In first grade Mrs. Lohr
said my purple teepee
wasn’t realistic enough,
that purple was no color
for a tent,
that purple was a color
for people who died,
that my drawing wasn’t
good enough
to hang with the others…
(From: “Purple,” by Alexis Rotella, in Step Lightly: Poems for the Journey, Nancy Willard, Ed., 1998)
For the past several days, I’ve been consumed with the task of sifting through boxes of personal mementoes: photographs, children’s drawings, letters from friends and family, scraps of paper in a young daughter’s hand, “I love you very much, Mom.” It’s slow work, because each item I pull from the storage boxes ignites a flood of memories and emotion, and I pause, caught up in remembrances of the past, looking at and reading everything—the task of being a curator of family history. I’ve separated these things into three piles: what I keep, and what I send to each of my daughters.
Among their childish drawings and notes, I found a collection of report cards, grades for their achievement in core subjects, teachers’ notes on behavior—a few outstanding, “Excellent!” written in large letters, but others expressing disappointment in one or the other of my daughter’s progress. And I remember, too, their bowed heads and reluctance to hand over the report cards when the news wasn’t as good as I—and they—hoped. During those tender times, mediocre grades or written disappointments from their teachers seemed to take a greater toll, feeding insecurities and fears of not measuring up—not only for my daughters, but for me, as if I wasn’t a good parent.
I walked back to my seat
counting the swish swish swishes
of my baggy corduroy trousers.
With a black crayon
nightfall came
to my purple tent
in the middle
of an afternoon…
I still grade myself, whether I’m writing, teaching, housecleaning, parenting or simply trying to keep the weeds in the garden under control. My internal critic is loud and vociferous. She is no wimp, no kindly bespectacled replica of my beloved first grade teacher. She cracks the whip, harsh in her assessment of my performance. But we all grade ourselves, even in dealing with the ups and downs of cancer treatment and recovery. I’ve heard “I should” voiced more than a few times from cancer patients and survivors who come to my writing groups. They express feelings that they “should” be stronger, better able to deal with their emotions, or able to spend more time caring for their loved ones.
It happens to everyone. Those noisy, old internalized voices begin to chide you, “you could do better than that, you know.” Or you hear the implied criticism from well-meaning friends and family: “Aren’t you over that yet?” “Shouldn’t you be doing something different?” When you feel we’ve somehow disappointed others, fallen short of some unspoken level of attainment, or let yourselves down, your internal critics are especially loud—a veritable Greek chorus. Your sentences with begin with “I should… but…,” and you feel guilty and miserable for what you didn’t get done or the feeling as if you’ve let others down.
A little humor can help. In her poem, “Marks,” Linda Pastan pokes fun at the frustration of being graded–whether by ourselves or others:
My husband gives me an A
for last night’s supper,
an incomplete for my ironing,
a B plus in bed.
My son says I am average,
an average mother, but if
I put my mind to it
I could improve.
My daughter believes
in Pass/Fail and tells me
I pass. Wait ’til they learn
I’m dropping out.
(From: Five Stages of Grief, 1978)
Here’s another poem, “Exorcism of Nice,” by Roseann Lloyd, in which the narrator takes aim at her internalized critics:
…Talk polite
Appropriate
Real nice
…Hold still
Hold it back
Hold it in
…Close-mouthed
Muzzled
Gagged
Garbled
Jammed up…
Shut-down
Oh, Wicked Mother of the Kingdom of Silence
I have obeyed you
long enough
(From Tap Dancing for Big Mom, 1996)
Chances are we all need to practice a little self-forgiveness from time to time, allowing ourselves the freedom to be messy, woefully imperfect, or terribly human. We also need the support of those who truly understand, whether loved ones, a teacher or a physician when the going gets rough and we begin to doubt ourselves. In the final stanza of Alexis Rotella’s poem, “Purple,” we discover how understanding and acceptance from someone, in this case her second grade teacher, can matter:
In second grade Mr. Barta
said draw anything;
he didn’t care what.
I left my paper blank
and when he came around
to my desk
my heart beat like a tom tom.
He touched my head
with his big hand
and in a soft voice said
the snowfall
how clean
and white
and beautiful
Writing Suggestions:
This week, think about your internal critics, those negative self-evaluations when you experience self-doubt, insecurity or fear.
- When have you given yourself a failing grade or felt like you’re being graded by others?
- Was there a time you received a report card in childhood that you didn’t want to take home to your parents? How did you feel?
- Does your self-critic sometimes keep you from doing or saying what you truly want?
- Try, as Pastan and Lloyd have done, silencing those tiresome internal voices with a little humor.
- Or, was there someone, like a friend or teacher, who encouraged you and helped you overcome your self-doubt? Write about that person.
AWESOME….. >