Am I Doing The Right Thing?

Old voices. Old tapes. Family mores. And then there’s the history. Step off my family’s beaten path and reprisals were swift and carefully crafted to fell the wanderer. Once bested, the shepherd’s crook yanked the willful one back into the fold.

I’ve been out of that fold for over thirty years now. I dodged the shepherds crook, protected my kids, and guaranteed that I couldn’t be trifled with by my parents. And still these childhood lessons insinuate. I find it amusing, no, that’s not quite the right word…curious how my mind works. Over coffee on our deck one morning, I told my husband that a man I knew in Africa when we were kids had read my latest blog. And then my mind did this:

Ticker-tape style, childhood dictates scrolled: “We don’t talk about what goes on in this family to anyone. You understand?” “How could you possibly embarrass us like this?” “You will not jeopardize our mission.” “How dare you impugn our name?” “You’re crazy.”

There are people I don’t want hurt by the truth about my incestuous family of origin. But family systems are not confined to one’s family of origin. I have aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, and these truths will unavoidably splash up against them. There are children of adults who let us Smith kids down, both in Ethiopia and the United States, who now have positions of power in the very institutions that failed us, and it’s not their fault. I have an uncle who became the general director of the mission board we were commissioned by. He’s a good man who led it ably. At that time he did not know about his brother (my father), but that mission board is named in The Fifth Sister, my forthcoming memoir. Both my parents told extended family and friends I was certifiable. My taking this stand will either confirm for them that I am, or shock them as they learn why I extricated myself.

Then there is black hole loss. Alienation hurts, despite the need for it. In my case it was sweeping. My ex-husband’s family refused contact with me following our divorce, and informed me I could no longer see my nieces and nephews. I have a letter spelling it out. I well remember the day I had to say goodbye. At the shore of the lake, I hugged each child, and told them I loved them. One nephew tucked his head into my shoulder, and whispered, “I love you too, Aunt Laura. I’ll find you when I’m old enough.” (And he did.)

My own family’s smear campaign was epic, to the point that when one of my aunts and I met accidentally in the aisle of a store, she literally backed away from me. I mentally braced myself, for I knew memories would quickly follow. I stood alone, staring unseeing at a crystal vase, because I knew I was once loved by very young parents. I have photos and a handful of memories of my first three or four years where Dad delighted in his two year old daughter, and Mom rocked me on the porch while we watched fireflies. I remember that as I matured, they both admired my intellect. They liked how I dissected a problem, and put it back together again in solution. They were proud of my equestrian jumping, learning to fly, and manning an outpost. Yet they consistently made poor choices in the face of personal crises, and dug a hole too deep to crawl out of. I remember what being loved by them felt like. It was warm, and safe – until it wasn’t.

A small mound of pain, just left of my breastbone throbs when I witness a loving relationship between friends and their parents. It’s bittersweet. It is possible to be happy and sad in the same breath: to feel warmth at witnessing their joy, and an aching loss.

But these losses strengthened my grit. I would guarantee my children the mother I longed for, to the very best of my ability. I adore being a mom, a Nonna to my grandkids. There were no errors in authenticity, no errors in love, only errors from time to time in my execution. I am utterly proud of my adult kids. They are magnificent.

So yes. I’m doing the right thing. I know my truth. I’m standing in and on it. My story, my family’s dysfunction, already eddied against these aforementioned people. They just didn’t know it. Now they will. My deepest desire is that through my story others will heal, find voice, take notice of a child in distress, or enfold a family whose world was just rocked.