On Thursdays, I answer the phones at the St. Vincent de Paul center at our church. Three caseworkers handle the clients’ needs. One is a retired schoolteacher, another a retired lawyer, and the third is a still spry 80 year old Mercy sister who doesn’t look a day over 67. Yesterday the office wasn’t very busy, so I got an earful of the local gossip. One stereotype about the South that seems to hold true at least a good portion of the time is that everyone either knows your mother or is related to her. These ladies didn’t know each other before coming together at SVDP, but they knew each other’s cousins and the school teacher had worked with the lawyer’s mother and the sister’s cousin was the lawyer’s hairdresser or something like that. The sister comes from a little Irish community a little further north, and she has been stationed around the coast as a nurse most of her adult life, so she either knew everyone in the conversation or one of their cousins.
On Saturday at the festival, I chatted a bit with the school principal and found out she was similarly related to half the city. She had to leave the school’s fun run early to get to the family’s Saturday breakfast, which was attended by at least 15 and sometimes close to 50. They have a standing reservation at one of the casino buffets.
So even though we have felt welcomed and made friends, we’re not a part of the inner sanctum here, because we don’t have any blood ties. And that’s fine – my own family is a rather tightly knit bunch. For example, I once got a call from my cousin asking if I were pregnant, when I hadn’t even taken a pregnancy test. Word spreads quickly on the family grapevine. People are always watching out for others, especially the black sheep.
Although we don’t have to worry about being on the family radar down here, neither do we have anyone who knows our family history, our own stories of growing up, our successes and trials. Our identity and personality quirks are a fairly blank slate. For instance, the retired schoolteacher at SVDP, who doesn’t attend the same Mass we do, didn’t know we had six kids until this weekend. It never came up in our conversations on Thursdays. But it is sort of a defining identity issue. With the kids in school, I feel a little incognito, and almost wish I could wear a button that says “I am a mother of six. That is why it looks like I didn’t brush my hair this morning.”
It took most of the first year we lived here to make friends. And most of the second year to feel like those friends are good friends. Now just when we're starting to feel accepted and recognized, it's time to start over again in a new place.
There’s something appealing about being known and not having to explain yourself. My husband has called me out on always adding a “me too” story to everyone else’s narrative. I think I’m just trying to make conversation, but maybe it does sound like I’m trying to one-up the storyteller. That’s the nice thing about being around family and people who have known you a long time: you don’t have to try to fit in. That Cheers theme song is starting to play in my mind.
On the other hand, the desire to share my story and to be known is rooted in vanity. Thinking back to the sister at SVDP, she also has had to move around a lot, as sisters do. She doesn’t wear a habit anymore, but dresses in a unnoticeable fashion. Are unanimity and anonymity virtues to cultivate? I feel a little self-conscious about worrying about who I am going to be in Guam. Rather than trying to make myself known to others, I should think more about being pleasing to the One who matters. And who already knows who I am.
"God, who knows the heart, showed that he accepted them by giving the Holy Spirit to them, just as he did to us." (Acts 15:8)
In the Shadow of the Past
2 months ago
3 comments:
+JMJ+
And of course, now I have a "me too" story to add to your narrative! ;-)
Your story of how hard it was to make real friends, even though everyone there was welcoming, reflects my own experience in New Zealand. I was there for two years as well--and I certainly needed that long!
I'm not sorry that I eventually chose to leave New Zealand. The country and I were a bad cultural fit that nothing was going to fix. But what that choice meant for me was returning to friends and family who would never understand two of the most important, wonderful years of my life--because they hadn't shared them with me. So I still have to explain myself a lot to them . . . and they have to explain themselves a lot to me, too.
One of my closest friends had a similar experience when her family moved from the US base in Okinawa to the Philippines, fifteen years ago. Having to explain her accent got really old, really fast--and to this day, she insists that Filipinos think she "looks foreign" even when she doesn't open her mouth. She was back in Japan--both Okinawa again and then Tokyo--several months ago (and survived the earthquake--but that's another story), and when she got back, she told me that felt so at home there because everyone in the street thought she "looked Japanese." There was no wordless demand to explain herself and how she fit into the local context.
The desire to be known and to fit into everyone else's narrative might be rooted in vanity, Emily, but it's perfectly understandable. This post ties in very well with your previous one about wanting a home for your children now so that they know where to come back and visit when they've left the nest.
Wow. I JUST landed on this from your sister's blog and noted that you're moving to Guam. My brother, his wife and brood are moving there this week actually. Small world. Good luck!
Small world indeed Emily! Is your brother in the Navy or Air Force? Drop me a line at dcook1000athotmail dot com with contact information if they are interested in connecting. We'll be heading over in August after a visit to family in July.
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