office job. After a few fits and starts I moved into a decent apartment, got a few raises, made real friends and experienced genuine romantic relationships. I have no illusions that my ability to leave servitude relied on being white, educated, and possessing marketable skills.

So I looked yesterday at the expressions on the faces of the Nanny Brigade, and was not surprised at all to see resignation.

It's too much to hope that they saw my empathy.

The Lost Generation

I have always thought of myself as a member of Generation X. According to the Wiki

Generation X is a term for a cohort of people born following the peak of the post-World War II baby boom, especially in Canada and the United States. While all sources agree the group includes at least some people born in the 1960s, the exact demographic boundaries vary depending on whether each source means people born just before the end of the boom, or just after, or just whoever happens to be twentysomething at the time.[1] The term is used in demography, the social sciences, and marketing, though it is most often used in popular culture. The generation's influence over pop culture began in the 1980s and may have peaked in the 1990s. Emphasis mine.

The part about the exact boundaries for the beginning of this generation is interesting - if you follow sociologists, not many agree on the beginning years, although most seem to adhere to the same ending year.

As one who is in the eyes of several sociologists considered on the "cusp" between the Baby Boomers and Generation X, it is to the latter that I've always felt allegiance.

I have absolutely nothing in common with Baby Boomers. I have never shared their optimism, naivete, nor their overweening sense of entitlement. They weren't born with the threat of nuclear annihilation hanging over their heads - we inherited their flimsy Duck and Cover grade school exercises knowing even as children the utter futility of the act.

Trust me - all the Generation X'ers out there possess a cold calm streak of nihilism - an extreme form of skepticism - based on the perceived reality of our childhood world. That worldview shaped the adults we are now, of that I am sure.

The future was difficult to believe in, as at the time there were not that many assurances that it would exist. And to make it to the ripe old ages that we now inhabit comes as a wee surprise to many, I'm sure.

It certainly does to me. To find myself possibly growing old arrives like a slap in the face - I didn't see that coming! So in a way our uber-preparedness as children and teens for the rigors of "The Day After" served us not well at all. C'est la vie.

Of course, my poll is of necessity small and should be subject to scrutiny for accuracy. But I believe we were all the Material Girl at heart, regardless of gender, one and the same.

So I salute our cynicism, the last pure expression of it.

Long may it wave.

This Week in Its Briefs: Screw Laundry, Just Buy New Pairs

1. I was saddened but not overly suprised to learn of Steve Irwin's death over Labor Day weekend. It was somewhat inevitable, I suppose, that jockeying about with wild animals would prove fatal. But he had such unbridled enthusiasm for the natural world, and did a great deal to promote conservationist causes worldwide. RIP Croc Hunter. There won't be another like you.

2. And with the conclusion of Labor Day, summer is officially over. I emerged with only one very minimal sunburn, coinciding not at all with the fact that I received the burn on the one and only day I actually spent in the sun. (What was up with that? I'm a suncreen demon. I can only conclude the brand I bought was crap.)

I stopped actively tanning several years ago; after a youth spent in the pursuit of the perfect summertime tan the bronzing habit was initially hard to break. However, right about the time I was trying to kick off the strait jacket of tanning I visited a female relative in her mid-50's who had tanned aggressively and religiously all of her life - whoosh! She had far too many wrinkles in what should have been relatively youthful facial skin. She looked 10 years older than she should have and this scared me straight; straight to the bottle of industrial strength sunscreen and straight off the beach forever more.

Nowadays, on the extremely rare occasions when I go to the beach I'm the one under the huge umbrella wearing hat, sunglasses, and long sleeved tee shirt. I always get a big laugh from my fellow beachgoers, but I shall be the one laughing when I confront my peers in the future (most of whom have not heeded my sun warnings) when their skin resembles mahogany end tables. And for those friends still in their late 20's and 30's that scoff at my advice I have six words for you: forty five - you won't be exempt.

3. If you feel as if this Administration is just marking time before they unilaterally decide to declare war on yet another country, even before we've sloppily stitched together the seething mess that is Iraq, you're not alone.

I can't say I'm surprised, given the unrelenting tide of hate that streams forth from Capitol Hill, which hatred of "the other" they in turn disseminate through the Republican party and which encompasses nearly everything they espouse. It's not really hate so much as the callous indifference to human lives and suffering that bothers me the most. I have no problem ascribing monumental indifference to the cosmos, laws of physics, nature & stuff, as these are generally enormous non-sentient masses that don't actively wish harm, it's just shit that happens. But to willfully ignore potential suffering to a member of one's own species; just ick.

4. In Cupcake News: Cupcake Emeritus is enjoying the semi-retired life, preoccupied with propelling his wheelbarrows of money about, and is cutting the apron strings connected to me slowly and painlessly. Remaining Executive Cupcakes aren't taxing my intellect or time very much, which gives me ample time to obsess about My Life and Where It's Going. For someone like me who very easily dips into quagmires of introspection, this is not really a good thing, as the quagmire is often hard to emerge from.

All I can do is hope.

In Which Our Heroine Is Speechless With Rage

Right now I feel like a bubbling inchoate mass of anger directed towards the current Administration - the mess! It never ends! And I find myself asking the age old question, "Who's going to clean this up?".

The recent presidential speeches about continuing "terror" (since Bush continues to find terrorists under every bed, it seems) is more fuel dumped daily on an already simmering Madame Fresh Hell.

Just today, the White House released the National Strategy for Combating Terrorism - national strategy, terror, blah blah blah, which Uses A Great Many Capital Letters Similar to Victorian Novels; To Highlight Importance Or Merely Sound Victorian, I Cannot Tell.

There are too many key points to parse in this post, but what I take away from the press release (Thanks a pantsload, Republicans) is that I Ought To Dig In, As This War Is Guaranteed To Last My Lifetime.

Or until someone takes a potshot with a nuclear warhead, whichever comes first.

It is to weep.