My family has lived in the Ohio River Valley region for generations. We arrive early for appointments (even if they are at 7am), answer emails and phone calls, listen carefully when others are speaking, and despite our assured demeanor, are afraid to offend others.
It's a novelty to live in New York, where the people are born from uprooted parents, or are themselves that way, transplanted and mobile, fighting and defending in a relatively vulnerable state. No matter that they arrive late to a meeting, we are lucky to have them there at all. They may not be able to hear all my words when I say them, but perhaps something sticks for them to replay in the future, and they will acknowledge it. Survival depends on giving a forthright reading of one's state, even if it means infringing upon another's comfort.
Love can look and feel in many different ways. The staid midwestern constancy that was ingrained in me for years is only one way. Parents can love as deeply in a roiled sea of chaos, forcing through practice sessions and commitments, pushing and twisting a character into being as they cling to the water that brought them where they are. Their child will learn something of that anxiety, most likely. But they will not be immune from the love that caused their parent to work so hard and stubbornly, despite the loose soil under their feet.
It's a gift to come closer to so many families. I see their faces change in my eyes and my mind over time, realizing more about their children, about them, and in the process, realizing more about the assumptions I grew up with.
If I could have a super power, it would be to walk in the skin of another person. I'm sure there are more satisfying ways to live, but I'm happy to have one in which I can see a good number of them.
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