Girl Called Karen (8 page)

When I speak of the opportunities to participate, I don’t just mean chores at home, at school, or in the workplace. Our children need the opportunity to help provide for the greater good. Community service is
more than an altruistic exercise. It is a fundamental need of humankind. We get as much as we give.

At one point, I had a Girl Scout troop of preteens. It was Christmas, and I decided that we would go Christmas caroling in the housing project that was restricted to the elderly and disabled. The area was clean, though shabby. The weather had turned brisk, and, as anyone who knows me can tell you, I am not a singer. But as we approached the first door, I began to sing, accompanied by eight reluctant backup singers.

We were embarrassingly inept, but the tiny
gray-haired
lady who came to the door didn’t seem to notice. Tears flowed down her wrinkled face. Her tremulous voice gave expression to her gratitude for our gift of company and music. My girls came alive. They went from door to door eager to sing and laugh and talk. Not all the residents were as appreciative as the first lady, but it didn’t matter. My girls knew they were giving a gift. Their sense of competency grew that day because they had the opportunity to participate.

The ability to perform effectively is developed by successive achievements. It is one source of personal resilience.

I
was a lucky little girl. I had my intact family and my mother until I was twelve years old. My mother thought I was great. She held me and talked to me. She told me and she told others that I was an important, valuable person. No matter what came later, I had my mama in my early years. The last two years of her life, I spent a good deal of our valuable time being mad at her. She was sick a lot, and she kept saying she was dying. That infuriated me. She wasn’t going to die. People don’t just die, and besides, none of the adults, not even my dad, acted as if she were dying.

When she did die, I was mad as hell … at myself, at my dad, at the doctors. I was moody, depressed, and not sure how to go on living. My mother had abandoned me.

There has been a lot of research that suggests that the early child/parent attachment predicts the quality of functioning in later life. My own history and the anecdotal evidence of my years of social work certainly corroborate the research of Drs. Erik Erikson, John Bowlby, Mary Ainsworth, Ann Masten, and Douglas Coatsworth. These represent some of the best of the body of knowledge concerning attachment and trust.

In his book,
The People of the Lie
, Dr. Scott Peck describes a disturbed child who is brought to him for therapeutic counseling. The little boy is demonstrating aberrant behaviors. When Dr. Peck attempts to work with the parents, they patiently explain that it is his job to “fix” the child, not theirs. These people were wealthy, educated professionals, and a model child was necessary to their image, but not to their lives.

The ways in which parents talk and interact with their children define what the children think about the world and themselves. These parents demonstrated zero affection and gave only marginal attention while using distinctly different words to describe their family life to the rest of the world. The disparity between reality and the parental fiction had to produce a profoundly distorted world view. The little boy was raised by paid employees, who unfortunately didn’t stay long. The little boy and his parents did not continue as Dr. Peck’s patients. Dr. Peck believed the mother and father were truly evil people, and I agree with him.

In some ways, their emotional abuse was more damaging than some of the overt physical abuse that I have observed. Compounding the damage, society saw these people as ideal parents, increasing the likelihood that their little boy grew up believing he had no real value. After all, he saw that his parents didn’t care for him and everyone else respected them. Children need the affirmation of a parent’s love and acceptance.

Now, with all that said, research also indicates that a child can increase in feelings of competency as long as there is at least one significant adult in the child’s life. If Dr. Peck’s little patient had had a nanny who attended to his physical and emotional needs continuously and affectionately over the long term, he may well have been a much healthier, happier child who could become a well-adjusted adult.

I was a lucky little girl. Throughout my teen years, I had not just one, but a whole convent full of remarkably strong women who cared for me and encouraged me. In general, the sisters of Notre Dame, who taught at my high school – several sisters, in particular – sustained me, encouraged me, and affirmed me.

Mary, my foster mother, barely liked me, but she provided for my basic needs and held me to high standards of social manners. I had really good friends who shared their mothers with me. Then, when I was seventeen, I found the woman who would be my second mother.

Doris Stilwell was the manager at a local drive-in
restaurant where I secured employment during my senior year in high school. Doris had two young children, but had lost three – two at birth and a son when he was two. There was a hole in her heart, and she was always mothering the teens who hung out in her store. Well, this teen had as big a need as she did, and we attached. She loved me, and I loved her.

Sometimes I might disappoint her, but I knew she would never throw me away. She was there through marriages, divorces, births, and deaths. I think some of my penchant for picking up the odd person or the lonely child was first imprinted by her example. Doris believed that we were here to help our neighbors, and, in her case, that did not mean writing a check to your favorite charity or voting for the best candidate or even being politically involved to effect positive change. For Doris, helping others was a hands-on operation.

Late one night as we approached closing time at the restaurant, my mom Doris and I talked with our one remaining customer. He was a young sailor hitchhiking home after completing his tour of duty. He was procrastinating because it was a cold winter night in Ohio, and he was reluctant to go back out into the dark and cold alone, so mom and I drove him to his home those last 100 miles.

Christy came to work at mom’s restaurant when she was just out of high school. Christy was mildly retarded, but had earned a certificate of completion
from the local high school. Mom almost lost her job over this one of her waifs. It took phenomenal patience and much longer than usual to teach Christy how to wait on customers, clear tables, write up tickets, make change, and all the other duties of a waitress, but mom wouldn’t give up, and Christy became a very competent and loyal employee. I remember Christy well because she saved her money and got her own place to live.

One day “Mister Right” walked into the restaurant. He and Christy were married with all of us attending the ceremony. They honeymooned in Michigan and tragically were killed in an automobile accident on their way home. Even as I grieved, I realized that, because of my mom, Christy had far more in her life than she ever would have had without her. And the romantic in me was so grateful that the accident happened after the honeymoon rather than before.

There is no question in my mind that a child will grow in resiliency when there is at least one caring, supportive adult in that child’s life. I know I could more confidently face challenges knowing that someone thought that I could prevail.

A
good sense of humor is a valuable characteristic contributing to resilience. I would expand it to what I call a sense of playfulness. It is appreciating what is funny, and it is being able to have fun. People who know how to have fun not only enjoy life more, they are better equipped to overcome adversity.

When I was a kid and my mama was alive, I played; when she died, life became a more serious matter. My ability to have fun reemerged in time.

It was an interrupted process. That first Easter without my family, when my foster brother had his new pellet gun, took aim, and fired very near me, what had begun as children’s play became something very dark and different. It was very unusual for me to act out or raise my voice, especially with an adult. I think the fact that it started outside and began as play allowed me to
be more open and much more vocal. What had been play became, instead, a reality check. My acting out and my foster mother’s no-nonsense approach to giving comfort was the beginning of my accepting my situation. Then I began again to enjoy living. I went back outside and had fun.

At our homeless and runaway shelter, the youth and the staff were encouraged to have fun. Organized activities were built into the schedule. Staff members who retained the capacity to play always proved to be better suited to working with teenagers. Working with young people who are in crisis is a stressful and demanding job. My shelter director, Shelia Myrick, understood that the stress had to be dealt with, and she routinely incorporated playful activities into our meetings.

Have you ever noticed how often adults will resist having fun? We who played so artlessly as children decide when we mature that it is not appropriate to act silly or to laugh too loud. Just watch what happens when a group of grownups finally give in to the joy of playing. They come alive.

I was conducting a foster-parent training program, and I had grave concerns about one couple. Their demeanor was always serious, and they rarely volunteered to contribute to the discussion.

If I didn’t have a sense of humor, I would never have survived.

We came to an exercise that requires the participants
to get up, move about, and get creative, and they began to have fun. Their whole demeanor changed, and they opened up to me and the rest of the group. It was as if the permission to have fun gave them permission to be themselves. Caregivers, in general, often act as if they must always present an authoritative image. I think it usually means they are afraid they will lose control.

My three sons were born within a three-year span, and my life became a blur of activity. There was never a dull moment. Very early on, the boys and I learned to have fun. I was and am a bit of a neat freak, but there was many a rainy day when our living room was a labyrinth of tunnels constructed of blankets and overturned furniture.

We walked long distances and visited every park within twenty-five miles. They’ve grown up liking sports as active participants, as well as dedicated fans. Daniel is totally transported by a satisfying round of golf. David and his wife, Marcie, have a beautiful home in the suburbs, and their living room is a well-appointed pool hall. If you visit Rick and my granddaughters, you’ll end up playing games or jumping on the trampoline. Unfortunately, my boys also appear to be cursed with the extreme competitiveness that seems to surge through my family’s genes. We are a loud, combative bunch, but we know how to have fun.

Try cultivating the ability to laugh and play just by trying it. Giggles become chortles, and chortles explode into belly laughs. Let yourself indulge in the
kind of laughter that gives birth to helpless tears. Learn to dance or act or sing. Don’t be afraid to be foolish. When you slip on your banana, laugh at yourself. You will be a more resilient person, and the child you teach will, too.

F
irst of all, let’s get something straight from the get-go. I am not pushing religiosity, any particular belief system, any particular denom-ination. What I am talking about is a sense that there is a greater power than oneself. Perhaps it is an all-powerful Being. Perhaps it is a strong connection to the earth and the pull of nature. Whatever that connectedness is, it will contribute greatly to your resiliency.

For me, the spiritual has more often than not been a traditional view of God and Jesus Christ. I was born and raised Roman Catholic, with all the baggage that can incur. In my young adulthood, I left the church because I got divorced, and, back then, the church of my youth rejected me for this decision. As a child, especially one abandoned by parents and family, my religion was a very sustaining force. I knew God loved
me and that my mama was with God in Heaven. It seems like a very simplistic view now that I am an adult, but it was comforting and sustaining. During my estrangement from the church of my youth, I spent years looking for a spiritual home. Not until my mom Doris died did I find a place where I belonged once again.

Doris died slowly and painfully. Five months prior to her death, her husband fell to the ground and died instantly from a massive heart attack with Doris at his side. His loss was painful for her, but the revelations after his death were yet more devastating. When mom searched his papers and personal effects, she discovered that he had been engaged in a long-term affair with a much younger, singularly unattractive woman. She even found a note from this woman to papa discussing Doris’s poor health and looking forward to her ultimate demise.

Five months after papa’s death, I got an emergency call and hurried home to the hospital in Toledo. I was with Doris thirty-one days as they did one horrible thing to her after another, all the while telling me that she was not terminal. At the end, I threatened to harm anyone that did another thing to torment her. Her only living biological child refused to come to the hospital all the days she was there because, he said, it was too hard on him. Then he showed up at the end to demand that they continue every effort to keep her alive. Fortunately, her doctor convinced him that there was
no more to be done. She died with us all at her side. Circumstances were such that we had to shut down her house and get rid of all her earthly belongings within the week following her death.

When I got home to Alabama, I was exhausted physically and emotionally. I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t breathe. Convinced that I was suffering from some sort of bronchial disorder, I went to the doctor, who sent me home with a prescription. I took one pill. After I collapsed on the sofa for hours, scaring my poor husband exceedingly, I looked up the medication in my pill book. The doctor had prescribed a psychotropic medication for anxiety. It might have been helpful if he had explained this to me. I took several of the pills at night over the next few days and got myself back in hand. But there was still an immense void.

My friend Judy Lincoln said I needed to find a church home, and she called Rita Hayes. Rita invited me to the Episcopal Church. It felt as if I had returned home. I was wrapped in the old-time rituals of my youth without the censure of Catholicism. Russ loved the little church, and he and I joined. Churches are humanity’s creation. Jesus Christ didn’t come down here and start a building-fund drive. We humans need to have a place and rituals and community. My relationship with God didn’t change, but I found the comfort of community.

Others find comfort outside the mainstream orthodoxy. There is an aged professor whose
acquaintance I made through my work activities. He is a warm, sincere human being who draws his strength from a close relationship with the earth and with nature. Church, for him, is a large shade tree, under whose spreading branches he sits and meditates. My Aunt Eileen is one of the strongest advocates for true Christian values that I have ever met, and yet, she does not believe in Christianity in any way. She believes in the humanity of mankind, and she has always fought to better the human condition. Her spirituality is deep and personal.

Through the years, teens have come to the shelter professing a conviction for the Wiccan principles. I can’t begin to tell you how much these declarations of personal convictions can and often do enrage the adults in the teen’s life.

We long ago decided to respect the young person’s personal exploration of spiritual beliefs.

Give your children and yourself the permission to explore. Watch a movie for the entertainment value, and then investigate its underbelly. Visit other religious institutions. Really read and study. Don’t just read the headlines and listen to the inane sound bites that can never accurately capture the essence of any religious ideology. Be open to nature and art. The pure joy of poetry or the sheer beauty of a watercolor can lift and delight the spirit. That is spirituality.

My cousin, Laura Karasek, is one of those fey spirits that my pragmatic self can never quite understand. But
it doesn’t matter because she still moves me in ways that heal even when I don’t understand how.

Georgia O’Keeffe wrote, “If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment.” Pick a flower and enter that world for a time. Let that world help heal your soul.