Generational Transformations: Part 1

I am constantly amazed at how much healthier the next generation seems to be- emotionally. Perhaps  “healthier” is not the appropriate term- maybe more aware, more knowledgeable, more engaged and willing to seek professional help if needed. My daughters have quickly learned how to identify toxic relationships and interpersonal issues when they originate from others. They can assess that something is a “you” problem, not a “me” problem. And their taste in music, literature, extracurriculars, friends and life choices reflects this strength.

(I had an extremely toxic ex from my adolescence attempt to reach out to me last year. After over 30 years and the #metoo movement, I was shocked that he is apparently incapable of having any insight as to the damaging impact that he had at the time and the imbalance of power emanating from a tremendous age difference. I did not speak with him. Someone else took care of that for me and was happy to do so- suggesting that one will reach out to the predator’s spouse and church to inform them of the repeated attempt at contact as well as the historical context, yields amazing results. But I could not believe the audacity he had to stalk me, track me down, find my phone number and reach out. Predators and abusers keep the momentum going. I’m not sure if it’s the thrill or the need to feel empowered due to their excessive insecurity, but these apparently instinctual proclivities do not vanish. If you find yourself in a toxic relationship, please reach out to a professional immediately so you may find the tools and strength to vacate.)

In my mother’s generation, no one talked about anything disturbing or upsetting. All abuse was kept hidden and victims made to smile in the company of their abusers. Behind closed doors though, my mother shared many stories from her childhood. She used to meander the streets of Montreal at the ripe age of 7. That is not a misprint. Take the age of 5 and add 2 years- 7. She recalled girls her age who had gone missing. There were hushed whispers of what may have transpired but these girls were never found and my mother did not hear of bodies being recovered. She and her friends used to walk through the campus of the Catholic boys school. This was the extent of her familiarity with doing something bad- admiring an opposing gender of a different religious group. She remembered the circumstances around her father’s death when she was 8 years old. She was not permitted to visit him in the hospital. At the funeral, someone told her that it was now her responsibility to take care of her mother and younger brother. She carried that with her always.

Mom remembered being 13 and her mother hosting a party. One of the “gentlemen” in attendance grabbed my mother, held her against the length of his body, and stuck his tongue down her throat in a violent kiss in front of the entire group. Everyone was quick to laugh. It was her first kiss. She was entertainment for older men. That was her life lesson as she looked towards her mother who joined in the drunken merriment. My mother ran to her room and shook with tears, embarrassment and the newly discovered knowledge that the world thought it acceptable and amusing for her to be victimized. She was not worthy of any interference or protection.

She shared the story of an aunt who had been extremely beaten by her husband. She required hospitalization. My understanding is that he was upset (this time) because she was unable to carry out her daily chores to his satisfaction. She had cancer. And this was decades ago when the treatments were even more barbaric. Not that she should have been beaten if healthy. One of her brothers was a missionary. He sat at her bedside and convinced her to stay with her husband. Told her it was her duty and that she was responsible for her husband’s alcoholism and subsequent abuse. She needed to be more understanding and compassionate. Sitting in a hospital bed with cancer and lacerations and bruises, she was told to put her abuser above herself. She was not supposed to have needs.

(He was later killed by guerilla fighters in Zambia. My mom also had an aunt- a sibling of all of the above- who was sold to a childless couple when their mother died. She was 5. Later in life, she shared that she had been a victim of sexual abuse by her adoptive father as well as several men in the neighborhood whose children she babysat. My mother was closest to this woman who never quite found her voice or her anger for what had been done to her, all that had been taken. A person whom my mother cherished.)

Even at a young age, my mother thought all this unfair but once again, she heard the message that abusers were allowed, encouraged and enabled to abuse. So very extremely fortunate for her, she met my dad. He was not raised with the greatest example of treating women in a respectful manner. But he was different. He loved his mother and felt compassion for what she faced in her life. He wanted a partnership and friendship and an equal. She fell into a wonderful marriage. I say fell because so many people are not this fortunate and through no fault of their own, find themselves with very wrong partners. It feels like falling either way- in love, out of love. One direction allows you to soar. The other has you landing face down on hot concrete.