Traveling down memory lane while trying to maintain focus, not on the review mirror, nor through the windshield to the road ahead, but simply to experience the present moment is challenging. As children age they begin to either explore their family’s history, or need to be told some family history. As one child lamented, why does my life have so much complication?
Why, indeed.
The truth is, though, that it’s not a unique set of circumstances. In some parts of the country, there is nary a nod toward the untoward elements of a person’s past, or by proxy, their family’s. In the south, the family unit becomes an amalgam of histories, so that, should there be divorces and remarriages, all of those people, to the exclusion of none save those who are most vile, most wicked, are embraced, included, or spoken about. But even then, the minutia of the details is left to the imagination, as even then, people have their pride, don’t they? There is no sharing of lies, deceit, name-calling, behaviors, actions, or outcomes that might make self look any less upstanding.
Denying one’s family history can have detrimental effects. By ignoring the past, it can backfire and make a generation seem deceitful by omission. By sharing only key positive points, it’s neglecting the painful transition from life, to turmoil, to life once more and by so doing blocking the familial resurrection that must take place in each generation.
Then there are those who share it all, placing all the goring details, as if investing into the depth of it all, brings value to a conversation or generational experience that is akin to placing ones dirty underwear inside out in the front yard. Eww.
And some details do feel gross, don’t they? They are too revealing, or too painful. And even in those moments we don’t stop to think about what effect they had on those who were involved, as if being a related bystander gives us liberty to judge a situation we had no part of, nor consequence of…because whatever we inherited from bygone generations cannot be fixed in the past, but must be dealt with on a linear plane, one-dimensional with the present.
Yet, when we’re removed from those experiences, while we can be judgmental (and boy we have grown accustomed to feeling vindicated in being so, valuing judgement over mercy), we can also be untouched by the pain of it all. This does help, as, when we share our family’s past, we talk like reading pages in a novel, or speak like it’s not about us, but about another, someone unknown. Because the reality is, we haven’t really lived in their shoes, don’t know their heart, or even change of heart, and can’t fathom the reality of their daily existence.
It might be good to stand in awe that our lineage has made it thus far, by God. After all, some of the heinous outcomes we’ve learned, and some of the instantaneous decision that were made by our predecessors should define how courageous they were, how determined they were, and how nature preserves even some of the less delicate and more grotesque elements of humanity to remind us that, on some level, we aren’t in charge here.
Some are more prone to feeling victimized by a past failing. This is a peculiarity of humanity. It cannot be overlooked that one’s ancestry can leave an indelible mark. Still, do we not somehow choose how that heritage is embraced?
True some family pasts are boring, like the white of the egg, and that doesn’t mean it’s not worthy of remembering. But I doubt that we have any honesty in relationship with others if we say we like to hear about generational blessings from one group, while not also acknowledging the stalwart determination, despite it all, in another.
And for those who have a pristine lineage, why the pride? Why does it sound morally superior, and more virtuous, to be from a family of givers or of faith, while those who are challenged by criminals or alcoholics, give rise to the rectitudinous masses…who also more than likely have skeletons in their proverbial closet. Tsk tsk.
I for one acknowledge that alcoholism has plagued at least one, if not two, generations of my family. It’s not that I can adjudicate the cause nor the effect, only that it left a residue of shame upon subsequent generations. Frankly, I have not idea if it went further back still…because the oral tradition of passing down family stories often only include the most entertaining. And really, what is entertaining about yet another relative passing out in front of the fire of the dirt floor shanty?
I say herald the chieftains and lift the celebratory tuba to announce the victory over slavery! Hoorah for overcoming the enticement of imbibing libations.
Never conclude that one could not also fall into a similar subjugation, being yoked with some bondage to a sin, or some casual trap toward a more robust downfall.