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Complaints from the road
I said something not too long ago about knowing I was an adult because I did my own laundry? Yeah, that was crap. Oh, I do my own laundry, all right, but being an adult? The longer I'm around my mother on this trip, the more I tend to doubt it. Adults, after all, can by and large be honest with other adults about things, right?
For instance, we stayed in Richmond, KY last night, where I happen to have a friend who is a professor of English at Eastern Kentucky U and is a published poet. As I think I've mentioned before, I don't really believe in God (or gods, though I am rather fond of some of them) any more. Sure, in terms of epistemology, I'm an agnostic, which means basically that I admit that it's really hard to know for sure, that I could be wrong and change my mind at some point in the future. For all intents and purposes, though, I'm an atheist. My mother knows this, though I did soften the language of it when I finally (after several years of unbelief) admitted this to her. She was, to say the least, unhappy about it. We don't really talk about it now; she knows approximately where I stand, and I'm willing when I'm home to resectfully lower my head when she prays over our food and I'll go to church with her on special occasions--anyway, I more or less grew up in that church, so I know a lot of people there.
Why, you're no doubt wondering, did this suddenly become a religious discussion? It's my lead-in to how I met Dorothy Sutton, the aforementioned poet. In my first year of graduate school, as I was getting more seriously into composition, I was reading some books by Richard Dawkins, a scientist, popular science writer, and outspoken secular humanist. In one of his books, he talked briefly about music and its power, and how much religious music had been written glorifying God, whereas music glorifying human existence (absent God, of course) was much fewer and further between. So I looked up his e-mail address (easy enough to do, knowing that he's an Oxford professor) and dropped him a line basically introducing myself, thanking him for writing the books he'd written and their impact on my life, and asking him about secular humanist texts that I might be able to set to music. He, then, introduced me to Dorothy Sutton. I've visited Dot and her husband (they're both around my mom's age, incidentally) once before when she was giving a presentation on Evolution and Literature, which seemed like a good enough excuse to come visit and show her some of the music I'd been writing for her poetry. This visit, at the time, was something I didn't tell my mother about, as it would have involved my unbelief, which I wasn't ready to share. Now, if for some reason I had been traveling down this way on my own, I would have dropped Dot a line or given her a call and tried to get together. As it was, I barely felt able to mention the fact that I "knew some people who lived in Richmond." Partially, it was because I'd... neglected to mention it when it happened and would prefer not to have it come up now ("oh yeah, I drove six hours down to KY once and never mentioned it before!") and partially because I don't try to throw my unbelief in her face. Her initial reaction was so negative, so upset that I'd rather avoid the subject.
Then there's internet usage. As I said last night, I was thrilled that this place had wireless internet. So I blogged, I got caught up on other people's blogs, and I chatted a bit. Mom, on the other hand, rolled over to go to sleep around 9:30. When I was still up at nearly 11, she asked in a very critical tone what I was spending so much time on the internet doing. Well, at the time I was chatting with Rina. Hmmm. "I'm talking to a high school girl I met on-line." Somehow that doesn't sound good, even though there's nothing about it that I should be ashamed of. And I don't feel inclined to explain blogging either, because I have no desire to have her read my blog. Did I mention she's a very judgemental person? I sort of made it a habit as I was growing up to tell her as little as I could get away with, because it often seemed like the things that were important to me (especially when I was younger) wouldn't seem very important to her. And as I got older (high school, say), I always felt like I was living a double life: away from home I coud swear, I could talk about sex almost constantly, I could make dirty-abeit-witty jokes, but at home (and in front of teachers, of course) I was almost the prototypical "good kid." And I was basically a good kid, just not perfect. There was a time and place for worse behavior, of course, and that time and place was college. Still, I've rarely been ashamed of my behavior, but I know that my mother would have been ashamed of it and angry about it.
Part of me wishes that I had a parent who I could talk to about anything. And yet, despite the negative things I've said about her in this post, I do think she was basically a good mother. And, for that matter, I'm pretty happy with who I am, and that was shaped in no small part by who my mother was, so I can't really wish to change anything, because it would change who I am.
Nonetheless, you see what I'm saying about not really being an adult? Or maybe I am... maybe part of being an adult is knowing how to get along with other adults and not having to shove "who you are" down their throats. To recognize what is and isn't useful to share about yourself. That is, I don't have to petulantly yell "You don't understand! I'm not the person you think I am!" But then, I never did that as a child, so maybe that's why it doesn't feel particularly adult-like not to do it.
As much as anything, I just wish she didn't snore. Motel beds are uncomfortable enough without her in the next bed snoring away. Ugh. What a lousy night.