Exit Stage Left: No More Intolerance

I am  gratefully acknowledging Jen aka Fox in the City by picking one question out of many to answer posed to me during last week’s 11 Questions blogging amusement:

Q: What is your customary order at Starbucks?

A:  Venti soy latte with an extra shot of espresso

I like caffeine, which explains the extra shot.  I am lactose intolerant, which explains the soy.  I have something to say about intolerance, which is why I chose the question.

in·tol·er·ance   [in-tol-er-uhns] noun

incapacity or indisposition to bear or endure

When one is intolerant to certain types of food, one needs to avoid these things in order to feel comfortable.  This is easy to understand.  If dairy makes me have terrible abdominal pain and results in distressing expulsions of gas, then by all means, I am going to deny myself dairy products. 

But what about emotional intolerance? 

I deal with my own emotional intolerance all the time and I am sure you do, too.   I can’t tolerate whining and complaining. Of course, I am intolerant to whining and complaining from my girls.  But I listen.  In these emotionally amped up expressions, my girls are telling me that they have needs that require expression and attention.  My job as a mom is to identify that the whining is a symptom of an inability to communicate effectively.  Simply stating, “Don’t whine,” doesn’t work.  That strategy negates the need, ultimately negating the person.  A better way to go about it is to say, “I hear you are whining.  Can you express your need in a different voice?”

See, needs are OK.  Whining is not.  And I want my girls to have the tools to get their needs met throughout life.  I want them to value their desires and know that their voices are of importance.  It’s in the delivery—not in the need itself.  I do not want them to be silenced.  I know what it is like to be scared into living as a mute.  And I won’t tolerate it for my girls.

Ok. That was easy.  Here's the hard part.

Right now I’m mad at my mom.  Like a teenager, I can’t stand her, don’t want to talk to her, and can barely bring myself to speak or even write about her in a mature manner.  Why?  Her actions continue to convey a lifetime of intolerance of me.  And it happened again this weekend.

She read Two Writing Prompts, a Bridge, and the Truth, wherein I expressed that I was struggling to write because I was afraid to express what was on my mind.  I wrote about childhood memories and my mom did not enjoy reading about them.  She sent a plethora of texts that were reactionary, hurtful, and expressed her intolerance of my truth and my expression of it.  It stunned me.  I felt like I was back in the throes of her insanity and had no control.  In one text she said (paraphrased), “Am I permitted to come see Sophia (my daughter) in the musical?”  This was followed by a few more texts in which she basically put me down and attempted to manipulate me into responding, then, “I am coming to the musical.”

I never responded.

She showed up to the musical with my niece, the daughter of my sister—the sister I haven’t spoken to in over three years.  Wow.  Was bringing my niece along a ploy to manipulate me into communicating with her?  An attempt to get me to pretend that everything was OK?  She used my daughter's performance as device of control, to employ her power over me, well-disguised as the picture of the supportive grandmother. 

What did she expect me to do? Greet her with happiness and gratitude for showing up at my daughter’s performance?  Well, I didn’t.  Because I’ve done it that way in the past only to have my voice silenced and my reality denied.  I wasn't willing to tolerate it.  

I could not bring myself to ignore my niece. I briefly spoke to her and my mother during intermission, but decided I wouldn’t stay after to socialize. I caught my daughter in the lobby of the theater after the show, and said, "Great job!  I'll be back to get you after your lunch with the cast."  She went merrily along to greet her dad and his family who also came to the performance.

At the time, I was uncertain if I made the right decision in leaving immediately after the show.  My niece, not understanding why I did not stay after the show to socialize, cried and my daughter was left feeling uncomfortable.  I know this because my daughter called from the theater and asked if something had happened. 

I felt so awful during our phone conversation.  How could I leave her alone to deal with my mother?  Luckily, seeing that I wasn't there, my mother and niece didn’t stay long.  Also, my daughter was shielded from the drama because she was surrounded by my ex-husband and his family who showered her with flowers and well-deserved accolades.  My mother wouldn’t dare say nor do anything in front of an audience that could witness and identify her manipulative emotional abuse.  Moreover, the victim she was looking for was me and not my daughter.  No victim in sight, no reason to stay.  And possibly, she had a moment of enlightenment, and realized that my niece's feelings needed to be spared.

I do not know what my mother did to console my niece.  The only thing I can come up with is that she probably chalked my absence up to rudeness and mental illness. You know, I don’t care what she said to my niece.  I just want my her to be OK.  I have no control over that and I struggle with it.  My niece should not have been permitted to accompany my mother to the performance.  Would I let my mother take my daughter anywhere near my sister in the guise of supporting my niece?  No.  You know why?  It’s not fair to put a child in the middle of an adult situation without protection and guidance.

Well, I digress.  And I am sure you are confused.  Wait.  What?  Daughter, niece, sister, mother.  Who did what?

Intolerance is the subject at hand.  You know why humans have trouble with intolerance?  They become most uncomfortable with things that remind them of their own pain.  And they will fight with all their might to avoid it, becoming intolerant of it.  Whatever "it" is.  Intolerance is fear-based.  And fear breeds harm.

I am experiencing my own fear at the moment.  I fear that this post will be misconstrued by some as an attempt to hurt my mother.  It is not.  This post is my declaration, that I am stopping the insanity, that I have become intolerant of intolerance of truth.

Truthfully, what can I conclude?  What can I tolerate?  I can tolerate this:

I have resolved to parent differently than I was parented.  I have resolved to keep my stuff separate from my daughters’ issues.  I have resolved to be tolerant of my girls' voices.  I have resolved to live in acceptance of my past and move on courageously without my mother.  

That was exhausting.

I really could use a venti soy latte with an extra shot of espresso.

 

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Enter Stage Right: Mom's Growing Pains

My little one danced around the living room in her dress-up attire, freely feeling the music, and allowing it to move her into a frenzy of expression.  She sang along to the track, hitting the pitch of each note, allowing the world to hear her voice.  After months of this, I took action and enrolled her in music lessons.  I contemplated dance lessons with careful scrutiny because as a former dancer, I knew the demise of self-esteem that is brought on by staring in the mirror for 8 hours a day.  Yet, I found a top notch dance studio, and enrolled her in a creative dance class.

She loved it.  But then came November and pending auditions for the Nutcracker. I overheard parents talking about the potential for their four year old daughters being cast as mice or soldiers and their disdain for the chosen Mouse King from last year’s production.  At that moment, I decided she would not be in the environment of the performing arts.

In lieu of dance, over the years, there were piano lessons, voice lessons, and guitar lessons--not anything serious and performances were for "fun".  And there were stories I told, per her request, about my experiences as a dancer in the theater.  One summer, she begged to do an acting camp.  For the culminating production, she landed the role of the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland.

I thought it was a strange casting choice.  She was short and sweet and I could not envision her becoming a lunatic royal who enjoyed ordering those who crossed her to be beheaded.  But when I first heard her shout, "Off with their heads!" I knew.  She was a natural performer.

Most parents would have been thrilled with the discovery of their child’s talent.  And I was.  But I was also terrified.  I was transported back to a time when I would cry hidden away in bathrooms, hearing others talk terribly about me if I got a role they wanted.  The pressure to do it better, be better, look better.  The uncertainty of knowing whether or not the director would like me enough to cast me in a role.

I could not let my fear keep her from exploring her interest and developing her craft.

Last year she was excited to audition for what was, in her eyes, her first legitimate production--the middle school fall play.  She didn’t get cast and there was a flood of tears.

I said, “I am proud of you for having the courage to do the audition.  Focus on what you learned.”  And I encouraged her to join the crew.

In the winter, she auditioned for the middle school musical.  I was so nervous for her.  She had some voice training, but not anything that would prepare her for the stress and expectations of an audition.  She landed a spot in the chorus, performed well and had a great time.

It was, however, difficult for her to deal with the intense emotions felt the morning after the final performance.  I knew from experience that the end of a show’s run felt like the death of a friend--intense grief.  I honored her feelings, comforted her, and tried to distract her with a walk and baking cookies.  The exercise and sweet treats alleviated some of her sadness and life soon returned to normal.

I sighed with relief. No more performing until next year.

Next year arrived and she auditioned for the fall play.  She was cast in a supporting role and performed well.  It was wonderful to see her understand that she was, over time, improving.

She accepted that learning a craft takes time and involves growth.  She embraced her process.  And the grief brought on by the close of the show did not last long.  Auditions for the winter musical, Once Upon a Mattress, were in one day.

From the crew, to the chorus, to a supporting role.  Next?

When the cast list was posted online the night after call-backs, she screamed from her room, “I GOT THE LEAD!”

I was so confused.  I ran in and said, “I thought you auditioned to be Winnifred.” 

She said, “I did.  Winnifred is the LEAD!”

I was stunned, proud, excited, relieved, thrilled, and scared.

I had questions.  Would she turn into a diva?  Could she pull this off?  How much support could I give before I turned into a stage mother?

She worked very hard.  Rehearsals went late into the night and she kept up with her academic responsibilities.  She was humble and a cast member, not a diva.  She worked diligently on her vocal techniques and responded to acting direction well.

She was deep down to the bone beautiful during the entire rehearsal process.

Last night, Once Upon A Mattress opened.  I was blown away by her performance.

She was funny.  I know this because I heard others laughing.  Her vocal performances were stellar.  I know this because of the intensity of others clapping.  She not only was believable as Princess Winnifred the Woebegone, she was Winnifred the Woebegone.  I know this from the others around me who stood up onto their feet when she ran out from the wings for her curtain call.

As I write this, I struggle to find the words to appropriately express my wonderment and my fear.  I do not even understand the depths of what I am feeling.

What I do know is that there are three more performances.  I will do as I always do:  make sure she gets a good meal before the performance, help her with her hair and make-up, and remind her of the importance of warming her voice up properly.   

I will keep in mind that my struggles and fears are not hers.

And I will also make sure I continue to say these two things as she jumps out of the car before running into the school for the cast’s call time:

“Have a great time.  I love you.”

Sophia's February performance run in Once Upon a Mattress was a phenomenal experience.  She is now enrolled in private voice lessons and taking it very seriously.  She has helped the grade school theater students as a crew member during their play and has been asked to be a small part of the high school spring musical playing a child in Beauty and the Beast.  I couldn't be more excited and proud of her.  And I couldn't be more grateful to have such a wonderful community of bloggers to share this with--thank you yeah writers!


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11 x 3 = 33

With gratefulness I accept the responsibilities bestowed upon me by the amazing women at The Mommy Padawan, Chosen Chaos, and The Momalog in this week’s feisty and friendly blogging bustle, 11 Questions.    

Here are the rules:

• You must post these rules.
• Each per­son must post 11 things about them­selves on their blog.
• Answer the ques­tions the “tag­ger” listed for you in her post, and cre­ate 11 new ques­tions for the peo­ple you tag to answer.
• Choose 11 peo­ple to tag and link to them in the post.
• Let each blog­ger know that you have tagged them.

The observant reader will be able to figure out that because I have been tagged three times, I have 33 questions to answer.  However, knowing that our time on Earth is brief, I am breaking the rules and choosing to answer 11.  This will help to reduce my contemplation and composing time (I am very slow at both) and cut down your reading time (you can thank me now).  Also, instead of choosing 11 more people to tag and creating 11 questions, I am asking you, the one reading this right now, to answer one question in the comment section below this entry.  Here's the question:

 What would you do if you won the lottery?

Here are my questions complete with answers:

1. What’s the best concert you’ve seen?

I tend to favor shows in small venues for their intimacy and energy.  Yet, I have been to 25 Dave Matthews Band concerts which have all been memorable, and three Pearl Jam concerts that left me feeling more alive than I ever thought possible.  However, the best concert I have seen is, by far, U2 at Heinz Field in Pittsburgh, PA, July 2011.  Powerful and epic.

2. What are the must have pizza toppings?

Fresh anchovies are delightful and make me very unpopular at pizza parties.

3. What makes you feel pretty?

Make-up and a good haircut. But, above all, hearing my girls say, “Mom, you are pretty,” makes me feel the fairest of all.

4. Which goal for yourself are you most proud of accomplishing?

Completing my degree.  I took my last class in November. 

5. What do you hope your child or children remember from their childhood?

Love and laughter.

6. What’s your best kid’s riddle or joke?

What do you call a boy with a dictionary in his pocket?  Smarty Pants.

7. What’s your favorite book?  Why?

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.  Is lightness splendid and weight a burden?  Or does meaning only come from weight?  Philosophy.  Art. Love. Life.  It’s all in there.  And my ancestors are Czechoslovakian, like Kundera. Also, the book was given to me when I was a freshman in college.  It reminds me of a time when I became awake and aware of the amazement that exists in the world.

8. and 9. Do you make your bed every day?  Do your kids make theirs? Why or why not?

I do not make my bed.  My kids make theirs after they come home from school before they do their homework so that they have a neat environment in which to do their studying.  They do not enjoy making their beds and always ask for help.  They do not need help and I do not give it to them.  But they do enjoy the feeling of having a tidy room.  My room, on the other hand, is a disaster.  I only frequent it for sleeping.  As far as why I make them make their beds and the hypocrisy of me not making mine. . .that’s something they will work out in therapy.

 

10. If you lived just by yourself, with no one else to care for, what would you have for dinner?

Salt and Vinegar chips.

11. What’s your favorite quote?

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action,and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. --Martha Graham

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Wednesday's Woman: Astronaut, Innovator, Educator

My daughter recently renewed her interest in science during her 8^th grade class study of space and the universe.  While looking online to find articles and videos that I thought may augment her learning, I came across today’s Wednesday's Woman.  She is also featured in the January/February issue of New Moon Girls, my favorite periodical devoted to and written for tween girls.

This week's Wednesday's Woman is inspired by nature, Martin Luther King Jr., and the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.  She graduated from Stanford in 1977 with a B.S. in Chemical Engineering and fulfilled requirements for a B.A. in African and Afro-American Studies.  In 1981 she obtained her Doctor of Medicine degree from Cornell Medical College and later joined the Peace Corps.  The flight of Sally Ride in 1983 prompted her to apply to NASA.  After being accepted she worked in launch support and verification of Shuttle computer software in the Shuttle Avionics Integration Laboratory.  When Space Shuttle Endeavour launched into orbit in 1992, she became the first African-American woman to orbit the earth.

Who was the first African-American woman to travel into outer space?  Dr. Mae Jemison.

Because of her love of dance and as a salute to creativity, Jemison took a poster from the Alvin Ailey American Dance Company along with her on the flight. "Many people do not see a connection between science and dance, but I consider them both to be expressions of the boundless creativity that people have to share with one another." Jemison also took several small art objects from West African countries to symbolize that space belongs to all nations. (Wikipedia)

Dr. Mae Jemison continues her inspiring work today creating and working with the Jemison Group  supporting learning, research, and uniting the arts and sciences.  Her list of current projects of current projects include The Earth We Share (TEWS) international science camp programs; the Dorothy Jemison Foundation of Excellence (DJF), established to honor and implement teaching principals inspired by her late mother, a teacher in Chicago Public Schools; the innovative medical device company, BioSentient; and TEWS, 

Science literacy is crucial to the well-being of societies and countries around the world. Every day technology becomes more significant in shaping the world’s economy, our homes, cultures and relationships.  The future prosperity of nations around the world is intimately intertwined via advancing information, transportation, and agricultural technologies and the environment.   The Earth We Share (TEWS) engages students and teachers from around the world in meeting these vital challenges.

More information about Dr. Mae Jemison’s current projects can be found on her website which offers an interactive timeline highlighting her career; educational areas designed for children, teens, and teachers;  and a Laboratory where fresh ideas are explored.  Dr. Jemison gave a brilliant TED Talk in 2002 wherein she proposed that arts and sciences should not be thought of as separate entities, but should be thought of as fields of study that cannot exist  without each other:

What I'm very concerned about is how do we bolster our self-awareness as humans, as biological organisms? Michael Moschen spoke of having to teach and learn how to feel with my eyes, to see with my hands. We have all kinds of possibilities to use our senses by, and that's what we have to do. . . my personal design issue for the future is really about integrating, to think about that intuitive and that analytical. The arts and sciences are not separate.

If you are looking for someone who can inspire your daughter to be fearless in her endeavors, point her in the direction of astronaut, educator, artist, and innovator--today's Wednesday's Woman:

  Dr. Mae Jemison  

{Each week I feature an inspiring woman.  If you know of someone to be featured, please let me know!  Last week, in accord with Digital Learning Day, Wednesday's Woman highlighted two stand-outs in the field of Educational Technology, Kathy Schrock and Judy O'Connell.}

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Smartphones and Build-A-Bears

My girls spend their weekends at their dads during which time I receive updates regarding activities and the emotions evoked during happenings   via phone calls, text messages, emails, or direct messages on Facebook.  I never know exactly how the information is going to be delivered.  I have learned to employ my intelligent phone to be certain I do not miss an update.  Missing updates result in phone conversations that resemble this:

Daughter: “Mom, I am calling because you have not responded to my email.  Did you see my Facebook status?  I sent you the link in a text message.  And why haven’t you checked your voice mail? I explained the email which tells you about my Facebook update in it.”

Me: “What?”

The aforementioned comes from my older daughter, Sophia, who is 13.  My 11 year old, Antonia, sometimes sends me text messages but typically calls at night right before she goes to bed to say goodnight.  Details about her day are brief, but I listen carefully for subtle changes in her voice that indicate how she is feeling.  I often wish she would text, call, or email more, but she is a different type of communicator than her sister.  It is interesting to compare Sophia’s multimedia narratives to the minimal reflections provided by Antonia.  When put together, I can get a pretty good idea of what has been going on during their time with their dad, step-mom and step-sister.

Antonia and her step-sister spend a significant amount of time playing school with their Build-A-Bears.  They transform their dad’s living room into a very detailed classroom.  They hang posters, set up work spaces, and line up their bears with name tags.  One of these school sessions can last an entire day.  It’s serious business and serious fun.

The Build-A-Bears are also serious business.  Antonia and her step-sister each have one special bear that is treated like a child of their own.  They go shopping for their child-bears’ wardrobes and change their clothes according to the day’s plans.  During the week, when Antonia and her step-sister are apart, they update each other on their bears’ activities.

Two weekends ago, while the girls were at their dad's house, communication from Sophia was normal.  On Saturday, I knew they went out to dinner and had a treat at home—cookie cake.  I knew that, as usual, Antonia and her step-sister spent time playing school with their bears.  Antonia sounded great during our brief nightly talk on the phone so I didn’t press for details surrounding her day.  But Sophia sounded annoyed.  I chalked up her irritation to stress and tiredness (the girl will not stop, even during the weekends).

On Sunday morning, Sophia called and illuminated the cause of her annoyance.  I asked her how dinner was, and she replied, “Mom.  We went out to dinner to celebrate the BEARS’ BIRTHDAYS and the cookie cake was for their party at home.  Dad even bought them each a $10 gift card to get a new outfit, AND they picked out a G-rated movie for them to watch.  MOM.  Can you believe it?”

Upon my girls' arrival to my house later that afternoon, I welcomed them enthusiastically and said, “Hey.  How was the birthday celebration?  It sounds like it was a good time!”

Their dad confirmed that it was indeed a fabulous celebration whereupon Antonia looked down at the floor from embarrassment and Sophia plopped her entire body down to the couch accompanied with a giant sigh of disdain.

I ignored the drama on the couch, took Antonia’s chin in my hand, lifted her face to mine and said, “You know, I had a doll I played with until I left home for college.  I kept her and her little suitcase of clothes under my bed so that my older sister wouldn’t make fun of me.  I changed her clothes and combed her hair every day.”

She smiled.  

I asked Sophia if she thought her behavior was appropriate.  She rose from the couch and apologized to her sister.  Their dad went home, we unpacked bags, and the week went on without the bears' birthdays being mentioned.

On Saturday of last weekend my phone was buzzing, alerting me to incoming text messages.  I assumed it was Sophia with updates.  To my surprise, the messages were from Antonia.  But there were no words.  Only photos:

I was thrilled to hear from her.  Although her messages contained no words, I understood.  To me, the photos of her "school" said, “Thank you for accepting me for who I am.”  

Then the phone rang.  It was Sophia. . .

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