“I don’t like groups,” I told my shrink. “I’m 41, youngest of eight; I’ve done my group time. Is it okay to be done with groups?”
Shrink: “Good question.”
Two weeks later, I organized a group of writers to attend our teacher’s play. His play was decent and the company, excellent. I confused and pleased myself.
Maybe groups I create are satisfying? Maybe my childhood tribe, where I felt I had no voice, was dividing? When did I begin feeling like an outsider, in my own childhood?
In my 20s my sister Gerry said, “I look forward to the day when Kate feels comfortable in her own skin.”
Most of my life I felt uncomfortable, but how is that possible? Is there an actual connection between a person’s comfort level and how their skin lays on them? We are always in our skin. Maybe if our mind longs to be somewhere else, our skin reflects this and informs others? I’ve lived for decades under my skin, confused, acutely listening.
A few weeks ago I swept some stairs after a community play. The act reminded me of sweeping my parents’ basement stairs, as a little girl. There were 10 wooden steps. Each stair had a gray plastic rectangle stapled to it that had grooves, like old records do.
With a small handheld wooden broom with real black bristles, I sat on each step collecting things into a thick rubber mustard dustpan. It was a close-to-me satisfying task; I could get in corners, see the dirt and discard it from all of our lives. No one needed to inspect or correct me.
Ten years ago, sister Gerry said, “When I attend family functions I coast and try to escape unharmed.”
You do that too, I thought? Who else does?
A convivial, mature man said to me, “I hate to throw parties, but when I do, I know where all the hiding places in my house are.” How many of us are there? Present and hiding? In our own skin and not liking it? Inside, but feeling like outsiders? Is there anyone inside who feels like an insider?
Five years ago I discovered inside of me, that I love words. When I find the right words, I feel release and I am comfortable in my own skin. When I speak those sentences, roots grow. Three years ago, I began performing poetry at a local venue. I am now perceived as an insider of that group. I am beginning to feel part of a community I trust and like. I wrote words for their community-produced play. My Dad and some of my sisters have enjoyed my work at this venue. I do not perform my poetry at family events because I do not want to divert attention away from my siblings. None of us got enough of our parents’ love growing up.
A year ago my mother died suddenly, in her sleep. She was 78. Days before her death, she said, “I never tell anyone those deep down thoughts.”
This past year my siblings and I have been kinder to each other. After Christmas dinner with Dad, we sat around the candle-lit dining room table that had held us together for 45 years. We listened and enjoyed each other, while the table’s legs wobbled, as they always have. I did not have to raise my hand to be heard. We didn’t cut each other’s sentences off or perform like loud seals for Dad’s seal of approval.
We helped when the table needed to be cleared and the dishwasher filled. No one drank too much. We were aware that our mother, the force that generated this cacophonous group of eight kids and 13 grandchildren, was not with us. She no longer spoke, could not challenge us to find the right word or tell us what mystery book she had read, what Broadway show excited her, and she would not be reciting Pooh while sipping too much cognac and ending with a closed mouth grin.
Maybe groups, when I have my voice, are all right? Maybe why I mentally escaped my family during my childhood is not so important today. Feeling comfortable in my skin, most days, I’ll enjoy what’s left of this group, my family. – Kate Kaiser
Jersey City resident Kate Kaiser is a frequent contributor. Please send comments to: current@hudsonreporter.com.