Celebrating with Sadness

Let me bring you into my world for a little while, the complex world of a woman who was told her primary purpose was homemaker, therefore, education was only useful if it helped her support her husband and raise he children.

What qualified as helpful was determined by her father, who was her authority until she married someone he approved of. He was the voice of God in her life until he gave her in marriage to a man who would be the new voice of God.

Any easy story to recount would be one where I woke up one day and said, “fuck all that crap” and got the hell out.

But leaving a space of coercion, extortion, and control was a slow fade, a gradual awakening. As a result, all my graduations (high school, college, grad school) are shrouded in complex emotions, foremost of which is confusion.

You’re supposed to be happy at your graduation, but at my high school graduation, I only felt sad—sad because I felt it was the last time I’d wear a cap and gown and receive a diploma.

My college graduation wasn’t really a graduation. I received a diploma in the mail a few months after turning in my last assignment. I’d done most of college in secret, studying late at night while nannying for a night nurse and trying to keep my head above water as I killed myself by working full time and doing school so I could finish in my mid twenties. I tried to celebrate, but if I could have named what I felt at that time, all I wanted was to forget about the experience and move on with the next phase of my life, which comprised getting as far away from that oppressive world as possible. While I enjoyed many of my literature classes for a BA in English, college was a means to an end, a way to ensure I’d have access to more jobs once I escaped.

Four years later, I wore a cap and gown again and walked another stage to receive my graduate degree. I knew in my head I’d achieved the impossible, considering how hard I’d had to fight for education, but even that experience was confusing, as my parents, who’d barred my path to my dreams, showed up to celebrate and told me they were proud of me. (What the actual fuck?)

Oh yeah, and they gave me a KitchenAid mixer for a graduation gift. (Subtle much?)

As I’ve been working on writing my story of clawing my way to education and career, I realized I never really celebrated these accomplishments for the truly miraculous feats of human resilience and gumption they were.

My friend Cait and I had planned a writers’ retreat for ourselves. Cait grew up like I did, in the world of the Christian Patriarchy movement (Stay at Home Daughter movement). We decided to wear caps and gowns again, to celebrate what’s been difficult to celebrate.

As we posed for photos in Chicago’s Millennium Park, lots of folks wandering around told us Congratulations. One woman said, “Congratulations. Y’all are awesome.” I responded, “Thank you. Yes we are.”

We attached a quote from Jane Eyre to the top of our caps: “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will[.]”

When you’re working hard to survive, you rarely see what an amazing achievement survival itself is. I look back on the story of my life, and most of the time I see myself as small and terrified, making bold choices but wondering if I were going to die.

Celebrating is still complex, confusing, and challenging. But we celebrate anyway. I accepted the accolade of, “You’re Awesome,” even if I can’t quite believe it yet.

Sometimes I’m tired of grieving for the things I’ve lost, for the things denied me, for how hard I had to work. I should never have had to fight for the opportunity to make my own choices for my human life.

I should not have had to demand dignity and respect. I should not have to struggle, as a thirty-eight-year-old woman, to believe I’m worth dignity and respect.

I should not have to struggle to feel joy when I acknowledge all I’ve accomplished.

One day, perhaps, I will be able to celebrate without sadness.