Remembering Being Seven

Today has been somewhat illuminating thus far.  Today I found out that assumed sexism is likely alive and well..and so is my pugnaciously spunky  inner child.  Hell of a mix.

I started off this morning on the phone with a realtor and a city inspector, inquiring about the city inspection report for a house I want to buy and rebuild, a house that just happens to be, currently, condemned.  It's in a neighborhood I like, the house still has intact period details I like, and the price is right for a nice little return on investment.

 I've worked with and for contractors, and so I am no slouch at dealing with inspectors.  Or realtors.   I'm in my 40's and this isn't my first rodeo.  You wouldn't know it from the reaction I got.  Sometimes, being a woman does not necessarily work in my favor.

I was very stuffily informed upon my inquiry, that if I were to buy the property,  I wouldn't be allowed to work on the property.  I would have to have a licensed contractor do the work.

Rather than giving up right out of the box, I looked up what it would take to become a licensed contractor. I have been around long enough to know, that as the general contractor, I can hire my own subcontractors, and not be at the mercy of someone who either uses shoddy subcontractors, doesn't pay the subcontractors, etc.  In my experience, when it comes to contracting, it's all about control of the process, and control of the money.  Who has it, who wants it, where it's going and for what reason.

  Turns out, that the license course would be the same freaking class that I would have to take to be in compliance with several other business-license-related laws anyway, so I may as well go for the general contractor license on principle.  When it comes to professional & business licenses, the more, the merrier, right?

Having decided this, I broke for lunch, and discussed the situation with a friend of mine.  I was asked  just where I get my attitude, because my friend cannot imagine saying, 'ok, y'all want to play that way, fine.', and forthwith looking up the rules with an eye towards using them for my own benefit.

I thought about it for a minute, and I had a flash of memory of just where I did form that kind of an attitude, that core belief of 'I can do this'.

I was 7 years old the first time I realized that there were certain nonsensical rules to things; rules that could be turned on thier ear with a smile, a step forward, and the correct attitude, if not necessarily the skill set.

 The time frame is the 70's.  The  Equal Rights Amendment is all over the news;, my dad had just walked out on my mom and I.  My mom was devastated but thought she would be a bold, brave single mother.  At least that is the face she initially turned to the world.  Which didn't last long..

Wouldn't you know it, but in due course,  my mother's car broke down.  Something to do with the transmission, if I recall.  I remember my mom being in tears about this situation.  I cannot understand, at the time, why she is crying.

  I trusted my mom.   I trusted her when she told me to not be at the mercy of a man, and there she was, when things were good, telling me point blank that the Equal Rights Amendment all over TV is a Very Good Idea and About Damn Time and women can do anything men can do.

I  flash back in remembrance, to her telling me that the ERA means that girls can do anything that the boys can do, and that the girls are just as good and as capable as the boys.

 I  flash back in remembrance, to her consciousness-raising group (which was really probably more of a coffee klatch) talking about big dreams and big ideals while drinking wine, listening to Helen Reddy, and lighting up slim cigarettes with big crystal tabletop lighters; tapping the ashes into the matching crystal ashtray that caught the light just right and cast rainbows upon the eggshell colored walls of our apartment.

I flashed back in remembrance, finding that when push came to shove, I found myself standing next to mom, in the ill-lit garage around the corner from where we lived.  We were facing what, to me, were a couple of great big scary men.  And my mom was crying.    Crying! 

 I remember thinking in a split-second judgement that this was not simply not covered by anything I'd heard on TV or in the consciousness-raising group!  Clearly, something had to be done about this, to make my mom not cry.  Clearly, my mom was in no shape to be brave, single mom or not.   It was clearly up to me.  I remember feeling so horribly small and alone, and feeling as if I had to be the grown up.

So there I was, all little girl, shy as all get-out, gathering  up every last ounce of  my courage.  I remember shaking in my shoes while walking right up to a great big (to me) mechanic, looking him in the eye, and pertly asking what could be done to fix the car, please?  It seemed to be the right thing to do.

 I wasn't being rude at all.  I wanted my mom to not cry anymore.  I wanted her to be proud of me for being brave and for doing what she and the television and her consciousness-raising group told me I could and should be doing; Being Assertive because my consciousness was raised, dammit!  I was woman and I was roaring.  I was seven and scared to death, so it was probably more of a squeak.

 I remember the mechanic laughing  like hell as he bent down and  gently took my hand, led me to the workbench, and tried to tell me things were going to be all right, while my mom tried to put herself back together.   I remember the mechanic having big hands inundated by the smell of something that stung my nose.  I remember not taking my hand away as he explained things, because I wanted to Be Brave, and Be Polite.  I wanted  to not be scared.  But I was anyway.  and I didn't cry.  Honestly, I think I was too scared to cry.

 My mom was beyond embarrassed and wanted to fall through the floor.  She hauled me out of the shop, took me home, and gave me a  lecture about how there were things that men did, and things that women did;  that men made the rules, and how sometimes, women had no choice but to be at the mercy of a man.  How someday, I would understand.

This made no sense to me, as all previous instructions had been about telling me that anything boys could do, girls could do.

 It all  made no sense, because my mom had also taught me to not lie.  Here she was, essentially lying to me and scolding me for questioning the lie.   How could I  trust her?  How could I be strong, be invincible and be woman and yet still be at the mercy of a man?   And why, if I could learn to do anything that boys could do, couldn't she fix the car?  I'd seen grown-up  ladies on TV putting cars together, so it was thereore not that big a stretch to my young mind that ladies couldn't also fix cars when they broke.

I protested.  For which  I was promptly spanked and sent to my room without supper, and I heard my mom cry off and on  for hours that night.  I could not comfort her.  

  My child self took grave offense to this series of events.  I was doing what I'd been told I should do, acting on beliefs that I'd been taught I should have.  Only to get spanked by the person who taught me I should have the beliefs in question.

 It turns out that it was just my first big lesson, in that I should always question the rules.  Especially those that make no sense, are contradictory, or are set down by those who 'mean well'.  I learned that sometimes, 'the rules' might not be in my best interest, and might be meant to be bent just the tiniest bit to make them work.   I learned that the person setting down the rules might be a liar and might flip-flop at the most inconvenient moment..  I learned, that I did not have to be a thing like my mom.  And I learned that great big scary men in garages are really not all that scary at all.

Something I Learned Yesterday

I got up yesterday morning, unexpectedly faced with dealing with the latest in a long-standing dysfunctional  issue with a family member, and I handled it with quick sharp efficiency and a piss-poor attitude.  I acted out of pure frustration.  By the time all was said and done, I was, by turns, alternately withdrawn and effusively cranky about the whole experience; tired of only able to be a relative of convenience/inconvenience, or alternatively, the family Elvis sighting.

I am tired of all the familial dysfunction.  I know it is not likely to end.   I am frustrated with both the dysfunction and the choices the families involved have made, that land us where we are.  I know I did not cause the problems, for they are rooted in things that took place before I was born.  I know I can't do anything about the problems, for they aren't mine to fix.

I  vented the  latest situation, along with  my feeling and opinions about it, with one of my closest friends.   My friend, never known as one who minces words, commented to me that while I was absolutely not the cause,  nor the cure, I am part of the problem.

He went in to clue me in as to exactly what my contribution was, because I was clueless on top of speechless.  How could I be a part of a dysfunctional pattern that I didn't cause, am not responsible for, and can't cure?

It turns out, that the  dysfunctional dance I'm in, has patterns.  In that pattern, my response to an initial  dysfunction, means that I typically get quiet, preparatory to politely excusing myself from the scene, which, all these years, I thought was the most functional thing I could possibly do.

 If basically quiet and polite doesn't work,  getting excessively quiet and polite when faced with behavior that crosses certain lines of propriety, isn't going to work, either.  It also doesn't make sense to the people around them that are also locked into thier own pattern of dysfunction.

 Getting quiet, polite, and withdrawn  doesn't get people to stop doing what they are doing.  They don't see it as a 'danger, do not cross' signal.  Getting quiet and polite, in actuality, teaches people that they are doing the right things.   People who are taught that they are doing the right things will continue to do what they think are the right things.  They will have no idea that they are crossing some sort of line, and that I am losing, or have lost patience with them entirely, until I either walk away, or scream at them, for doing what they thought was the right thing.  Then they wonder why I'm hurt, angry or withdrawn, conclude that I am the strange one, go back to their dysfunction, and the dance continues.  No one gets what they want, or need, and the cycle eventually begins again.

What I learned in that conversation, in addition to my friend being pretty much spot-on, is that I have to learn to stand firmly with my own boundaries, and how to state them more calmly at the outset, which will, he expects, make people understand where I stand.  He says it might make things better, or, it might get me cut from the family entirely.  But at least I would have finally said my peice.

After that chat, I had a long think about that, and had to admit that he was pretty much spot-on.  My issue  with him suggesting I tart drawing lines with my family, is that I don't want to have to keep practicing anything concerning boundaries with people I'm related to,  who are well past the age of  two.

There are limits to my patience and my boundaries, and they've been beaten on without mercy already.  I have doubts that actually expressing this to my family, is going to do any good.

What I feel I can do, on the other hand, is to practice this boundary-setting and speaking up stuff with friends and anyone I might be in romantic relationship with in the future.

So, I think he and I are going to have more chats about this.  Could be very..illuminating.