The first moment I realized I was a grown-up was when I was nine years old. I came in from climbing trees in the back yard, orange trees, came through the back door, the kitchen. The house was quiet. I moved through the dining room and into the living room, past the sofas placed in front of the defunct fireplace at perfect 90 degree angles, and on toward the stairs.
And then I saw her.
My mother was sitting on one of the sofas, crying. She looked straight at me, and then, as if she’d not seen me, put her head back down and continued to cry. It was clear she didn’t want me to approach. I was filled with fear and dread. What had I done? I mentally flipped through my transgressions that week, my petty untruths, my backtalk, my ignored chores and homework. It took me only seconds to realize that I had done…nothing. This, somehow, had nothing to do with me.
I crept past her, allowing her privacy, and started up the stairs to my room. Halfway up, hand on banister, I turned and looked down, suddenly struck by the realization that my mother had a life I knew nothing about. Nothing. She had feelings that had nothing to do with me. Feelings so strong that they made her cry. I was frozen by the sheer enormity of it.
If my mother, my mother, the one person in my short life I took for granted that I knew intimately, and who knew me intimately, could have thoughts, motivations, ideas, and feelings, that had nothing at all to do with me, well then…anyone could. I didn’t know anyone. And I never could.
And that meant that I could have thoughts, motivations, ideas and feelings that were completely, utterly my own, that even she, my mother, might not know anything about. It was as if an entire world had unfolded and expanded before me. Empathy and independence, unlikely twins, were born to me at that moment on the stairs.
I started asking questions after that. Constantly. Of everyone. I knew that nobody really knew anybody else, parents don’t know their children, children don’t know their parents or siblings or each other, but I was determined to get at something, some morsel underneath what they showed to the world, some kernel that would make me understand something about them.
I still ask questions. Sometimes I make people uncomfortable because I ask them so much about their lives, about the experiences that shaped them, about their families, their parents, their children. They think I am nosey, and perhaps that’s all that I am. But they, people, are genuinely fascinating to me. Everyone has reasons for what they do, and I want to know what they are. Not to judge, not to use against them or make them uncomfortable, but simply to understand some greater human condition that still eludes me.
But I never found out why my mother cried that day.
Beautiful, kristy. We don’t ever know someone completely, do we?
Honestly, this is one of the reasons I’m reluctant to have children. I think it’s a pretty cruel trick to teach someone they’re the center of the universe for eighteen years and then snatch that away.
You’ve really captured what motivates a novelist, that yearning to know the secrets people hold in their hearts. Your evocative post reminds me of what Ayn Rand said in her book on writing, that this curiousity drives a writer to concretize the abstract emotions of humanity.
You’re truly someone with whom I can empathize, Kristy. Listening to and understanding someone else is the best we can give each other. It’s not sympathy, but a knowingness that allows us to be accepting and respectful no matter what our differences.
I’m with Maia- this fasination with others and their lives is what drives us. Great post.
Beautiful post, Kristy.
It’s pretty scary for a child so young to see a parent in such a vulnerable state. As kids, we want them to be strong, knowing, witout flaw. Then one day, we wake up.
Wow. What an amazing and life altering moment you’ve captured here: the birth of empathy and independence.
Keep asking those questions, Kristy — both to the people you meet and each time you sit down at your computer to write. What is writing if not an exploration of what eludes us?
Great, great post, Kristy. It is exactly those moments that make us grownups and writers.
For all our narcissism, I think most writers find other people much more fascinating than we find ourselves. And that’s why people end up telling us things.
Ahhh, I adore you people. Who else but other writers get it so quickly, and then makes me understand it better?
I love that you were able to understand that you could have separate feelings and opinions from your mother at such a young age. I’m still working on that!
This is a lovely meditation. I’m so happy I found my way here.
Katie, one thought on your comment. As the father of a 21-year-old daughter and an 11-year-old son, I have to admit your thoughts have a certain resonance for me. As a parent, my goal is to help guide my children from that condition of being the center of everything to becoming a mature being with an awareness of and compassion for others. Ideally that happens gradually, I think.
With my daughter, I know I could have done better. Sadly, we sometimes learn things with our first children which make us more effective with those that follow. Hopefully I’ll do better with my son.
(And, of course, it’s not just me — it’s the whole family working together).
Anyway, sorry for the tangent. This is a great post!