The Very Big Very Scary Secret
That Was Neither
Some people are all talk and no action.
My family is all action, with very little talk.
Almost without exception, everyone–from my brothers to my third cousin once removed—is hardworking, big-hearted, and stunningly resourceful.
[[COMMERCIAL INTERRUPTION: did you see my latest for HuffPost yesterday? Also, come see Second Helping in Ann Arbor Michigan on 8.2 . Looking for a few more shows in Wisconsin & Michigan between 8.10-8.16. Please get in touch with ideas!]]
If you need someone to assist in fixing a tractor with only chewing gum and a toothbrush
Or help you build a barn
Or deliver a baby in the barn you just finished building
Or take you up the road to get a six-pack. Or a 12-pack. Or a keg.
These are the folks to ask.
However, many of them would not be who I would recommend for assistance with anything that requires using words to convey feelings.
Unless you want to watch the metaphorical equivalent of a 14-year-old learning to ballroom dance to polka music while wearing scuba gear.
The awkwardness will be excruciating. And feet will get stepped on.
Perhaps part of this is about vocabulary. My grandmother once explained to me why her cousin was not able to come to the family reunion.
"She has that disease," said my grandma, "That disease where you feel so very all alone."
"Did you mean depression, grandma?"
She did indeed mean depression.
But it’s not just the words. It’s about how they (we, I suppose actually?) move around in the world. About daily priorities.
Contrast this with my chosen family, the extended queer community, in which being aware of, open, and direct about our feelings is— if not quite a religion— at least an art form.
I’ve had the thought while perusing dating apps: "After reading this profile, I now know more about this person's interior life than I ever learned about my own biological father. With whom I shared a house much of my childhood. And DNA.”
With the help of about a dozen different therapists, 12 step groups and very patient ex-partners, I’ve learned how to speak Open Earnest Queer Processing. As a second language anyway.
Still I do love my family (even if I don’t love our love of beer) and I cherish spending time with them. So how do I deal with the um, reduced truth situations I sometimes find myself in?
Harm reduction, of course.
Remember what you learned from the friendly neighborhood lifeguard you had a crush on in high school? If you're caught in a riptide, don't try to swim out of it. The riptide is always stronger than you are, and you'll tire yourself out before you can reach the beach.
Instead, conventional ocean-related wisdom (and feelingstalk-related wisdom in this metaphor) advises swimming parallel to the riptide. At some point, a topographical feature on the shore will cause its strength to ebb, and you'll be able to break away.
The best example of this involves my mom. The best example of reduced truth situations in my family will always involve my mom. She was an Olympic level Crafter Of Narrative That Leaves Out All The Important Parts.
My mom had a tubal ligation nineteen months before I was born. In the '60s, the tubal ligation procedure involved only the clamping of the fallopian tubes rather than severing them.
Thinking I was already aware of this, my brother mentioned it off-handedly at a Christmas gathering the year I turned thirty.
I was not already aware of this.
I did some quick Internet research. According to a CDC report done over a ten-year period from 1965 until 1975, out of the 10, 365 post-tubal ligation women the CDC studied, 143 became pregnant at least once after the procedure.
In other words, 1 in 155 tubal ligations was unsuccessful.
It seemed strange (if on brand) that my mom had never mentioned my special status as a 1 in 155er. Was it squeamishness around body stuff? My biological father was of the genre of dads that thought great fun on a road trip involved farting and then locking the windows of the family station wagon. We weren’t timid in that way. Why such extended silence around a simple medical fact?
I decided to chat with my mom about it.
The day after Christmas, I accompanied her on an early morning drive to pick up donuts for all our visiting relatives. I had only managed to say, "Mom, you could have told me about the tubal lig—" before my mom turned the steering wheel sharply to the right while simultaneously hitting the brakes. This action sent the car skidding onto the gravel shoulder.
"I can't believe how close that car came to hitting us," she said, genuinely breathless.
It was 7 a.m. on a Saturday, and we were driving on a deserted stretch of highway in rural Florida. There was no car for miles.
I nodded and agreed that, indeed, who could believe how close that car came to hitting us?
Although I’ll never know for sure (since my mother would rather potentially cause a motor vehicle accident than talk about it), I can guess my mom's motivation for not wanting me to know that she had tried very hard to prevent my birth. She might have been worried that it would shatter my self-esteem if I knew this “terrible” truth.
On the contrary, knowing the facts resolved some questions, including most notably, "Why, for the love of Mike, did my parents have one more kid?"
Also, knowing that I was a direct result of a super fierce-ass egg fighting its way through a banded fallopian tube filled me with indescribable joy.
It's like being born with a protest sign: "I AM here! And I AM queer! Guess we're all going to have to get used to it!"
But.
I can take a hint. I never brought it up again.
All the same, I couldn't resist tormenting my mother about this slightly absurd situation just a bit. The following Christmas, one of the presents I purchased for my mom was a tee shirt that I had sent to her house directly from the Planned Parenthood website. It said simply, "Ask me about my tubal ligation."
Hilarious about the tee shirt (also the invisible car). My sister was one of those born after tubal ligation, although Mom's ligation was because the docs thought she would die if she had another pregnancy. I've always been grateful for the ligation fail, because otherwise I'd have been an only child, and I desperately wanted a sister.