I was stunned, several weeks ago, to hear from a very old friend of mine, out of the blue. I mean a really old friend, whom I had not seen in almost 50 years, longer than many of my readers have been alive, and I had not thought of her in almost that long. I suppose she was shrouded over by a whole chapter of my trauma story that I did not realize was still shrouded from view and memory. Strange how trauma memory can be, where we feel as if we have been working, working, working on it for what seems like forever, and then a whole “new” piece, in this case, a whole new chapter of my intergenerational transmission legacy, barges in completely uninvited and unanticipated.
This dear friend was from when I was barely 23. In fact, until we recently spoke, I only had two memories of her. The first was a vivid one I could feel in my whole body. Sitting on the floor in her Berkeley apartment, a block away from mine, and talking for hours on end. Hours and hours as only 20-somethings can, drinking our unending coffees, while she chain-smoked. I can viscerally remember I loved her so much. Now, I felt it all over again. Her voice on the phone sounded the same, and I wanted to cry. We could not get the visuals of Zoom or FaceTime to work that day, so it was only voice. It did not matter. I only had that one memory and one other, the time I met Whoopi Goldberg at her apartment. I guess they were friends. It was way before Whoopi was famous, but somehow, I remembered that.
Strangely she remembered something else, which I barely recalled until she spoke of it. She felt so much sorrow, remorse, shame, and regret ever since. She remembered some sort of betrayal of me with a boyfriend. I barely remembered him at all, and the betrayal was an almost non-existent memory. But I guess I was pretty upset at the time, and thinking on it now, any sort of betrayal would have probably undone me, being a trauma trigger, even though it was all long before I really remembered much of any of my trauma at all. This was a blessed reunion, and although I have not gotten together with her yet, I think about her every day and plan to contact her, even if I have been perhaps a wee bit afraid to do it…
It was also curiously serendipitous that the next book in my queue was the recent memoir by Whoopi Goldberg! Appearing only weeks ago, and I have been eager to get to it.
LOL
It is rare for me to literally laugh out loud when I am reading a book. In this book, it was particularly striking, as this (Bits and Pieces, Blackstone Publisher 2024) is a book largely about grief. I guess a really good comic can make a joke out of almost anything, and even do it tastefully, in this case even brilliantly. What a great writer!
Whoopi, whose given name was Caryn Johnson (!) lost the two most beloved and essential people in her life: her mother Emma, and her brother Clyde, recently and within very short proximity of each other, and both way too soon. It is a story of loss. But also, a story of much fun and much joy, as well as a vivid history of being African American and poor; and finding her way in the complex world of stage and screen. I was completely drawn in and somewhat mesmerized. Admittedly it made me think, because, on one hand, she described her life in the most idyllic ways, somehow Emma, as poor as they were, managed to take Caryn and her brother Clyde to the movies, the theater, the circus, and museums, where young Caryn fell irretrievably in love with that wide world. Simultaneously Emma worked long and grueling hours as a single Black mom would have to do. Caryn and Clyde were textbook latch-key kids, and inseparable. Clyde had the strength and character, and the depth of love, such as even to allow his little sister to not tag along but actually join him and his cool friends, even as they ventured into adolescence. And of course, she loved it.
So, in many ways, standing back from it, and viewing it through my trauma and neglect, lens, it was very much a neglect story. But those kids did not feel abandoned or lost. At least according to this account. Emma worked night shifts and somehow was able to cover the main areas of care and presence, at least from Whoopi’s point of view. And although Emma had an odd style of answering any of her daughter’s questions with a question, somehow Whoopi found in that the curiosity and the drive to seek her own authentic answers, which she unquestionable and doggedly did. And yes, she did develop into what I would consider a fiercely self-reliant character, with all the accompanying relationship challenges. Like many the self-reliant, Caryn/Whoop was rather proud of all that she did make happen on her own steam. And as is typically the case, she made pretty much a mess of the relationship world – except of course with Emma and Clyde.
When Caryn was eight, she lived the terrifying trauma of seeing her mother swept up by the whirlwind of some kind of psychotic state, that the child of course did not know how to understand at that tender age. An ambulance came and removed Emma from her and Clyde’s lives for two years. Poof! There was no contact and she and Clyde did not know where their mother was, if or when they would see her again, for that whole time, meanwhile being carted between various relatives. It is unimaginable from an attachment standpoint, however, when Emma returned, their life together was slowly restored to the one of fun, adventure, and creativity that most of the book is about. As it turned out, her mother, for her part, had been whisked off to a draconian New York mental hospital, where all the nightmarish” treatments” (tortures?) like cuckoo’s nest-like drugs and electroshock therapy were administered in the ungodly and decidedly non-consensual, seemingly arbitrary or “experimental” dosages that one would expect for a poor woman of color. Emma spoke little of that story, much as my parents never talked much about theirs. But much like me, Caryn knew it was bad.
Caryn had severe learning problems and hated school. When she wanted to drop out of high school, her mother did not prevent it, and so she pursued the other avenues, at which as we know she was wildly successful, although it clearly was not an easy road. So, this book made me stop and re-think my neglect perspective, and reminded me that some might prefer not to rock the boat, or see it in the way I do. Always a good reminder that being dogmatic and orthodox in my thinking is rarely a good idea. And for some, things might seem very different than they do to me.
Where I began to have problems with the book however, was when we got to the “intergenerational transmission” part of the story. At 16, Caryn got pregnant and wanted unambivalently to have her child. Emma, being a marcher for choice, disagreed but did not interfere with her decision. But between being barely a kid herself, and breaking into a world of theater and film, she was compelled to follow opportunity and be absent for large swaths of her daughter Alexandria’s life. The girl moved between her father’s and Emma’s care, and although Whoopi, perhaps defensively, felt as if she was entrusting her daughter to the person she trusted most in the world, still her young daughter was bitter and certainly would fit the neglect profile.
In this part of the book Whoopi flip-flops between, denial, defensiveness, profound remorse, and sorrowful guilt and empathy on her daughter’s behalf. Perhaps a poignant part of the story, at least for me, is where young Alexandria says she cannot wait to have her own child, because “then there will be one person in the world who does not know who Whoopi Goldberg is” (at least for a time…) I could certainly relate to that feeling as can many who have a very accomplished- (or narcissistic) parent. So, I swam through that final section of the book, perhaps less enamored of Whoopi, but she also made me think.
The Bermuda Triangle Revisited
I speak often of what I refer to as the Bermuda Triangle: the raging storm of anger, grief, and guilt that swirls around an all-in-one cyclone-like force inside the child of neglect, often relentlessly- about the neglectful and/or traumatizing parent. I was certainly racked by it for years, and so many people cling to and resonate with the concept. I had not thought so much about it from the parent’s point of view, however. Whoopi Goldberg had a dream and a gift. She pursued it, created, and continues to create a huge body of brilliant work, and has brought a fair measure of laughter and joy, even inspiration and enlightenment to many. And she neglected her kid. She has to reckon with that and reconcile it somehow. Fortunately, she seems to be conscious and her daughter is still young. So, there is still time, to break or at least alter the intergenerational chain. And I am left with mixed feelings as I finish this book, even if I still think it is a great read, I recommend it!
I knew before I was five, that I would never be a mother. I looked up into the vacant, absent, terrified, anxious, or angry face of my own poor mother, and I never wanted anyone to feel the way I felt. I frankly did not think I could do better. It is an act of great courage, to make the choice to bring a child into this world, and life is filled with hard choices. I think I made a perhaps cowardly choice. But certainly, the best one for me. I have never regretted it.
Three R’s
People often come to me after one of my talks, with their eyes wide and often wet, feeling as if they have done irreparable harm or damage to their kids, young or old. I am not a parent, so hardly qualified to comment: what I know is from other means. I do know, however, that the attachment researchers remind us that the gold standard, the very best of the best of the attuned and good enough parents, get it “right” 30% of the time, 30%! That is less than a third. The rest of the time, it is the endless dance of rupture and repair, rupture and repair (which happens to be the theme of the upcoming Oxford Trauma and Attachment conference in September). It is really never too late as long as one is still breathing. Whoopi’s grief about her precious mother and brother is palpable. But Alexandria is still breathing. That is good news for all.
When I was in training to become a couple’s therapist in 1998, after experiencing the transformation of my own marriage, I seem to remember we had to choose a nickname for some reason. I always liked that my initial was “R” as that was what the Chilean revolutionaries painted in red on the walls in a circle, to prove that the Resistance, the outlawed political parties reorganizing underground, were still breathing. I chose the nickname Relationship Repair. I still like that!
This week’s song:
