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ricardienneWe were going to go out for ice-cream tonight.
After concerts, we usually go out for ice-cream. After the last concert I played in, a few weeks ago, my mother wasn't feeling well, so we didn't. This week, it came up again, and we decided to go Wednesday, then didn't, because N. had summer school the next day, postponed it until Thursday, decided it was too late that night, and then definitively set the ice-cream outing for tonight. Definitively. We were going to have ice-cream tonight.
And then I blew it, as usual. The fight. The explosion. The storming off. The end result of no outing and no ice-cream. The reason?
Socks. My mother started telling me that didn't she look nice wearing short socks and my shoes? Didn't I like short socks? Didn't I want to start wearing nice summery, cool, short socks instead of knee-socks? I would be so much cooler. I told her in no uncertain terms that I was quite happy with the socks I was wearing.
That I had no desire to change socks.
That wearing said shorter socks would necessitate me shaving my legs every day, which I had no desire to do.
That I was sick and tired of her constantly nagging me about the clothes I wear.
That she seemed to think that her personal reaction to the heat must be the reaction of everyone else.
And so she announced that she wasn't going with us, that she was going to "spoil [my] little outing," and I left and went for a long walk. And we didn't have ice-cream.
I do not understand what it is with my mother and clothes. One would expect that a parent would be grateful to have a teen-aged daughter who uniformly wears ankle-length skirts and modest tops. One would think that, as this daughter never goes shopping without her mother, and takes all of her mother's suggestions as to which of her choices, in color and style, she should actually buy, a mother would leave her daughter alone. One would think that a mother would not complain about the length of her daughter's socks when that daughter has been known to change her top three times in order to please her when the family is going out (okay, so that doesn't happen very often, but it does happen.) One would think that since the daughter does not own anything of which her mother hasn't approved, she might wear whatever she liked without maternal disapprobation. One would think wrong.
Dear Mother,
Do you know why I care so little about the way I look? Yes, you do, because I've yelled it at you many times. It's because you care so much. Because you started dragging me to the doctor in 6th grade about my acne. Because you had me on antibiotics for four years for it, because you dragged me to a dermatologist to consult about it, because you nagged me about using this soap and that cream and this sunscreen, because for a while, all of our conversations seemed to start with, "Lyddie, I wish you'd do something about your face…" because when I did everything you wanted me to do, and it didn't work, you just accused me of not trying.
And let's talk about why I dress the way I do. Why I wear clothes that are "too warm" in summer. Why I prefer thin, long-sleeved shirts and full skirts to shorter things. I don't "<3" my body. Okay? I absorbed all of those "Lydia, I think you and I had better watch how much we're eating"s and "Lydia, you and I have the kind of bodies where we really should be eating less and exercising more"s. When no one ever said anything to Natty, because he was a "growing boy." And okay, they were all true. And okay, it probably also has to do with 'society's image of beauty' and peer pressure, and that jazz. And I know that I could weigh a bit less; I don't mind exercising, but I don't have the will-power to make the severe cuts in my eating habits that I'd have to make to be skinny. But I'd rather not display that to the whole world by wearing tight jeans and tube tops. And also, I'm comfortable this way.
Today didn't start out very well. The first thing I did wrong was the why-I-didn't-pick-this-college survey. Yes, I filled it out wrong. No, I didn't mix up columns, or colleges, or just circle "3" for every choice. I simply gave answers that I shouldn't have given. Apparently my impressions of the colleges I compared were wrong. Apparently, I don't really think that their campus is ugly, or that their academic reputation is better than that of the college I did "choose." Apparently I can't even be trusted to give my opinion correctly on the subject of higher education.
Of course, we already knew that. We knew that last fall, when my parents assured me that I wouldn't really like it at any of the places I wanted to attend. How fortunate that I didn't get into any of them. I am happily spared the consequences of imagining that I actually knew what I wanted. Mummy and Daddy like the college I'm going to attend; it was their first choice from the beginning. It was the college that I was sure I didn't want to go to.
The ice-cream is the least of it.
The problem is that I imagine that I can act the same way my mother can. If she can yell, and get upset, I can yell and get upset. If she can storm away and be unreasonable, I can do the same.
I like history, and I read history and historical documents. And everything I've read from the Western tradition says that this is wrong. From "honor thy father and thy mother" to less explicit Victorian children's stories, where it's clear that adults can do many things that children can't. There is a hierarchy. One obeys one's parents and is obeyed by one's children. But obviously, that hierarchy has broken down in time. No one follows that anymore. Am I not a thinking person? Am I not legally an adult, even? When do I become the intellectual equal of my parents?
But it isn't that simple at all. "I toil not, neither do I spin." My parents do everything for me. Cook, clean the house; we even have communal laundry in my family. I simply sit at my lap-top (a graduation present that was bought for me) and get driven where I need to go. What right to I have to imagine that I have equal rights in this house? I don't do anything. Why shouldn't my mother be allowed to yell at me freely? How can I complain about the college I'll be going to when my parents are paying for it? What is wrong with me?
After concerts, we usually go out for ice-cream. After the last concert I played in, a few weeks ago, my mother wasn't feeling well, so we didn't. This week, it came up again, and we decided to go Wednesday, then didn't, because N. had summer school the next day, postponed it until Thursday, decided it was too late that night, and then definitively set the ice-cream outing for tonight. Definitively. We were going to have ice-cream tonight.
And then I blew it, as usual. The fight. The explosion. The storming off. The end result of no outing and no ice-cream. The reason?
Socks. My mother started telling me that didn't she look nice wearing short socks and my shoes? Didn't I like short socks? Didn't I want to start wearing nice summery, cool, short socks instead of knee-socks? I would be so much cooler. I told her in no uncertain terms that I was quite happy with the socks I was wearing.
That I had no desire to change socks.
That wearing said shorter socks would necessitate me shaving my legs every day, which I had no desire to do.
That I was sick and tired of her constantly nagging me about the clothes I wear.
That she seemed to think that her personal reaction to the heat must be the reaction of everyone else.
And so she announced that she wasn't going with us, that she was going to "spoil [my] little outing," and I left and went for a long walk. And we didn't have ice-cream.
I do not understand what it is with my mother and clothes. One would expect that a parent would be grateful to have a teen-aged daughter who uniformly wears ankle-length skirts and modest tops. One would think that, as this daughter never goes shopping without her mother, and takes all of her mother's suggestions as to which of her choices, in color and style, she should actually buy, a mother would leave her daughter alone. One would think that a mother would not complain about the length of her daughter's socks when that daughter has been known to change her top three times in order to please her when the family is going out (okay, so that doesn't happen very often, but it does happen.) One would think that since the daughter does not own anything of which her mother hasn't approved, she might wear whatever she liked without maternal disapprobation. One would think wrong.
Dear Mother,
Do you know why I care so little about the way I look? Yes, you do, because I've yelled it at you many times. It's because you care so much. Because you started dragging me to the doctor in 6th grade about my acne. Because you had me on antibiotics for four years for it, because you dragged me to a dermatologist to consult about it, because you nagged me about using this soap and that cream and this sunscreen, because for a while, all of our conversations seemed to start with, "Lyddie, I wish you'd do something about your face…" because when I did everything you wanted me to do, and it didn't work, you just accused me of not trying.
And let's talk about why I dress the way I do. Why I wear clothes that are "too warm" in summer. Why I prefer thin, long-sleeved shirts and full skirts to shorter things. I don't "<3" my body. Okay? I absorbed all of those "Lydia, I think you and I had better watch how much we're eating"s and "Lydia, you and I have the kind of bodies where we really should be eating less and exercising more"s. When no one ever said anything to Natty, because he was a "growing boy." And okay, they were all true. And okay, it probably also has to do with 'society's image of beauty' and peer pressure, and that jazz. And I know that I could weigh a bit less; I don't mind exercising, but I don't have the will-power to make the severe cuts in my eating habits that I'd have to make to be skinny. But I'd rather not display that to the whole world by wearing tight jeans and tube tops. And also, I'm comfortable this way.
Today didn't start out very well. The first thing I did wrong was the why-I-didn't-pick-this-college survey. Yes, I filled it out wrong. No, I didn't mix up columns, or colleges, or just circle "3" for every choice. I simply gave answers that I shouldn't have given. Apparently my impressions of the colleges I compared were wrong. Apparently, I don't really think that their campus is ugly, or that their academic reputation is better than that of the college I did "choose." Apparently I can't even be trusted to give my opinion correctly on the subject of higher education.
Of course, we already knew that. We knew that last fall, when my parents assured me that I wouldn't really like it at any of the places I wanted to attend. How fortunate that I didn't get into any of them. I am happily spared the consequences of imagining that I actually knew what I wanted. Mummy and Daddy like the college I'm going to attend; it was their first choice from the beginning. It was the college that I was sure I didn't want to go to.
The ice-cream is the least of it.
The problem is that I imagine that I can act the same way my mother can. If she can yell, and get upset, I can yell and get upset. If she can storm away and be unreasonable, I can do the same.
I like history, and I read history and historical documents. And everything I've read from the Western tradition says that this is wrong. From "honor thy father and thy mother" to less explicit Victorian children's stories, where it's clear that adults can do many things that children can't. There is a hierarchy. One obeys one's parents and is obeyed by one's children. But obviously, that hierarchy has broken down in time. No one follows that anymore. Am I not a thinking person? Am I not legally an adult, even? When do I become the intellectual equal of my parents?
But it isn't that simple at all. "I toil not, neither do I spin." My parents do everything for me. Cook, clean the house; we even have communal laundry in my family. I simply sit at my lap-top (a graduation present that was bought for me) and get driven where I need to go. What right to I have to imagine that I have equal rights in this house? I don't do anything. Why shouldn't my mother be allowed to yell at me freely? How can I complain about the college I'll be going to when my parents are paying for it? What is wrong with me?
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no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 07:45 am (UTC)I'm so sorry. About everything.
I think you're beautiful, just so you know. I always have thought so, as a matter of fact.
As for why you're entitled to complain about the college you'll be going to, you can because you're the one who's actually going to be there. Is there any chance you can re-apply this fall and transfer, or would that be worse? Either way, I'm sorry you ended up there.
I wish I could make it all better for you.
*more hugs*