Culture Clash

One of the challenges of being an INFJ in a 99%-of-people-are-not-like-me world is dealing with the local etiquette. Things that are perfectly acceptable to most people seem downright rude to me. One of the worst of these? Door bells and/or unannounced visitors. I hate both.

Here's the deal: unless I am expecting you or you are bringing me something I ordered--pizza, mail, art supplies, books--than I'm going to get really terse when you show up unannounced and ring the door bell... repeatedly. Or knock. And knock. And knock.

I had one of those moments today. (How did you guess?) Actually, two of them. First was this morning. I was enjoying a lovely Sunday morning, still in bed, and window shopping on Etsy when someone rang the door bell....and rang it again...and rang it again...and then pounded. Since it was Sunday morning, I was not expecting anyone, and it couldn't be mail or UPS, and since I was still in my nightgown, I ignored all the ringing and pounding and finally whoever it was went away. Bliss.

You've got to remember that I'm someone always in search of solitude and silence. I can go days not socializing with anyone in person and, well, those are very happy days. Sometimes people ask me if I get lonely. My response to that is only if the Internet goes down, the cat's asleep, and the Peanut Gallery is not answering...and really it would take all three for me to get lonely....well, and for the cable to go out, too. What some people call loneliness, I call paradise.

Which is not to say I don't sometimes choose to socialize in person and enjoy it....it's just that afterwards, I go home, close all the drapes, and don't say a word out loud for the next twelve hours. My mom once worked with a Ute medicine man, who told her in his half-joking and half-absolute-truth way, "Indians only talk to change the subject." I've thought about cross-stitching that and hanging it on the wall. Though not Indian, I can have whole unspoken conversations with people and only realize later, that unless they're one of me, they didn't know we were having a conversation.

Back to door bells, as I'm always reminding myself, I don't have to answer the door (or the phone.) Except sometimes, when someone comes back an hour and a half later, and I'm now dressed, and busy with an art project, but they're leaning on the door bell, I might answer it just to make the noise stop. And then I may inform you that no, I don't want to pay you to wash my windows, no, I don't want you to come back another day, and if you see anyone else around, selling goods, services, religion or politics to stay away from this house.

In the guy's defense, he's perfectly nice, has washed our windows before (though not because I answered the door and paid him to wash them. The non-INFJ of the household was home that day.) And, by his etiquette code, he's within bounds (though Sunday mornings....well, that might be pushing it.) By my etiquette code, he has interrupted my thoughts, and my art, and threatened to invade my space. On Planet INFJ, you can get a prison term for that. In fact, since art was interrupted, it's probably an aggravated charge.

And he wouldn't be doing time alone. The other day, someone came and pounded on the door and wanted to introduce herself because she was running for office. Astonishingly enough, she was a Democrat, and I didn't know any Democrats ran for office in Ogden, Utah, but I might wind up voting for the Republican just because he/she hasn't bugged me. (To make it worse, it was at the start of the performance finale of So You Think You Can Dance. Uh, yeah.)

I've thought about getting one of those clever "Go Away" door mats, but I'm too afraid the pizza/mail delivery person might think it applied to them. I've also thought about a sign that says "The last person who knocked on this door uninvited got shot," but I'm pretty sure that goes against non-INFJ etiquette.

Maybe I'll just look on Etsy for some fancy ear plugs, preferably ones that have matching fairy wings........

A Silly Aside

Ok, this is just an example of what my life is like....

I ran out of art trading card blanks. (I'm addicted to making and trading these miniature works of art.) I had already placed an order with dickblick.com (another addiction) and had spent more than I should have on various items including more trading cards, but it wasn't going to arrive until next Tuesday. Since there was no way I could wait that long, I went to my studio to get some sheets of card stock, figuring I'd cut some down with my paper cutter. One problem: no card stock. I keep forgetting to get it.

I called a nearby craft store and they had the pre-cut blanks. I thought, "Great. I'll ask Dad to pick some up on his way home."

But then the Peanut Gallery said, "No, you go."

Now, while I've learned to trust them, I don't do so unquestioningly, especially if I think I'm right, so I presented my case. First, me going into a craft store...well, that's just way too temptation. Plus, I've been tired, and--although the craft store isn't huge and it wouldn't be a ton of walking--I try to avoid going out when I'm already tired.

It didn't matter. They just said, "You go" again.

Fine. I figured at least if I went, I could buy some single sheets of card stock, too, to get my stock pile growing again. Dad picked me up, I found the trading cards, got a few packs, plus a couple of Prismacolor markers, which was silly as I have those coming on Tuesday, too, and they were twice as much as at dickblick.com, but.....well, that's the temptation factor. Then I headed over to the card stock, admiring all the lovely shades I could buy for 49 cents a sheet...

Which was when they said, "Don't."

"But I'm out of card stock and it's only 49 cents a sheet," I thought back.

And they said, "Don't."

I sighed, figured my guides were feeling thrifty, and I put back the markers, then came back to the card stock and started choosing colors of card stock, and they said, "Don't."

At this point, I was very close to talking to them out loud, which I try to avoid doing in public. I mean, here they'd insisted I run the errand myself, and I was pretty sure the reason was to get card stock. Now they wouldn't let me buy it?

Too tired to fight, I put the card stock back.....which was when I saw the pack of assorted colors of card stock. It was pushed way back on the shelf and marked down to a ridiculously low price.

And that's why I listen to those smug spirit guides of mine.....

My Side Of The Story

That's actually the name I wanted for my blog, but it was taken. I'm a big Criminal Minds fan, and one of my favorite episodes is the one where Prentiss investigates a friend's death committed by a priest who is murdering people in the guise of exorcism. The episode ends with lyrics: "this is my side of the story, only my side of the story" and the first time I heard them, I thought, "Wow. I wonder if you can do that? Just tell your side of the story and not bother explaining everyone else's side? Maybe just tell it and not feel like you have to justify it? Just say....this is my side of the story." It made me feel so liberated.

See, I grew up too aware of everyone else's feelings and needs and too inclined to put them ahead of my own. I desperately wanted everyone to be happy and thought I could--and should--finesse that. But some people are determined to be unhappy, so it's a waste of energy trying to change that.

When I learned one of my recent posts upset a relative, my first thought was "She's lucky I didn't blog about..." and then I started thinking....maybe I should, not to be petty or hurtful, though I'm sure she'll take it that way, but because maybe I've carried that pain around long enough.

Starting about the time I was eleven, this relative's marriage started to unravel, and I got dragged into it more than I should have, which was not entirely her fault. My mom was the one in the best position to help her, which means we took her and her two children in several times, and there were seemingly endless conversations and phone calls and stress. I couldn't help pick it up both consciously and unconsciously. But the biggest mistake came the summer I was twelve, when I wound up spending fifteen hours a week, babysitting for her, mostly to give another relative--who was her main babysitter--a break.

My relative was all too willing to fill me in on lots of drama about her ex-husband, his abuse, and the fact that he was stalking her. She assured me he spent most of his time watching the house. Meanwhile, I spent fifteen hours a week in a house full of tense, fearful, and miserable vibes with two small children, one who reflected the misery with anger and defiance, the other with clinginess and tears. I could not take them outside. I could not even open the drapes. And every time I heard the slightest sound, I was sure that my crazy and abusive ex-uncle had turned up, possibly with a gun and possibly with an accomplice, to kill or kidnap the kids and it was my responsibility to keep them safe.

At the time, I hated this, but didn't question it. Years later, when I realized that what was being asked of me was unfair for a twelve-year-old child, I confronted my mom about it. She sighed and asked me if I really thought she and my dad would put me in that position. It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, which was that I was never in that situation. It might have been how my relative perceived it, but it wasn't how everyone else did.

My mom said, "He was crazy and abusive, but he wasn't coming for those kids. If I knew you'd bought into her PTSD so much I would  have tried to find another alternative....though I did try to find another alternative and I just couldn't, but I wish I could undo it."

So do I. Often I've wanted to confront my relative to see if she believed her own rhetoric and, if so, why she put me in the situation. In fact, once, at a family party, when I looked at her oldest daughter and realized she was exactly the same age I was that summer, I wanted to ask "Would you have put her in that situation?" But I also realize it wouldn't do any good. She still sees things the same way and would respond by rattling off all her own wounds, while ignoring mine, or maybe she'd add mine to her list of grievances against him, but she'd never admit she was at fault.

Forgiveness is supposed to be about accepting that the past can't be any different and I struggle with that. Part of the problem is that I had so few summers left, at least healthy ones. By the time I was sixteen, I was chronically ill. It might have been nice to have spent fifteen hours a week the summer I was twelve doing something else.

As I approach twenty years of chronic illness and thirty-six years of life, I've come to a few decisions. One is that I am going to surround myself with people who love and understand me, who bring out the best in me, who reflect what I believe, who honor my truth. See, it turns out that, as adults, family relationships are optional, and I'm opting out of a few. It also turns out that I can delete comments, ignore emails or phone calls, and only have people I actually like on Facebook. I can say what I want and, if people don't like it, they can go away.

I can tell my side of the story and that's what I'm going to do.

Tai

The last few months, I've been keeping a secret, one of those delightful kinds that are so magical you have to keep them to yourself for a while. (No, I am not pregnant.) It all started first with this playful little energy I noticed, often at night or when I was drawing. I actually wondered if this new spirit was an animal guide, but I didn't think so because Percie, my cat, was in the room and didn't react. (Percie is very accustomed to people spirits wandering the house, but when the occasional ghost cat turns up, Percie hisses, dashes around, howls, and usually winds up huddled in the sink as if it were a storm cellar, but I digress.)

So one night, I was coloring with a bright red crayon, and a little voice said, "Um, I love red. Red is my favorite." At that point, I almost fell off my bed, and the spirit giggled, then disappeared. She next showed up when I was reading a book about an elephant. Again, all of the sudden, she said, "Elephants are the best." I "saw" (in my mind) a little Asian girl, about age 3 or 4, with big eyes and chubby cheeks. I said, "Who are you?" and she said, "Um, my name is Tai." I took a few breaths, trying to sense other spirits and also panicking that some child had turned up, no doubt with a message for her family, and I would have to track them down, which I really didn't want to do. I explained to her that I couldn't pass on a message, and she said, "Um, I don't have a message, I just want to read the book with you because I really love elephants, too." Ok, a little strange, even by my standards, but, whatever.

Around this time, I read a most excellent book called "Ask Your Guides" by Sonia Choquette. She talked about joy guides, which are often animals already in our lives, but can be animals or children's spirits. Either way, their purpose is to help us not take life or our selves too seriously, not work too hard, and to just have fun. To be honest, I've always resisted the idea of a child guide because to me it seemed like...well, it would be a dead kid, and kind of creepy, but nothing about Tai was creepy and when she showed up again, I said, "You're a joy guide, aren't you?" and she said, "Um, yes, I am."

Tai is nothing like any other guide I've encountered. Usually, when I get information from a guide, it's like they've downloaded it to my brain. When I ask Tai a question, there's a pause, and I see her furrow her brow as she considers it, and then she answers, almost invariably, with the first word being "Um." For instance, "Um, life is about choices. If you make a bad choice, it's ok, but you need to learn from it and do better." Or "Um, maybe you should have a blog and just say what you think and um, if people don't like it, you could make new friends, because friends should like you and be nice to you. Plus, I don't think people can know what you're thinking if you don't tell them."

In addition to loving the color red, elephants, and drawing, Tai is very musical. I get a kick out of this because I am very not musical. I discovered this when I had a couple of lines from "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" stuck in my head. Pretty soon, I heard "Um, what's that song?" When I couldn't remember it, I went to youtube. First I played the original for her, and she liked that, but then I found an African Lion King version, and she just loved that. Next thing I knew, I was playing other youtube videos, especially Muppets for her, and she was singing, dancing, and giggling. At that point, I ordered the first season of the original Muppet Show for her. I need to get the first movie, too, because we've already established that "The Rainbow Connection" is one of her favorite songs. (Tai now has her own playlist on my Ipod.) One day, I played some Ella Fitzgerald scatting for her and she thought that was just divine. Now she likes to sing "Fly Me To The Moon" and scats whole sections: "bop bop bop bop bop...." She tells me she has perfect pitch. I told her I'd take her word for it as I can't even carry a tune.

Like all little kids, things catch Tai's fancy. When I went to an art convention, and one woman was wearing fairy wings, Tai downright swooned and wanted some. We're still negotiating that. We look for wings on Etsy all the time, but haven't found the right ones. I've explained the criteria: they need to be well-made, but not cost too much or it will cut into our art supply budget. Also, they need to be lightweight and comfortable. Most importantly, they have to be made for hobbits. To illustrate this, I showed her a picture of Arwen from Lord of the Rings and emphasized how she was tall and thin and wings would work better on her than on a short and round person like me. Tai is undeterred, so eventually, you may see me walking around in fairy wings.

In my art group, people often post a "draw me this" request and Tai insisted I take one which was a woman holding a snake. I had no interest in drawing that and couldn't even figure out how I would, but Tai countered, "But it would be fun!" I said, "Are you going to help?" and she said, "Um, yes, I will help. I'm a good helper." She helped and it turned out ok, though the woman in the card has the same expression I had when Tai told me I should draw it. Here's this poor woman holding a snake and looking like "Whose idea was this?"

One way that Tai is like other spirit guides is that she gets annoyed when I ask for her advice and don't listen.  For instance, I was working on an art project that was quickly turning into a mess and I said, "Ok, Tai, why isn't this working?" She said, "Um, I think you're too tired." I agreed, but, true to my nature and DNA, I kept trying to make it work until all of the sudden Tai said, rather loudly, "Um, I said you're too tired!" I cracked up and said, "Ok, Tai, you're right. Let's take a break and watch some Muppets."

Part of why I haven't been talking about Tai, aside from the usual "they'll think I'm nuts" bit, is that I was kind of afraid if I did, she'd disappear. We talked about that last night and Tai said, "Um, that's not going to happen." And then she started singing....

Oh, Pioneers....

First off, if you're not from Utah, you need to know that pioneers are to Utah what cows are to Wisconsin... or so I'm told, having never been to Wisconsin. We just love our pioneers here, or at least we're supposed to. The truth is, I've discovered I have very complicated feelings about pioneers, and it's taken me a while to sort them out.

The good: I loved Little House On The Prairie. As a kid, I loved both the books and the t.v. show. As an adult, I still love the books, but cannot watch the t.v. show because it's so melodramatic. Still, I have a fondness for the Ingalls, to the point that I tried calling my cat "Half-Pint" once. She did not appreciate it.

The bad: All those pioneers stole their land from people who had been living there for generations. Well, sometimes the government stole it and then gave it to the pioneers, but still....and, when my loyalties are tested, I go with the tribes I love, not the one into which I was born......speaking of which...

The ugly: Here's the deal. What I really hate are Mormon pioneers. This is in spite of being a descendant of  them and only slightly connected to my ambivalence towards Mormonism in general. Really, the root of it all is a deep and scarring event in my childhood, namely having to play Pioneers with my mother's younger sisters. In this traumatic game, first I was informed that I would only have one dress--and maybe a second good one for church, but only maybe--for the whole trek from wherever (Ohio? Missouri? My Mormon PTSD amnesia has kicked in and I have no idea where we were fleeing from) to Zion. (For those of you who thought Zion was the Jewish homeland, you clearly have not lived in Utah. If you want to learn about the true Zion, I can arrange for a pair of missionaries to visit you, but I'd advise against it.) Anyway, even if I got a second dress for church, I would not, under any circumstances, ever have any jeans, shorts, or overalls to wear. Now, I was a girly girl, and even known to wear dresses to school some days, but every day?

It got worse. Next--and this is the news they knew would really destroy me--I was told I could only take one doll (and I had about three dozen, all of whom I loved equally) and that if there wasn't enough room in the wagon, that doll could be cast out and left on the plains. I don't remember if I cried. I think I might have been too horrified.

The next part of the game involved sitting on a bed, pretending it was a wagon bench, and singing hymns. Somehow my aunts were either not aware of the fact that my parents were heretics and had stopped going to church except when they felt they must...and even then they eventually realized all the people who said they "must" were wrong. But I digress. The result of this was that, aside from kids' church songs, I knew no hymns. I'd been in Sacrament meetings enough that I should have known hymns, but said meetings were so tense with all the things everyone was feeling, but not saying--mainly that my parents were heretics--I couldn't remember a single hymn. Of course, I was so traumatized by my doll facing the possibility of being cast out, that I wouldn't have been able to sing anyway.

In the game of Pioneers, if I registered the slightest complaint, I was reminded that I was lucky to be riding in the wagon....for I could instead be like our ancestor, Maria Ann, who at age ten and a half, not only walked across the plains, but pulled a handcart. My aunts spoke of Maria Ann with great reverence. Even my mom, before she became a heretic, had published a poem about Maria Ann. My first and last talk in Primary (Sunday School for Mormon kids) was reading that poem. And, while it was a fine poem, I really came to hate Maria Ann and all the obedience and piety she symbolized. It only now occurs to me that Maria Ann, age ten and a half, had absolutely no say in either pulling the handcart or making the trek. I mean, nowadays, you tell a kid that they're getting rid of all their clothes and toys--aside from one, which you might force them to cast out somewhere on the plains--and they're going to walk and pull a handcart from Ohio or Missouri or wherever until some dude named Brigham announces "This is the place,"--and that modern kid will turn around and call a child abuse hotline.

But back to the game, having been threatened with pulling the handcart, I would pretend to mumble hymn lyrics while secretly, and earnestly praying--for some tribe, be it the Shoshone, or Ute, or Paiute, or somebody to come massacre us. (Maybe they'd even spare me, realizing that I had been born to the wrong tribe, and they'd adopt me into the right one.) Sadly, that never happened, though sometimes we'd be called to dinner and my grandma's cooking generally lessened the pain from my ordeal, though at night, I would still lie in bed, looking at my beloved three dozen dolls and wondering which I would choose and how I would bear to leave the others, or even take the one, knowing she might be tossed aside.

I feel better having figured out the trauma at the heart of my Mormon pioneer hatred as well as a piece of my childhood insomnia. As for Maria Ann, I've decided to reinvent her. See, there's all kind of documented facts about her life because Mormons love documenting their ancestors, but I refuse to read it. I do know that she was married to a polygamist and later divorced him and lived in California. I don't know if she did that because polygamists were being arrested and a lot of couples got legal divorces and/or fled Utah. (In fact, this is why Mitt Romney's father was born in Mexico....they were hiding with the other polygamists.)

And, before my relatives start posting what really happened to Maria Ann, I don't want to know because my version is best. She turned thirty, realized she hated Utah, raged at her parents for making her drag that damn handcart across the plains, grieved the dolls she left behind, and decided to find her own tribe off in California. There, she had passionate affairs with brown-skinned men, but did not let them stay the night. She managed her own money, spent as much of it as she wanted on dolls, ate nothing but desserts, swore loudly and profanely to a God who loved her for her wildness and disrespect, and she lived happily ever after.

*Apparently, Maria Ann did not marry a polygamist, but a man who later deserted her, leaving her with a houseful of kids, and remarried. And I'm not sure about California. Doesn't matter. My version is still better.