Rotator

I have eight new holes in my walls: seven at home, one in my office. And I halfway expected that I'd feel sad about this, but instead it feels as though a piece of clothing that was askew is now straight and comfortable.

Throughout my life, I've had a hard time moving from one home to another, and each time I've endured a burst of intense homesickness that lasted anywhere from one night to a few months. When I came to Oregon, I festooned my apartment and office walls with framed pictures, all of which came out of the several shoeboxes I keep on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. (I also splurged, from my first paycheck, on a large print of "A Saturday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte," by Georges Seurat, which I've always wanted to have on the wall, over the couch.) And for a while, I would come home each night, flake out in my big, overstuffed papa chair, and feebly enjoy the sight of reminders from my past.

But most of that enjoyment has faded. It hasn't left me desolate, though; it's been replaced, and quite thoroughly.

Back in Texas, I was especially close with one branch of my extended family. The kids in the house, especially, were dear to my heart. But as it is with many academics, I have a tricky time forming and maintaining close relationships, which is part eccentricity, part having a brain wired to wrestle with abstraction and academic writing, and part work stress. That's not to say I had more work stress than the family members, because I clearly didn't, but it was different: it followed an entirely distinct pattern, and that made it hard for me to understand their struggles, anticipate their rhythms and vice versa. Definitely vice-versa. From time to time, that trickiness grew into rockiness, and sometimes became open disaffectation. And after a number of years of patching it up, seeing it fall apart, and patching it up again, I arrived at one firm decision that broke the cycle.

One of the unspoken rules, the unwritten laws, was that they waited until I contacted them, and then we would plan some sort of get-together: dinner at their house, or occasionally something different. But it was left to me to get the ball rolling. And at the time, I saw rational reasons for this: they had lots of responsibilities, compounded by the fact that they had to coordinate all of them. Both kids had needs, both parents had duties, and all of it had to be sorted out and attacked as efficiently as possible. My load of obligations wasn't always smaller, but it was always simpler.

Eventually, that wasn't a good enough reason anymore. My chief gripe, which we discussed on a few occasions, was that whenever I contacted them and my timing was less than perfect, it felt to me as though they became angry and blamed me for whatever they found difficult about their life. I felt attacked for not having perfect timing. I felt attacked for my insensitivity at intruding when they felt overwhelmed. The fact that I had no idea what went on in their home if they didn't take the initiative to keep me informed didn't temper their anger at all. I tried over time to be a patient and supportive family member, to let it roll off, to see it as frustration that wasn't really aimed at me. But finally, when I received three tongue-lashings in one week, it became too much, and I arrived at a decision: I'm not going to yell back, I'm not going to sulk, I'm not going to do anything at all but wait for them to initiate contact. It seemed to me like a good solution. I'm intruding? My timing is bad? Fine. They can set the tempo. If they need to turn their attention elsewhere, I can wait.

I ran this reasoning by a number of friends, some of whom were mutual friends with these family members, and there was a strong consensus that turned out to be prescient: "You're never going to hear from them. They wait for you to call because that puts them in the driver's seat. All get-togethers are at their house because that's their turf. This has all been a power game."

I didn't want to believe that, and I still don't entirely buy it. But what happened next was pretty strong evidence. Did they contact me? Nope. When I bumped into them spontaneously, they always made a point of telling me how much they missed me. I believed that about as much as I believed someone who says they're starving when they've got a complete meal two inches from their fingers. Several times I thought, sourly, You know, your phone makes outgoing calls as well as taking incoming ones! But I chalked this up to learning how things really were, and tried to be thankful for the lesson.

The same friends who'd predicted this now said, "You're finding out what they apparently thought of friendship with you all along. They were fond of you when you were right there and they didn't have to exert any effort, but they won't stir themselves to keep it going. It's nothing personal; you just misunderstood what was there in the first place."

This wasn't initially going to be a history of that period of transition, but since it's out there, I can explain now why I have eight holes in my wall. When I moved here, among the pictures I put up on my wall were a number of photos I'd taken of the two kids from that household. I had been extremely fond of them, and I'd taken a lot of pictures of them that turned out very well. About three days ago, I thought, Why are those still on my wall? It wasn't that the pictures made me feel angry or sad, but more just that they no longer fit. They didn't stir anything in me, the way they used to. For the first time, I thought, what would happen if I took them down?

I expected that it would feel wrenching to do so, but as it turned out, I was wrong. This morning, the whim struck me, and I dismounted the seven pictures of the kids that were hanging in my apartment. And there was no pain, no grief, no hurt. It felt as though I had tried to remove a tree that I thought would have very deep, strong roots, but discovered instead had no roots at all, and came up easily.

And it would be easy to misunderstand this: I'm not saying I don't feel anything for these family members anymore. That's clearly not right. I have no plans to shred the pictures, or burn them, or even just throw them away. As soon as I have time to de-frame them, they'll go back in the shoebox and into the closet. In other boxes in the closet I have books I'm not currently interested in reading, and clothes I don't currently wear, but I've kept both sets of boxes for a reason.

I worried, when I moved out here, that losing the family ties and church ties I had back in Texas would leave me bitterly lonely. And it's true that I'm a lot less involved with my church here than I was with the church there: I got very deeply involved, and was actually named the College Ministry Coordinator, but have had to unplug myself from a fair number of activities just because there are only so many hours in a day. And as far as contact with family goes, I call my mother on Sunday afternoons, and we talk for about an hour, and that's it. Very different from my pre-move life.

What's different is the role of my job.

My job has filled in the space that used to be occupied by family and church. None of my colleagues are rivals, since none are in my field: they range from supportive and helpful to very firm and close friends. And the difference in how students relate to me is absolutely remarkable. Back in Texas, I'd occasionally get a bit of encouragment from one of my hundred and fifty students: maybe three or four times in a semester. I treasured those, and still do, but there's just no comparison to the student-teacher tie at this school. These folks encourage me, praise me, express gratitude, seek me out, include me in their play, several times a day and dozens of times a week. Keeping the healthy distance between student and educator is a serious challenge here, and one that I work very hard to balance, but it's a good problem to have. I feel incredibly close to my students, and that makes the workday a joy.

Aside from that, it makes the distance from my old life feel like growth, like progress, like going from the previous chapter of my life to the next. So when I made eight holes in my wall (nail holes where the pictures used to be), all I really was doing was rearranging the decorative symbols to match the new, very comfortable, very healthy reality. And that took me by surprise. But it was a pleasant surprise.