Barbara does dinner theater
Maybe all meals should be like this
When I was ten my parents fought, often, and about what ultimately amounted to control over any number of things– money, affection, etc–that I didn’t fully comprehend as a ten year old.
I often chose to identify with my father in these fights: his arguments made more logical sense and my mother was, to my emotionally illiterate mind, hysterical. And having been criticized in the past for my own “tissue-paper feelings”, I was hyper vigilant about other people’s own emotional rectitude.
However during one fight at the dinner table, the ten year old had had enough. Like other evenings, my father had berated my mother’s fuzzy logic– which she admittedly did tend to employ. Whatever this ten year old’s mind or heart contained can only be guessed at–I cannot recall what the breaking point was for this given evening, given that it was quite frankly not all that remarkable. When I sift through the feelings left in that event’s wake, what remains is physiological memory of how it felt to stand up and practically shout the following:
“You cannot speak to Mom like that. I won’t allow it”.
Coming up against the implacably sad, coming up against it with every tool your embarrassingly small quiver contains. Tightness and fiercely hot cheeks–the cool surface of the kitchen table would have beckoned– I could soothe my face, hide my eyes. But, no…
Imperious and self-consciously precious, definitely. But my mother, instead of looking pleased or relieved as I had childishly hoped, looked ashamed–maybe even sick to her stomach. My father was sort of bemused and backed off and said condescendingly I think, “My my, look how fierce Emily is in defending Mom.” I was, of course, placated– even girlishly pleased to be called fierce but not pleased that my mother was still upset. I wanted to make this hot angry feeling in my chest go away and the child may have intuited
It's an art, a practice
that when all else fails, receptive silence is a kindly balm.
