I should probably not be writing this while my eyes are still full of tears and the lump in my throat might choke me. This sinking feeling I have is perhaps best left in the mail box where I wish I had left Mom's Christmas letter. But I cant help to share with you how utterly and completely I feel like shit right now, how profoundly alienating and horrifying the experience of reading these words of Holiday cheer has left me. There is no mention of me on the page, none. Oversight? A deliberate choice in order to avoid the gay issue on behalf of Mom? At this point, I don't know which excuse would be worse so it is perhaps better to save them.
"That hurt my feelings." I have often heard you say this phrase using it as a barometer for the acts or words of others that have crossed a line. Well opening my mother's Christmas letter and discovering not a word about her youngest child hurt my feelings more than you can know. You talk about Kelly and Mac coming for Christmas, but not me and Jon. I also made it back for the fair and Mom's birthday. So if the rationale for my being left out of the letter is that I did not go on a cruise with Mom or that I did not go to the family reunion or Black Hills, a nod to my two visits might have been appropriate. I know it would have been appreciated. That said, I personally think that in a world where I am valued and loved, the state of my Parkinson's, my fiftieth birthday or the fact that I am getting married might have all been considered newsworthy.
I am getting married. When I was a kid I remember Christmas letters in which your union with Bob and the wedding of Colleen and John were the central event of the year. The family portraits from these events are vividly etched in my memory. It would not surprise me to hear that Mom was too uncomfortable with the topic to permit it to be included. It would not surprise me if you didn't even bring the idea of including it up to her out of genuine respect (for her, not for me). I can hear the retort already, "Sean, she is from a different generation." The last time I cried after reading a piece of mail was when I read Jon's Mom's wedding card in which Millie, an 83 year old devout Catholic farm wife from Iowa, wrote the most beautiful blessing of our union. In her simple, direct and heartfelt words she advises Jon and me on the tenets of a successful marriage. Like Mom, Millie's health prevents her from attending our ceremony. The difference is that she (apart from not going to Vegas, on a cruise, to a family reunion, and to Black Hills Recreation Laboratory) is that she genuinely wants to be here joining Jon's three sisters, three nieces and two great nieces in celebrating this special day.
I know that you are not responsible for our mother's often luke warm expressions of her love for her children, nor are you responsible for her deep-rooted concerns about the opinions of others and worries about "what people might think." But what might people think about my absence from the letter? For that matter, what should I think when bigots like Jane and Peggy are praised in a letter in which I don't merit a mention, one in which Ruth's son receives accolades as well. Maybe my omission has nothing to do with me being a fag, damned by god, and up until December 31st, a second class citizen. But damn it, whatever the reason, it hurts right now. Why didnt you just leave the letter out and send me a card. I would have assumed that Mom and you, who are such an invaluable support to her for which you deserve both commendation and gratitude, were just too busy. I would have never known that, for whatever reason, I, regardless of any mention of my husband-to-be or our relationship, did not merit a word on the entire page. God, I can't imagine Dad would have ever slighted me this way.
I miss him so terribly.
So here I am all disconnected, sad, more hurt than angry. It strikes me that in reading the part of this letter about Jon's mom's card someone might bite their tongue when wanting to point out that there is a big difference between a personal greeting card intended for our eyes only and the shotgun blast of the annual Christmas mailing. Millie's Christmas card arrived last friday. Its a photo card which features her in the middle surrounded by pictures of all five of her children and their families. In early November, Jon's niece Jessica had requested a picture of us and we had emailed one of the finalist's for our wedding announcement that we had ended up not choosing. Not having kids who have kids, Jon and my faces loom large and grinning in the card's upper right window. It was touching to be so prominently included.
I am going to send this. I have been debating it. I don't want to ruffle any feathers or cause unnecessary tension between you and me or in general. I don't imagine that anyone will read this to Mom and I suppose there is no point to that. She prefers to hear that everything is good and golden and why should we as her children bring a woman of 92 years the petty stings and bruises of this sort of thing. Since being diagnosed with Parkinsons, I have learned more graphically than ever that Pollyanna will hear only what Pollyanna will hear. She,well no-one really, cares to hear about the dubious struggle of a progressive disease and why should they. Life is difficult and beyond that fact the discussion of the details is prurient at best and downright twisted in the extreme. Who wants to hear such dark tidings in a Christmas letter or over the phone. Hell, I have the damn disease and talking about it bores me STIFF. Lol. Just a little Parkinsons humor to try to lighten the mood.
I am sorry that I needed to write this. It has been cathartic. I want to underline that in no way do I begrudge anyone choosing to do anything rather than attending our wedding. Weddings, in my experience, are usually bad theater and, even though this one will feature some poetry and pretty singing, I don't know that I would attend if Jon wasn't going. I don't want this to be scolding. I know all the good reasons for the choices you made with the letter. I just wish I had never seen it and had not been forced to have such a big steaming pile of Christmas melancholia this evening.
But what would the holidays be without the deep well of love that lies beneath us, that ties us into each others hearts and lives, being stirred up a little. The power we have to touch each other, to hurt each other, to heal from that hurt in each other's arms, is a testament to these ties. Rumi says that the sound of a dog crying in the absence of his master is itself the love between man and the dog. This letter is my love for you. It is the pain of distance, the hurt of history, the fear of a future without a mother to hold us together, and with a disease that will devour me. I hope you will excuse me if I share this with our sisters. This letter is my Christmas letter. It is, I think, as articulate as I am going to get this holiday season about the love I have for all of you and the pain that invariably comes with it.
"That hurt my feelings." I have often heard you say this phrase using it as a barometer for the acts or words of others that have crossed a line. Well opening my mother's Christmas letter and discovering not a word about her youngest child hurt my feelings more than you can know. You talk about Kelly and Mac coming for Christmas, but not me and Jon. I also made it back for the fair and Mom's birthday. So if the rationale for my being left out of the letter is that I did not go on a cruise with Mom or that I did not go to the family reunion or Black Hills, a nod to my two visits might have been appropriate. I know it would have been appreciated. That said, I personally think that in a world where I am valued and loved, the state of my Parkinson's, my fiftieth birthday or the fact that I am getting married might have all been considered newsworthy.
I am getting married. When I was a kid I remember Christmas letters in which your union with Bob and the wedding of Colleen and John were the central event of the year. The family portraits from these events are vividly etched in my memory. It would not surprise me to hear that Mom was too uncomfortable with the topic to permit it to be included. It would not surprise me if you didn't even bring the idea of including it up to her out of genuine respect (for her, not for me). I can hear the retort already, "Sean, she is from a different generation." The last time I cried after reading a piece of mail was when I read Jon's Mom's wedding card in which Millie, an 83 year old devout Catholic farm wife from Iowa, wrote the most beautiful blessing of our union. In her simple, direct and heartfelt words she advises Jon and me on the tenets of a successful marriage. Like Mom, Millie's health prevents her from attending our ceremony. The difference is that she (apart from not going to Vegas, on a cruise, to a family reunion, and to Black Hills Recreation Laboratory) is that she genuinely wants to be here joining Jon's three sisters, three nieces and two great nieces in celebrating this special day.
I know that you are not responsible for our mother's often luke warm expressions of her love for her children, nor are you responsible for her deep-rooted concerns about the opinions of others and worries about "what people might think." But what might people think about my absence from the letter? For that matter, what should I think when bigots like Jane and Peggy are praised in a letter in which I don't merit a mention, one in which Ruth's son receives accolades as well. Maybe my omission has nothing to do with me being a fag, damned by god, and up until December 31st, a second class citizen. But damn it, whatever the reason, it hurts right now. Why didnt you just leave the letter out and send me a card. I would have assumed that Mom and you, who are such an invaluable support to her for which you deserve both commendation and gratitude, were just too busy. I would have never known that, for whatever reason, I, regardless of any mention of my husband-to-be or our relationship, did not merit a word on the entire page. God, I can't imagine Dad would have ever slighted me this way.
I miss him so terribly.
So here I am all disconnected, sad, more hurt than angry. It strikes me that in reading the part of this letter about Jon's mom's card someone might bite their tongue when wanting to point out that there is a big difference between a personal greeting card intended for our eyes only and the shotgun blast of the annual Christmas mailing. Millie's Christmas card arrived last friday. Its a photo card which features her in the middle surrounded by pictures of all five of her children and their families. In early November, Jon's niece Jessica had requested a picture of us and we had emailed one of the finalist's for our wedding announcement that we had ended up not choosing. Not having kids who have kids, Jon and my faces loom large and grinning in the card's upper right window. It was touching to be so prominently included.
I am going to send this. I have been debating it. I don't want to ruffle any feathers or cause unnecessary tension between you and me or in general. I don't imagine that anyone will read this to Mom and I suppose there is no point to that. She prefers to hear that everything is good and golden and why should we as her children bring a woman of 92 years the petty stings and bruises of this sort of thing. Since being diagnosed with Parkinsons, I have learned more graphically than ever that Pollyanna will hear only what Pollyanna will hear. She,well no-one really, cares to hear about the dubious struggle of a progressive disease and why should they. Life is difficult and beyond that fact the discussion of the details is prurient at best and downright twisted in the extreme. Who wants to hear such dark tidings in a Christmas letter or over the phone. Hell, I have the damn disease and talking about it bores me STIFF. Lol. Just a little Parkinsons humor to try to lighten the mood.
I am sorry that I needed to write this. It has been cathartic. I want to underline that in no way do I begrudge anyone choosing to do anything rather than attending our wedding. Weddings, in my experience, are usually bad theater and, even though this one will feature some poetry and pretty singing, I don't know that I would attend if Jon wasn't going. I don't want this to be scolding. I know all the good reasons for the choices you made with the letter. I just wish I had never seen it and had not been forced to have such a big steaming pile of Christmas melancholia this evening.
But what would the holidays be without the deep well of love that lies beneath us, that ties us into each others hearts and lives, being stirred up a little. The power we have to touch each other, to hurt each other, to heal from that hurt in each other's arms, is a testament to these ties. Rumi says that the sound of a dog crying in the absence of his master is itself the love between man and the dog. This letter is my love for you. It is the pain of distance, the hurt of history, the fear of a future without a mother to hold us together, and with a disease that will devour me. I hope you will excuse me if I share this with our sisters. This letter is my Christmas letter. It is, I think, as articulate as I am going to get this holiday season about the love I have for all of you and the pain that invariably comes with it.
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