Acknowledging, Part I

Wednesday, 01 August 2012

As you might have noticed, I generally write about something relating to each day. Well, not this time, dear blog reader. This time, despite having nothing against the events of today, I am going to write about something from a few days ago. Specifically, I want to write about some things that happened and didn’t happen back on Saturday.

Saturday, you may recall, was my daughter’s birthday. She turned two. We celebrated. I wrote about it here. Unsurprisingly, my parents were not there. Neither were my grandparents. This is completely unsurprising for many reasons, chief among them because they did not receive invitations in the mail, but also because they all live far away and because they’re all Witnesses. Witnesses, for those who may not have picked up on this at my blog before, view the celebration of life as a sin. If it occurs on the day of a person’s birth. Or, more correctly, on the anniversary of the person’s birth (the person’s actual birthday is just fine, as long as it’s called a “baby shower” and not a “birthday party”).

When I was growing up, and even through my 20s, my parents always acknowledged my birthday. Oh, they didn’t celebrate it, of course, but they did acknowledge it. I always appreciated the thought. My mom would say something like, “I can’t believe it’s been X years since you were born.” Or, “X years ago today your dad was driving me to the hospital!” And even, “If you were born in New York, your birthday wouldn’t be until tomorrow!” (yeah, that’s an esoteric comment that takes some explaining). I recall waking up in the morning, hobbling into the living room or kitchen, and getting a kiss on the cheek. My mom said “How’s my 15 year old?” or something like that, to indicate that I’d graduated to the next year of life.

My dad, too, always paid tribute to the day. He’d sit down at the dining room table after work, say the prayer, then pick up his fork, look at me, and say, “Well, Jimmy…are you 9 years old today? I can’t believe it! You’r making me feel so old.” Or he’d say, “Are you sure you’re 11 today?” and I would respond, “I don’t know. I don’t remember being there!” And he’d laugh and say he remembered that day very well.

When I no longer lived with my parents, they still reached out to me on my birthday. My dad, true to his nature, sometimes called the day after, apologizing for his forgetfulness. And, at least once, he called the day after my birthday because he genuinely thought that was my birth date.

When I recall my grandparents treatment of my brithday, I immediately think of my maternal grandfather. He called me everyday on my birthday – for over thirty years – wished me a happy birthday and gave me a scripture to go look up. The scripture had absolutely no signficance except for the fact that it contained the same number as my new age. For example, when I was twenty-eight, he told me to go look up 2 Kings 10:36:

The time that Jehu reigned over Israel in Samaria was twenty-eight years.

When Owen was born, all of my relatives – the Witnesses and the non-Witnesses – celebrated his birthday. My sister-in-law helped organize a birthday party for our close friends, and my mother-in-law was instrumental in setting up a party at the cabin for the family. My mom attended one of the showers, and heaped copious presents upon Owen. My grandparents, likewise, sent Owen gifts and well wishes.

On the anniversary of Owen’s birth, my family – though their religion forbade them from celebrating it – at least acknowledged Owen’s birthday. My grandfather gave me a scripture to read to Owen – a scripture that contained the number one, of course. And both my parents called that day. Similar actions occurred on Owen’s second and third birthdays.

I haven’t had contact from any of my four grandparents since 2008, unless you count the time, in 2009, that I called my mom’s mom to see how she was doing after an operation. I told her I would come visit that evening, but then my mom called me later to say that her dad – my grandfather, and the very same guy who used to pass out birthday scriptures – told her to tell me I was not welcome at his house.

Nevertheless, my parents continued to maintain a relationship with me, and called on my birthday, and on Owen’s, every year. Last year, they both called on Isla’s birthday, too.

But not this year – and here’s the reason why I waited a few days before writing this: I was curious to see if my mom (not wanting to interrupt our sinful party wherein Isla received the head of John the Baptist on a platter) would call the day after Isla’s party. I was also wondering if, maybe, my dad was just being his absent-minded self and would call in the next day or so, after my stepmom reminded him of his granddaughter’s birthday anniversary. So, though Isla is lucky to have all four of her grandparents – five if you count my stepmom – and five of her great-grandparents, she got exactly jack shit from two of her grandparents and four of her great-grandparents. Not even a phone call to say, “I can’t believe how big my baby girl is growing.” Or, more appropriately, “I can’t believe how slow she’s growing.”

Part of me feels bad writing about this. I mean, my parents – including my stepmom – are good people. Despite living in antoher time zone, my mom regularly visits, and she always arrives with gifts and offers to take us out for dinner. Periodically, she sends care packages in the mail for the kids, and they revel in the 45 minutes it takes them to tear into the industrial-strength packaging she employs.

My dad, meanwhile, is among the most genuinely kind people I know. He’s gregarious to a fault (ask my mom), and he makes friends easily. His parents often verbalized their confusion as to how son #2 (my dad) could be so easy-going and approachable while their other sons (#1 and #3) were not. Even as a preteen, I wished I was more like my dad, and I came to the conclusion that anyone who didn’t like my dad was simply an unlikeable person. For example, there was one particular elder – unfortunately he was also my dad’s employer – who did not like my father. That man is an asshole, a fact I can attest to by the general consensus of most Witnesses who knew him.

Anyway, I’m rambling here, but my point is that they’re not evil people by any means. Just the opposite, they’re quite kind and generous. It’s just that…well…enough about them, let me just say this:

If I am lucky enough to have grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and if I am lucky enough to still be alive when those grandchildren and great-grandchildren come into the world, I will not miss out on the awesome opportunity of celebrating their life with them. Don’t get me wrong, I realize that not every year will see a cutesy party in the living room with a little cake and some presents. I realize that my kids, or grandkids, or great-grandkids, might be living far away, or may eventually be too old to want a bona fide birthday party. And that’s okay. The thing is, there is nothing that would stop me from being a part of their lives – certainly not a religion that claims to excel in love but in fact rends families apart. I won’t ignore the milestones in my children’s, or their children’s, lives. And I absolutely will not completely remove them from life. My four grandparents, in fact, have never met or seen Isla. If that’s not a testament to blind allegiance to a screwed-up belief system and a squandered opportunity, then I don’t know what is.

So I’ll say it again: Happy Birthday Isla; from your parents, brother, grandma, grandpa, and great-grandma and other relatives who know what it really means to show love and to celebrate the life we have.