Dressing Up for Church

A line from Laraine Herring, Writing Begins With the Breath, writing about the problem of establishing empathy with a character, a line that produced an audible “Hmmmpfff” when I read it, punching the breath out of me, the memory it brought back: “As you begin to accept the shadow inside of you, you can accept the shadow in others. Acceptance doesn’t mean condoning action. It means recognizing that piece of each of us that is purely an animal, not dressed up to go to church all the time” (40).

Dressing for church. A PBS episode on “cool hunting” a few years ago had gone with some “cool hunters” into the bedroom closet of a teen in some mid-western U.S. city, to inspect his choices in clothes. He opened his closet and the first thing he pointed to were the suits he had for going to church. The “cool hunters” couldn’t turn their backs on that end of the closet fast enough. What did he wear when he went out with friends or on dates? When he was being his real self, I guess. Not becoming one of “them.”

Dressing for church, a weekly normal and family ritual, not,  as far as I was aware at the time, a metaphor for putting up a front or putting on a mask, was part of the life I was raised in, from very young. When we lived in Claresholm, at the RCAF base, before we moved away in late 1957 because it was being closed in 1958, and my dad, for reasons none of us will ever understand, had turned down a permanent commission in the Air Force at a time when hundreds of sign-ups for the Korean conflict were being de-commissioned, Sunday dress-up for Sunday School and church was just what one did. At least, if one was in our family or my parents’ social circle.

            Somehow, sometime about 1955, my friend Elliot next door got interested in Sunday School. Maybe he was lonely. Probably he was lonely. Elliot was a rarity in the mid-1950s at the start of the baby boom: an only child. I had my little brother Bobby. Over the next five years we were going to be joined (through those mysterious processes only parents seemed to understand) by Ian, Matt and Vicki. Maybe Elliot, who never did get a brother or sister, to my knowledge, and might have been, in the euphemisms of the time, an "accident, wondered what we and other families did all dressed up on a Sunday morning. His parents didn’t seem to have much time for him, even on Sunday morning--something even a seven-year-old could figure out (or maybe something I picked up from something my mother had said, in one of her sniffs of disapproval or disappointment. She really liked Elliot, but not his parents).

            Anyway, as the story went, Elliot had showed up at our door Sunday morning, in his regular clothes, nickel in hand for collection, to see if we were ready to go to Sunday School yet. Bobby and I looked at him in surprise, having been tidied into our Sunday suits, as we always were. “You’re not going to Sunday School in those clothes?” I blurted. Nobody went to Sunday School in regular clothes. Maybe Elliot didn’t know that. Maybe I didn’t know that Elliot probably didn’t have much that was any better—he didn’t have much need for anything you couldn’t go out and rough-house in.  Elliot, apparently, looked hurt and went home, and never did join us for Sunday School that day or later. He probably also wrestled me to the ground and sat on my chest later that day, just to remind me who was boss. That's how we usually re-established effective order in our friendship.

             I forgot about it till years later, when my parents, disappointed in me about something else, put out by my deplorable, insufferable behaviour on some now forgotten occasion, dragged out this gem from the past for further inspection, to remind me of the pattern of my snobbish selfishness: “You were so good because we took the trouble to dress you up, and you had to make Elliot feel bad.” Mom and Dad had been raised in small-town Saskatchewan in the Depression.  They must have seen lots of kids with nothing but the clothes on their backs, having to make them do for church. But also they would have been raised in an atmosphere like that experienced by Rose-Anna Lacasse in Gabriel Roy’s The Tin Flute. She goes half crazy sewing new clothes for her city kids, so she can take them to visit family in the country: “The important thing, the thing that would clothe her regally, was to have her children well dressed. She would be judged by her children.” And I bet Mom and Dad growing up had overheard plenty of nervous class-conscious adult sniping, as others shivered at the sight of kids in less than good dress for church, and thought that “there but for the grace of God go my kids and I.”

             I think what truly horrified Mom, especially, that day was that I was saying out loud to Elliot, whose fault it was not, what she was thinking about Elliot’s parents, that they should be ashamed of themselves for letting him dress for church that way. But I said it. I did it. Obviously it was a flaw in me. I couldn’t have learned the expectation from everyone around me that on a Sunday morning, to stay in God’s good graces, one always dressed up to go to church. That as a well-brought-up child versed in the middle-class superego of the 1950s, I would assume this dressing up was normal, and of course Elliot’s clothes would look strange to me. But, no, Mom and Dad had to remind me of what a brat I had been to Elliot, just like I was being a brat now. Me and my big head. Mom and Dad definitely wanted to keep my head small.

             I should have been raised Hindu, under the influence of Ganesha. I have two small Ganesha figurines in my office, thank-you gifts from colleagues of Hindu backgrounds, who gave them to me after I had helped them with some research or teaching problem or other. Ganesha is the “Remover of Obstacles,” and they gave me the figures in that spirit. But today I also saw a diagram explaining the symbolism attached to all the parts of Ganesha’s body and costume. Ganesha could be a God designed by parents. Observe Ganesha’s small mouth—a reminder to talk less. Or the big ears, a reminder to listen more.

            But he has one problematic quality: Ganesha has a big head, a reminder to think big. That’s something else I was always encouraged to do: set high goals, over-achieve. Just don't get big-headed about my successes; dwell on my failings and shortcomings.

           And always dress for church.

Slackers and Swingers

I've been looking back at notations on things that caught my attention just long enough to get a passing note in my day book. One from New Year's Eve really does deserve follow-up.

I don't know how, but there it was, another "reality" tv show that has no business being: Real Virgins. The first item featured a 31-year-old male. "Man" just seems too generous a word. He was with his fiancee, and they were planning their wedding. Their boast, on tv? That they have never even kissed each other on the lips yet, their love is so pure. That first, somewhat consummating, kiss will come just after the minister says "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

31 years old, and he claims he's never kissed any woman on the mouth. He is either a liar, or a fool. I hope he gets a massive testosterone booster shot as a wedding gift--to or from his wife-to-be. She makes the parallel claim, by the way, and looks somewhat past sweet sixteen.

They are maybe among the most frightened so-called adults I've ever heard of, or among the most weirdly "moral" idiots on the face of the planet. In fact, I'm not sure what to think of this kind of "morality." In one way, it's none of my business what two consenting adults do not get up to in the privacy of their separate bedrooms. But they did go on television (okay, so on cable) to proclaim their mutual silliness. They actually did offer it up for the delight (entertainment) and profit (education and edification) of the less moral, less strictly disciplined sinners among us.

I mean, yes, every "first time" is its own set of revelations, in my own humbling experience, and anticipation has been part of the revelation, but really...

I just hope they are not hugely disappointed in each others' physical ignorance and fumblings on their wedding night. And I hope that if they are disappointed, they don't turn that popgun peep show of Lilliputian proportions into their next twelve minutes of fame (or that I'm tuned into a program on cajun alligator hunting or some other more profitable pastime when they do).

Then again, is their celebration of their lack of experience any worse than the narcissism of couples who hire porno producers to film them at their pleasure? Or who invite company to the consummation, to keep it exciting?

Slackers and swingers: the extremes that help to define the abundantly average. 

Got it Covered

Conversations one never could anticipate, but that make getting up worthwhile:

One of the bright spots in my teaching assignment these days is a course called Write 298: Introduction to Writing Nonfiction.  Part of it is looking at how other writers deal with their topics, the genre choices, voices, etc. Part of it is practice for the students in generating topics for themselves, so they can also practice genre and voice, etc., on things that matter to them.
            Right now, the class is re-engaging with a project begun back in January, to write on the one topic they never find anything written about, because it's really their topic. The idea comes from Annie Dillard: "Why do you never find anything interesting written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment"  (“Push It”).

         We had gone through Sondra Perl's "guided writing" steps in mid-January, and returned once or twice since to feel out the boundaries, but now it's the last thing in the course, and time to focus. 
          One student this morning, his laptop broken so he really cannot participate in some idea-generating exercises (he has vision problems, and needs the super-large type font and voice synthesizer), sat there and twisted and turned and otherwise manipulated one of those plastic banana covers--the kind you put a real banana inside so that it will not get mushed and pulped in your lunch bag or back pack. I won't describe the scene, but it shouldn't be hard to imagine.
          Anyway, after a few minutes, he made his cautious way over to where I was standing, and asked if writing was all we would be doing in class today. I explained that it was, and he decided to leave, since he could not really produce much with no writing equipment. Then he said something about "I don't know why I thought this banana would be such a good topic." I chuckled an unhelpfully sympathetic reply: "Yeah--there can be only so much inspiration in a plastic banana."

           He came back towards the end of the class period to meet with one of the other students. He resumed his plaint: "I can't remember now why I thought it was such a good idea at the time." It seems he got this thing as a Christmas present, so in January it had been an item of fresh fascination and "astonishment." Not so much by mid-March. So I reversed my original position of about an hour earlier, because one should try to be positive about such choices. 
         After all, a couple of years ago, a student had fussed that after hours of exploration of her options, the only topic she had was that she did not like having brown eyes. And what kind of topic was that? I had answered: "I don't know, but it's yours. Go to it." And she did. The piece won a prize.
         So I tried this supportive gambit: "If there can be a universe in a grain of sand, there can be eight pages in a plastic banana." 
         Easy for me to say: I need only fill this window.

Heart to Heart

I was reading a poem by Carol Light; "Raynaud's Weather." The first part is prose poem, the second a series of linked haiku-formed stanzas. Since I usually work in prose, I thought some deliberate practice with haiku form might be useful, at least as a way to break out of a habit.

 So, I fixed (by what process I cannot recall--if there was a process--maybe it was just that that's how the first one went) on a series in which the fifth syllable would always be the word "heart." And away I went. 

To try, to take, heart

beat the drums loudly and lordly

say "no" nevermore

Lonely hunter, heart

less an organ, pure idea

seeking company

Matter has, needs, heart

strong nucleus, moving core

streaming particles

Lifetime measured heart

starts continues flutters stops

soars throbs sore goes out

Take it all to heart

attack root causes affect

ranges of choices

Supporting rings, heart

wood pithy prone to decay

devalues timber

Without love no heart

break without numbing heart break

no recovery

Back-slapping joy heart-

y zealous greeting betrays

fear of loneliness

Action, stasis, heart

stopping each in its own way

silence follows thumping

Home of all homes heart

land, place from, destination

radiates ways back

Drums imitate heart

throb stimulate call to arms

destroying loving

 

Post-nasal drippings

Not the most attractive title, but not the most attractive symptoms, either. I don't know what this virus is--but virus I'm sure it must be. It kept me home from work for two days two weeks ago--and I haven't taken a sick day in at least five years. Eva, who usually just wills herself to ignore the symptoms, picked it up a week after I did, and she took sick time, too. She's even willing to cut a walk short, which is unheard of, but her knees wobble a bit, even when she tries to pretend she's feeling better.

The heart of it all is a steady discharge of bright red snot, filling enough tissues to keep Scotties in dividends for the quarter, and slipping in gluey strings down the back of the throat. Coughing it all up is not much of an improvement. The symptoms also got to me when I tried to take George for a walk--the not-very-cold winter air just caught my throat and upper lungs and squeezed until breathing became too painful to do without an act of the will. I can only imagine what the cold was turning that red muck to, in my bronchial tubes.

Recovery is a bit hit and miss--but at least people are no longer laughing at my attempts to talk--other than to laugh at what I say, of course, even when I'm not trying for a laugh. The effects have been startling. The other day, I was trying to explain to my pop culture class on the Imaginary Indian the impact of the voice of the Chief in Disney's Peter Pan, and to my surprise, I could just do the voice, all the way down to the bottom of "burn 'um at staaaaaaaaake...." When I was little and seeing the movie for the first time, that threat, in that rumble, scared the willies out of me. Now, it's the symptoms that make it possible that have me worried.

But I can finally again take George out in the dark-again mornings--dark because daylight savings has pushed the morning sunrise back out of season. (Holt from my morning class offered a joke he'd heard about DST: "Only the government could take a perfectly good blanket, cut it in half, and sew the bottom half back on top of the top half, and say it had now made a longer blanket.")

And two things are clear about the turning of the seasons: the bunnies are beginning to turn grey along their backs, and they are not in small knots of  four to seven anymore.  Pairs are even rare. Snowshoe hare mating season must be over. Richard considered that thought at my office door today, then offered this little bon mot: "Did you know a doe rabbit can get pregnant again the same day she gives birth?" No, I had not known that. I'm not sure what to do with the fact, other than file it away to drop into another conversation with someone else, some other time. A sure-fire attention-grabber.

Not too Jovial

Reading Week draws to a close, with a sore throat and cough setting in between stuffed ears. Joy of joys.

The shining news is that the sky cleared tonight after the biggest one-day snowfall we've had in ten years. And there was the new(ish) moon, escorted across the evening sky by two planets: Jupiter and Venus. Jupiter is Holst's Bringer of Jollity. Jupiter may be bringing it, but I'm not receiving it. Jupiter=Jove, root of joviality, and I'm not going there, either. Venus is the goddess of love, but I'm not feeling that, any more than the joy. Still, I have to admit, with this conjunction, tonight's view was spectacular. 180 degrees away in the east, Mars made his contrary way up the night sky as well.  Last night, we waded through the unshovelled new snow, with more still coming down, to the LRT to get to an ESO choral concert, a concert that was worth the wade. Two faces of late winter, each brilliant in its own way.

In the next room, Eva and our neighbour, Dale,  talk of getting a card for Tina, whose old black lab, Allie, had to be put down earlier this week--a lumbering old sweety, Allie, but her kidneys gave out, with no hope for recovery. Dale explains that she can't even begin to imagine what comes after death. That the shmaltzy sympathy cards about meeting again do not seem to cover the territory. I recall thinking, the day I heard that Mom had finally finished "living with cancer," that at least she now knew what came next, if anything.

We did not have a funeral service for Mom.. She had some strange ideas about disappearing quietly, so her sisters had her ashes interred with her parents in a cemetery in Surrey, B.C., that would not even allow another marker on the site. It took ten years, but I finally broke down at a memorial service for a woman I hardly knew, for me to realize I had done a really bad job of grieving. Had not done it at all, actually. Mary Charlotte, the assistant rector at the neighbourhood Anglican church, arranged a private ceremony in the chapel, just her, Eva and me. We entered Mom's birth and death dates into the registry, and I began to understand the concept of "closure."

This week was also the first anniversary of Dad's death. His birthday (he would have been 90 this year) was the first February 16th I can recall for over fifty years I hadn't sent a card or letter, or made a birthday phone call. Last year, when I'd called him in England (where he had been living for much of the last ten years) beginning Feb. 16th, there was only a full answering machine responding, for several days. Then a phone call about 9:30 the evening of the 21st.

We did have an interment ceremony for him in mid-April, on a snowy wet Saturday in Union Cemetery in Calgary.  Dad's plot (which has Mom's name and dates of birth and death on the same marble plaque as Dad's, a province away from where she is actually buried) is within a short walk, and sight, of Great-grandfather Andrew Porter's plot, where Grandmother Perkins and her sisters are also interred. It was a small service, led by me (I got that news from my sister, Vicki, the evening before). So that was better closure.

And a year later, my sister and brother are still trying to get all the legal and government forms filled out (some for the third time, because one bureaucrat cannot hand the same form or certificate across the hall to another in the same department without one or the other losing track of it). His estate is not large or complicated (except for the fact one bank account is in England, so we need an English solicitor to handle the paperwork. Ever try to hire an English solicitor from Canada, over the internet?), but it still has taken a lot of messing about. I have shivers, thinking of the case in Chancery in a Dickens novel (Jarndyce and Jarndyce, in Bleak House)--a case that went on for years, until all the estate had been devoured in legal costs. There is a life after death--but it's a half-life, in legal documents, computer files and unfinished, at times seemingly unfinishable, business. The Ojibway three-or-four-day road wouldn't be even decent a start, anymore.

A messy day in a messy week

I guess I'm pretty average. Start with great plans and a list of things to take up. Then every day happens. Or every week. Annnnnd....the meetings come along. And the e-mails demand answers. And the big revelations and epiphanies short-circuit into the "self-delete" file. Or they look pretty puny on the screen. Doesn't stop the nagging sense of unfinished or even unstarted business.


Right now I'm having a visit from my old friend insomnia, from all the little worries of the day that I didn't get put in place by bed time. Like our dog's snaggletooth. It looks pretty harmless, even comic the way it puts a permanently puzzled look on George's face, with the lower right canine tucked inside instead of outside, but it's apparently been erupting even further, or he's bumped it, or something, so now, instead of  leaving a little rubbed spot on his upper gums, it's digging into the back of his upper canine. So he needs dental work or he could lose both upper and lower. I didn't want to do much earlier, because he's so darned cheerful and playful, and trusting. When we had to have our Springer Spaniel's broken toe set, it made him pretty suspicious of everything we tried after that, and gave him an erratic temper. I'd hate to see George get the same way. But he'll be a lot worse off if we don't do something. Poor little guy. No dental plan for the dog, either.

There's a piece in GEIST Magazine this month, from J.R. Carpenter: "Words Dogs Know." Perfect the way it puts a canine Zen spin on things. My favorite right now is this:

melancholia When playtime is over and the long nap in the dark is over, and the early morning walk is over, sometimes in a hurry, sometimes even in the rain, the people shut the door behind them and the dog is left to his lonesome.

Left on his lonesome, George eases his melancholia by redecorating. One recurrent signature is to centre my boot carefully in the middle cushion of the white leather sofa he is never supposed to get on.  When he's had a bout of removing everything from the pocket where we temporarily house all the plastic tubs and trays and cardboard tubes for the recycling, or of playing hamster with newspapers and magazines, or of just getting into things, he disappears to the bottom of the basement stairs as we come in the front door, and becomes deaf to our calls. When he's done nothing but nap or chew his pigskin stress-relievers, or stand on the coffee table beside my wife's easy chair and stare out the window (which he can see out of perfectly without getting on anything), he greets us all happy and bouncing and shaking himself with pleasure. So when he's not at the door, we have first to go looking for what he's done, and couldn't stop himself from doing.

I think his word would be perspective: When the people aren't wasting the barbecue to cook fish (which is fit only for cats) or chicken (which they don't seem to realize is fit for sharing with the dog), its flat top is best valued as the highest point in the back yard, the command tower from which to keep a dutiful eye out for all those things one has to keep an eye out dutifully for, and from which to bark the bark at all those things at which one has to bark the bark. 

Maybe this space is my barbecue top, tonight.