Photo by Natali Bredikhina on Unsplash
How much do we really know about our parents – and how much do we want to know?
We in the boomer generation grew up knowing that fathers never talked about their experiences in the 2nd World War. They were raised in a time when we kids were supposed to view them as super-beings, who cared for us but didn’t have much emotion themselves (except the random yelling when frustrations boiled over).
But our mothers often told us even less. My mother grew up in the Midwest during the Great Depression, and knew or observed significant hardship, although she and her sisters were housed and fed. I inherited some of what she learned: Saving string and rubber bands. Washing and reusing tinfoil and plastic bags. Now that we are in a new age of conservation to save the planet, the habits that were passed on in our childhood look remarkably prescient. But her stories were slivers of a lived reality in an age where people rarely shared their deepest and more difficult experiences, and generally believed that therapy was for those who were weak and broken, as not for people like themselves. People who knew how to put one foot in front of the other and march on. They were tough – and in the case of my mother, also tender in her care for my sister and me.
But my parents also told stories that gave me insight into the uncertainty that surrounded their lives as children and older adolescents – and also the lucky circumstances that allowed them to prosper when others did not. My mother told me about learning to clean the kerosene lamps, the only evening light in her home, when she was quite young. Uncle Richard, a brilliant man, had no choice but to take any job he could during the depression to help support his family including a sister with significant disabilities. He was a charming, well-read, funny – and a short-distance truck driver for his whole life. He never complained.
What our parents didn’t talk about was what it was like to be orphaned during the Great Depression. In my father’s case, having a father die removed any certainty about the future, but he was lucky to have an uncle who was a professor (one of the few positions that was largely “safe” from unemployment during the depression) who gave him a place to live and attend college. Nothing was said about moving from the family home, the separation from siblings and his mother, or the displacement and hunger that must have preceded his break.
I knew even less about my mother, and the slivers of hidden but still palpable trauma were always unconnected. As a child, she told me that she was orphaned at 14 in “the accident” that killed her parents. Decades later, I learned that she and her sisters were not allowed to go to the funeral in the tiny town of Scandia, Minnesota. No relative could take all three girls, so they were quickly dispatched to live with people they barely knew in towns that were, at a time of poor roads and slow cars, impossibly distant from one another. As the oldest, my mother went to live with Uncle Sherman Johnson, in North Dakota, who was (for the time) economically privileged. She very rarely mentioned her life there, but the tiny bits inserted into other stories made clear that she struggled to fit in. There were younger children; she took on the role of older sister, but once said that she felt like hired help. Although the Johnson family tried to stay in touch (their fondness for her was apparent in cards that I read) she rarely saw them after she left for college, also paid for by Uncle Sherman. I never visited them as a child; She never told any details about “the accident” to anyone, nor did I ever hear her talking about it with her sisters on the rare occasions when they visited. When I was an adult, I was able to discern from tiny fragments that her father shot her mother while cleaning his gun and then shot himself.
She survived by putting it behind her, to create a life that, on the outside, looked happy and vibrant. It worked for a while.
My mother and me, in 1956.
As I talk to other friends, the holes in our mother’s stories occupy vast spaces. A period of poverty that required them to give up their children for a time — but the decisions and events that caused that to occur and the struggle to reunite with them were hidden. A grandmother who died in childbirth, leaving their mother to be raised without a sustained loving presence during a time when responsible relatives would have been consumed with making sure than there was food. A mother who never talked about being thrown out of her parent’s home when she was 14.
We now think of these events as trauma, and have developed strategies, therapeutic and educational, to support children’s resilience in the face of loss and deep uncertainty. We read the newspaper and feel intense compassion for the children growing up in war zones or places of extreme poverty in our own country, who face even greater challenges. But, as a child of parents who lived through it, I had no access to their deepest places of pain, or the moments of joy that obviously sustained them since they managed to be caring and—on the surface, sometimes carefree—parents.
I have my own traumas, although not as deep as those of my parents. I have shielded my children, who are now middle aged, from them. Is this the way it is supposed to be, protecting my loved ones from knowledge of the places in my heart and life that have shattered, and stories about how I put the pieces back together? Would knowing more make us compassionate or increase our desire for distance? Should we burn our journals and other evidence before we die in order to preserve our own fiction of wholeness? Or, as I wish my mother had done, spill the beans and come clean….
I saw it first as suggestion
….We both drew in our breath and looked away
….And it magnifies in the eyes of those no longer young
Katherine Solniat, excerpted from Secrets About Nothing
Karens' Descant 