Is It Just Me – Feeling Shame
“Jason told me that if you step on a sidewalk crack, something really bad will happen to someone in your family.”
My seven year-old son, Harrison, and I were negotiating our way down the street, already late for his hair-cut. Our walk was stop-and-go because
Harrison had to make sure to jump over every crack and crevice he encountered.
“Jason told me that last year he forgot and he stepped on a crack and the next day his grandpa had a heart attack.”
“How’s his grandpa now?” I asked.
“Good” said Harrison. “Jason doesn’t step on cracks anymore.”
I smiled at the simplicity of the logic, at the naiveté of my son. He is just a little boy, I reasoned, but already I could see the worry pushing down on his bony shoulders all because of his friend’s experience. What could I say to lighten his load?
As children, we are taught to respect authority – professional, adult, legal, medical and the authority of other people’s experience, but when is it permissible and even advisable to respect the authority of our own experience?
At an early age, we learn to test and measure our environments by using the five recognized senses of taste, smell, touch, hearing and sight. But, are these senses enough to provide the barometer for all our assumptions? We also learn to believe in other people’s experience of these senses. Some say that there are other senses shepherding us through our lives, senses that are as important yet harder to quantify: the sense of temperature, pain, balance and acceleration, kinesthetic sense and the least empiric sense, the one many people thumb their noses at: intuition.
In my own life I have found my intuition to be more worthy of respect than any other form of authority. But, learning to trust it has pulled me down a road of blundering pot-holes.
My oldest son, Charlie, loved his Grade Five teacher. “Mrs. Hart uses this line from the movie, ‘Slapshot’ sometimes”, he told me, one day. “If a kid does something wrong in class or forgets their homework, she says: I want you to go to the penalty box and feel shame.”
“Cute”, I said, half-listening. Charlie went on to say that Mrs. Hart had advised that “Slapshot” was fabulous, a movie everyone should see.
Somehow, that last bit stuck in my brain. I vaguely remembered the peppery hockey comedy starring Paul Newman. Plus, I held deep admiration for Mrs. Hart. She was passionate about teaching the creative process of writing and I wished she’d been around when I was in school because writing was my favourite subject. So, I purchased “Slapshot” when I saw it in a store, thinking that Charlie, my husband and I could enjoy it together over the holiday and that my son could learn something. I wasn’t sure of the lesson, but I knew it would be important because Mrs. Hart had recommended the movie. As a testament to my belief, I actually bought the combo pack of “Slapshot One” and “Slapshot Two”. We were committed.
That Saturday evening, the three of us snuggled up in the master bedroom and turned on the movie. Four letter words punctuated the opening scenes. The first couple of times I heard swearing, I felt a discomfort sinuously crawling up my throat, but I beat it down with Mrs. Hart’s authority. She suggested this movie for a reason, I thought. So, what if Charlie hears some foul language? He’ll understand that people shouldn’t speak that way in real life. Hockey isn’t REAL LIFE! The movie progressed with yet more cursing. The sexual innuendoes began at the same time as the squirming in my toes. This must be an incredibly important lesson, I consoled myself, or Mrs. Hart would not have risked the negative impact of this disturbing language and imagery. I kept my face pointing forwards, feeling my husband’s glare heating the side of my cheek. Another few seconds and spontaneous combustion might ensue.
Finally, he lunged for the clicker and hit “Stop”.
“Why are we watching this?” he stammered in outrage. “It’s completely wrong for a ten year-old!”
I kept my own voice calm. “I agree that the language is pretty salty, but I think it’s going to get better soon. Mrs. Hart recommended this movie, after all.”
Charlie entered the fray at this point. “No, she didn’t, Mom. Mrs. Hart likes to use the line about getting a penalty, but she told us that ‘Slapshot’ is a movie we should actually see when we’re adults. She thinks it’s completely inappropriate for ten year-olds.”
Right then, I took myself to the penalty box, and boy, did I feel shame.
Because I respected the authority of what I thought was a teacher’s opinion, I ignored my own intuition. My family and I were able to laugh at this blunder, but it also taught me a valuable lesson. If ever you feel a large worm convulsing in your stomach, that’s your gut telling you to make your own call. Pay it heed.
“Harrison”, I asked my youngest son now. “Do you really believe that Jason’s grandpa had a heart attack because Jason stepped on a crack?”
“I’m not sure”, said my son, his eyebrows scrunched in consternation. “I guess I’ve been stepping on cracks my whole life and all of you guys are still fine.”
“Good observation” I agreed. “So, maybe, it would be okay for us to just walk normally so we can get to your haircut before the store closes?”
Harrison nodded and ran ahead, his feet crossing the sidewalk cracks like small “t”s. “I know it will be fine”, he called back over his shoulder, “because of the invisible super shield all around our family, the one you told me about that night I couldn’t sleep, remember? It’s worked, so far!”
I sighed and stepped up my pace. I sensed another trip to the penalty box.
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