The Orange Baton
Childhood Memories Through Adult Eyes
The seventies were wonderful for those of us Gen Xers growing up. Our Baby Boomer parents might recall them differently due to the stress of the economy and the instability of the world. But for us kids it was far out, groovy, and nifty even. My memories are of bright colors, wild plaids, bell bottoms and freedom. It was a time of playing outside until dark, wading through the creek at the far end of our farm, and playing make believe in the haymow. Ever the performer in my imagination, I used the twine from haybales tying them to corncobs and making microphones with long cords. As the hay was fed to the horses throughout the year, multi-leveled stages would appear and my own version of Donny and Marie’s “I’m a Little Bit Country,” would waft up to the rafters of that old barn.
Our old farmhouse was a mixture of the 60’s with its modern look and the 70’s funky technicolor. Our house was carpeted with shags of green, pink, rust, blue and harvest gold. I have a lot of memories from that harvest gold carpet. My father had a bad back from years as a pitcher in school and a career on the road driving many miles each week to make his sales calls. When he watched our TV, choosing from the available 4 channels on our antenna, he would most often do so on the floor with his head on a sofa pillow and a dog by his side. Laying in the supine position offered some relief for his aching back.
Watching TV in the 70’s was a much different experience than it is today. Words like binging and streaming were not used to describe television consumption. A literal TV Guide would arrive in the mailbox each week and my brother and I would scan it making notes of what we wanted to watch, paying careful attention to the day, time and channel where the particular show would be aired. If you missed it, well you missed it. One of my favorite things to watch on the TV each year was the Thanksgiving Day parade. I was particularly enamored with the marching bands led by the majorettes. Wearing sparkly sequined leotards and white go-go boots, they marched with precision while twirling a silver baton with white rubber ends. They twirled their batons at what seemed like impossible superhuman speed, throwing it high into the air, spinning around and catching it as it came back toward the earth. Wow! That is what I want to do! I want to be out there in front of the band. I wanted to master the skills to twirl, and throw, and spin and catch. And don’t forget the final pose at the end, much like when a gymnast nails a landing. All of it, I loved all of it.
For whatever reason, taking lessons, learning new things was encouraged in my family. The follow through with getting me to the lessons and then moving beyond lessons into something more permanent was where it tended to break down. So, I took swimming lessons, tennis lessons, golf lessons, piano lessons, and you guessed it, baton lessons. It was a small ragtag group of girls who met in one of the show barns at the county fairgrounds on Saturday mornings when my mother remembered to take me. My first lesson felt like a dream come true. I was so excited. Equipped with my new baton that my parents assured me was okay, I marched in to take my place on the sawdust floor. Our teacher introduced herself and each of us girls stated our name and our school as these lessons were held in the neighboring town. I didn’t know anyone present that day and as I scanned the participants, I noticed something. The girls were each holding beautiful, shimmering silver batons with the white rubber ends. Just like the ones I saw on my TV. As an eight-year-old I was already beginning to see myself as different, truly a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. Already beginning to feel as though I did not fully fit in so I tried to hide my baton behind me as I stated my name and where I was from. My parents, forever the bargain hunters, had found my baton on clearance somewhere, I loved it when they first brought it home, now somehow here with all these other girls, I was ashamed of my bright orange baton with lime green rubber ends. There was nowhere to hide. My childhood was filled with moments like this, of almost fitting in. Almost but not quite. I knew better than to mention my embarrassment to my parents. It would have likely been dismissed and I would have been scolded for not being grateful. Making the best of it, I learned to twirl and march and spin, all with that orange baton. I even marched in a parade or two.
About halfway into these lessons, which were the highlight of my week, I was practicing my twirling at home and must have excited our family dog, Buddy Boy. Buddy Boy was a wild puppy who was often misbehaving and out of what seemed like nowhere he attacked me. I understood that it was only in play, but he had me on the ground, wrestling me. I somehow got away and was pretty scratched up although mostly just scared. Running to my father, I told him what had just happened with Buddy Boy, and he was enraged, grabbed the first thing he could find and beat my poor dog with it. I have always felt guilty because I was not hurt as bad as my father hurt Buddy Boy that day. Maybe I could have spared him if I hadn’t said anything. Fortunately, Buddy Boy was ok and went back to being his rambunctious self. But what I soon noticed was that my orange baton with the lime green ends was now bent. I sobbed not just for my dog but for my baton. Dad tried to straighten it out, but it forever had a slight bend it in and didn’t respond the way the other batons did. There was no offer to replace it, I was being overly sensitive, it was still fine, I was told. If I was embarrassed by my baton to begin with, I was mortified now. The sight of it, an ever-present symbol of my not fitting in, and a reminder of what I did to my dog. I felt shame.
Although I was only 8, I had already knew how to get out of going to baton lessons. All I had to do was fail to remind my mother. I was acutely aware of the time even as a small child so if I just stayed silent long enough by the time she remembered, and it would be too late to take me. After missing practice several weeks in a row, it just made sense to drop out. Leaving a lot of unresolved emotions in the wake. The unmerited guilt and shame clinging to me and the feeling of being responsible for others that I have carried throughout my life. As I process this now, I realize I was a little girl feeling a lot of big emotions. I felt embarrassed that my baton was orange, then guilt for being embarrassed by it. I felt responsible for it being bent, because I told on my dog and he paid the price, I felt responsible for my father’s anger, his way of protecting me. I didn’t feel protected, I felt shame. I have spent a lifetime of taking responsibility for the actions of others.
As I am addressing my habit of taking responsibility, even when it is not mine to take I am learning to question my guilt. I see my pattern of feeling guilty for things that I am not guilty of. I have been realizing the way these distortions have also distorted my understanding of God. Seeing God through this slanted lens believing subconsciously that God scrutinizes everything I say and everything I do and looks at me with wrathful eyes, filling me with shame. I can on the surface speak enough Christianese to contradict this idea of God, but deep below the thought remains.
When I think of deconstructing my faith, I cannot do it apart from deconstructing the messages my little girl brain heard and applied in ways my adult brain cannot fathom. Dr. Nicole LePera in her book “How to do the Work; Recognize Your Patterns, Heal from Your Past, and Create Your Self,” talks about childhood trauma in a different way. She explains that our developing brain comprehends the events of our young lives in ways that can leave us with inaccurate understandings that follow us into adulthood. Being ego-centric in childhood means that everything that happens is perceived as our fault. If I am the center of my world and my world is falling apart it must be because of me. When I think my orange baton, now as an adult I can see that I was not a bad little girl. I was just a child doing the best that she could with no help in dealing with the big feelings she was having. Feelings like shame, embarrassment, fear, guilt, and dread. Instead, I turned these emotions inward and my mind was filled with harsh judgment. I should be grateful, I should have gone to practice, I should have told mom it was time, I should not have told dad about Buddy Boy. I should have put my baton away so it wouldn’t be used as a weapon. All of it was my fault and I needed to do better. In adulthood, I simply see a little girl wanting to fit in, scared by her dog, wanting protection from her father, trying to navigate a myriad of emotions on her own. I feel for that little girl.
As this relates to my faith, I am beginning to glimpse the ways in which not only my understanding of myself have been misinformed but my faith as well. As a child I understood that God loved me, I believed my parents loved me too. They told me so and they were affectionate with me. They were also critical, angry, and unloving at times. I knew they loved me and yet they made me feel I could never be good enough; thoughtful enough. Dismissing my feelings, dismissing my thoughts, ruling over me with fear and judgment and then praising me only when I did things for them. I learned to dismiss myself too. It makes me think of the passage in Philippians; “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.” I took this very literally and understood it to mean that any time I considered myself I was being selfish and going against God. All of this was reinforced with my relationship with my parents.
I recently looked this passage up in my old NIV Study Bible and I noticed that the very next verse was completely unfamiliar to me. Philippians 2:4 says, “Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” It is even underlined in my old college Bible. I am beginning to explore the idea of both as this verse includes looking at my own interests, not just the interests of others. I am learning now to not only care for those around me but to care for myself so that I have something to give the other people in my life. Giving out of abundance rather than out of depletion is so much more satisfying. And this is what Dr. LePara is talking about, examining these beliefs that developed as I grew up and then challenging them.
My faith deconstruction is occurring side by side with my deconstruction of my childhood and the messages I received that are no longer serving me. It would be simpler to focus on one or the other, but they are so fully intertwined that I do not have that luxury. It is taking much effort, but I am already beginning to see the fruit of my labor. New thought: What if God wants for me the very things, I want for myself? Mind blowing! I am learning listen to my authentic self and giving space for the desires of my heart.