Here Lies a Woman - And All That Implies

I was running next to the cemetery today and badly needed something to take my mind off the never-ending hill that cannot be perceived by the eye but only the calf muscles and I began to read the tombstones I was passing. Many were labeled as such: Father. Mother.

For eternity, they are defined by this one relationship. This one familial role. Were they not also Husband, Wife, Lover, Daughter, Son, Cousin, Friend? Were they artists or scientists or farmers or grocers? Did they have a distinctive laugh that has not been heard again since their demise? Did they cry big salty tears that left white tracks down their faces or did they have eyes that twinkled with mischief long after the age of twelve?

It is not right that a person, upon becoming a parent, should be defined by that role alone. Nor should children always be children. I am reminded of my own family reuniting every Christmas and falling back into the roles we each played when last we all lived together. It’s as if we each left dents in the carpet and the house doesn’t feel right unless we’re each back in our old places, settled into the welts. We’ve outgrown these roles and being forced back into them feels safe for a day or two but soon begins to chafe. “You think you know me,” we say want to say. “But you don’t.” And we don’t say it. We’re afraid of the fact that the people we thought would always know us no longer do.

If I find myself stuck in a role, whose fault is that, really? Isn’t it my responsibility to show them who I am? When I was about 12, my father tried to give me the nickname Sissy – short for sister. I was a tom-boy and there was no way in hell I was going to let anyone call me Sissy. But more than that, I knew intuitively that there was more to me than my role as sister.

Today it occurred to me that there is more to The Parents then their role as my parents. Mom2 has always had “projects” – something she talked about incessantly until the project was completed. (Woe to the child who discovered him/herself involved in one of her projects i.e. the Big College Application Process.) While this drove me crazy as a child because it meant she was pulled away from chores or from giving her attention to our needs and schedules (not that we suffered – it was just an expectation, the I Hate You – Where Are You Going? syndrome common to adolescents) These interests kept her sane. They kept her sharp and involved in her life as an adult and as a creative and productive woman.

Looking back, I realize how I incorporated this excitement for intellectual and artistic pursuit into my view of what it means to be a woman. It’s basically her fault that I want to play more than just one role. I learned it by watching her! And I promise that her tombstone will say more about the woman she is then just her relation to her children.

We are more than our familial roles. We are more than one or two words. Perhaps we should each have a dictionary over our graves. A possibility of thousands of words. That would be a more accurate description of who we are.