Wrong

Wrong

I sat in the backseat of that old Chevrolet with my sisters packed in near me. Of course, I had a window. I was the oldest. My patent leather shoes were polished and gleaming. My white sailor dress with the navy trim had been meticulously starched and pressed. Lace embellished the dainty socks that peeked over my ankles. My hair had been permed into tiny curls and a barrette kept it pinned to one side.  Nails cut short and cleaned with a brush. Grass stained knees whitewashed with Comet. The girls looked identical. Matching shoes, matching dresses and matching hair. “This is the way girls are supposed to look,” said my father. “Don’t move, don’t get dirty and don’t speak. You are to be seen and not heard.” The welts from some infraction my father had imagined still burned into my backside. My five year old mind could not comprehend the laundry list of shoulds and should-nots demanded by our leader. This one thing I knew today. We were visiting my father’s parents. We all had to be perfect. I felt my life depended on it. There would be cousins at my grandparents but we were not allowed to play. We might get dirty. We would sit together as trained, in order, oldest to youngest on a bench. Others would play ball, or play tag or run up and down the stairs to look out the bathroom window that overlooked the lawn, but not us.

As we rambled along the country roads up and down the hills, I stared at the meadows and the sky.  The sun poured into the window and the vinyl seat became sticky under my legs.  The feint whiff of exhaust seeped up from the back of the car.  My stomach twisted and lurched the further we traveled. I rested my head on the door to cool my face. I shook, I tremored and then it happened. I began to gag and my parents began screaming at me.  “Oh no you don’t!” Pull over!! Out I was yanked onto the roadside where I emptied the contents of my interior. “Don’t get it on your sisters! How could you? I worked so hard to make you perfect and look what you have done?!You are going to pay for this, Missy.”

Once again, I was wrong. I was wrong for being sick. I was wrong for spotting my dress. I was wrong for upsetting the schedule. I had disappointed my parents one more time simply by being me.

Fifty years later, this memory still elicits nausea and heart racing. I can feel how deeply it has invaded my walls and hides within my core. “See, I am being perfect. I am following all the rules. See, I got an A in all my classes. See, I am wearing my hair just right. I am hiding my tom-boy desires to run and fall and get dirty. I am sitting on the bench while the others rough house and tumble.”

Being wrong brings about pain and suffering. It is to be avoided at all costs. This is the indelible writing on my psyche.

How can I swim with my creativity when this anchor of fear drags me down? Creativity by its own description dares to be wrong. Not everyone will agree with the creator’s design and that is acceptable. Someone will pioneer a new way of thinking or being in the world. Unique paintings, futuristic architecture, imaginative storylines are expressions of creativity that break the mold for others. It is the creator’s imagination brought into the physical.

My words are my play. They are my freedom. My life is my joy and my words are my expression. The child in me craves acceptance and reassurance. The adult knows that to embrace happiness and find peace, I must face being wrong. If not, my world collapses and imprisons my thoughts and yearnings. How can I be all that I imagine if I stay on the bench? Too often I have felt the welts of criticism from bosses, lovers or society. Staying orderly was my attempt at staying safe. If I sit here quietly maybe then I will not earn the lashings of their disapproval.

Brilliant scientists and famous inventors courageously defied naysayers.

Thomas Edison the inventor wrote about himself: "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Henry Ford failed and went broke five times before he succeeded.  The director of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, told Norma Jean Baker, "You'd better learn secretarial work or else get married." Norma Jean, of course, became Marilyn Monroe. Today’s technology companies encourage their employees to take shots in the dark. Sooner or later one of these ideas will be a hit. If you aren’t failing then you aren’t trying, you are not thinking out of the box. I was encouraged, in the job I have now, to design my own programs and set my own agenda. At the same time, I was told, “just don’t screw up.” How was I to be innovative and creative while guaranteeing my supervisor that I wouldn’t make a mistake?

I enjoy seeing older, retired women who have been designated “eccentric” by the rest of the community. What a hoot. These ladies have just stopped caring if people want to disapprove or make them wrong. They are wearing outlandish accessories with crazy makeup. I don’t think its dementia at all. I envy their lack of adherence to admonishments by roving fashion police. They are no longer restricted by a performance appraisal or risk of unemployment.

  

I release myself from the weight of responsibility of never being wrong. I allow my hair to be untethered and my thoughts to follow suit. I will stop corralling my dreams and let them wander the countryside. I roam within the parameters of my job description aware that not all my efforts will be appreciated or understood. I follow my heart and do my best to be of assistance to others. My intention is pure. I will make mistakes. I will try and at times I know that I will fail. I welcome my creativity back into my life. I dare to be wrong. I cannot have one without the other. Welcome home inspiration. Welcome home.