JordanCornblog

I didn’t think that hope was something I indulged in, growing up. I saw clearly (I thought), knew what to expect, and was buttressed against vain desires. And I definitely wasn’t buoyant, cheerful, or optimistic.

By the time I was old enough to make self-protective choices, I was pretty sure that I’d emotionally withdrawn from the family, and from Mom in particular, enough that I was safe. I was cynical, believing that nothing about our family pathology was ever going to change. And I told myself that I didn’t care.

But it was the dashing of unexpected, uninvited hope that surprised me earlier this week when I came home from several days at ‘The Lake.’ (And yes, okay, that’s some WASP-y privilege right there, isn’t it? Doesn’t have to be loud or fancy. It’s as simple as the name you give a place — and all the assumptions embedded therein. But I digress…)

Coming home to my home now is worlds away from coming home to the home I grew up in. But I seem to be very permeable to old echoes these days. So as I came home in October of 2022, I found myself feeling oddly like it was Labor Day Weekend in 1962 or 72 or sometime way back then. And while I welcome the insights offered by these rising echoes, they can be very discomfiting til I figure out what’s going on.

Hope Springs Eternal (and another personal myth bites the dust).

You see, summers at ‘The Lake’ meant that my mother’s parents were there the whole time. That wasn’t always easy because it was a very small space and was holding three generations. But Mom didn’t drink around them. And while I see now that Mom was not easy in any state, still Mom-not-drinking was preferable to Mom-drinking.

Brief aside: ‘Talking Funny’ was what we called the change that drinking wrought in Mom. And that tells you how young we were, and how little guidance or input we had, when we were trying to explain her to ourselves.

Anyway, after a summer of Mom-not-drinking, and against my better judgment, hope would get a toehold and grow in me. Summer after summer, right through college, part of me slipped into believing that the coming year might be better — might be quiet — might be that thing I’d heard tell of (and seen on TV) called ‘normal.’

Labor Day and Beyond

We always came home on Labor Day weekend. And usually we spent the weekend doing chores and getting ready for school. As we got older, it was exciting to reconnect with friends. And since it was the long weekend, Dad was home, we were all watchful and around. And there it was — the year ahead looked hopeful.

I might be able to get my homework done. Maybe I would be able to invite a friend over to the house. And maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom calling my teachers on the phone or showing up tipsy at a lacrosse game. Maybe Mom would be OKAY and maybe life would be OKAY too.

But that never, ever lasted long. In a matter of a day or two, and I’d hear the tell-tale slur in her voice.

Especially as I got older, I’d be furious. I couldn’t let myself fully feel the hurt and despair of that first moment — hearing that gut punch slur and knowing I was, again, trapped with it. Mom was ‘Talking Funny’ and the year stretched ahead in a nauseatingly familiar way.

I’ve recently had conversations with a couple of friends that left me wanting to think more about the concept of ‘class’ and especially that of ‘having class.’
As with many things, I received a healthy dose of indoctrination from my mother about what it meant to have class. Some of it was communicated directly. Much of it was not but still came through clearly (and loudly). And as is generally the case, what was not communicated directly offered the most authentic reflection of her actual values.

So, for example, she was adamant that having class had nothing to do with having money. And she was clear there was nothing flashy about having class. (Hear that, Donald?) Having good manners was part of it. Maybe being thoughtful and valuing education, too. And that may have been the sum of what she articulated about class.

But then there were the unspoken messages — the ones buried in a glance, an eye-roll, an off-hand comment. And for any number of reasons, I was vigilant and careful with my mother — I paid attention to ALL of the cues.

So, I learned early that you had to be a WASP to have class. Maybe you could qualify if you were from some other part of Northern Europe, although that certainly isn’t the image in my head. It was a very limited group that could possibly have class. Irish, Jews, Blacks, Italians…need not apply. She would never have said that out loud, though — that would not be classy. You had privilege but you didn’t flaunt it. You just took it as your due, I guess.

In my childhood hierarchy, if I’d had to assign rank to our family, it would have been clear that my mother’s side of the family (attorneys and alcoholics and such) had more class than my father’s family of teachers and beloved coaches. And Mimi (my mother’s mother) always felt that Aunt Emma (yes, THAT Aunt Emma) and Aunt Helen looked down on her.

These were the faces of ‘class’ in my young life. Something about lineage seemed to define you, separate from your foibles or accomplishments.

And as I sit and think about this, I can see how effectively I was infected by those messages. Embedded early, they were lessons that simply became part of me. I couldn’t ignore them so as I got older I had to make choices. And in general, I’ve tended to react against these lessons, much as I did with her anti-Catholic tirades.

So, now I have the opposite knee-jerk reaction from what she likely intended. People I perceive as having what my mother would call ‘class’ can sometimes, especially if I’m feeling a little bit cranky, just bother me. It really isn’t fair, I know, but the scent of privilege just bothers me when I get a whiff.

Not always, but sometimes. Okay, often.

And clearly I need to think about this more.

And being a WASP who drank her mother’s Kool-Aid before she knew better, I am also aware that there’s a weirdly privileged luxury about all this ‘bother’ about class and privilege.