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Come As You Are

My mother and father were friends since childhood. Both my grandfathers were Pentecostal ministers in Minnesota, my parents' paths crossing weekly in church, tent meetings and prayer services. Their young lives hung heavy with fear of God's wrath and judgement. (My grandfather once told my mother he would rather see her dead than on a dance floor.) Neither of my parents went to college -- in their community, higher education, unless religious, was deemed worldly. Yet I grew up in awe of their intelligence (both voracious readers) and their giftedness.

I scrutinize my life and bring my past up to the surface not in self-pity or blame, but with the intention of gaining deeper perspectives and an understanding of the person I have become. When I imagine my parents as children being molded by their world, I recognize they did the best they could and I forgive and accept them with gratitude for all their love and sacrifice on my behalf. In this process of self-evaluation, I have learned that I must ultimately look inside myself for direction, acknowledgement and inspiration, not to someone else.

As creative individuals, we must light our own fires and, in turn, we may brighten the way for others.

There was much in my life to overcome, and much to celebrate. My mom instigated the adoption of my baby sister from a local Indian reservation and later took in foster brothers from the same reservation. My parents shared altruistic ideals, but some deeply ingrained hurt prohibited my father from completing the emotional gesture, whether his children were foster, adopted or biological. His obsession with perfection disallowed him to accept us unconditionally or to encourage the creativity that emanated from each one of us. He taught us to live by the Golden Rule and to treat All Men with equality. Ironically, his regard for the Family of Man did not carry over into his own.

So we children grew up in a state of confusion. It felt much like a roller coaster ride, with more emotional lows than highs. My sisters and I found ourselves competing for our father's love and acceptance. There was never a victor. Even though our mother tried to compensate for the deficit -- reading with us, singing with us, teaching us to sew -- a basic need was left unmet. The need for our father's unconditional love left a chokehold on our self-assurance and creative expression.

I am grateful to have come from a household that made a grand attempt at exemplifying the philosophies that continue to motivate my every step today: accepting my fellow man and reciprocating life's generosity. My mother anchored my understanding of the concept of unqualified love by differentiating between liking and loving. I wasn't expected to like everyone I met, but there was a presumption that I show a level of respect and honor toward all living things and to be open to a broader appreciation and acceptance of others' lives. Everyone has a story. If a bully socked me in the nose, I could dislike him for his actions but was expected to pause and consider the source. My mother, after treating my injured nose, would have said something like: "Perhaps he has a father who socks him in the nose."