Go Along to Get Along

I am sitting here quiet, reflective wondering why I feel unsettled. Perhaps it is the Facebook banter, the celebrity Tweets, the superficial distractions and the heavy political debates. I do not relish in conflict and expend what some might consider too much energy trying to avoid it. I may even consider it too much energy. I like when things run smoothly. I am, as my dad is known to describe me, a “go along to get along” type of gal. My dad also identifies his character under this category. But you know, Going Along to Get Along, takes a lot of hard work.

First, as a kid, I observed everything before I committed to verbal communication. I learned what was acceptable and what was forbidden by the way people interacted. Sugar cereal was not acceptable to my mom. When I was little, she worked in Downtown Boston at an insurance company on State Street (“the building with the blue door” I would say to my dad when he quizzed me about where she worked). My dad stayed home with my sister and me and we would eat an entire box of Sugar Pops in our underwear (me) and diaper (sister), standing on the kitchen chairs. Once we had a bowl or two, we would get into our oversized playpen and my dad would let us wear his oversized headphones and we would listen to Motown on the stereo. The pictures to prove it are fascinating. Kirsten was bald until she was three years old, meanwhile I came into this world wearing a shaggy brunette mop on the top of my head and by the time of playpen-palooza my hair was past my shoulder blades. We are only a year and half apart but if hair was any indication of our ages, it would appear that there were several years separating us. The Sugar Pops and Motown were a regular weekday combination (and now that I think about it, could reveal my passion for dancing: Motown on a sugar high) and it was a secret between me, my sister and my dad. Weekends were not nearly as raucous. Sometimes my mom let us have fluffernutter sandwiches, but that was pretty much the extent of sugary snacks. So, weekdays and weekends were structured quite differently and I understood that that was just how things were. I also was aware that my parents were totally happy with us regardless of the day or activity. And so my “go along to get along” attitude commenced. If they are happy, I am happy. Early on, I recognized their differences in parenting (sugar v. no sugar) but relished in my special understanding of each one.

Discovering that a thought can commit itself to verbal communication and be considered socializing was a revelation to me. I was in the backseat of a station wagon during a carpool ride from Boston Ballet to various North Shore towns where all of us little bunheads were dropped off in the driveways of our suburban homes. I happened to be the last girl dropped off this particular day. And being the last one was always stressful: it demanded that I interact with the other mom and her daughter in a more proactive, intimate way. When the car had two other girls in it, I could just stare out the window and not socialize (which is my tendency, a strong introversion bias). So, I got nervous. And it was during this five minute ride with mother and daughter that I had a revelation which has stuck with me through my life. In all honesty, I do not remember what she said. But that is not important. It is that whatever it is she did say, I had already thought it for months. It was some typical nine year old bullshit discovery – like “Can you always see the sun and the moon in the sky at the same time?” It was something inconsequential, or at least it seemed so, until I realized that she had started a conversation. The three of us started having a conversation because this girl did not just keep the thought in her head. It was amazing to me. Extroversion suddenly made sense which allowed me to understand some people in my life much better: my mom, being number one.

In a household of seven people, six of us were introverts. When my mom ever stated the obvious, which is sometimes what extroverts do (often used as a communication strategy), we would get frustrated and say things like, “are you serious?” or “no kidding.” We would take it at face value instead of recognizing her comment as a desire to communicate with us. The Clan of Introverts communicated telepathically. Magically. This socializing, this talking was overrated. But I began to understand her needs and felt compelled to bridge the gap. I had a conscious thought: I may be an introvert, but I understand these silly extroverts. I can translate. I can smooth things out. Things will run better with me as the representative for The Clan of Introverts.

The Clan of Introverts were not interested in representation, however. My efforts were solitary on the home front and in many ways have remained solitary. Diplomacy, tolerance and understanding are pillars of our familial structure but the one thing I lack, which everyone else seems to have embraced, is a strong dosage of stubbornness. A lack of stubbornness mixed with a heavy sense of guilt makes for a rather dysfunctional combination internally. Externally, however, the combo projects a “Go Along to Get Along” easy-going attitude.

So, I have hosted some political banter on my Facebook page and I am participating in it on others’ pages. Friends and family who have never met are debating the John Edwards Tragedy, the State of the Union address, the ridiculous Chris Matthews statement and I am coming to terms with minor conflict. I desperately try to channel the general consensus that I am Going Along to Get Along and not let the conflict-averting introvert get in the way of healthy (or unhealthy) debate.

Baptism

My dad just told me that when he was born his parents named him Gerard. He left the hospital as Gerard, spent the first month of his life as Gerard and then was brought by his father and uncle to his Catholic baptism. My father's name is Fred.

“Do women go to baptisms now?” He asks me as though he has not been to five of his children’s baptisms.

Well, four of his children’s baptisms. He missed my youngest brother’s baptism due to a work conflict. He was scheduled to meet us at the church after his shift at the Boston Police Department. During the pre-ceremonial hubbub inside St. Patrick Church, my mom asked me to run outside to see if he was here yet. I went to the main doors of the church and stood at the top of the long string of concrete stairs and scanned Central Street. There was his car. And he was sitting in the driver’s seat. I saw him lean over the middle console to roll down the passenger-side window and wave me over with his right arm. He has never been one for honking the horn to get someone’s attention, unlike my mother who would do sets of beeping push-ups as she beckoned us out of the house on school day mornings. I let go of the church door and place my hand on the iron banister for assurance as I skitter down the steps. I run to the car prepared to relay my mom’s message verbatim. I stand at the passenger side window, looking down at my dad as he bends toward me. He lowers his aviator sunglasses down his nose and I see it. I ask him what happened and he tells me that he was called to a house where a husband and wife were fighting and the husband clocked him in the face. I can barely see my dad’s left eye, it seems that all the skin from his cheek to his hairline is puffy and purple with little splotches of red. He smiles at me. He says he is fine. He tells me to tell Mommy that he will just meet us at the party at home, that he can’t go into church like that. I say ok and turn around to ascend the stairs back into the church. He watches me go back in. I tell my mom that a husband punched Daddy in the eye when he tried to help the wife. She looks at me, hands me my baby brother and walks down the church aisle to get the story for herself. A few minutes later she returns and the baptism goes on without my father. At the post-christening party I overhear all the adults talking about right hooks and Roxbury.

“Um, yes, women go to Baptisms.”

“Oh, ok, well they didn’t before. So, anyway, my father and uncle took me to the church as Gerard and I came back to the house as Fredrick.”

“Why?”

“At the church they decided it was a better name: it was their father’s name.”

“What did Nani think about that?”

“Oh she didn’t care. She thought it was a good name. I mean she had to think that, right? I mean it was Mad Men time. You know what I am sayin’?” And I do know what he means. I have finished the third season of Mad Men and he has just started watching Season One. “So, I went from Gerard to Fredrick. How’s that?”

“That is unbelievable,” I say. But it’s not unbelievable. Actually, it’s so totally, perfectly believable that it dawns on me: my blog needs a baptism of sorts.