Thursday, 02 August 2012
And here’s another topic, not related to today, that I want to discuss. Again, this involves my daughter’s birthday party.
My sister arrived at the party with, among other things, a small collection of papers. During a lull in the festivities, she explained that Nana – our paternal grandmother – recently mailed her a package of papers from yesterdecade. Some of the items were pictures my sister colored as a child, and cards she sent to Nana. Also included were a few notes my sister wrote to Nana during the meetings, and my sister showed me the ones she thought had personal interest. For example, in one, my sister mentions spending time with Jennifer (who was not yet my wife) and Jennifer’s sister. Also included in the package were two items relating solely to me. Though Nana did not tell my sister to give them to me (in fact, she said very little; a mere Post-It note stuck onto the top sheet said “I thought you might like to have these”), my sister figured I would want them.
One was a brief letter I wrote to Nana in 1982, when I was six years old. Another was the draft of a poem Nana was writing about how much Jehovah loves me. I don’t recall this particular poem, though Nana did write a few poems for my sister and me over the years. Maybe I only ever saw the final draft, and this rougher version (with losts of cross-outs and insertions) was thus new to me.
Anyway, here’s what I have to say about that: Why didn’t Nana just mail these things to me?
I can make several guesses as to why she didn’t. But what I mean is: what was going through her mind when she mailed them? If she was just trying to make contact with my sister (something she does about once a year), then why include items that “belonged” to me? And judging from the brief Post-It note, Nana didn’t care to engage in real conversation or invite much of a response…so, again, why not just slap on a note that said “Here James, you can have this stuff,” stuff it all in an envelope, and send it on its way?
This was the second time in as many weeks that I was reminded of the last time my sister had contact with Nana…
About a year ago, my uncle died. While he was sick in the hospital, my sister decided to pay him a visit. Many of my relatives, including Nana – my uncle’s mother – were there, too. My sister took the opportunity to show everyone pictures of her nephew and niece (those are my kids, for those of you who have trouble following this stuff). Nana took one of the photos of Isla, and showed it to her friend (who was also there to be with my uncle). As she did, she said, tearfully, “This is my great granddaughter.”
I also thought of that last week, when my wife went to the family cabin for a “girls’ day.” Her mom and grandma were there, as were her aunts, cousins, and the older of her two sisters. When my wife arrived home after the long day, she came bearing lots of food (including the faux-honey I whined about here). Among the leftovers was a plate of desserts from her sister. This is a good thing, because her sister is known for concocting tasty desserts. Jennifer said: “My sister said to tell the kids these are a gift from Auntie Myrtle.”
[Aside: Okay, my wife doesn’t have a sister named Myrtle. But Jennifer suggested I change the names of people who may be incriminated in some way or another. I guess, if you’re a JW, and you give a cookie to your ex-JW sister’s toddler, you might be questioned by the elders. So…Myrtle it is.]
Of course, I don’t mind telling the kids that these treats were baked by Auntie Myrtle, but I didn’t like that Myrtle wanted the kids to think they were some treat special for them – as if she baked the treats that morning expressly with the idea of giving them to Owen and Isla – two people she knew she wouldn’t be seeing. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever made anything for Isla. Not even when Isla was born. Heck, she didn’t even attend Isla’s first birthday party – you know, her baby shower? – the one time that Witnesses can celebrate births.
Anyway, Jennifer respected her sister Myrtle’s request. Isla, of course, didn’t care, primarily because she has no idea who Myrtle is. Owen asked Jennifer to repeat her statement: “Who?” he asked, and then my wife had to clarify, “Auntie Myrtle. My sister.”
I don’t like that sort of thing. I don’t like Nana showing off a borrowed photo of Isla and claiming it’s her great granddaughter, and I don’t like omni-absent Myrtle finagling a way remind our kids that, yes, they have an aunt out there somewhere on Planet Watchtower.
Now here’s what you’re thinking: “But, James, Nana IS Isla’s great-grandma, and Myrtle IS Owen and Isla’s aunt.” And, yes, I agree. The logical, black-and-white, by the book side of my personality fully acknowledges and agrees with that and would defend its validity.
But not really.
To explain, let me do what I always do: Give examples.
At a wedding I officiated last month, a man stopped me on my way out. He complimented me on the ceremony, and then asked, “Are you a minister?”
I said, “Well, it’s just a side job.”
Why didn’t I just say yes? After all, I did visit the Church of Life’s online monastary, I did agree to their tenets, I filled out their form, sent in the money, and then subsequently submitted my ordination to the State of Minnesota. The Chruch of Life confirms that I am a reverand and…a minister.
So, technically: Yes. I am a minister, and I could have honestly answered the man’s question in that manner.
But not really.
I knew what he meant. He meant: “Are you a person who has received theological training and credentials and now uses them to lead a church or congregation in their religious worship?” In which case, no. I am not a minister.
Several years ago, I was sitting at a table at a wedding reception, and I saw a woman fumbling with her glasses. A lens had popped out and, though she and her friend had recovered it from the floor, she was unable to reinsert it into the frame. So I went over, pulled out my opticians’ screwdriver, loosened the eyewire screw, set the lens bezel on the bevel, snugged the screw, then apologized for the fingerprints. The woman thanked me and asked, “Are you, like, an optician or something?”
I said, “No.”
But why didn’t I just say yes? After all, I had only quit the eyeglass industry – an industry I had been employed at for over eight years – a few months earlier. My certification as an optician – granted by the American Board of Opticianry by virtue of the passing of their grueling test, and renewed by me twice after submitting credits for continuing education – was still valid. In fact, even though I quit my job as an optician in September 2002, my certification remained valid for more than a year – until the final day of 2003.
So, yes, I was technically an optician, and could have honsetly answered the woman in that manner.
But not really.
I knew what she meant. She meant: “Are you currently employed in an industry where you manufacture, prescribe, repair, adjust, or sell spectacles?” The answer was no.
Many years ago, a friend of mine married a woman who had a child from another man. When I asked him how he felt about bringing the child, who was not his, into his life like that, my friend replied, “Maybe I can’t be his father, but I can be his dad.”
This maudlin and uncharacteristically syrupy statement wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Oh sure, I could have argued that “dad” is just an informal term for “father.” But I knew what he meant. He meant that, though he was not the child’s biological father, he was set to become the male role-model in the child’s life. My friend would provide food, shelter, discipline, companionship, and education to the child in a way that the other man – the one who only provided the sperm – never did and never would. The passing of years has borne out the truth of his pithy prediction.
So, yes, Nana and Myrtle are my children’s great-grandma and auntie, repsectively.
But not really.
