~The Emperor’s Old Clothes—Part 1~
By mutual consent, Mom resigned from her job to become a full-time housewife soon after my younger sister was born. So Dad was the sole breadwinner of our family for much of my childhood and adolescence. He would return home from work with entertaining, though often biting, stories of coworkers and clients. Dad participated in outings with his buddies, and attended association meetings for his favorite hobbies. He would return with engaging tales of his own roguish feats and witty repartee at the expense of less intelligent men.
By the time I entered ninth grade, my father had abandoned his original career and attempted to turn a profit in a commission job; my mother took an administrative assistant position to help financially. By the end of my twelfth grade year, Mom’s hourly pay was the only source of income. My father spent much of his days and nights surfing the internet at home. My sister and I would return home from school; each of us would occupy a bathroom, and escape into the world of a book for as long as possible. Usually we could enjoy at least an hour of quiet solitude before Dad surfaced from his online activities and began banging on the bathroom doors. Frequently he followed-up our bathroom “evictions” with a gracious invitation to sit at the kitchen table with him while he read a magazine or newspaper.
It has been said that a man’s home is his castle. I’m sure there is validity to that expression; after all, everyone seeks a refuge: a safe place to let down his/her guard, people in front of whom no masks are needed. So yes, I would agree that a man’s home is his refuge. But a refuge does not have to be a fortified castle.
I believe my father has always considered his home to be his castle. And he dressed his wife and daughters like queens to fit the part.
~ ~ ~
I don’t know when it happened—perhaps it began early in my parents’ marriage or even beforehand—but at some point in time, my mother, my sister, and I became Dad’s refuge. We were his idol. Well, it wasn’t exactly the three of us whom he idolized; not really. It was the safe, pretty idea he created for us to wear. The ideal. My father dressed up his home, his family, in the trappings of his ideal refuge: we became velvet-and-gold idols. Accessories of a dream.
No human being can wear the gilt robe of another’s ideal for a long period of time. Such a heavy, restrictive garment begins to strain and choke. After all, it is tailor-made for the idealizer, not the idealized. My father designed his ideal on a grand scale; then he placed it upon my much-smaller frame. I was drowning. Such a robe demands perfection. I was expected to fill out this garment; and I truly wanted to fill it. (This was created by my father! I wanted to do justice to his ideal.) But no matter how much I strove to achieve that goal, it was impossible. The ideal was specifically designed to not fit “Me;” and I could not alter Myself enough to match its uncompromising lines. I tried eating large quantities of food—hoping to fill out the robe a little better, or at least be less troubled by the weight of it. (Such a tactic is called “stress eating,” dear reader. We’ll explore this, and several other avenues of self-alteration, in later discussions.)
Idols are sources of comfort and security…but only if they are properly looked after. Because idols do not sustain their own perfection. My father fabricated his idol upon the framework of three human beings who would naturally grow, change, and fall short. The ideal is not designed to accommodate all that wear and tear. Dad needed to be vigilant lest my sleeve become threadbare, or a seam tear loose, or a button be lost. Too much movement or freedom on my part would jeopardize his beautiful creation. So for eighteen years, I lived very carefully in my heavy clothing, desperately praying not to trip as I attempted to walk through an atmosphere of criticism and control.
And then Adonai miraculously intervened: He packed my bags, and created an opening in the castle’s stone wall. I gathered up the trailing bulk of my ill-fitting garment and left for college.
~ ~ ~
My parents and sister helped me move in for my freshman year of college. Afterward, I watched them drive out of the dormitory parking lot, heading home. I cannot recreate for you the incredible relief I experienced as that green van disappeared. Perhaps this will give you some idea: as I mentioned before, I was a chronic stress eater. Dear reader, I entered college wearing a size 20; at the end of only four weeks on campus, I fit comfortably in a size 16. Any student can tell you that college is not a low-stress environment. And yet it seemed like an unparalleled reprieve to me.
Very soon, however, I began to notice something odd in my new surroundings: I registered the fact that I stood out awkwardly from the other college girls somehow. But I couldn’t understand what the problem might be. After all, I was normal! Where could the difference possibly lie?
As I continued interacting with these girls, as I started to know them better, slowly, slowly, I began to see the garments they wore. Several girls wore original creations—robes they had made entirely by themselves. The majority of my new acquaintances each displayed a garment bearing varied levels of input from one or both parents, as well as the girl herself. Almost none of these robes looked anything like mine. And practically all of the girls seemed to find my velvet-and-gold robe very strange, even ugly.
“Why do you constantly apologize? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I just complimented you; why did you deflect it? Why can’t you just accept it and say ‘Thank you’?”
“I really don’t think it’s necessary or appropriate for you to always twist my remarks into something sexual.”
“Why do you insult yourself all the time?”
“Why would you assume that you’re bothering me? I invited you to come, didn’t I?”
Slowly, slowly, realization dawned. I examined my robe: heavy chains of gold stitches; thick rope braiding; crushing velvet, cut on the bias; congested ruffles; gilt shards of lace. For the first time I really took note of the restrictive sleeves and plunging neckline, the glittering stones manacled to my neck and wrists, the yards of needless material that answered all movement with endless falls and humiliation.
Trembling, I whispered a desperate question: “Do you mean this isn’t normal?”
Absolutely Not! came the unanimous reply from my new friends.
No, my darling, murmured my Lord in and over the human voices.
Amazement mingled with trepidation in my mind. Trying to understand, yet afraid of what understanding would bring, I found myself asking: “Isn’t it common for fathers to hold a dismissive attitude toward their children’s interests and activities, yet demand enthusiastic participation in the fathers’ own hobbies? Most fathers don’t earn an “A” on a daughter’s bottle rocket project in physics class? Not all fathers refuse to help with a science fair project unless their idea is used?”
Absolutely Not! No, beloved.
Somewhat stunned, I tried again: “But isn’t it normal for girls to glibly make jokes involving explicit innuendo in elementary school? Do you mean that not all fathers discuss one daughter’s breasts with the other daughter, or make admiring remarks about the second daughter’s buttocks to the first? Most husbands don’t fondle their wives and issue solicitations at the dinner table? Don’t most fathers encourage their daughters to make jokes and sexual references at their mother’s expense?”
Absolutely Not! No, my darling.
My spirit began to tremble: “Do you mean that most fathers don’t require outside instruction to hold their daughters? Don’t all mothers have to coax fathers to take their daughters along for bonding time? Is it not common for children to hide favorite snacks to ensure they will get to eat some before it’s all gone? Don’t most fathers ask very vague questions and expect very specific answers? And aren’t most children yelled at and belittled when they cannot find that one correct answer? Isn’t all of this normal?”
Absolutely Not! Will you hear the Truth, baby?
No! I don’t want to hear it! was what I longed to shout. But looking down at my robe—heavy—stifling—so different from those I now saw around me, the question was so obvious that I could not ignore it…even if the answer shattered my world. In fascinated dread I whispered: “If it isn’t normal, then what is it?”
What is it? You even need to ask? It’s abuse, my dear one.
[to be continued in Part B]
