One morning this week I tuned in to a webinar about the invisibility of age from Commonweal, with Rachel Naomi Remen sharing stories, and Karen Drucker leading us in song.
As the hour was ending, she taught us a song titled, “See Me” from her CD, The Call, written by her with Robert Anderson and Karen Taylor-Good.
Music is such a powerful medium; it opens hearts, minds, and feelings. (Even people with dementia remember lyrics and sing songs from their youth.) I know music affects me and can often bring me to tears. You can find Karen’s music on her website: www.karendrucker.com
As I was singing the final chorus:
“And then you’ll see me. Really see me.
When you take the time, there’s more that you’ll find,
You’ll see me.”
I recalled an argument I had with my dad that ended with my response to his question, “What do you want from me?” I was forty and about ten emotionally; a tortured scream wrenched out of me, “I just want you to SEE ME!” His response stunned me: “I do; I brag about you all the time at the golf course.” Then
I knew it was hopeless. He couldn’t SEE ME, because he couldn’t see himself. I didn’t understand that then, because I couldn’t see myself; thus, I was desperate for others to fulfill my need.
As I sit here reflecting at 85, I realize that I was asking my dad to do for me what I at that time couldn’t do for myself. My mother, like many women of her time, couldn’t see herself, so how could I expect her to model or teach me how to be me? Wearing her starched ironed apron, having refreshed her lipstick because my dad was on his way home, she was right out of MadMen’s suburban housewives of the late forties, early fifties. Beyond the limitations and expectations of my upbringing, the medium of film provided heroines like Doris Day, cocktail in hand, being chased around a heart-shaped bed by heart throb Rock Hudson. That was the romantic aspect of patriarchy that as a naïve but headstrong girl I swallowed whole.
My reflections continued – I “fell in love” and married early. I can see me now and then. I projected all my strengths onto my lover-husband, who couldn’t see himself. We were both high achievers, admired and perhaps envied by others, but I couldn’t see him any more than he could see me beyond our successful fronts. (If I’d only known then what I know now: “the bigger the front, the bigger the back.”) I wish I could tell him what I see and ask his forgiveness, but sadly, I don’t think I can.
Ultra-Orthodox Jews – men and women alike – say several blessings upon awakening every morning, thanking God for holding them safe through the night, for restoring their souls, for awakening, being able to stand, etc. But there is one horrific blessing included everyday: “Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe” - (the gender language is bad enough but wait until you hear the content of the blessing which follows this universally repeated introduction)
“. . . Who did not make me a woman.”
What is it like for me to SEE ME, a month before my 85th birthday? I am grateful for my growth as I age, more secure in myself, disinterested in maintaining the facade that I thought was ME and clearly wasn’t. I am humbled by my gifts - still uncomfortable when I am appreciated and complimented by others - lacking graciousness in response to kindness that I so craved all my life. Even better, I am less judgmental and more interested in really seeing others, with compassion and appreciation.
And today, thanks to Karen Drucker, I can sing “I SEE ME”!
FOR LEGACY WRITERS:
1. Reflect about your need to be seen. Consider those in your life who couldn’t see you and those who did and do. Write your thoughts and feelings about these discoveries.
2. Reflect about where you are on the continuum of seeing yourself with all your flaws and gifts. Be as gentle as you can be with yourself.
3. Stand back (in your mind) to write a blessing to yourself about where you are and the direction you’re moving.
4. If there is someone who does see you, write a letter of appreciation to them.
You're wrote my inarticulate feelings. I had to take a deep breath while reading. A 1936 baby, I was invisible for all of my growing up years. It's hard to outgrow those reactive feelings, but I try and your words this week gave me a feeling of 'not aloneness. ' Thank you, Rachael Freed.
Much appreciated. This is a very brave piece. And very compassionate. You don't blame your father or your ex-husband. You see them for who they are.