Who We Are
vs Who We Think We're Supposed to Be
The world is too much with us, late and soon…
My father loved the Romantic poets. He had been an English major in the ‘50s, the first in his family to go to college. Because of that, of his wonder at what higher education could do, he decided he wanted to help other young people like himself, so he studied higher education administration for his doctorate. All of this was paid for by the military, since he’d joined ROTC and would serve as an administrator on a base in California—fortunately in between wars—for a few years before working in university administration.
By the time I knew him, he regretted his choice. He found administration stressful, worrying about each challenge the university faced, bringing that stress home, unable to separate himself from the inevitable things that go wrong: a student who died, a department head who quit at the last minute, a fundraiser that could get the university in legal trouble.
I knew, but didn’t understand or sympathize. His anger ruled the house, everyone walking on eggshells (a cliche so accurate I had to use it) to try to prevent his red face, his clenched fists. I blazed with hidden anger myself, judging him with a righteous flame for the unfairness of his outbursts. Behave better, I thought every time he yelled. But of the fight, flight, or freeze, I was freeze; I said nothing, tried to disappear.
I’m thinking of him now because I am like him in some ways, though not in how I feel or express anger. I’m like him in how I’d rather my head be filled with poetry than the news. How I tend to finish projects once I begin them. How I get overwhelmed by sudden loud noises, traffic, people talking at the same time. How I forget the names of politicians, even the ones doing things that horrify me, but remember Robert Frost’s Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.
People I love follow the news, and I want to connect with them, so I try to remember one or two details in order to understand what they’re talking about. And I used to feel that I should follow it, should know the names and the details, should be informed and share my knowledge and outrage on social media. But these days I’m trying to remember I only get one life and the years ahead are fewer than the years behind. Knowing all the details of current events makes me feel sick—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
We all resist differently. We fight for the vulnerable, for human dignity, and for a better future—differently. I admire and love friends who take to the streets, write about current events, make phone calls and send letters to indifferent elected officials. I hope they also love me, as I hold space for gentleness and art—the best, as I see it, of who we are.
p.s. I GOT MY VISA! I leave for Scotland in 6 days. Not that I’m counting or anything. I can’t wait to see my husband, my pets, my stepdaughter, the house I was so excited about when I saw it online that I did a little dance, and that turned out to be just as lovely in person. Please feel free to share any Scottish poets or writers whose work you love; I am trying to educate myself.
p.p.s. I’m terrible at promoting my work, but please do consider buying my latest book, a lyric memoir about my sister and grief. Or get it from your local library, or request they order it. And if you have read it, please write a short review, even a sentence, wherever you can: Amazon, Goodreads, StoryGraph. I truly appreciate those who already have: thank you, thank you.