When I was a kid, Ma told me everything. If I asked, she told. If I said I was afraid, she said, "Well you should be. There are a lot of assholes and creeps out there." When I asked her, after watching one of those televised Holocaust series ("specials," circa The Thorn Birds, Roots, etc), if the nazis could come back, she said, "Who knows? Probably. There are a lot of Jew haters out there." I think I was 9 or 10 when that was on. I don't think I ever heard her say "don't worry. It'll be okay."
This was the latchkey generation. I never much saw my parents and they let us roam free, watch what we want, do what we want. We were often left alone way into the night or even over night. Fear and horror ravaged my young body, in addition to a fair amount of physical and emotional aggression at the hands of my family's unhealed generational trauma. There weren't a lot of places to call safe. It wasn't okay to talk about, given the consequences and lack of awareness at the time. To be beat up, yelled at, taken advantage of, degraded, name called, shamed, etc, was the norm in my immediate circle, though many of my friends were not physically abused and had a sense of safe place at home, which helped them cultivate a sense of safety inside, a place to take refuge within during scary times.
My childhood is not uncommon and at the time, it was normal and quite idyllic. Me and Ma were happily enmeshed, for better or worse. I have lifetimes of happy childhood memories, though it is curious to reflect on what made them happy, a subject for another day. The point is that was a long time ago. Much healing has happened and continues to happen. I commit to healing and making safe, loving, space for myself in my body every day in hopes of showing up as much as I can for myself and for others. I don't watch the news or TV at all. I am mindful of what I allow into my body. I am not, as you know, a social media person. This helps.
The hard part is parenting. I want to do the opposite of my childhood. I don't want to tell my son anything. I can be comically, effusively comical at times in protection of what I foresee as potential pain or anxiety inducing situations, from flakey friends to horrifying world events. I am adamant about no news, no TV. When he asks if my body will heal someday, why I can't run, I give him half an answer, mostly reassuring. I tell him "don't get old," what the elders told me. No bueno, I know. As he ages, I allow him a bit more truth, or admit the unknowns. "I don't know if I will ever run again. But I do know, I would carry you out of a fire. I don't know when the rioting or Covid 19 will end, but I do know I will protect you as best I can no matter what. Calm your body, calm your mind. Let's breathe together."
Because I was so young, too young, to take in violent world events, let alone the ones happening nearby and at home, I am overly protective of taxing my son's young body with toxicity that has nothing to do with him, that isn't his to carry. I tell him there is a lot of suffering and things we don't understand and injustice and that right now things are very scary. I try to teach him that even so, the world is a loving, welcoming place, the importance of cultivating for himself on the inside. Safe space inside. Yet I'm also aware that he is fully empowered. He is not me. He can handle what comes his way. He already senses what's up even if I don't tell him. And I tell him he is safe. Not to worry. But if he does, that's okay too. I tell him to be kind and unafraid of his emotions, the importance of tending to them so they don't take over. I tell him to be a friend to himself, to make room and loving space inside for refuge. As a rule, we smile and wave at babies.
There is a lot of pressure right now to shove all of this at our kids, to teach them something, to show them something, to have them wake up and realize that they, too, are part of the problem and the solution. Okay, okay... yes, no...maybe... both. But even as I own my stuff, even as I mindfully assess how much of my stuff can get in the way, I am sitting with what feels right for us.
In the meantime, after books and before bed, we talk about what's sweet. We've both been having really intense dreams lately, the kind that make you sweat. "What would sweet dreams look like?" I ask him, as he tucks into the ear of his gigantic bear. He wonders. "Hmmmm..."
"Mexico?" I say.
"Oh yes. Akumal," he says. "The ocean. Shirley Temples."
"Guava," I say. "And those little cream chocolates they left in our room..."
"And the monkeys! And the agutes!"
"Yes... and our sweet waiter friend...."
"Carlos!" he says.
"Yes!" I say, "Carlos!"
And we go on like that for a while longer until he says, "Okay, Mama, that's enough about Mexico. G-night."
"Night night, " I say and we do our routine, like a prayer, and I know he's going to be alright.
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