My Mother and My Middle Finger
I gave my middle finger to a particularly deserving driver and my mother (sitting in the passenger seat) about had a heart attack.
Her generation valued “being a lady.”
Mine decided “ladies” don’t get noticed/make history/climb the corporate ladder/etc. etc. . . . you get the idea.
As a child, I was not supposed to be dramatic. Drama was for others with fewer manners. That was usually phrased as “a less refined upbringing.”
I was to never create a scene. There were better ways to handle unpleasantness.
I was also not supposed to tattle. That was phrased as “don’t tell tales.” That included stories about our family, which were private and not anyone’s business.
Which brings me to the friend who didn’t/couldn’t share my love of family stories because her family’s history was “nothing but drama and the kind of stuff best kept in a closet.”
Really? The bad stuff is what makes us think, makes us figure out who we want to be. In the end, we are what we decide we are. So here’s to dusting off the closet stuff and not being polite about it.
Remember, you have to make a scene to be visible. Oh, and as my mother always says, “Don’t do it halfway.”