| | For the most part, my parents didn't really fuck up raising me. They were strict and I of course always found ways around the rules they laid down. There are many things they could have done different, however.
The reason why I'm blogging tonight is because I harbor a deep sense of resentment towards my parents when it comes to their inability to recognize and grow my talent(s) while I was growing up. I thought I had forgiven them but all feelings resurfaced when I watched a mom and her son on the golf range. The son was practicing hard. The mom helped her son tee up the balls one after the next on the rubber tee so that her son didn't have to bend over, pick up a ball and tee it up before swinging again. His job was simply to hit the drive. Also, it looked like they just bought a $400 range finder, new golf grips and new shoes. This is talent and passion recognized. The parents recognized an interest and a talent the child had and proceeded to develop that talent appropriately. They provided both moral and monetary support.
My parents raised me different. I'm not sure if they ever knew that the reason I wanted to play the violin was so that I could use the bow as a sword - that was it. I wanted a sword. They mistook that as interest.
While I could carry a tune as a preschooler, they correlated that with musical talent. So they took me to get violin lessons, for 13 painful years. There were but few days when I actually enjoyed playing the instrument, the rest were filled with tears and pain ridden. Mom was constantly nagging at me to practice and God forbid, when she had the time to watch me practice, she would always have a black plastic stick in hand so that she could "correct" my posture. She'd either poke my left elbow so that I would hold the violin higher or tap my right hand to remind me to pull the bow parallel to the bridge at all times. If I were to protest, that black plastic stick conveniently became a switch and I'd get hit with it. I ended up bending and breaking that damned plastic stick, but posture-reminding-aides/disciplinary tools were never too far out of reach since my mom pretty much could pick up anything at all and use it for those two purposes. At one point in time, she's use wire coat hangers. To this day, wire coat hangers still ignite a "kill" reaction within me which I need to consciously suppress.
My true passion was in sports. My dad played some recreational basketball in his day, so he was able to give me some points. There were a couple memorable practice sessions on the playground blacktop over at Sugarbush Park, but his style of coaching was consistent with his brand of discipline, namely, if I wasn't able to get it within 5 minutes, his temper would flare. These practice session became fewer and farther between because he felt that I should be studying instead of practicing basketball and I'll bet the fact that he didn't feel like getting mad over basketball might've also had something to do with it.
For my 10th birthday, my parents bought me a ping pong table. I got pretty good at ping pong to the point where I could routinely stay competitive with my dad and his friends. My dad and I would go to the basement and hit a few balls from time to time, but not long thereafter, the ping pong table became my dad's art class table which never got cleared off after class. Also, once again, he'd rather I study or read a book than play ping pong.
I also picked up tennis, but rather late. Nonetheless, I developed a serviceable forehand and a serve that was pretty fast if it were to go in. My lessons were once a week, however - not nearly enough to get good. Also, with Michigan winters and rainy summers, the only way to play consistently was at the indoor tennis club. No real support was ever invested into tennis - my parents stopped my lessons due to expense and scheduling conflicts with the must dreaded hour-and-a-half long violin lessons. I would try as best I could to practice tennis on my own, but that only helped so much.
Today's instance at the range really struck a nerve. It was a known fact that I didn't care to practice violin, I just happened to be decent at it. It was also a known fact that I was interested in other extracurriculars, but the effort my parents put forth to grow and support these interests were minimal, sometimes even destructive in order for them to get me to sit at my desk and study. That didn't really work either because I'd only pretend I'm studying when they checked on me periodically.
It's unfortunate for me to have been the first child in this aspect. My sister was more fortunate since she was able to quit violin and pursue her true interest to the fullest in synchronized swimming and ballet. She had to give up ballet, however, due to an ankle injury. She eventually made captain of her synchro team.
Do I really hate my parents? No. I do resent the way I was raised though in more ways than one. This blog talks about how they failed to let me develop my true interests. It's unfortunate the way things went, but what can I really do about it? What can *they* do about it? If I were to be utterly unreasonable, I could require them to subsidize the cost of a golf coach and regular lessons I'd take from this point onward. They might actually oblige it due to guilt, but this kind of retributive payment would tarnish the whole experience - I just wouldn't feel right about it.
I guess the only way for me to be at peace with my past is for me to learn from my parents' mistakes. In more than a few ways, I really fear the idea of being a dad one day because I would hate to be responsible for raising a human being and to later find out that I had ruined a part of his/her life. It'd be something I don't think I could live with. But in the event that I do have kids, I'll allow them to pursue their interests and encourage, even help them develop their talents to the best of my abilty.
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| | Posted 10/29/2008 10:30 PM - 18 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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