I still talk to my parents, at least once a week (more often than not, though, it’s closer to two or three times). And while I’m sure there are many out there who might consider this an overbearing amount, it’s just natural for my particular situation. I have a good relationship with my parents and I enjoy talking to them. Most times.
Lately, in the course of discussing nieces and dogs, an inevitable amount of recollecting and storytelling has gone on between my mother and I. My mother is gracefully transitioning into the role of The Grandmother™ (with the dog, people. THE DOG.) and is partial to making parallels between my childhood and my adulthood. It’s spooky how mothers can do that.
Not intentional, nor intended to hurt, but several instances over the past few conversations have left me stunned. To her credit, she was simply relaying a moment in my personal history. What I remembered, however, was…well, nothing. I simply blocked out most of these instances from my past because they are an unflattering reveal into the self-centered nature of an adolescent.
If I were to sketch for you who I thought I was in high school, for the most part it would be positive. I didn’t drink, smoke or drug it up. My friends were good people and I worked hard at school and other activities. On the scorecard of teenagers, I’d sheepishly say I was above average in terms of what my parents had to endure. I would also readily admit, however, that I provided my fair share of bad attitudes, self-righteousness and good ol’ fashioned indifference to “those people who thought they knew what was best for me but actually didn’t.” But as a whole, I don’t entirely regret who I remember being all those years ago.
The true history of these years is kept by my parents, though. And what the record books say is quite a different story than what I have to tell. In no dramatic way, but in subtle, attitudinal differences these records conflict. My mother’s recalls instances of me being obnoxiously spoiled and bossy, expectant and unrealistic. I would have penned it as feeling the materialistic peer-pressures of fellow prep school classmates with well-to-do parents. In fact I would have likely patted myself on the back for not being even more of a begging jerk. Her versions and mine clash, and even don’t match at all on occasion. There are memories that I simply deleted because I simply didn’t take issue my behavior. This, my friends, is what appalls me.
We are the person that people perceive us to be, fortunate or unfortunate as that is. Even if we feel that who we are on the psychoanalytic inside differs from who people see us as, it is this outward character that gets measured by the rest of humanity. If I leave a party feeling as if I were engaging and entertaining, but others remember me as an aggrandizing conversation-whore, I’m sad to say I doubt I’ll be invited back again any time soon. I can cry in my beer, but them’s the facts.
In contrast, people do stereotype. Some are just flat out horrid at reading others. We can be misjudged and unfairly pigeonholed. But for the most part, the opinions and judgments of our closest friends and family should theoretically be able to serve as a fairly accurate mirror for who we are (at least on the outside).
And while the stories that my mother shares weigh heavily on me, they also motivate me to try and be better. Rather than wallow in self-pity about the injustice of “people not getting who I really am,” it’s yet another means to self-discovery and improvement. I suppose you could liken this opinion-polling to validating your XHTML and CSS code before publishing.
And now that said that publicly, I’ve let on that I really am just a big nerd. Note to self…
