Mar
11
We Swear We Will Never Be Them
March 11, 2007 | |
My parents, my models, hated each-other at the time of their divorce.
And it stands to reason. Why on earth would a carefree, whimsical, French woman fall for a controlling, traditional, Greek man?
Two polar opposites. Both in culture and in character.
When I ask them how it happened, how they ever got together in the first place, they both recount a similar tale:
At the beginning things were different. And each of them remember a more perfect mate. At the beginning, they were perfect together.
From what they tell me, at the beginning they were in love.
All wrapped up in poetic love letters and picnics on sand dunes and Petosky stones collected off the shores of Lake Michigan.
Blinded by the misty haze of spellbinding romance, the two optimistic early day romantics only did what came naturally in those days.
They got married. And they had three little girls. Both burdened and blessed by the stresses and pleasures of their familial bond–
Life changed dramatically. But one thing remained certain. They were indeed opposite people.
And the moment that misty haze of romance faded into cloudy trepidation–they did what came naturally in those days
and gave up.
"…your dad and I are not going to live together anymore…."
I was 5 back then and distinctly recall thinking: Good. Now they’ll be no more screaming and yelling.
Stephany, my older sister, had the opposite reaction. Her sobs came instantly. Hard, fast, and loud.
Confused, I imitated her cue and forced a few half hearted whimpers, squeezing out a few tears.
Still all the while questioning: Am I supposed to act sad?
Because I wasn’t.
In fact, with the announcement of their split, I secretly felt the opposite.
At the beginning, when they were both different, I can see how it all made sense.
My father easily drawn into my mother’s carefree glow
and she in turn reveled inside the warmth of his mediterranean embrace.
And at the beginning, the two fell hard and fast for their complimentary halves.
Both awestruck and charmed by the differences each other.
Spellbound by the sides of themselves they could never be
but perceived through the reflection of each-others loving gaze.
My mother slight and pale, with delicate blue eyes and French bones. Hair cropped Mia Farrow short–the ultimate pixie.
She happily submitted to the Daughter’s of Penelope gatherings at the Greek Orthodox church. Obliged to belong.
She played dollar poker with quarters alongside the ladies from the old country. She baked Spanikopeta and learned the appropriate Greek phrases: "Theyes cafe?" (Can I get you some coffee) and "Christos anesti" (Christ has risen).
She attended church on Sundays and sang in the choir. Lightly chanting hymns in ancient Greek and having no idea what they ment.
Yes my mother played the role well. But indeed, it was only a role.
And it wasn’t long before that carefree mademoiselle became stifled beneath the confines of her Greek orthodox choir gown.
Naturally, she became itchy.
In marriage, my father didn’t change so much. At least not in a cultural sense.
He was dark and handsome, with brooding eyes and warm olive skin. Dashing in his Marine dress blues, standing stern and proud.
He possessed a quiet–yet undeniable charm. An artist, a writer, a lover of the simple things and the beauty of their details.
A dreamer and hopeless romantic that held strong to the ideals of family, religion and community.
Determined to be a good father and provider and willing to sacrifice his happiness for the future of his children.
He sold his soul to General Motors to do so. Pulling 60 hour weeks on the line and hating every minute of it.
In his mind there was no other option. My father, my hero, the ultimate martyr, believer in "doing what’s right" spitefully stuck it out and became ultimately, miserable.
It was no surprise his greek temper would easily escalate and turn our charming dollhouse on Darlington street into a den of volatility. Where my two sisters and I quietly tiptoed through eggshells praying not to set him off into a frenzy…
Trying our best to evade those wild screamfests we witnessed between he and my mother.
The ones that sent us running to our respective pastel bedrooms, doors slammed tight to muffle their screams.
But the chaos between them seeped into us regardless.
And as young ladies we grew adept at silencing our pain. Masking anger with false smiles, repressing our pain.
We became experts at walking away from chaotic scenarios that evolve between two people who supposedly love each other.
But doesn’t it always start this way? Two different people, in love with the characteristics in their partner that allow them to feel whole…
Yet in time, these once charming differences transform to annoying quirks that ultimately make us question what the hell we ever had in common in the first place. We blame it on the other, that the other had changed. In the end reason wins, and we hastily cut ourselves free. We hang it up. Start anew. And repeat. And repeat again and again.
We forget how to appreciate one another.
We forget to work and we forget that love, like anything in life, takes effort in order to survive.
In retrospect we question how on earth we could fall in love with someone that so closely resembles our parents.
Or worse yet, transforms us into them and everything we vowed we would never become.
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