Facebook, Sarah Palin and me...

I suspected that if my title was 'Middle-aged woman vicariously living through, while spying ,on children',  many might find this post rather unappealing.  I couldn't help myself.  I threw in a 'Sarah Palin'.  Okay so it was not a true Hail Mary pass, but I hoped you would keep reading anyway.  After all, Gather was the first social network I ever joined and it still astounds me how much I love the friends I have made over a couple of years. (Kisses to you all, by the way.)

It wasn't until yesterday that I admitted  how much I have grown to love Facebook.  Living 3,000 miles  from my birthplace,  I have been pretty isolated from my family of origin since that fateful October day when I paid $80 for a one-way ticket to L.A.   As I pocketed my life savings of another $80, I hoped I wouldn't get mugged on the plane. (Funny how I am about in the same financial position over thirty years later.  Thanks, W.)

The fallout  from my egregious separation from my New England roots had consequences.   When my beloved grandfather died, nobody mentioned it for several weeks.   After all, long distance was expensive.  If I needed to know anything about the family, I was expected to call.   As penance, I begged my husband to let my senile grandmother live with us, but she never forgave me and neither did I.   I had missed the funeral.

It hurt knowing I had fallen out of my genetic clique merely by becoming geographically undesirable.  Oh I know cell phones,  iPhones and Blackberries abound now, but sites like Gather and Facebook really might keep others from being able to isolate in the 21st century.

Even if a member doesn't answer or read their hipster mom or dad's latest incredibly important email about how the grass is growing back home, parents can quietly log on.  Their child's  latest clever one-liner may even appear as they reassure themselves that Charlie is still the ultra cool, avant garde child with the irrepressible cowlick.

Delightfully, my nieces and nephews have be-friended me since I joined Facebook.  Now my cousins from all over the country are beginning to connect with me too.  They are posting endearing things on my Wall like, "I was so excited to find you on Facebook!"  Amazed that anyone even remembers my married name, who wouldn't feel surrounded by a flock of warm fuzzies?

I now know this year's family reunion is in July in Maine at my adorably handsome cousin Tommy's home ( shared with his lovely wife Deborah and their son Frank).  I can also email his dear sister,  who has three little grandchildren she sees every weekend because luckily they live close by.  I have also gotten to poach photos of parties, bashes, vacations, sojourns and other activities populated by the lovely relatives who have grown up so much I wouldn't have recognized them if we were sitting together on a bus.

My previous family estrangement was partly my fault, of course, but equally my mother's.  (Isn't everything eventually somebody's mother's fault?)  Mum warned any and all relatives planning a visit to the West Coast that I had... um... problems.   Some of these warnings were mild but most were outrageous whoppers.  My favorite was when she told my Aunt Nancy that I was incarcerated in a mental health facility and it would not be wise to visit me.   Okay, so one person was incarcerated at the age of nineteen in the 1930's and she  did receive electric shock therapy, but unless my birth certificate is a forgery, it wasn't me.

My mother had a great imagination and her descriptions were both vivid and convincing.   My aunt many years later cooed reassuringly, "Oh dear, it is so lovely to see you.  Can it be that you have two children and have been married almost eight years now?"

"Yes," I said, pleased, as I pulled out a flattering photo of the four of us.

"Oh, your son looks just like you, so I assume your daughter looks more like her father?"

"Yes, but the pretty feminine version," I bragged.

The hair went up on the back of my neck with her next remark.

"After talking to you, dear, I must admit you seem so normal.  Don't worry, nobody would ever guess."

I must have looked shocked, because before I could say a word, she repeated everything my mother had told her.  She took great pains to remind me that healthy people seek mental health services, and I shouldn't feel ashamed.  Then she cautioned me on accepting any more electric shock therapy, citing several medical concerns.

Then again what turns a fib into the most convincing lie is the quality of the grain of truth tucked inside.

True Confessions: Not that I deserved to be or even qualified for institutionalization,  but clearly I suffered from bouts of impaired judgment.  As evidence I will share that I once paid a hypnotist  $75 an hour in an effort to quit smoking.   When after weeks of earnest attempts I failed to respond, he referred me to a psychologist named Gary.

I am not really sure Gary was fully credentialed at the time, as he didn't have his license posted on the wall.   Frankly, Gary didn't seem to know what he was doing either, so after six months I decided I couldn't afford the cigarettes and the therapy.  I paid my bill and tactfully tried to disengage from my therapist by explaining that I wanted to put into practice what I had learned.

Initially he tried to convince me that I desperately needed therapy and I would ruin my very life if I quit.   When I declined to continue and tried to close the conversation by shaking his hand goodbye, he leapt upon me like a wildebeast.  Obviously freed of professional restraints, he grabbed my breasts in what he obviously considered a romantic gesture.

This was at the tail end of the Make-Love-Not-War era, which unfortunately did nothing to  make him any less repulsive.  I was furious, of course.  I had paid hundreds of dollars for clinical information only to have it  sullied, including the only comment I found rather profound.

"What happened to you until you turned 18 is your parents' fault.  Everything after that  is your fault, which makes you responsible for the consequences and results."

This was in fact an amazing concept about personal power and demonstrated how easily I had abdicated mine.

In retrospect, except for those sweaty hands, Gary was a pretty cold s.o.b.  I was only 21.   That kind of reality check can be cruel.  Who really wants to know that their personal power belongs to them and they own their own screw-ups?  That makes us accountable for every stupid or idiotic decision we make.  As I said, Gary was heartless.

Oh, I suppose looking back my mother had legitimate reasons to prefer not to have people interact with me.   I was a talkative little sprout without sensible boundaries or appropriate filters.   One could imagine she feared I would speak honestly about my childhood or again repeat her pet name for me in public, "you little brown-noser".  I still feel slightly sentimental when I hear those words said aloud.

Of course, you don't have to abuse your kids to have concerns about what they say away from home.  I remember sitting in the high school football stadium, watching our son play varsity football and chatting mildly with his friend's parents.

"So how are you guys?"

I said this pleasantly without any real intent.  Also, I always speak first.  It's as if I can't control myself after having overcome my first 19 years of blushing shyness.

"Oh, we're doing fine, how about you?"

"As well as could be expected with two teenagers still at home," I joked.

"Oh yeah! We heard ALL about THAT!"  This remark was accompanied by both husband and wife  eye-balling rolling, eyebrow raising and a version of sychronized head bobbing.   It was quite a conversation stopper if I recall correctly but I still don't understand why my husband gave me a dirty look.

Candidly, in my youth I assumed everybody was raised by borderline personalities who exhibited occasional psychotic leanings.  There was no reason to talk outside of school about what I considered our normal family life.  My mother was obsessed with shutting me up, however, and  also told my favorite relatives that I was 'very busy' and 'hard to find' in Southern California as if it were the wilds of Africa.

In New England everything in polite society tends to be expressed in code.  "She enjoys a glass of wine" can be translated to, "She's a wino."  "Her husband is rather charming and women find him appealing," really means, "He's been cheating on her with everything that moves for years."

The types of comment my mother made could have meant, "She thinks she's too good to talk to you",  or merely, "She's a streetwalker, but we pretend she's undercover vice."  Yeah, I know, it makes the imagination tingle, but I always was a pretty nice girl.  Well, except for when I was in between fiancees and had that little wild period.  It wasn't wild by today's standards, of course, but we'll just leave it at that.  Girls brought up as Roman Catholics  really do think everything fun must be some sort of sin.

Of course, I now believe we should live and let live unless somebody is being harmed.  No point in judging others  harshly is there?  One would hope our society has grown since the cultural revolution of the 60's, 70's and 80's.  Kindergartners not only know what a condom is but how to use it and what it is for.  In my youth, a boy's equipment was considered inferior unless the public bathroom in the park was locked and we were on a picnic, in which case their goods were much more convenient.

When my darling mother died, one of my sisters  (let's call her Betty Boop for the moment) could not restrain herself from pidgeon-holing me immediately after the memorial service.  Obviously something important was troubling her, and I assumed I knew what it was.  She's an adorable person and a love, so I was quick to reassure her.

"Don't worry, Betty,  I mean about the will.  I know she didn't leave me anything.  It's okay, we were pretty estranged even before I ran away from home."

"Yes, I know, you and she... well...  you were both not that different, really.  Well, you were different, but you were so stubborn and so difficult and she felt judged..."

"I think different covers it fine, okay?  Let's  leave it at that.  I really do want you to know that it's okay.  I wasn't expecting anything.  I came to honor her memory, but I am here as much to honor the rest of us.   Even if Mum and I weren't friends, we were family.  I loved her too and was glad she wasn't alone when she died."

"On that note, I was just wondering," my sister said sweetly.

She has enormous, dark brown eyes which were beginning to mist up under her beautiful eyelashes.  She's so sensitive and fragile, I thought.

"Do you think when you publish that memoir you could do me a little favor?"

"Sure," I said, flattered that she actually thought a publisher would be interested.

"You just tell me what you need."

I saw her grimace with the effort,  so I knew it was something big.

"I was hoping you could use a pen name... you know... just so those of us who still live here can honor her memory.   She really was better these last few years and there's no point in demeaning someone after they're gone."

I looked at this darling kindergarten and first grade teacher with great compassion.  Here was a woman devoting her life to the care and education of other people's children.  She had been a wonderful, loving, nurturing daughter.  She was asking for such a small thing in the overall realm of life.  Who was I to deny her simple request?

Literally hundreds of times I had sent her excerpts from different pieces I had written, expecting her to say, "That never happened" or "You exaggerated" or even "That makes me sad to remember those things."

One story I particularly liked was an apology to her, really.   When I was 13 I  had developed a habit of stealing lose change from my mother's dresser drawer.  On that particular day I had taken a quarter to buy cigarettes.  My mother confronted me when I returned from the store and when she went for reinforcements (my father) I had begged my younger sister to take the blame.  She was rarely punished, but I was expected to  know better and I certainly did.

When my parents returned, she told them she had stolen the quarter even though we all knew it was a lie.   I thought, gosh, she's a much better person than I'll ever be. I have never felt so ashamed of myself in my entire life.  Up until that point I usually felt like the heroine in a Nancy Drew mystery, but that day I was disgusted and disappointed in myself.  I wasn't punished by my parents, but I never forgave myself.  I never  stole anything again either, and that includes everything from toilet paper to somebody else's husband.

My sister had never commented on that written piece or any other.   Not once had she said she thought my stories or memoir pieces were good, bad, hurtful or even boldly honest.  Yet she expected me to publish them anonymously.  For a minute I selfishly thought, but what about the glory I deserve? What about my 15 minutes of Andy Warhol fame?

"Why not," I said with a big smile.  "Shall I use your maiden or married name?"

I still don't understand why Betty didn't think that was funny.   My husband had no sense of humor that day either.  He convinced me that if I published my semi-autobiographical novel it would be "at the expense of all the people you know and love."

Yet here I sit, watching my children and grandchildren, nephews and nieces publish it ALL on Facebook with seeming impunity.  I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that the on-line world has finally captured what I always considered the essence of living.  The right to make perfect fools of ourselves for literally all the world to see.

We can make ourselves the subject of ridicule and embarrassment even when we no longer live in a small town filled with avid gossips.  I'm convinced our family and friends, once they know the real us, will only love us that much more.   And when everybody is finally comfortable being themselves in all their flawed glory, maybe all this greed, power-grabbing and posturing will lose its appeal and we will learn how to just get along.

Still... life couldn't get any sweeter.  God bless America and God bless Facebook.