I’ve always liked to hike on Easter. Or really do anything other than Easter. I was raised Christian by fairly religious parents (we went to church most Sundays), but Easter was absolutely my least favorite holiday. Easter meant an uncomfortable dress that I had to wear because my mom made it, allergies, being quiet at relatives’ house, and getting in trouble when my grandmother made us watch The King of Kings because I wanted the climactic scene of the silent movie to get here a little quicker. Eating ham –turns out I’m allergic to the chemicals they added to it. And it also meant “back to school” because our wonderful school district had the amazing idea that Easter Break (what it was called then) should be before Easter. No amount of chocolate could overcome the rest of that.
As I got older, I would try to find something else to do on Easter, whether that be working at a Giants’ game or homework. But by then, vacations from school were not as tied to the religious holiday. And one year, before my daughter was born and my parents were staying with us for the Easter feast that was going to be held at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in the same town, I had the best Easter ever: a somewhat muddy, sunny hike on an unauthorized trail through part of the beautiful hills that surround where I live. My dad, always a nature guy who also loved to hike, knew that wild flowers and native plants were a hobby of mine, and — as we hiked — we discussed all the lovely spring wildflowers and the traditional uses of some of the native plants as we passed them (yarrow was used to reduce fevers). Also, the naughtiness of trespassing (forgive us our trespasses) with my dad was a bit of a thrill. With him, it was always about following the rules. But the allure of an uphill climb and being out in nature’s glory could entice him to break rules – especially if someone had already led the way.
This was the first time that Easter had not been about what I should be doing. I should be quiet and pious; I should be helping to cook; I should be religious. Since then – especially since my daughter has grown older – I have always tried to take some kind of Easter hike. Not a sunrise service, but just getting out in the Church of Mother Nature.
One day this week, I realized I had been daydreaming about going on an Easter hike. And, in my daydream, during that hike an older man commented on why I was not [insert – at church, cooking, spending time with kids] on this special (i.e., religious) day. A little while later my friend texted and mentioned that she was going to be cooking for a big brood, and it was going to be a tough day because Easter had been the last day she spent with her prematurely deceased brother. She said she knew my dad was fairly religious and asked if it would be tough day for me. I then re-membered my favorite Easter hike. I realized that old man in my daydream was my father/society, and that I never really felt that I could assert my true, full self around him. The comments came here and there – my hair was too thin – a woman’s hair should be thicker. Would I like some money to get some work to thicken it up? Twice. The second time: “Why can’t you just be happy with me how I am?” Hot tears welled, and even if had wanted to take him up on his offer, I could not do so out of pride. Honestly, he was mostly a stereotypical old man with old-fashioned views that women needed protection, all very shaped by the ethos of white middle class 1950s. My parents had kids a little later on, so even though it was the mid-to-late 1980s when I was a teenager, the Women’s Liberation Movement had not happened in our house. My mom dealt with it by being depressed, smoking, but being a good wife (and excellent mom) and biting her tongue a lot. I was the first (and only) girl born in this, more modern era. So, the questioning I received was, “When is that boyfriend of yours going to make an honest woman out of you?” Seriously? When he tried to threaten me with military school in high school (I don’t know if girls could go to military school at that point), my response was, “You know you can’t afford to send me to military school.” Truth hurts. My dad always worked, but my mom’s part-time job allowed us to have presents at Christmas and enjoy anything more than a working-class lifestyle. Not quite the 1950s stereotype. A bit of a blow to the male ego.
It makes sense that my dad would have a fragile ego. He was abused by his father, who truly had toxic masculinity issues. This was both verbally and physically – physically not as bad as it was for some kids, but his father had rage. And when that was aimed toward my dad, the oldest of four kids, the result could be a bunk bed falling on top of him or any number of things. His father’s example of teaching a kid “responsibility” was to send his four-year-old oldest son unaccompanied across the country on a train. That was the first time my grandfather threatened to divorce my grandfather. But this was 1933, what could she really do?
So yeah — my dad had some pretty ridiculous ideas and assumptions about gender roles, as does society still to this day at times. And I’ve always struggled with listening/rebelling to that voice inside my head – even now when I am solidly in middle age. At the same time, dad’s helped me when I needed it, and we’ve been able to share some joint interests. I wish we had been able to do more of that.
My father died early this year, just missing his 95th birthday. And now that the whirlwind of ever-more-often medical emergencies is gone, I realize it’s really been quite a long time since we would have been able to recapture that wonderful day. His mind and body were neck and neck in ending the race. It’s been quite a while since we could have even had any kind of conversation that made sense in a linear way. It makes me wonder about the timeline of declining into death. Is a death experienced on a different timeline by the person who is dying and the people around them? Does the inability to do a shared something mean more to one person than another, and when that something can no longer be shared, is that mini-death more meaningful to one person over the other? By the time my dad died, I had already shed all my tears of sadness. I was left with the anger that he could never really understand how hurtful some of his comments were. That we could never get on the same page about certain things related to the most basic aspects of who I am as a person. That is truly the loss I am feeling. That is what I am having a hard time letting go. I am sure this is true for many others.
So, as I hiked up, taking picture after picture of nature’s rebirth in shades of purple, yellow, and white, I thought about what we did share – because that is when we are together in my mind. That’s where the peace and forgiveness is.
lifeparttwo2 