It's Father's Day here in the US, during which we celebrate our fathers. Mother's Day passed by a month ago. Today I think of my parents, and my relationship with my parents, and how my view of it has changed over time.
When I was much younger, I thought only of the injustices of my childhood (of which there were many -- enough that a social worker once wondered aloud how I could have come out of that childhood with my personality intact). I think I focused on these when I was younger and less experienced because, face it, when you're younger and less experienced, you're afraid you're not going to make it and you berate your parents for not equipping you with the skills you need.
As I got older, and I realized I would survive adulthood and that the quirks I developed from surviving my childhood weren't fatal, I began to see the shining parts of my parents' personalities as well as those parts where they were all too human:
My father just turned 80. He has a strong (and humanistic) sense of right and wrong. He took care of my sister and me through very difficult times in the family. He stayed in a job he'd grown to dislike rather than indulge his dream as a chef because he was the breadwinner for the family. He remarked that if any of my suitors would have asked for my hand, he'd have said "ask her yourself!" He always supported our right to make our own decisions.
My mother died eight years ago. She recognized her eccentricity a long time before and lamented that she wasn't rich or famous enough for society to accept it. Mom was what is now termed as "a maker", never wanting to be a beginner at any hobby she picked up. Her eye for design -- and my eye for design -- led to us collaborating on a few one-of-a-kind embroidery projects. She excelled at putting together outfits for my roles in school plays. She forever debated whether artifice pulled away people's perceptions of substance.
My characters capture some of the traits and characteristics of my parents. The 6000-year-old Luke's stoic commitments mirrors my father's commitment to his family (not to mention his sense of humor). Jeanne Beaumont, the botany professor, captures my mother's mature beauty. Chasity Howell throws a phenomenal hissy fit that reminds me of my mother as well.
Again, our lives are in our writing as much as our writing is in our lives.
*****
Update:
After passing five FEMA short classes, I'm back to writing. Yesterday's fun searches: what is the Russian mob called? How do you say "He hit on her" (it's not a direct translation, but slang) in Japanese?
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