One of the first damaging emotions many of us learned is shame. I remember its roots in my early life, remember the earliest lesson in human creation even: shame. It is one of the worst feelings, isn't it? Fear and shame run deep in me. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" What is that to tell a child? Lessons of unlove=lessons in shame.
I remember my grandmother, my mothers' mother who stayed with us for months on end, coming into my room one cloudy afternoon--a staunch Roman Catholic ultra uptight and nervous woman, enough baggage to fill a semi. I was there on the floor, doing what I always did: drawing on something. That day it was my Barbie, naked, and of course Malibu Ken was with her, sans swim trunks, and me, at probably 8 years old, outlining their forms on plastic flesh, circling Barbies breasts, wondering how do they get like *that*? And Ken's buldge, curious, but mostly noticing form, form and shape, lines and space, the abscence and presence of *body*, the hills and valleys, indentations, all the time drawing and circling, until Barbie and Ken looked like they had just returned from an outing at an obscene tattoo parlor.
When my grandmother happened upon me, by surprise of course, she said, "Shame on you! Look what you're doing! Give me those dolls!" Memory stop. Full stop. Left with no memory of events following the moment but a very strong memory of feeling shame. I'm sure she took them to my mother, who probably set them aside, never said anything to me about it, instead most likely remembered her own shame: reflect the mirror, shame be with you--and also with you.
The other memory I have of second generation shame is directly related to nakedness, an early love for it, for liking to sleep without a nightgown if I could--or at least without the very modest "underpants" I had to wear. I didn't know anything other than I really liked the feel and smell of cool, ironed, perfect, air-dried, cotton sheets against my skin, especially on hot nights. So I got away with what I could, which meant a nightgown, and if I could, nothing else.
Who should happen upon me in my state of euphoric disrepair one night--yes, Grandma, with her reaction: "Look at you! Don't you ever go to bed without underpants on--shame on you!"
It wasn't until this week that I figured out what she was worried about. She wasn't worried about my nudity as much as what I might be doing without those panties on. And you know what? I wasn't doing anything except exploring the magical feeling of cotton on skin, of cool on hot, of smooth on rough, of skin on fabric, lulling me to sleep. And regardless, should shame be the reaction to a child in wonder? It was the mighty sword that kept me in control, covered, hidden, stuffing curiosity and wonder in place of fear of retribution.
And yet, I don't blame her. Unless we unlearn the unhealthy pieces of what we learned, we cannot know. And if we let our moral compass be guided by fear, not love, that is our destiny--that was their destiny. That is not my destiny.
