A young lady wrote of her feelings regarding the invasion of her privacy by her parents. After reading her most current post, I scrolled back in time slightly to see what might have been behind it, and found myself staring into the reflection of several pasts.
There're rantings and angry words being slung like rocks from a slingshot:
1 - You invaded the space under my bed where I keep my private stuff!
2 - You invaded the space in my closet where I keep the things you aren't supposed to see as my parent!!
3 - You invaded my space in my dresser and read my diary!!!
There're threats and admonitions, reprisals and repercussions:
1 - That's it. I'm going to seek emancipation and live on my own away from these "parents"!
2 - I hate you I hate you I hate you and I wish I were DEAD! I'm outa here!!
3 - I can't STAND IT here anymore. I am GONE!!!
There are the determinants that these parental individuals cannot possibly understand the meaning of true love.
1 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with
2 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with
3 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with
To put this in perspective...
Comments marked 1 - were written yesterday by this young journalist on her online log.
Comments marked 2 - were from my daughter in 1982, screamed to me on her way out the door.
Comments marked 3 - were my own in 1967, screamed to my mom, on my way out the door.
Some things never change. Some change so fast.
When I was uttering my phrases, t'was the decades of Free Love, of Volkswagen buses painted with peace signs and dangling strangely beautiful beads upon the rear-view mirror, usually driven by someone 'cool' who was in reality too stoned to see the trunk of the car in front of him. I was madly in love with someone whose name I can't remember now, and my life would surely end if I could not drive off into the sunset with him and his pretty beads and his two other girlfriends, whom I was sure would vanish on demand. T'was the life of the Hippie, the possessor of free will, great weed and other mind-altering drugs with interesting initials, from which I was immune as they scared me to death. But it was great fun to watch people smoke some of them as I sipped on quite virginal ice teas and pretended to understand what they were doing. We were in Vietnam. We were in Woodstock. We were modern, post-modern, conscientiously objecting all the way to the nearest campus or border. We were wise. We were poets, crafting our art in single-syllable prose. We were troubadors and minstrels of our time, aspiring to the nobility of the day, a smash single on 8-track or vinyl, a mark upon our vast and changing world. We burned candles and incense, smelled of pachouli oil and the subtle undertones of smoke and spilled Sangria. Our parents did not understand us and our ways.
But our parents coped, with prayer and divine intervention, vigilance and infinite love. And somehow we survived and moved on.
Fast forward a decade 'n change. Somewhere along the line, most of us grew up. Got married, got employed, had small bundles of joy (aka kids), bought houses, bought Chevys and Fords. We parked the spray-painted Volkswagen bus in the backyard to be consumed by weeds and rust. The love beads and peace symbols got dropped into small chests of cedar and pink velvet jewelry cases we'd hauled around the counter as our talismen of childhoods flung free and far, then set far back on closet shelves, to be blushed at and moved with wry grins once every year when the afghans came down for winter. The tie-dyed t-shirts made good absorbent garage rags.
We are parents. WKRP, M*A*S*H and CHiPs and other strangely punctuated television shows dominate the networks. Nixon is not a crook but has resigned anyway. Cable television races toward our suburban nests, inhaling our lawns and paychecks. We have clutched our chair seats and chests while watching Jaws for the first time. We've laughed ourselves silly over Monty Python even if we can't understand a third of what they're saying, watched Apocalypse Now and winced, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and nodded to ourselves at places. We've traded our Chevys and Fords for Datsuns and little diesel trucks hoping to survive the Gas Crisis. We line up at the pumps on our designated days, shaking our fists at those who dare cut in line.
Our small bundles of joy are no longer speaking to us, but are shrieking in rebellion. We pray nightly for the silence to break and wonder how in hell our parents survived us. For as our children might say: We are enraged. We are modern, post-modern, dressed in manners most unsuitable for the street, with high waves of puffy hair and torn sweatshirts layered over torn t-shirts, legwarmers and some strange glittery stuff on our faces. We want freedom from oppression, for all (starting with themselves, of course). We cannot find a pay phone after seven in the evening, as such devices magically cease to exist at sundown. We jam on the beach; we are fearless. We are stars in our own heavens. Our parents do not understand us and our ways!
They threaten us at every turn, these children of ours... They're running away, and nothing we can do or say will stop them. We are aghast at their accusations - violate their privacy? break into their rooms? betray their trust? No WAY! We're COOL... aren't we?
We are no longer cool.. but we coped, with prayer and divine intervention, vigilance and infinite love. But somehow we all three survived and moved on.
Then tonight I read this blog by this young lady, and much becomes clear. She rebels against the tyranny of parental guidance and love, as my daughter did, as I did - and in the forty intervening years, so much has not changed. She rails against the bounds, as my daughter did, as I did - and yet the bounds have not changed so much. For she might say: We are rappers and ravers, possessors of the night, hair of a hundred colors and pants that droop yet mysteriously do not fall off. We are chanters of phrase, spoken song, of M&Ms and Eminems, and our ringtones rival the playlists of the near-defunct radio stations. We own iPods and Shuffles, XBox, Blackberry, Mac Minis and cellphones that take pictures better than our dad's clunky webcams. We are aware, we are aware we are different, we celebrate rights and castigate wrongs. We have seen devastation, we have seen tsunamis wipe entire coasts from existence. We're proud of our piercings, ears, eyelids, tongues, navels and.. others. So? We have seen our parents' icons fade and pass, and warily await the new. We are owners of our own century. We've seen it arrive at the speed of light and we possess it as fast as we can. Our parents do not understand us and our ways.
I sought the right to ride into the sunset with a dazed hippie and his merry band of stoned chicks, hypnotized by the swinging of the beads over a Pepsi-sticky plastic dashboard. I'm now a grandmother, and spend hours on the phone with my farflung family and distant siblings, wishing the distance were much shorter.
My daughter sought the right to skip school and spend the day at the beach without me freaking out and calling her principal's office. She is now up in Central California, raising her three sons, the eldest of whom is probably graduating college in a few months.
She seeks emancipation, this young lady of the online journal - the right to do as she pleases without parental interference.
Deja vu all over again.
Though times have changed, sped up, gone electronic, shrunk the world and expanded it beyond our wildest imaginings, some things have not.
Young lady, though you will not believe this now:
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to have a diary read against your will, to the embarrassment of your mortal soul.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to scream in frustration when you discover that the box of secrets you had shoved beneath your bed or into your closet or into the back of your dresser has been removed and perused.
You are not the first nor shall you ever be the last to accuse your parents of the heinous deeds of invasion of privacy.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be consumed with the sense that your entire life has been laid open by prying eyes and that you have no recourse but to run as fast and as far as you can. It happens. Trust me, it happens.
If you are lucky enough to have parents who care enough to be aware of what you are doing, and you are lucky enough to be living under a roof they provide and eating the food they pay for, be grateful.
Be thankful, be proud of them for having made it out of their own childhoods and evolved to the point of being responsible enough to have you and raise you. They are not the enemy, no matter how you view them on this day. Do not abandon them on a whim nor in a moment of anger, causing wounds which may take decades or lifetimes to heal. Do not.
Parents of young lady, however unlikely it is for you to read this:
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be the targets of this animosity from someone you used to cuddle in a small blanket. This presence you created has evolved, and evolution brings change.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to spend sleepless tear-filled nights in panic, wondering where your child is or if she is all right.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be consumed with the feelings of helplessness, of hopelessness, of confusion and lack of preparation. Dig deep into the cosmic consciousness - and ask your own parents how they dealt. If you are here and reading this, someone coped somehow.
You are not the first nor shall you ever be the last to spot a small book in her closet or dresser or under the bed and open it out of curiosity even though you know by doing so you let free the contents of Pandora's Box. It happens. Trust me, it happens.
To you as a family unit, whoever you may be, wherever you may be reading this:
Discuss early and often the boundaries of life, the meaning of privacy and how that is a privilege which grows like a prized rose bush over time and with much care.
Discuss the importance of those boundaries, even though you may be scorned for the words in later conversations.
If you make a promise, keep it. If you cannot possibly keep it, be honest and explain why. If you promised a family a certain level of stability then lost your job and can barely afford rent, for the love of God, don't lie about it and delude those who are depending on you for that rent.
Set good examples. If you tell your son not to drink, do not do so while waving a bottle of whiskey at his face. If you admonish your daughter not to smoke, do not do so while brandishing a flaming Marlboro at her nose.
Be thankful for the small telltale markings of progress, encouraging in your words, and respectful in your dealings. They are not the enemy, no matter how loudly they may rebel at a midnight curfew.
Do not abandon them on a whim nor in a moment of anger, causing wounds which may take decades or lifetimes to heal. Do not.
Create laughter when and where you can. Anger cannot live where laughter grows. Be reasonable in your expectations of each other - as child, as parent. Don't demand beyond reason - as parent or as child. There are no easy answers. Heck, there aren't even easy questions. But together as a team, you might just make it through this.
I wish you all well. May you deal with it all, with prayer and divine intervention, if that helps you, with vigilance and infinite love. May you somehow all survive and move on.
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