Emotional U Assignment No. 2: Shame

This essay is part of a series & also your invitation to audit my self-imposed, self-taught class in which I aim to define & understand our human emotions through my memories & personal experiences.

Assignment No. 2
shame (as defined by the Oxford Dictionary)
SHām/
noun:
a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior: “she was hot with shame”
verb:
(of a person, action, or situation) make (someone) feel ashamed: “I tried to shame him into giving some away”
______________

Revisiting my past in pursuit of an experience around shame wasn’t necessarily something I was looking forward to, and I was surprised when it didn’t lead me where I thought it might. Rather than recalling solely the times when I was the sufferer of shame, I found myself ill-prepared to encounter the times where I was, in fact, the inflictor of it. What was illuminated next was the realization that being the causer of someone else’s shame, unless one is a legitimate sociopath, returns like a boomerang to cause the causer to experience shame in return. It’s a mouthful, I know.

We’ve likely all heard the saying, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me,” and I can only assume we are all familiar with the feeling of shame, to one degree or another. Please know, it is not my intention here to evoke long-lost memories of indignities in anyone reading this.

Raise your hand if you were ever told by a classmate on the playground (and in front of the rest of the 2nd grade) that you had Cooties? That was a form of shaming, however base and silly it may sound now, and I bet it was a little mortifying for younger you. I know it was for me. But isn’t it a natural part of our human evolution to, at times, weaponize whichever tools are at our disposal in order to exercise some power — or perhaps even as a form of self-defense? When my older brother would try to embarrass me by teasing or name calling, I’d hit him back with the stinging and impenetrable retort, “I know you are, but what am I?” I learned this tactic from him, of all people.

As I entered my adolescent years, I very vividly recall falling victim to an unfortunate mini-con. I grew up in the era of the movie “Little Darlings,” a plausible predecessor to darker films like “Heathers,” “Cruel Intentions,” and eventually “Mean Girls.” A neighbor down my street was talking to some bad-ass tweens, and they asked her for my name when I emerged from my house. The girls flagged me down as they ran towards me hollering, “Susie! Susie! Remember us?”

I didn’t, so I stumbled in my reply — a little embarrassed, “Um… I don’t know… I don’t think so.”

They continued, practically in tandem, “You know, from ‘Camp Whatchyamacallit’!” (the name escapes me — I probably blocked it out). I knew I hadn’t gone to camp with these girls because my parents, both having migrated to California from the East Coast, sent my siblings and me to a sleepaway camp in upstate New York with our family friends and cousins each summer. But the girls pressed on, asking how I could have possibly forgotten them.

I conjured a recollection of a brief spring break field trip, of some kind, when a neighborhood family friend invited me to join her for a weekend retreat — through her church, if memory now serves me correctly — at a campground somewhere in California. In my mind, I struggled to make sense of how these girls clearly knew me when I didn’t know them. I needed to find a way to connect the dots, so I decided to rationalize my way into their reality.

“Yes, now I think I remember…” I started, as I mentally collaged them into the weekend retreat and renamed it ‘Camp Whatchyamacallit’ in my timid mind. And that was it; I had been ensnared. I felt ashamed as they pointed and laughed, disclosing that I was a liar. Shame on them, I thought, and I resolved then and there that I wouldn’t be fooled twice.

In retracing my steps on this topic, it wasn’t so much the regurgitation of my youthful indiscretions that caused me discomfort, but rather the not-so-youthful ones — which rose up from underground, where I thought I had forever buried them — to meet me here and now with a fistful of remorse.

Being a mother has been one of my most sacred callings. Every generation, I believe, strives to improve upon the one before — usually without appreciating, until far too late, the challenges our own parents faced in raising us. My mother made it her mission to tell us she loved us often, and she still does — because, well, she does — and also, in part, because she was raised in a home where words of affection didn’t flow quite so naturally. My father encouraged us to be whoever we wanted to be — albeit in somewhat of an “if it feels good, do it” manner — in order to counter the damage he inherited through his father, who withheld his approval even when my dad exceeded his very own career expectations. When it was my turn, I set out to be the most perfectest, flawless parent that ever lived! I won’t say I’ve failed miserably, but let’s just say I’m still very much a work in progress, and the youngest of my four children is now a legal adult.

With the exception of those who are severely damaged and unable to overcome their own past traumas, I believe most parents sincerely want what’s best for their children — but we are all learning as we go, each of us facing new circumstances in the ever-changing environments our predecessors probably couldn’t have even fathomed. The world my kids are growing up in makes “The Jetsons” seem like some kind of archaic retro cartoon! Oh wait…

One of my kids once accompanied me to help set up shop for a fund-raising sale at their school. Out of respect for their anonymity, I won’t name names here. When my child asked me if they could have one of the items for sale, I explained it was not for us, but rather to sell in order to raise money for the school, and my answer was no. Not long after we returned home, I spotted the colorful item out of the corner of my eye in my child’s bedroom, and I asked how it got there. I was met with dismissive shrugs as they went about their business, playing with the new addition…to their collection… of ill-gotten goods?! My mind was racing, and I got scared. I asked the obvious, “Did you take it from the school shop?” and was met with a definitive “Nope!” So, in a panic, I said we needed to return the item, and we immediately headed back to school. When we arrived, we were greeted by the principal, and I asked my child to please apologize and return the absconded item. The principal squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, as did her office assistant. And my child remained silent, looking up to the left and down to the right — anywhere to avoid the gazes of the 3 adult women in the room, most of all, me. In hindsight, I can see now that what my child was experiencing was shame. We all want things, and children are curious — and also usually unemployed — so how else are they going to get things they’re told they can’t have? As a parent, it was my job to explore this situation further, rather than to arrive at a quick condemnation, and I failed to do that. I’ve never forgotten it, and I carried my own shame around it for a long time.

Years later, I shared with this particular kid that I stole something once too: My parents had gotten divorced, and I was visiting my dad at his newly anointed bachelor pad in New York City as a 12-year-old. I was angry, hurt, and confused when he told me to go out and have some fun for the day all alone. I didn’t have any money, and I didn’t feel like asking him for any, so I nabbed a twenty from the kitchen drawer where I knew he kept his petty cash. I reasoned that he likely would have given it to me anyway, so I stuffed it in my Calvin Klein jeans and ventured out into the world like a Little Darling. I didn’t have anywhere to go that day, and nothing to do but walk around with my guilt, so I bought my dad a $20 bouquet of flowers and headed back to the apartment with shame in my pocket where his money used to be.

Later, on that same visit, a childhood friend came over to hang out with me, and somehow we got the idea to entertain ourselves by throwing wet wads of toilet paper down onto the roofs of the parked cars below us. I’d like to say it was Jenny’s idea, but I don’t think it was. These wads were like gigantic spitballs that diminished in size as they traveled down, down, down from however many stories high we were, somehow diminishing the impact of our crime once they landed, finally appearing oh so tiny and harmless.

The doorman of the building came a knockin’ and was greeted by my father, who had been napping in the other room (kids are exhausting). Apparently, a neighbor across the way had turned us in and, when confronted, my dad asked me point blank, “Is this true?” I vehemently denied all charges and shrugged off the accusation (evidently, this trait is genetic) as Jenny stood zip-lipped and all innocent looking beside me. My dad, in a rare act of heroism, had defended my honor, and the doorman left, chagrinned. Already carrying the guilt of the great floral heist of 1981, I eventually came clean, and my dad was infuriated. Jenny left, and I stuffed more shame in the pocket between me and my Calvins. Later, I wept, but sadly I had no toilet paper to dry my tears because I had thrown it out the window. Oh, what a shame.