When Grief arrived, I was already well-practiced in ignoring it.
Well practiced in not feeling too much.
I remember being eight, playing a board game with my family. I don’t remember what was so frustrating, but I got mad, really mad, and everyone laughed. Something in me snapped. I pushed the table over and ran to my room, slamming the door several times for good measure.
Re-entry after that incident felt shameful. I quickly adapted: anger is not allowed.
I can’t remember what made me mad. But I can’t forget the response to my anger.
This wasn’t cruelty; it was inheritance. I come from a loving, working class family. Parents doing the best they could with what they had. My dad worked, and mom stayed home for most of my growing up years. There wasn’t a lot of money, hand-me-downs were welcomed, and we were guided to treasure the sentimental over the material.
“If the house was on fire and you could grab one thing, what would it be?”
“Photos.” Things that can’t be replaced. Obviously.
I was a teenager when we lost our remaining grandparents, and it seemed like a natural course of life. We all quietly moved along without a lot of discussion.
The unwritten rule in our family was “Shhh… Keep emotions quiet and be happy, but not too happy.” Anything veering outside that guardrail was too loud, too much, and should be experienced quietly and privately.
Mom’s British lineage showing itself in quiet ways: don’t be disruptive. Be nice. Beneath it all, my great-grandfather’s generation whispering, children should be seen but not heard.
