Section: Life and Times
I am in a place of constant movement . . . I wrote in my journal . . . some episodic, as when huge boulders break loose and tumble down the gorge or when the canyon hosts the raging floods from which it got its name.
Taylor Town ~
By Cynthia Harrison
W
hen I was a little girl, just seven years old, my mother sent me to the shopping plaza to buy something she needed. I was happy to go on this adventure and amazingly my friend Pammy's mom let her accompany me. Pam’s mom was very protective of her children, and she was nice in a way that my mom was not. She looked me in the eye. She seemed to listen to what I said and find it interesting.
If she belived walking to TaylorTown was dangerous, she wouldn't have let Pammy go. It was a more innocent time then. People didn't lock their doors. Families only had one car, and dad drove it to work. But still, when I think of what those mothers let us do! Two miles away, down a busy road and up a scary hill. It was a world away from the block of tiny cookie cutter houses where Pammy and I lived across the street from each other.
Nylons? Envelopes? Coffee? I'm not sure what my mom had sent me to purchase. TaylorTown was comprised of the A&P, a department store, Cunningham drugs, a laundrymat. Pammy and I had a grand adventure. We spent hours in the basement toy department of Federal's. I bought a plastic tea set with the money left over from whatever I'd purchased for my mom.
When we came home from TaylorTown with the approved item for my mother, whatever it was, I showed Pammy's mother the tea set I had bought with the money left over. She admired it, but there was a note of caution in her voice I did not understand until later, when I showed the tea set to my own mother, who went into a fury because I had spent the left over money. She had not told me I couldn’t spend it, so I had therefore assumed I could. I thought it was my reward for walking so far and finding her package and bringing it safely home.
After the initial cold fury, which I had witnessed many times before, usually not directed at me but my dad, she calmed down and gave me my punishment. I must immediately walk back to TaylorTown with the teaset which was not mine, I must show the salesclerk the receipt, and tell her I had bought it without my mother’s permission and was returning it for a full refund.
I was very tired on that second trip to TaylorTown. And it was not fun, as Pam did not accompany me. When I told Pam's mom what I had to do, she said she was sorry, but Pammy was having a snack. I could hear cartoons on the televison and Pammy and her brother laughing at something silly on the screen. I was sad and ashamed, walking back to TaylorTown. The sales lady, when I got there, sweaty and sincere and wiped out, spilling my story, holding back tears as much as possible, was very nice to me. She gave me all my mother's money back. When I walked home, there were lots of cars on the road. Way more than before. Fathers were coming home from work. But probably not my father, who liked to go to the bar after work.
I only figured out a few days ago that, when it comes to money, my husband is my mother when I was seven years old. Every time I spend money, I feel a deep shame, as if I don't deserve to have the things that I buy. My husband doesn't understand my shame, but he feeds on it and encourages it. He, just like my mother, doesn't think I deserve to buy nice things with his money. And yeah, I've worked most of my adult life, but my paycheck is still his money and we both know it. I've given him so much power. I guess I'm fortunate that he's generally a benign dictator. Too bad for him, I'm about to stage a coup.
Understanding the roots of my shame about money and spending has affected me in a way that all the analysis of the situation I've done over the years never could. Why did this painful childhood memory surface right now? I think it has something to do with the work I've been doing with the Joy Diet. And painful as it was to relive that memory, I'm grateful for it. It set me free.
Back To The Cover
Life and Times
