The Man and I have an on-going debate regarding manners. He feels that when he’s home, among family he should be able to abandon stiff polite interaction and let it all hang out. I disagree. I think it’s incredibly backwards to save your best behavior for perfect strangers and treat the people supposedly closest to you with less than that. Sure, when you fuck up it’s your family that will cut you a break, pull up your slack and make you laugh at yourself but that’s all the more reason to please them and thank them and excuse yourself in the interim.
Growing up my siblings and I were taught manners so early and so deeply I don’t even remember it. I’m not just talking about may I and please and thank you. It’s a way of being. And honestly it is a wall out in the world. It has a dignity that cannot be taken away. But it’s not always all that great. There’s a certain amount of putting yourself small and tidy in a corner involved.
Yesterday I had a phone conversation with a person I don’t like very much. I accidentally called on their birthday. They mentioned the date and I had to say Happy Birthday. And I did it without even flinching or thinking. I said it kindly and with heart. Because if it’s your birthday and you’re old as dirt (heeheee!) it’s nice to hear that. It’s nice to think that someone cares you’re closer to death and farther from birth or remembers you’re present on the planet and have been awhile.
And I could kick my fucking ass for it. I’m not going into detail here, I’m just going to say this person deserves my well wishes least in the world. And that’s no small thing.
It swung a door back open. Suddenly we’re old friends chatting on the phone. Suddenly I’m being undone, slicked with etiquette I’m sliding into friendship with Satan himself. As it was in the beginning it will be in the end. And I’m hearing the surprise in his voice, the relief and slow steady push of a boulder up a hill and I forced myself to finish it out on the same note to keep it even and not panic because if I did he would hear it and know.
It’s fucking insane. And I don’t always know how much that’s all in my head and how much it’s real. As real as a positive pregnancy test, real as a letter with prison numbers on a return address, real as court and mine and you can’t have her.
My toddler has hit that first serious rebellion phase. I know… hysterical when you think of my already obstinate children hitting the terrible twos head on. He’s become demanding. “Give me my juice.” “put my shoes on!” and every time I make him rephrase it. I make him wrap it up in nice and I don’t know why. I don’t know why we dress the world up. I don’t know how to tell my kids this is ugly and I want you to hide it even though it makes you vulnerable because nobody else will do that for you.
But I do. Because it’s going to be a coal walk either way. So you hold your fucking head up. Because there will be times when holding your head up is the only thing keeping your mind off your feet. There are times it's the only way to remember who you are and escape. Not for you. But maybe for your kids.
April 08, 2009
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