I forget, how to dream...
Yesterday my oldest friend's (Claire, from prep school, at age 15) 12-year-old son, here from New Zealand on vacation, inquired whether I had a husband, or children, not necessarily in that order. He also asked -- prefaced by asking whether it was acceptable to ask -- my age: a month younger than your mother, I told him.
Why I opted out of marriage-and-children is a thesis-length opus, but I suspect Carly Simon's 1971 song, That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be, made an indelible impression on me. Her lyrics contain the short answer to the marriage-and-children question.
Even at 11, I sensed that all was not well, probably never would be, in our house. Carly Simon articulated it for me in a way that resonates to this day:
"My father sits at night with no lights on
His cigarette glows in the dark
The living room is still
I walk by, no remark
I tiptoe past the master bedroom where
My mother reads her magazines
I hear her call "Sweet dreams"
But I forget how to dream
"But you say it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be
You want to marry me, we'll marry
"My friends from college they're all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
They have their silent noons
Tearful nights, angry dawns
Their children hate them for the things they're not
They hate themselves for what they are
And yet they drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar
"But you say it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be
You want to marry me, we'll marry
"You say that we can keep our love alive
Babe, all I know is what I see
The couples cling and claw
And drown in love's debris
You say we'll soar like two birds through the clouds
But soon you'll cage me on your shelf
I'll never learn to be just me first by myself
Well O.K, it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be
You want to marry me, we'll marry
(Marry)"
I empathized intensely with the loneliness between the lines. That was a snapshot of my family, and it wasn't one I had any desire to emulate. Neither of my parents ever uttered the expression "when you get married and have kids of your own," and I expect their own knowledge of how they lived explains why.
Claire is an only child who lives 7,000 miles away from her parents, who remain alive (verging on 80) and married to each other. For different reasons, Claire didn't like her family snapshot either. She would be astounded at how much like her mother she is becoming, or so it seemed from our brief visit.
What she created was mommy/daddy and two sets of twins, more children than anyone else I know, and farther away from the parental apple. She has, presumably, a happy marriage, and enough children so that they don't have the space, it appears for the loneliness. (The elder twins are 12, so the jury's out on that one.)
As a child in summer camp, I referred to my mother or my father as separate people. My bunkmates thought my parents were divorced. I don't think I ever had a sense of them as one solid parental unit, a matched Mommy-and-Daddy set.
What remains unspoken and what I've blocked from memory -- is why did we live this way, why could we not act on E.M. Forster's theme, "Only connect."
Is this why I still feel that no matter who I share my bed with, when I sleep, I sleep alone?
Why I opted out of marriage-and-children is a thesis-length opus, but I suspect Carly Simon's 1971 song, That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be, made an indelible impression on me. Her lyrics contain the short answer to the marriage-and-children question.
Even at 11, I sensed that all was not well, probably never would be, in our house. Carly Simon articulated it for me in a way that resonates to this day:
"My father sits at night with no lights on
His cigarette glows in the dark
The living room is still
I walk by, no remark
I tiptoe past the master bedroom where
My mother reads her magazines
I hear her call "Sweet dreams"
But I forget how to dream
"But you say it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be
You want to marry me, we'll marry
"My friends from college they're all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
They have their silent noons
Tearful nights, angry dawns
Their children hate them for the things they're not
They hate themselves for what they are
And yet they drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar
"But you say it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be
You want to marry me, we'll marry
"You say that we can keep our love alive
Babe, all I know is what I see
The couples cling and claw
And drown in love's debris
You say we'll soar like two birds through the clouds
But soon you'll cage me on your shelf
I'll never learn to be just me first by myself
Well O.K, it's time we moved in together
And raised a family of our own, you and me
Well, that's the way I've always heard it should be
You want to marry me, we'll marry
(Marry)"
I empathized intensely with the loneliness between the lines. That was a snapshot of my family, and it wasn't one I had any desire to emulate. Neither of my parents ever uttered the expression "when you get married and have kids of your own," and I expect their own knowledge of how they lived explains why.
Claire is an only child who lives 7,000 miles away from her parents, who remain alive (verging on 80) and married to each other. For different reasons, Claire didn't like her family snapshot either. She would be astounded at how much like her mother she is becoming, or so it seemed from our brief visit.
What she created was mommy/daddy and two sets of twins, more children than anyone else I know, and farther away from the parental apple. She has, presumably, a happy marriage, and enough children so that they don't have the space, it appears for the loneliness. (The elder twins are 12, so the jury's out on that one.)
As a child in summer camp, I referred to my mother or my father as separate people. My bunkmates thought my parents were divorced. I don't think I ever had a sense of them as one solid parental unit, a matched Mommy-and-Daddy set.
What remains unspoken and what I've blocked from memory -- is why did we live this way, why could we not act on E.M. Forster's theme, "Only connect."
Is this why I still feel that no matter who I share my bed with, when I sleep, I sleep alone?
posted by alice, uptown at 3:52 PM
2 Comments:
nicely said
I stumbled upon your blog while I was searching for Carly Simon's song for a paper that I have to write for school. My parents divorced during my senior year in high school, but I waited for many years for them to finally incorporate that concept in their vocabulary and finally, when it did, I realized how much more it hurt than I ever imagined. Anyways, my point is, that I can relate and understand why you have chosen not to marry. I don't date and have no desire to want to marry and have children. Nevertheless, I sometimes like to think that we can change things and that when you do get married, you'll do things differently because you have your parent's mistakes to learn from. Best of luck to you...
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