Not good enough
My maternal grandfather always sat at the head of the table during big meals shared by my extended family. Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, he was the patriarch that all my aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered around. Physically, he was a small man, gentle and unassuming. Raised in a fundamentalist religious family, he was a solid Christian and lived what he believed to be a righteous and literal interpretation of the Bible.
Before each family meal, my grandfather chose who would “ask the blessing,” following a specific hierarchy within our family. At the top of the list of qualified blessing askers was an equally fundamentalist uncle who was, by far, the biggest and loudest person in any room. He didn’t just wear his religion on his sleeve, he wore it on every inch of his body. Being the most obviously and outwardly religious, if he was present, he was asked to say grace before we could eat. No exceptions.
In his absence, my other uncle held second place. My grandfather had deemed him the second most qualified male, and therefore everyone else went along. If, for some reason, neither uncle was present, offering the pre-meal prayer fell to the son of the First Uncle. In fourth place, my grandfather himself would pray. This hierarchy was never questioned, never breached.
Neither my father nor my brother ever received the anointing of being asked to pray. I’m not sure why, exactly, but I do know this: No woman at the table was ever asked and definitely no child.
So early in my own marriage, when my new father-in-law asked me to pray before a meal around which his entire family was gathered, I choked and nearly fell off my chair. With sweaty palms and teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, I politely declined and had a sense that my grandfather was rolling over in his grave. Not only am I not qualified to “ask the blessing,” I’m not even in the running!
This family hierarchy extended beyond holiday meals. At family gatherings, only the two children of the First Uncle were talented enough to be recognized. Like their father, each had an amazing singing voice and would often be coerced into performing for everyone. As they entered their teen years, I began to sense in them a simmering resentment which their unyielding father firmly crushed anytime he got a whiff of it. As I sat there with the rest of my family, listening to them joylessly sing hymns for my grandmother, I was equal parts jealous and sympathetic. I knew they hated these command performances, especially my oldest cousin. To her detriment, she had already developed a strong sense of self that her father was trying his damnedest to beat out of her.
But I also felt small and ignored. Left out. As my grandparents and the rest of my relatives heaped praise and appreciation on my cousins, in awe of their considerable talent, I sat quietly, watching and listening. I had talents, too. I could draw really well. I could play the piano, I could even sing a little. But any talent I might have thought I had was on the fringes, certainly not good enough to be included on the same family stage as my cousins. Nobody was interested. The spotlight was for my cousins and their father and the rest of us knew to stay in the shadows. They were the loudest, the most religious, and therefore, the very best and most deserving.
It’s nearly impossible to uproot the rules you learn as a child, unspoken or otherwise. You can adopt new rules, but the original rules will always be at your foundation. Like looking both ways when you cross the street, or sniffing the milk before you pour it on your cereal. Yielding the spotlight to those who are truly worthy. Understanding the religious pecking order and your place at the table… if you’re even AT the table in the first place.
This “not good enough” dynamic has played out again and again in my adulthood. It’s weird how childhood dynamics will do that. I know the rules. I know not to try to participate in religious settings — Bible studies, church school classes, and the like — I’ve tried and it just never goes well. Nobody is interested and even if they were, I’m not qualified to contribute. Did my family intend for me to develop this feeling of not being good enough? Of course not. But you have to be mindful of the messages children are receiving because they’re powerful and they last.
For years now, I’ve been most content working in the background, making other, more visible people and organizations look good. That’s where I thrive. At my core, I’m a writer, an “in-the-background” passion if there ever was one.
If I could go back in time, back to my grandparents’ living room during my childhood, I’m pretty sure my cousins would gladly yield the stage to me. After the dour duets were finished, I could get up and read aloud from my award-winning novel. Maybe I’d start with explicitly steamy Chapter 13…? It’s really some of my best work, if I do say so myself, and I’m sure my family would agree. Once they recovered from the shock. But you know what they say… you have to watch out for those quiet ones.
