I've discovered recently that I get my feelings hurt rather easily. I'm not sure exactly how I developed this trait. I had a pretty thick skin - kind of like whale blubber - for a long, long time. Over the last several years, well, mainly since Scott and I became engaged, I've been slowly working on stripping my layers down.
Growing up, my mother was (and still is) very critical. She got this from her mother, who was very critical. Oh, the things these women have said to their daughters... Awful stuff. I won't go into the bazillion stories I could tell you, but I'll give you an example. When I was in the 7th grade, I had a violin recital. (I played piano, violin and viola from a very young age... which, by the way, my mother made me do.) I studied violin with a private teacher; her name was Anita Baker. She had a thick accent from I-don't-know-where and had the body of a Dr. Seuss Who, only much more round. (I remember she used to think I was crazy for washing my hands in cold water...) Anyway, I can't remember her hourly rate, but... she was "the best," so my mother spared no expense in hiring her to be my private tutor. (She had big dreams of me becoming some sort of concert violinist, I think.) Well... needless to say, I'm a stubborn girl with my own dreams and I wasn't about to let my mother force me into the little box of people she thought I should become. So, sometimes I would just go on a practice strike. I had better things to do with my time than sit by the piano with an instrument under my chin for 3 hours a day running scales and finger exercises, blah blah blah.
Anyway, back to the recital. I can't remember the concerto I "prepared." I do remember that it was very, very difficult. And I remember that I hadn't "prepared" it very well at all. So little so, that the day of the recital, I had one last lesson with Anita when she decided to cut out about 2 pages worth of music (the really complicated stuff). Now I had about 10 minutes to learn the new transitions, etc.
We were in a little Lutheran church in Corvallis. It had a balcony. All of the other students' families sat on the main level, pretty much near the front, showing their support of their son or daughter. My mother sat in the very back of the balcony.
It was my turn... I slowly made my way up to the stage, violin under my arm and music in hand. I put the music on the stand, placed my violin under my chin and took a deep breath. The first few measures were ok, but it quickly fell apart. It was awful. And it seemed like it took forever. I could see out of the corner of my eye the looks on people's faces. I was so embarrassed. I didn't want to go to the recital. I had "told" my mother I wasn't going. She forced me to go (in a way that only mothers can), and she knew it would suck. She was teaching me a lesson.
She didn't need to teach me anything... I was there. I knew it was awful. I was completely embarrassed. I was completely ashamed. I finished, and everyone clapped, but it was sort of that I-suppose-I-have-to-clap clap - they didn't really mean it. It was so awful that I'm sure most everyone in the audience that day felt embarrassed.
I took my music, put my violin back under my arm and sheepishly left the room, making a quick retreat, wandering down to the little room where I left my case, and began packing my things. My mother was soon with me once again. She was furious. She told me how awful it was, how embarrassed she was, and how embarrassed she was that I was her daughter.
Awesome.
Looking back, I'm sure I would have done the same thing. That is, I'm sure I would have made my daughter go to the recital. (I think it's important to follow through on your commitments.) But I would have sat in the front row, smiling at her the entire time, stood up on the pew and clapped the loudest, maybe even shouted, "Bravo!" I would have sat through the rest of the student's performances, and I would have told my daughter how proud I was that she finished what she started. It isn't necessary to pour salt in the wounds. Everyone else's looks are enough. Additional punishment certainly isn't necessary.
This is just one of thousands of instances where my mother was so critical of me. As a result, I had to grow whale blubber - I had to in order to survive. It shut her out, but it also shut out everyone else.
For the last 10 years I've worked at peeling away the blubber. But I wonder if I didn't hit the other extreme. I get my feelings hurt. (I had a roommate that called these her "feelers.")
So the rest of that story is about a year or two later, I had viola recital. I prepare that thing to death. It was a duet with my viola tutor. (I can't remember her name, but I remember she didn't shave her armpits, which is never a good thing when you play a stringed instrument. Gross.) I nailed it. My mother was so proud. Not for me. For her.
The rest of that story is that when I was graduating high school (Chaminade College Preparatory, West Hills, CA) I was first violist for the Cal State Northridge Youth Symphony. My conductor knew the music department head at Pepperdine University (Malibu, CA). I was basically offered a full scholarship - violists are hard to find. (But I would have had to major in music, which meant that I would have had to eat, breathe and sleep music... and end up with a music degree. That would have made my mother very happy, no doubt.) I declined. And went to community college.
I said no. To a scholarship. To Pepperdine.
Idiot.
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