I grew up in a small American Midwestern farm town surrounded by family, extended family, and cornfields for as far as I could see. Only 350 people were living here, and I was related to most of them in some form, whether by blood or marriage, and some of them twice or more. In many ways, it was an idyllic place to grow up. We, kids, knew everyone and spent our days playing and getting into trouble all over town. Parents did not worry about us, as relatives and others always supervised us. We knew if we got into trouble, our parents would know about it before we got home. We were unaware that we had boundaries, yet we developed an understanding of the consequences of our actions.
I grew into my teenage angst and witnessed the cultural upheavals of the 1960s. I felt I could no longer bear the scrutiny and watchfulness of this town, and I left not long after turning 18. Without the watchful eye's constraining me, I felt free and lost and began a decade of spinning out of control. I entered a dark time of drugs, drinking, debilitating depression, legal issues, and general mayhem in my life before turning things around at age 29.
Throughout this period, I held onto memories and visions of my grandmother, who had always been a source of solace and acceptance while I grew up. Her approach to life wholly contrasted with my mother, her daughter, who was cold, distant, and judgmental. I spent years in recovery and therapy trying to figure out this anomaly. After returning to school and studying social work, I developed a clearer picture. This understanding underscored the importance of understanding family history and the part it plays in who each of us is: our personalities, quirks, genetics, and even our worldview.
My Grandmother, Myrtle, was a first-generation Irish-American Catholic. Her family disowned her when she married my ne'er do well grandfather, who died from alcoholic cirrhosis before I was born. He left my grandmother with nine children during the Great Depression of the 1920s and 30s, and they were one of the poorest families in town. "Myrt," as people called her, did what she had to do to raise all these children, taking in laundry, cleaning houses, and whatever other work she could find. At some point, she became the town's telephone operator, and I remember she slept on a cot next to the switchboard in case there was a call to connect. I also remember people making calls and yelling, "Myrt, get off the line," as she would love to listen in!
My mother was the oldest of nine children. Being the oldest child placed her in the role of primary caretaker while my grandmother worked. There was little food and even less money, and just getting food on the table was both a challenge and a success when it happened. My mother experienced in her developmental years the fear, anxiety, and trauma of living with an abusive alcoholic father, his death, and the challenges of living in poverty. These conditions explain the diametrically opposing personality styles I witnessed between my grandmother and mother.
Understanding my family history helped me to become more aware of my quirks and the path I found myself on earlier in life. It has become cliché to blame one's parents for one's faults, but having a clearer understanding of multi-generational history gives us a broader perspective.
Jeff is a retired counselor living his best life as a Midwestern child of the corn.
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Next week - Part 2 in this monthlong series, Making Sense.
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