My Mom Was A Rock, I Am An Island, But What About My Son?
I don't have many friends.
This isn't a call for help or pity. It's just a fact. A fact that has been true my entire life: I have always struggled to make friends.
As a kid I was by myself most of the time at home, living in a series of run-down rural places or small scruffy neighborhoods without other kids my age. In elementary and junior high I had a best friend or two, but that dwindled in high school. I was not a popular teen, even in the smaller universe of band nerds. In fact, it was a little bit of the opposite -- often enduring both the covert and open ridicule that is the hallmark of growing up.
I made two or three good friends early in my college career, but we went our separate ways after dorm life. As an upperclassman, I didn't form strong friendships at the student newspaper. On the contrary; one editor printed my name on the back of a T-shirt with "Major Issues" listed as my nickname.
In my mid-20's I struggled to find women to fill my wedding party. In my 30's I joined a mom's group, but half a decade later we are only in touch via Facebook.
Like Simon and Garfunkel sang, "I am a rock, I am an island."
I am intelligent, funny, engaging, and fiercely loyal. I am also glass-half-empty, anxious, critical, and -- according to one of my favorite people -- "can be prickly." Many times throughout the years I've attempted to coax parts of my personality to be more positive or complain less. I've set New Year's resolutions and bought self-help books, kept gratitude journals and been in counseling.
But recently I've come to believe the world needs melancholy, empathetic, deep-feeling people too. How much less would the world be without artist Vincent Van Gogh, musician Kurt Cobain, comedian Lewis Black?
So this is who I am. A couple hundred people on social media find my posts entertaining, but I can count my actual friends on one hand. And I come by it honestly.
Though I didn't really have the chance to know my mother as an adult, the older I get the more I believe this was her personality too. I can only recall two friends she had, and only for a few years each. Part of this can be attributed to our constant poverty -- if you only have five bucks of gas in the tank, you don't waste it on visiting a friend unless she's in an emergency. I don't know what the other part is; perhaps it was her choice to be solitary. I can't think of one time I watched her make a call just to chat with someone (besides me). She had cats inside and neighbors outside, she had co-workers at a few short-lived jobs, but no real friends.
It is not my choice to be solitary, but it is what it is. (How I hate that phrase.) Most of the time I get by on short social interactions with others at yoga or the checkout clerk at Target. I text with one or two friends throughout the week, and I have one thoroughly enjoyable running conversation via Messenger.
My mom was a rock. I am an island. But what about my son?
At 7 years old, it pains me to see that he doesn't have any friends yet. Throughout preschool, kindergarten, and first grade, he was never asked on a play date. I have taken the initiative to set up a few, but the other parents never reciprocated and the connections faded. He has attempted to play with other kids in our neighborhood, asked to ride bikes with them, even visited one or two houses -- nothing ever came of it. I see roaming groups of kids hanging out together and entertaining each other, but my son isn't one of them. And my heart hurts.
Then the pandemic came, and he lost even the chance to make friendships from less than six feet away. Has coronavirus has been harder on those who have a lot of friends they can't see, or those who have none and can't make any?
I try to find solace in the idea that he's still young, and he will find his tribe someday, and he will love them hard. But I never did. So what comfort is that?
I'm not good at praying, but I pray that he will not be a rock or an island. I pray that he will be a peninsula, connected and grounded by a small but important group of friends he can rely on and make a lifetime of memories with. I pray that he is not the next Van Gogh, Cobain, Black, Simon, or Garfunkel.
Or the next me.
This isn't a call for help or pity. It's just a fact. A fact that has been true my entire life: I have always struggled to make friends.
As a kid I was by myself most of the time at home, living in a series of run-down rural places or small scruffy neighborhoods without other kids my age. In elementary and junior high I had a best friend or two, but that dwindled in high school. I was not a popular teen, even in the smaller universe of band nerds. In fact, it was a little bit of the opposite -- often enduring both the covert and open ridicule that is the hallmark of growing up.
I made two or three good friends early in my college career, but we went our separate ways after dorm life. As an upperclassman, I didn't form strong friendships at the student newspaper. On the contrary; one editor printed my name on the back of a T-shirt with "Major Issues" listed as my nickname.
In my mid-20's I struggled to find women to fill my wedding party. In my 30's I joined a mom's group, but half a decade later we are only in touch via Facebook.
Like Simon and Garfunkel sang, "I am a rock, I am an island."
But recently I've come to believe the world needs melancholy, empathetic, deep-feeling people too. How much less would the world be without artist Vincent Van Gogh, musician Kurt Cobain, comedian Lewis Black?
So this is who I am. A couple hundred people on social media find my posts entertaining, but I can count my actual friends on one hand. And I come by it honestly.
Though I didn't really have the chance to know my mother as an adult, the older I get the more I believe this was her personality too. I can only recall two friends she had, and only for a few years each. Part of this can be attributed to our constant poverty -- if you only have five bucks of gas in the tank, you don't waste it on visiting a friend unless she's in an emergency. I don't know what the other part is; perhaps it was her choice to be solitary. I can't think of one time I watched her make a call just to chat with someone (besides me). She had cats inside and neighbors outside, she had co-workers at a few short-lived jobs, but no real friends.
It is not my choice to be solitary, but it is what it is. (How I hate that phrase.) Most of the time I get by on short social interactions with others at yoga or the checkout clerk at Target. I text with one or two friends throughout the week, and I have one thoroughly enjoyable running conversation via Messenger.
My mom was a rock. I am an island. But what about my son?
At 7 years old, it pains me to see that he doesn't have any friends yet. Throughout preschool, kindergarten, and first grade, he was never asked on a play date. I have taken the initiative to set up a few, but the other parents never reciprocated and the connections faded. He has attempted to play with other kids in our neighborhood, asked to ride bikes with them, even visited one or two houses -- nothing ever came of it. I see roaming groups of kids hanging out together and entertaining each other, but my son isn't one of them. And my heart hurts.
Then the pandemic came, and he lost even the chance to make friendships from less than six feet away. Has coronavirus has been harder on those who have a lot of friends they can't see, or those who have none and can't make any?
I try to find solace in the idea that he's still young, and he will find his tribe someday, and he will love them hard. But I never did. So what comfort is that?
I'm not good at praying, but I pray that he will not be a rock or an island. I pray that he will be a peninsula, connected and grounded by a small but important group of friends he can rely on and make a lifetime of memories with. I pray that he is not the next Van Gogh, Cobain, Black, Simon, or Garfunkel.
Or the next me.
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