Speaking my Truth

A lesson I am constantly trying, and often failing, to live by is the importance of being true to myself. As my brother frequently reminds me, adhering to your truth, no matter how “odd” or quirky it may seem in relation to others--and to the world in general--is an integral aspect to having authentic relationships with everyone from yourself, to your family, to your grocery store clerk.

I agree with my brother, although I must say the whole affair is easier said than done. Like many women, I struggle to break free from the chains of people pleasing—because not only is it a futile pursuit, but it tends to leave the “pleaser” miserable. Plus, and here is a little gem for the files, people actually do not like people pleasers. Well arrogant, self-important people do, but that is only because they assume in their narcissistic ignorance that the world is there to serve them.

Evidently the little “releasing of judgment” goal I have set for myself is going a little slower than anticipated.

But it does seem that regular people would just prefer you were yourself and then they can take you or leave you. My big discovery seems to be that we are all better off having relationships with people who actually like us. Go figure. How and why it took me 32 years to figure this out is a tale for another time. So now, in trying to be consistent with speaking my truth, I am attempting to implement this ground-breaking information into my life. Never one to shun outside assistance, I turn to personal role models for inspiration. Oddly enough, I find that this life lesson is quite well illustrated through the observation of one of the more unique individuals I have ever encountered: my mother.

My mom does not believe in recycling. Although I would like to add the disclaimer here that she does frequently reuse various items and she is hardly what someone would describe as wasteful. In fact she reuses paper towels so many times, I think she ought to do PR for Bounty (in her house, those rolls are not only the quicker-picker uppers, they are also everlasting). But she is adamant that the whole “recycling movement” is a scam designed to make the tax payers pay money and to make people erroneously feel good about themselves. She suspects, by the way, that once the recyclables arrive at the various waste centers, they are just all dumped into the trash together. When I pointed out that it seems like an awful lot of work and effort to cover up a mere scam, she took on a very serious expression and said cryptically, “People are covering things up all the time, everywhere. And things with much bigger consequences than some empty milk bottles.” This response was strange to me. Is my mom a mafia lord?

Building on her theory on recycling, she also believes global warming is a sham and sites the increasingly freezing Massachusetts winters as evidence to that testimony. She seems to eschew all things associated with terms like “progressive” “alternative” or “liberal,” almost as if she has an allergic reaction to the words themselves. Further evidence of her unique set of personal principles, is that, despite being divorced from her first husband whom she married in the Catholic Church, and the fact that she believes wholeheartedly in abortion, she is a recently renewed and avid Catholic. She will tell you this with a serious face even though she has maybe been inside a church three times in the past twenty-four months. And once I know for a fact that it was just to check out the architecture. Now I know faith is not necessarily about how often you attend mass, but it still seems a rather peculiar point on which to stand firm if the foundation is actually quite non-existent. She harbors no illusions about the well-publicized questionable activities priesthood seems to foster. In fact I think such scandals may add to her overall enthusiasm about the religion—she seems to love the whole double-life, cover-up sort of crimes—the more clandestine, the better. Seriously, is she a mafia lord?

She is also the only person I know who openly and frequently admits to having supported the Bush administration, which is somewhat odd because I live in South Carolina and you would think I might know more people who unequivocally leaned right. The fact is, I know a lot of republicans, I would just be hard pressed to find people who willingly laud the recent republican tenure to groups of virtual strangers in social settings due to the understandable fear of being pummeled with commentary—and maybe fists—due to the current economic turmoil our country is now “enjoying”. We actually have one family friend who shares my mother’s unwavering political view to a tee, and the two of them are thick as thieves when they get together. By the way, he is also someone whom I love dearly and from whom I hide at social gatherings.

Despite the fragmented knowledge, questionable sources, and general anxiety about “touchy” subjects that often hinder me from engaging in political or religious debates at social events, my mom jumps into any and all such conversations with determination, passion, and conviction. This tendency, in equal parts, amuses and horrifies my siblings and me. Bizarrely, and much to our astonishment, people really like our mother. My ability to be objective is understandably questionable, she is my mother, after all, but I am merely the messenger here. I am not exaggerating when I say that people, seemingly “normal” people, actually seek her out at parties. They seem to be in both awe and confusion as to her persona in general, and this combination attracts people like bees to honey. (Or do bees make honey? Flies to honey?) Anyway, my mom could fit in quite easily anywhere; she is quite attractive and stylish. Although she has an inexplicable propensity to wear any number of bedazzled items of clothing, most of which were purchased from Chico’s, she is really rather innocent-looking, as a woman in her early sixties could understandably be. So, in light of her innocuous appearance, and despite my all too keen awareness of her gregarious social “sharing” style, it remains a tad jarring when, upon saying requisite goodbyes to people at the end of the odd party I might attend with her, a stranger will embrace me heartily and chuckle as he says something like, “That mother of yours. She is something! She would talk shit with the Pope wouldn’t she?”

Ummm. Yes? No? What? But without even knowing what that means, I know what that means; this guy got a load of Gail and the effect was memorable.

Of course my brother and sister and I all love her to pieces, but we also realize that she has some challenging (read: embarrassing) qualities and would understand if the democratic party had her on a “Wanted” sign at various campaign headquarters across the country. My sister, who herself possesses remarkable and unfathomable patience for the ranting of any and all strangers, thinks that people are just being kind and biding their time until this seemingly harmless woman with fiery red hair and an equally fiery passion tires out and moves onto to another unsuspecting group. My brother suspects she is heavily medicated. I think it might be a combination of each of my sibling’s speculations, but moreover, I wonder if people just sort of admire the courage of her convictions.

I know I do.

True, she says outlandish things, makes sweeping generalizations, and is no stranger to the stereotype. She offers unsubstantiated proof to theories she, in all likelihood, concocts in her bathroom as she applies makeup. It is my hunch that she performs dress-rehearsals of sorts as she relays these theories out loud to her loyal test-audience: her Chihuahua, Paco. Paco is captivated by my mother for the obvious reason that she feeds him every day, but also because he seems to have an innate sense of gratefulness driving his loyalty due to the fact that my mom adopted him from a shelter--he was a stray dog found in Mexico, and he somehow landed in the Cape Cod MSPCA. Paco is, incidentally, the exception to my mother’s rather rigid stance on border patrol.

I admire my mom. And this is not to say that I agree with either her beliefs or her manner of delivery. This is also not to say that I have not been utterly mortified by many of her statements on a somewhat regular basis. I have and I will, in all likelihood, continue to hide behind large plants and/or equally large fellow guests whenever the topic of politics is breached at a social outing and my mother is within a ten foot radius. But she is a compelling character, not only because she is my mom and I innately love her, but also because she seems to have—in spades—that elusive quality known as gumption. She really does not care if people agree with her, or if they argue with her (in this way, I am offered some relief to the whole mafia suspicion). Moreover, she does not give a toss if people like her. And, in the most ironic accordance to Murphy and his darn law, people love her. My mother’s popularity is a testament to the fact that people like people who are themselves, who are “speaking their truth,” as my brother would say, because an authentic relationship with a stranger, or even with those closest to you, is actually a rarity in this world of obsequious people pleasing and duplicitous dealings. In addition to her refreshing frankness, my mother would obviously prove fascinating material for post-party fodder: “Did you meet that woman in the Chico’s ensemble? She seemed so innocent and yet…She was off her rocker!” Just to answer the question that is likely on everyone’s mind, the strongest beverage my mother consumes is iced tea.

Recently, a close family friend, a man who is in his fifties came out of the closet. Incidentally, he is the aforementioned person who shares my mother’s political views. Now, as you can probably imagine, my mom has some opinions on homosexuality. As such, I was a tad reluctant to share the news with her, out of both protectiveness of this particular friend and out of fear that my mother might say something that would make me angry with her. I ought to disclose here that I am a true “momma’s girl” and being in any sort of altercation with my mother is tantamount to mild torture. In any case, I broke the news with some hesitancy. Her response surprised me: “Isn’t that interesting. Huh. You never know, do you?” Not wanting to really get into it, and by “it,” I mean the whole topic if how, when, where, or why some people are born one way and some another, we chatted about nothing for a few more minutes and then hung up. She called me shortly thereafter and I braced myself for a long discussion about homosexuality that she and Paco had likely rehearsed in the three minutes since we had said goodbye. “Maggie, I have been thinking about what you just said about Ben. I am really happy for him. He ought to be happy.” Hmm. It did not take a detective to sense that something was awry in Rightwing City on the other end of the line. “But…” Here we go. “I am concerned about something.” Uh oh. “He is still a republican, right?” “Yes, mom, I believe he will always be a Republican.” And now, might I say God bless my faux Catholic, anti-recycling, scandal loving fire pistol of a mother for she is nothing if not unpredictable. Her response: “All right then. How nice to have gay friends. How liberal!” And with that she hung up, likely to call the Pope and talk some shit.