Entry #20: SHAME

My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Thomson, was old school. She had snow white hair, a harsh face, and a slash of red lipstick. We didn't get along. I did not find her likable, and she felt the same way about me. This may or may not have had something to do with the time that I (a ten-year-old) accused her (a veteran teacher) of being redundant in front of the whole class.

Mrs. Thomson assigned our seats by last name, so - having a surname that started with Z - I had the misfortune of being the last desk, directly in front of hers. I spent the entire year next to the brilliant Rebeccah Ruttenberg, who kept herself amused by writing notes in Hebrew, and in front of Todd Vunderink, who was a nice boy with a round head, a fuzzy buzz cut, and plaid shirts.

One fall morning I realized to my horror that I had completely forgotten my homework assignment: to write a poem about Thanksgiving. I had about ten minutes before I had to get to the bus stop, so I ran upstairs, sat on my bed, thought for a couple of minutes, and scribbled out the following:

I'm thankful for the home I have

The food I have to eat,

The Liberty that I enjoy

That makes the two ends meet.

The bed I have to sleep in

And the clothes I have to wear,

Are just some things I'm thankful for,

Along with health and care.

It didn't stop there. Somehow before I was done I threw in money in the bank, higher education, and the American Dream of one day owning my own home.

About a week later Mrs. Thomson entered the classroom looking like an entirely different person. She was beaming, and her eyes were positively twinkling with excitement. She was holding something behind her back like a big surprise.

It was the local newspaper. My poem was smack in the middle of the front page. There was my name, "a student in Mrs. Thomson's sixth grade class at Radnor Elementary School." She was THRILLED. We bonded over how exciting it was.

I brought the newspaper home and gave it to my mother. Taking my cue from Mrs. Thomson, I thought she would be pleased.

My mother read the poem and scowled. She became FURIOUS. She hated the poem and thought it was inferior doggerel. She also hated Thanksgiving and wanted nothing to do with it, so to her the poem was just propaganda for the masses. She was embarrassed that ALL HER FRIENDS were going to see my inferior poem. Her reputation was RUINED by my display of bad taste.

I was confused. I went from hero to villain in ten seconds.

My father must have heard about the  poem, but as usual he said and did nothing. I was on my own, trying to sort things out. I concluded that I had brought disgrace upon myself and my family, and I was deeply ashamed of my inadequate poem. My mother was angry for days, but she never referred to my crime again. Apparently the incident was to be forgotten as quickly as possible.

Fast forward a couple of years to the summer of 1968. My mother and I were spending the summer alone in the big house in Rhode Island. My father was back in Philadelphia, working. My oldest brother was dead. My other brother had gotten a job as far away as possible - on an oceanographic vessel in the middle of the ocean. My mother was always drunk and depressed, and I was on my own - too young to get a real job, too young to drive, and forbidden to go to summer camp because I had to stay home and look after my mother.

One evening a couple of friends and I found some colored chalk. We took to the street in front of my house and drew silly pictures. One friend wrote in pink, "Pepto Bismol is an interior decorator," and added a stomach for good measure. I thought this was hilarious. We drew flowers and animals and funny faces and put our initials in hearts, knowing everything would soon be worn off by car tires and washed away by the rain.

My mother came outside, saw what we were doing, and brought the wrath of Zeus upon our heads. My friends were sent home. I was banished to my room, grounded, and forbidden to see my best friend - who lived next door - ever again.

My mother was in high dudgeon. You would think I had just been found in the center of town shooting heroin and having sex while pregnant. If she could have killed me, I think she would have done so without hesitation.

"A LADY HAS HER NAME IN PUBLIC ONLY TWICE IN HER LIFE," my mother seethed, her eyes narrowed with rage, "When she MARRIES and when she DIES!"

I was confused again. Apparently I had, in all innocence, made a terrible spectacle of myself again. My mother's white hot rage branded itself into my teenage psyche. I was embarrassed and ashamed.

As I sat upstairs in my room, I could hear my best friend's family next door having a grand old time. They were laughing and hollering and enjoying each other. Nobody was in trouble over there.

My house was silent and vibrating with hostility. My mother went to bed drunk, and I stayed up alone, feeling sick to my stomach.

And that's the way things went for weeks. Being forbidden to see my best friend for half the summer was cruel and unusual punishment. My friend had a brother and sister and two fun parents, and every day they did things together like go to the beach, or go sailing, or drive down to Aunt Carrie's for clam fritters. I would watch them happily coming and going, wearing bathing suits and wrapped in colorful towels. My mother was like a corpse, and my house was like a crypt. I wasn't allowed to do anything or go anywhere, and if I complained, my mother would say, "The INTELLIGENT person is NEVER bored."

Now fast forward to 1985. After working in publishing in New York for four years, I set up shop doing freelance writing and editing from home and had two kids. Since then I've worked with hundreds of authors, doing book proposals, editing manuscripts, and writing collaborations. I create credibility for authors by providing them with a coherent description of what they do. I invent self-help programs out of thin air, fashion steps to success out of unfocused ideas, and match problems with cures. I've published a dozen books with traditional New York publishing houses.

But here's the thing: editors and collaborators are usually invisible. Authors rarely boast about all the help they received from their ghostwriters. They want to look as if they wrote their own books. Sometimes they get delusional and start to believe they really DID write their own books. So I've worked tirelessly behind the scenes, making other people look good and helping them make money. How stupid is that?

A therapist once looked at me and said I was behaving as if I'd been gagged. I was operating under the idea that it was OK to write for others, but not for myself. In other words, God forbid I make a spectacle of myself again. Because a lady's name only appears in public twice.

My parents gave me lots more to feel ashamed about. They let me know that I was stupid, fat, unpleasant, and greedy. Just my presence was annoying. My mother's favorite expression was, "children should be seen and not heard" - and she meant it.

I've learned a lot since those days. I've learned that my parents were wrong about a lot of things. I've also learned that the shame burned into us in childhood does not just go away just because it makes no sense. We have to go downstairs into the basement of our subconscious with a flashlight and expose the scars. Then we can start to heal them.

This blog has given me a chance to heal old scars. But everyone has stories. Everyone has outdated behavior that was expected or necessary in childhood, but makes no sense now. I hope you will share your experiences so we all can help heal each other. 

I'm willing to make a giant spectacle of myself and go first.