birthdays

Added context: This is a piece about a specific but my hope is it speaks to a more general inclination to cancel the ones we’ve been hurt by. This is complicated stuff. I don’t have any inclination to think I’ve got the answer but what I offer is a form of perspective, along with a hope the collective we keeps talking. Not necessarily about this, but about all of the things, as we are able and have capacity for, that encourage us to take sharp stands on one side or another. I still believe we can take those sharp stands, I do. I also believe there are far more shades of grey than I every thought possible, and it makes me hopeful when I consider things within those than when I colour them as either this or that.

I was checking my calendar on the iPhone - something I do less often than I used to - and it let me know tomorrow is the birthday of a person I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. A lot of us have. Somehow that happens. There are random and unremovable birthdays in my calendar, like that of a woman I met once thirteen years ago in Saskatoon when I was doing an event. Her birthday is February 6, which is also the birthday of my youngest daughter, and while it’s likely I will never see her again I know that Carol from the hotel is celebrating as we are.

The FB birthday thing originally struck me as odd, and for years I ignored the steady stream of wishes on pages. What does that even mean, I wondered. People using emojis and a few quick words to craft a wish for birthday joy? I scoffed at the silliness of it. But, whether it’s aging or a softening of the once hard lines I lived by, I gradually began taking a quick minute to send greetings. And increasingly, I appreciated those sent to me.

My own birthday is December 24. When I was little, this was a good thing as sharing a birthday with Jesus was a coup, given he was the star of the Lutheran church we attended. I hadn’t yet experienced the drawbacks of having a birthday next door to Christmas, and instead basked in the extra attention given by adults who understood the novelty would one day wear off, and I’d resent being lost in the holiday season.

When Dad joined a cult that rejected Christmas and all its trappings, my birthday became entwined with trepidation. My celebration was tangled with what had once been a beloved holiday and was now a source of tension between my parents. It no longer was the happy season and I couldn’t count on the goodwill of family to recognize my day as they battled religion.

I grew (more) uncomfortable with my birthday, and yet pined to be celebrated. As I grew up and out of the cult, I catapulted myself into reclaiming celebration in general. But December is a busy month, and so it was difficult to gather friends as calendars were filled to the brim with holiday engagements. I resented this, even knowing it was fair and made sense. But I’d spent so long being the one left behind when I was young and not allowed, and then later when I didn't know how to be in the world and stumbled awkwardly. I’d gone to the dinners and lunches and purchased the cards and small paper bags with books and scarves to mark everyone else’s occasions. Was it too much to ask for the same in return?

It was too much, however, because what I wanted stemmed from a place of sadness and need, and those are not things that draw people in. We (not all of us, but many) avoid the sick or differently abled. We are delicate around mental illness even as it snares so many in sticky webs. And a young woman wanting and then resenting the attention, or her perceived lack thereof, on a birthday smack-dab in the middle of the busiest season? Sheesh. The hubris of my own self is painful to acknowledge.

I made it difficult even for those who loved me in spite of who I was. Wanting attention, I then didn’t know what to do with it when it came. “Happy birthday,” my friend might say, and my stomach would squeeze and instruct me to deflect. “Merry Christmas,” I’d counter, like we were competing in a war of well-wishes. What, I wondered, did people say whose birthdays were in July, not realizing for so long they simply replied with thanks.  

We all shift and change. Or at least, we try. Or at least, I hope/wish/pray we do. I really do believe we are trying though, even if our forms and our methods are different. But fundamentally, we want to be better, to be the best versions of ourselves that we can, right? I have trouble with the idea some things are unforgivable (and yet, I draw my own lines in the sand of what those are). Perhaps this is merely another example of my difficulty with absolutes (and was this why math was so darn difficult?), but I see shades of grey everywhere. Maybe it’s because I have a lifetime behind me, of sorting out when and how badly I fucked up, and so I see now with (slight) clarity how my own intentions were often unclear even to myself, and my actions didn’t compute with what I was trying – and failing – to do?

Maybe that is why I couldn’t sleep in the middle of the night, having gone to bed soon after that reminder popped up. I was awake and considering it is entirely possible Jim lives in a land where he is the wronged party. Where his actions and intentions have been skewered and misconstrued and where he tallies the wrongs he has been done. But, maybe not. Maybe he sits in the murky, shitty place where I’ve been. Where you know you’ve done wrong –  or at least, not right – but you can’t see a way out. Or maybe he’s in between the two or maybe he’s somewhere I haven’t thought of. I don’t know. I’m not privy to anything nor do I have answers. Certainly, I have no answers, that part is clear.  And there is the seriousness of what his accusers have laid out, and their bravery in doing so. Will some say I’m giving space to someone who doesn’t deserve it? Who took space from them? That is entirely possible, and also, could be entirely fair.

But I have is an overwhelming urge to say something, even at the risk of being told I’m stupid and wrong and have no business saying anything at all. But I offer it gently and respectfully and with all the love in the world. A long time ago, when it was just beginning to lose its way, Earls taught me many good things, and one of them was “It’s Your Business,” meaning, your section was your world, and how well you treated it would be reflected in how well your night went – financially, yes, but also how smoothly and how much fun you had. I’m applying that concept to my community, now, and feel it IS my business to speak up and speak out. I will be wrong sometimes. This might be one on what will eventually become an even longer list. I’ll screw up - I have and I will, sometimes big and sometimes small. That’s a risk, right? And I think I understand what I’m risking. But riskier, for me, is silence, and I’m hopeful a long list of rights (and of trying) is what will matter in the end.

Maybe, if you know him, reach out. You don’t have to forgive him if he’s hurt you. You don’t have to forgive him for hurting others. Those things are between you and whatever god you choose. But wouldn’t the world feel a bit softer if we led with kindness? If, instead of freezing out mistakes (and freezing out the people behind them) and simply dusting our hands, we reached out, and forged a connection? And maybe, if you aren’t there and can’t or won’t reach out, instead offer a little prayer of connection and peace to all of the people hurting today. There are so many, aren’t there?

I don’t know if this is right, but what I do know is it is necessary for me. I also got very little sleep as I considered these things so forgive leaps and twists of logic, I’m still learning. And again. While I hate to be disagreed with, feel free. I need to grow, and I want to do better.