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Authors: Rich Merritt
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little cardboard box was filled with Valentines from girls in both classes. The teachers rigged it so that every student got at least one Valentine’s Day card. Their system failed me. I didn’t receive a single one.
In third grade I had a shot at getting the “Student of the Month” award. I won it twice. I felt wonderful inside. Now they call that “validation.” Back then I just felt very proud of myself. As an adult, I often looked back at why I overachieved, why this “validation” of my worth was so important to me from such an early age. Maybe it was because there were no Valentines in my box. Maybe it was because my uncle and father referred to me as a sissy. Maybe it was because I couldn’t play ball with the other boys. Probably a combination of all of those things, mixed in with the extremely sensitive nature I was born with. And then there was Momma.
Momma still dominated my life, just as my brother Jimmy and I dominated hers. Because of the logistics of our academic situation, we spent a lot of time in the car with her. She was sacrificing a lot for us; I was always very aware of that.
She was caring and self-sacrificing and I wanted so much to please her. I also liked the way Mom looked. I thought she was beautiful. Yet, I never got the feeling that she believed I was proud of her. It made me sad that she was self-conscious and had somewhat of an inferiority complex. Early on I sensed this vulnerability in her and I tried to help her.
She was uncomfortable, for example, about her weight. When she was a young girl, Grandpa Schrader told her she looked like one of the cows on their dairy farm. That of course left a lasting wound in her. Now, she turned to me to help her control her hunger. After a trip to the grocery store, she’d give me the jar of peanuts she’d bought and tell me to hide them from her. She didn’t want to spoil her diet, but it was comforting for her to know they were in the house. I would hide them. Days later she’d beg me to tell her where I’d hidden them. I’d laugh and tell her no. She’d grow very serious about those peanuts and begin to cry—eventually I’d cave in. I couldn’t stand to see her cry. I’d cry, too.
She expressed her lack of self-worth in other ways. If she perceived one of my classmates’ parents as being smarter than she, or being a better speaker, she would just clam up. She would just stand there without saying a word. I tried harder to show her that I was proud of her, that she meant the world to me.
I also sensed that, if my mother didn’t feel pride in her own accomplishments, she wanted to experience it through me. So she always wanted me to be at my best. My mother wasn’t the type of person who pushed me overtly. But she knew how to get her way by being very passive-aggressive. In that sense she pushed very hard. I knew what she wanted and I knew if she didn’t get what she wanted she was going to pout. To keep her from pouting I would try to keep her content because if she was happy I was happy.
Maybe because she didn’t think much of herself, I tried all the more to allow her to take pride in my good qualities. I liked to hear my mom tell other people what a fine student I was. Her approval made me feel wonderful. As long as I got high grades she could brag about me, and that made me content.
I started doing things specifically to please her.
For example, I had never given much thought to how I wanted to wear my hair. At the time, I never really considered how I wanted to look at all. When I was a kid I had big puffy hair, really thick. It was the seventies and big hair was in, even on little boys. My mom liked my thick, wavy hair. As a result, I began parting it, brushing it, styling it in a way I knew pleased her. She was always complimenting me on my hair and pointing it out to other people: “Look, isn’t his hair just beautiful.” And she wonders why I turned gay.
But when a mother and son are as close as we were,
In third grade I had a shot at getting the “Student of the Month” award. I won it twice. I felt wonderful inside. Now they call that “validation.” Back then I just felt very proud of myself. As an adult, I often looked back at why I overachieved, why this “validation” of my worth was so important to me from such an early age. Maybe it was because there were no Valentines in my box. Maybe it was because my uncle and father referred to me as a sissy. Maybe it was because I couldn’t play ball with the other boys. Probably a combination of all of those things, mixed in with the extremely sensitive nature I was born with. And then there was Momma.
Momma still dominated my life, just as my brother Jimmy and I dominated hers. Because of the logistics of our academic situation, we spent a lot of time in the car with her. She was sacrificing a lot for us; I was always very aware of that.
She was caring and self-sacrificing and I wanted so much to please her. I also liked the way Mom looked. I thought she was beautiful. Yet, I never got the feeling that she believed I was proud of her. It made me sad that she was self-conscious and had somewhat of an inferiority complex. Early on I sensed this vulnerability in her and I tried to help her.
She was uncomfortable, for example, about her weight. When she was a young girl, Grandpa Schrader told her she looked like one of the cows on their dairy farm. That of course left a lasting wound in her. Now, she turned to me to help her control her hunger. After a trip to the grocery store, she’d give me the jar of peanuts she’d bought and tell me to hide them from her. She didn’t want to spoil her diet, but it was comforting for her to know they were in the house. I would hide them. Days later she’d beg me to tell her where I’d hidden them. I’d laugh and tell her no. She’d grow very serious about those peanuts and begin to cry—eventually I’d cave in. I couldn’t stand to see her cry. I’d cry, too.
She expressed her lack of self-worth in other ways. If she perceived one of my classmates’ parents as being smarter than she, or being a better speaker, she would just clam up. She would just stand there without saying a word. I tried harder to show her that I was proud of her, that she meant the world to me.
I also sensed that, if my mother didn’t feel pride in her own accomplishments, she wanted to experience it through me. So she always wanted me to be at my best. My mother wasn’t the type of person who pushed me overtly. But she knew how to get her way by being very passive-aggressive. In that sense she pushed very hard. I knew what she wanted and I knew if she didn’t get what she wanted she was going to pout. To keep her from pouting I would try to keep her content because if she was happy I was happy.
Maybe because she didn’t think much of herself, I tried all the more to allow her to take pride in my good qualities. I liked to hear my mom tell other people what a fine student I was. Her approval made me feel wonderful. As long as I got high grades she could brag about me, and that made me content.
I started doing things specifically to please her.
For example, I had never given much thought to how I wanted to wear my hair. At the time, I never really considered how I wanted to look at all. When I was a kid I had big puffy hair, really thick. It was the seventies and big hair was in, even on little boys. My mom liked my thick, wavy hair. As a result, I began parting it, brushing it, styling it in a way I knew pleased her. She was always complimenting me on my hair and pointing it out to other people: “Look, isn’t his hair just beautiful.” And she wonders why I turned gay.
But when a mother and son are as close as we were,
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