Speaking Roles

You'll understand when you're older.

This was much favored advice when I was growing up and trying to comprehend my family. It saved my daddy from painful explanations of his own failings as well as my mother's often bizarre behavior. It allowed my grandmother room to distance herself from her own daughter by virtue of procrastination. Ideally I suppose I was expected to figure things out for myself and then adopt the family's code of silence but for reasons that I can't explain even to myself, I opted for a speaking role.

I loved my daddy's family dearly and was stunned and angered by my mother's relentless criticism of them. She called them names, demeaned their faith, made jokes with her friends and complained that she had married into a tribe of illiterate and unworldly hillbillies. She considered my teachers too young or too old to be in charge of classrooms, overly curious and interfering custodians who should stick more to teaching and less to molding minds. She condemned my friends for having working mothers, ambitions of college, for being Catholic or Jewish or Italian, for being only children or one of many which indicated a lack of self control. The world was firmly set against her and her bitterness and bigotry grew and flourished as she aged and became more isolated, more angry, more self willed. She sought to blame others and look for solutions in alcoholic hazes, never making the first attempt to change or apologize or take responsibility. You'll understand when you're older, my daddy would tell me, as if that explained it all and exonerated her. And us.

I protested this easy out with hate and resentment, determined to see her defeated and crushed. One day, I told myself, she would beg for forgiveness and I would withhold it and see her suffer. Sorry would be a day late and a dollar short, as Nana liked to say, and though it might only be one battle, one victory, it would matter immensely,
I held to this with each unfair punishment, each lie, each stream of abuse and each moment of shame. She was, I discovered, incredibly easy to provoke and I took pride in being able to make her lose her temper. She would threaten me with grounding or a beating and I would laugh at her, call her a fat, drunken, old slut, incapable of caring for anyone but herself and her next drink, then outrun her and her cursing with ease. Hate had become a habit and understanding when I was older was a poor peace offering - it was a bribe, designed to deflect and change the subject.

I brought all I had learned to my second marriage, watching history repeat itself with a sense of impotence and inevitability. In some ways, I understood all too well, in others I would never become older enough. Even so, I still believe that a speaking role is better than a walk on. Find your voice and make yourself heard. Shout if you have to.