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Commentary - Jul 8, 2008 - Printable Version
- Exercising Ghosts
by Robin Buckallew
This has been quite a year for ghosts. Not ghosts of long past, that wander through hallways in buildings where they died and their soul is doomed to wander; ghosts from my past, that refuse to die, even though at times I think I’ve successfully laid them to rest. We all know these ghosts – even those of us who’ve never seen a ghost of the other kind often find ourselves bedeviled by our own personal ghosts. This year, ghosts have been everywhere I’ve been. It all started a couple of months ago when my husband and I went to see a play entitled, fittingly enough, “Holy Ghosts”. I walked out of the play that night with a strange, nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a sort of surreal sensation in my head that I haven’t been able to shake since. I’ve been to many a play, including a great deal of avant garde and off Broadway fare, and I’ve never had any play affect me this way before. Perhaps it was the intensity of the play – but I’ve been to many plays that were even more intense than this one, and walked out shaken but able to recover my equilibrium quickly. No, it was something more. It was the characters, who reminded me of people I used to know – people I still know, in fact. It was the actors, who brought those characters to life with an astounding accuracy that hit me in the pit of the stomach. It was the subject matter, which brought forth many memories that had for a long time been only a faint, distant memory. Although I am an unusually well-grounded person by this stage in my life, I have not been quite as grounded since viewing that particular play. Something reached out, yanked at my stomach, and lodged it deep in my throat.
Another ghost story that I encountered, just last week, was the occasion of my 30-year high school reunion. I didn’t enjoy high school (but then, who did?). I haven’t really enjoyed my other reunions. I couldn’t really think of more than about 2 people I wanted to see again, but I felt it was important for me to go to the reunion, though if pressed, I couldn’t have said why. I remember at my 20-year reunion, the surreal experience of having people come up and hug me, greeting me like I was the long-lost friend they had thought they would never see again. Most of these people wouldn’t even speak to me or be seen in my company when we were in high school. Most of the stories that were shared were of experiences I hadn’t shared, having been the wrong sort of kid from the wrong side of the tracks, who had the wrong sort of family to be able to fit into high school society. Time, however, is a great equalizer, and I found I was able to move with them on equal footing 20 years later. So, I packed up my bags and headed to Oklahoma.
The reunion began, as reunions will, with reestablishing old acquaintances. The first step in any greeting was, of course, to check the name tag and make sure you were greeting the right person (after 30 years, most of us didn’t look too much like we did in our senior picture). Then, catching up – where were you? What had you been doing? Any kids, grandkids? Most of this just becomes a formality after a time, as you retell the same stories over and over, with a total awareness that the person you’re speaking to is as tired of their own story as you are of yours. You compare pasts and presents, and wonder how other people have managed to avoid the weight gain that seemed to become inevitable as you crept past 40. You try to decide who is and isn’t dying their hair, and whether anyone in the class has had plastic surgery to keep them looking younger than you look. You look around you at some of your classmates, and tell yourself that there is NO WAY you could possibly have gone to school with these old people, because you’re much younger than that. Eventually, as the evening wears on, cliques begin to form again, and soon you find yourself wandering around on the edges, much as you did 30 years ago, with the slight difference that when you stop at one of these groups for a brief social moment, the mood is welcoming and not hostile. You move on after only a short chat.
Before the evening was out, I found myself in much the same position as I was in most of my high school years – sitting sort of off to one side by myself, watching everyone else interact, listening to the sound of laughter and animated conversation coming from groups I wasn’t part of. There was one difference, however, from this experience and high school – on this occasion, I was sitting apart by my choice. I began to watch and listen, just as I had watched and listened all through high school. I began to realize, as I realized 30 years ago, that I had little in common with the people I was visiting with. I couldn’t share their memories, because I didn’t share their experiences. I couldn’t share their sorrows and joys since that time, because we seemed to have no common frame of reference. Which isn’t to say I haven’t had sorrows and joys – I’ve had plenty of both – but somehow there was no common meeting ground. Somewhere, our paths had diverged. We were all friendly and polite, and I have to say, most of the people I went to high school with are decent, friendly, and good people, but on the whole, I was still an outsider. I was still watching. I was still listening. I was still playing tetherball alone.
Many years have passed since the ghosts have been a living presence in my life. The pathology of my toxic childhood has passed away into ancient history, and I rarely look back at it with any recognition that it was really me that lived and breathed the noxious fumes of a scary, tortured life. The mental and physical pain that I endured has passed, and, as I said earlier, I have managed to achieve an enviable equilibrium and a remarkably well-grounded view of the world. Few people who have met me in the past decade would recognize that scared, lonely, shy and friendless girl. I often laugh at the teasing memories that dart casually around my consciousness, and file them away again as just so much water under the bridge. In spite of that, the ghosts are still there, and on occasion, they feel the need to come out for some exercise. When they do that, I have learned to welcome them. I can learn a lot from my ghosts, and no longer fear the inevitable upwelling of past experiences, even when the feeling they leave behind is somewhat less than totally pleasant.
The ghosts of my childhood taught me a lot. At an age where most people are being taught that people are mostly good, deep down, I was learning about the dark underbelly that exists in all human societies. I was learning about it not in books, but first hand. I was learning about terror, hunger, isolation, and anger. Most of all, I was learning how to read people. Of necessity, I learned how to tell when people were getting ready to shift moods without warning. I learned how to prepare myself for the worst that people could deliver. I realized, sitting there at my high school reunion, that the experiences of watching and listening were the most valuable experiences I could have had. Many people talk to people, but few people actually listen to them – I mean, really listen, listen without uttering a single word yourself. Listen without being part of things, without becoming invested in the outcome.
For much of my life, I was afraid of ghosts – not of the kind that wander dark hallways clanking chains, but the kind that wander the dark recesses of my subconscious, clanking memories. Now, I am no longer afraid of ghosts. Though I still haven’t regained my equilibrium from the disturbing play that my husband and I attended, I have regained something at least as valuable – an understanding of exactly why I have been fighting the battles I’ve been fighting, why I’ve continued to beat my head against brick walls that are seemingly invincible. As for my class reunion, I’ve learned that some ghosts are now harmless, though they may have seemed quite terrifying many years ago. I’ve realized that the isolation of my childhood has turned into a quiet, comfortable solitude that I can move into and out of at will.
My ghosts, while somewhat disturbing to my inner tranquility at times, have given me a renewed sense of purpose. As I watch them moving around in the wispy shadows, and listen to their clanking chains, I can renew my sense of purpose and my determination to make the world a better place. From time to time in my life, I’ve attempted to exorcise my ghosts; now, I just think the best thing for me to do is to occasionally exercise them instead.
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