Sometimes all the pieces do not make the whole
by , 04-11-2010 at 09:58 PM (3090 Views)
This started as a reply to a thread that I started a couple days ago. When I finished writing it, it had become a blog entry.
So here it is.
My parents divorced when I was in my early 20s. I was in graduate school. It was totally strange; up until then my family was fairly perfect, if traditional. My mom did her traditionally female hobbies: cooking, quilting, house care. . .and she had a bachelor's degree in modern language and taught high school full time. Later, she learned Russian by herself. She is/was a well rounded modern, yet traditional woman.
My dad was/is Mr. Everything: four-year letter man in baseball, basketball, and football, National Honor Society, Prom King, Homecoming King. . . . . went to a major East Coast academic college on an academic & football scholarship. Later earned a Ph.D in entomology. Add to this that he's totally blue-collar: can fix a toilet, build a stone wall, plant a garden, drive a tractor, shoot a gun. . . . Oh and he reads poetry. His favorite is W.S. Merwin.
When they split, I was shocked, sad, and surprised. I later found out that my dad was having an affair with a former college girlfriend of his for the past several years (dates are uncertain). This truth illuminated a thousand lies.
I got married less than a year after my parents' divorce, before I finished graduate school.
How has the big D affected me? It's made me fiercely loyal to my own family (wife, kids) and suspicious of my original family. Being an adult when my parents' split (after a 30-year marriage), I think I harbor more resentment than if they had split when I was younger. I see what could have been and the needless pain and tension that will be a part of all our lives from that moment until our deaths.
I can forgive (I can, really); I can forget (which is harder than forgiving); but I cannot stop wondering. . . .It's like picking the scab off an old wound.
I've been more affected by this historical event (it's been about 12 years) lately, when my family goes to visit one of my parents. The pictures on the walls have been carefully picked over: individual images of me, my brother, or various pairings of everyone but the other divorced parent. These images show my daughters not my family, but fragments of my family.
But worse than fragments. . .lies. Those pairs and trios are re-constructed realities. They are not "how it was"; they are not my story. Those picked-over pictures are just highlighted insecurities.
Families are stories that connect one generation to the next. But my original family story is neither written, pictured, or lived except in pieces with gaps and fissures too wide to for imagination to fill.



