And that's where it started. Listening to Michael Jackson's 90's voice, I started to cry. I cried for my internet-friend who was making memories with her daughter who was terminally ill (talk about healing the world, hunh?). I cried for my friend whom I had talked to on the phone that week. Her family had come out on the losing side of a power struggle in their church. A power struggle that they had worked so hard at to defuse, sharing love and compassion to counteract the power play. I cried for the world being on fire, so desperately in need of a 2016 version of the song that was playing. And I cried over Michael Jackson.
Halfway through the song, the crying had turned into a chest clenching, throat catching, snot pouring blubberfest. At that point I should have pulled over and wait for my breakdown to pass. Instead I plowed on along the deserted mountain road, kindly asking the herd of moose lurking in the forest to please not cross the road! At that stage, I would not have known what hit me until me and my cute little yellow car had been turned into a giant tin of Norwegian liverpostei. I cried and cried and sang along at the top of my voice, wishing somehow that just singing about healing the world would actually do some good.
Of course another song came on after that and, as usually happens when something hits you that hard out of the blue, there is nothing like a Lady Gaga song to make you wonder why on earth you let such a tear-jerky-song get to you in the first place. However, this time that rhetorical question kept begging for an answer. In particular the part of me crying over Michael Jackson. And although I usually just write about all the trouble I get into just leading my day-to-day life, I feel compelled to share with you the outcome of my weeks of soul searching following this particular car ride.
The reason I cried over Michael Jackson, was because I felt I had not given him the credits he deserved for the artist he was. And yes, I know, he could not have cared less about my opinion of him. Yet in my own personal sphere, the acknowledgment of Michael Jackson being truly the King of Pop, was a biggie. It traced right back to my high school years and all the coming-of-age anxiety that came with that.
Although I had already encountered the power of the masses during my elementary school years (oh the bullying...), it wasn't until high school that something cracked and I became aware of how my own behaviour, style, thoughts, music I listened to, clothes I wore, books I read and boys I fancied shaped my image and thus how people perceived me. Or even what they could hold me accountable for. Looking back, I wish that crack had never happened. And not just because I would have allowed myself to appreciate Michael Jackson's music.
I realized that from that "crack" onwards, I had been worried about the cool police. The entity that I have never been able to put my finger on, but who spoke through my peers and sometimes even my friends. The one that made me feel stupid and shallow for liking something. And out of that came the fear of being associated with something. Because pretty soon I figured that the cool police did not only care for the direct implications of taste-in-whatever, but also about what that taste would mean for the group I belonged in. Try explaining your love for "Heal the world" to a 15-year-old who is desperately trying to be an alternative rock chick that lives for Pearl Jam and Sylvia Plath. It just doesn't fit. Because the realm of Heal the world would at best be the nerdy cousin who still had posters lining his wall of Michael Jackson. With Bubbles, for crying out loud!
The only person who was apparently immune to this kind of teenage-angst was my dear friend from high school who grew up to be the only erudite person my generation ever produced (and in this erudite is a compliment and only used for lack of a better word). I still love him dearly for fostering my spirit and mind in that godforsaken period that was my high school years.
One would hope that the cool police is a figment of a teenager's imagination. Or that I was/am just particularly vulnerable for "what other people think of me". That hardly anybody else cares to judge themselves by the mere standard of "what other people think".
But somehow, I doubt that.
For in the years after leaving high school, the cool police was still there. Even if it branched out into different departments. Such as the department of Slutty-and-Prude for example. Boy, there was just no winning there.
The force of the whatever-police hit me hard again once I became pregnant. Holy smokes! I think parenting has been by far the most deeply entrenched pissing contest I have ever been in. From the moment my daughter was born it seems I have been playing defence. Between the sleep-training-formula-feeding-police and the attachment-parenting-police there is just no middle ground to be a vulnerable mom looking for a way to deal with this amazingly scary new life you are given. Why do we do this to ourselves?! Why do some people feel the need to play the parenting-police and tell me that I should follow the rules (of whatever parenting craze this person belongs to) instead of looking at me and my child and just TALK with me. And for goodness sake share their stories of not-knowing-what-to-do with me...
It took me weeks to turn the above into a slightly coherent story. To make up my mind about why I cried so hard that afternoon. Thinking about "the police" has made me realize that "the police" is omnipresent and comes in many different shapes and sizes. My dear friend clearly ran in to the God police at church, a group of people who apparently thought they could speak for the lord and hurt my friend in the process. I know I have run into the Organic-Produce-police, the education-police and the body-image police more times than I can count. And I am just tired of weighing my own feelings against what I think other people will think of me. And I realize that as much as I would like to blame the police, I can only blame myself.
So I have decided to stop. Coming to a new country has given me an excellent opportunity to shake off the police once and for all. I am no longer going to assume that anything I do will immediately result in a cascade of opinion forming in another person's head, thus placing me in a cubicle that I may not belong in. They will find out soon enough that I probably don't fit anyway ;-) But what is more, I have decided to switch of my own police as well. I will no longer let my ideas of what it means to wear/buy/like/read something cloud my impression of someone. From now on, I will try to appreciate people at face value. Because the other option has left me bitter and scared. And if there is any possibility of me starting to save at least part of my little world, it is by embracing people, rather than trying to make sense of them using "the police".
Now the only thing I have to be vigilant about is that I do not turn into the "give-no-heed-to-the-police"police myself...
Halfway through the song, the crying had turned into a chest clenching, throat catching, snot pouring blubberfest. At that point I should have pulled over and wait for my breakdown to pass. Instead I plowed on along the deserted mountain road, kindly asking the herd of moose lurking in the forest to please not cross the road! At that stage, I would not have known what hit me until me and my cute little yellow car had been turned into a giant tin of Norwegian liverpostei. I cried and cried and sang along at the top of my voice, wishing somehow that just singing about healing the world would actually do some good.
Of course another song came on after that and, as usually happens when something hits you that hard out of the blue, there is nothing like a Lady Gaga song to make you wonder why on earth you let such a tear-jerky-song get to you in the first place. However, this time that rhetorical question kept begging for an answer. In particular the part of me crying over Michael Jackson. And although I usually just write about all the trouble I get into just leading my day-to-day life, I feel compelled to share with you the outcome of my weeks of soul searching following this particular car ride.
The reason I cried over Michael Jackson, was because I felt I had not given him the credits he deserved for the artist he was. And yes, I know, he could not have cared less about my opinion of him. Yet in my own personal sphere, the acknowledgment of Michael Jackson being truly the King of Pop, was a biggie. It traced right back to my high school years and all the coming-of-age anxiety that came with that.
Although I had already encountered the power of the masses during my elementary school years (oh the bullying...), it wasn't until high school that something cracked and I became aware of how my own behaviour, style, thoughts, music I listened to, clothes I wore, books I read and boys I fancied shaped my image and thus how people perceived me. Or even what they could hold me accountable for. Looking back, I wish that crack had never happened. And not just because I would have allowed myself to appreciate Michael Jackson's music.
I realized that from that "crack" onwards, I had been worried about the cool police. The entity that I have never been able to put my finger on, but who spoke through my peers and sometimes even my friends. The one that made me feel stupid and shallow for liking something. And out of that came the fear of being associated with something. Because pretty soon I figured that the cool police did not only care for the direct implications of taste-in-whatever, but also about what that taste would mean for the group I belonged in. Try explaining your love for "Heal the world" to a 15-year-old who is desperately trying to be an alternative rock chick that lives for Pearl Jam and Sylvia Plath. It just doesn't fit. Because the realm of Heal the world would at best be the nerdy cousin who still had posters lining his wall of Michael Jackson. With Bubbles, for crying out loud!
The only person who was apparently immune to this kind of teenage-angst was my dear friend from high school who grew up to be the only erudite person my generation ever produced (and in this erudite is a compliment and only used for lack of a better word). I still love him dearly for fostering my spirit and mind in that godforsaken period that was my high school years.
One would hope that the cool police is a figment of a teenager's imagination. Or that I was/am just particularly vulnerable for "what other people think of me". That hardly anybody else cares to judge themselves by the mere standard of "what other people think".
But somehow, I doubt that.
For in the years after leaving high school, the cool police was still there. Even if it branched out into different departments. Such as the department of Slutty-and-Prude for example. Boy, there was just no winning there.
The force of the whatever-police hit me hard again once I became pregnant. Holy smokes! I think parenting has been by far the most deeply entrenched pissing contest I have ever been in. From the moment my daughter was born it seems I have been playing defence. Between the sleep-training-formula-feeding-police and the attachment-parenting-police there is just no middle ground to be a vulnerable mom looking for a way to deal with this amazingly scary new life you are given. Why do we do this to ourselves?! Why do some people feel the need to play the parenting-police and tell me that I should follow the rules (of whatever parenting craze this person belongs to) instead of looking at me and my child and just TALK with me. And for goodness sake share their stories of not-knowing-what-to-do with me...
It took me weeks to turn the above into a slightly coherent story. To make up my mind about why I cried so hard that afternoon. Thinking about "the police" has made me realize that "the police" is omnipresent and comes in many different shapes and sizes. My dear friend clearly ran in to the God police at church, a group of people who apparently thought they could speak for the lord and hurt my friend in the process. I know I have run into the Organic-Produce-police, the education-police and the body-image police more times than I can count. And I am just tired of weighing my own feelings against what I think other people will think of me. And I realize that as much as I would like to blame the police, I can only blame myself.
So I have decided to stop. Coming to a new country has given me an excellent opportunity to shake off the police once and for all. I am no longer going to assume that anything I do will immediately result in a cascade of opinion forming in another person's head, thus placing me in a cubicle that I may not belong in. They will find out soon enough that I probably don't fit anyway ;-) But what is more, I have decided to switch of my own police as well. I will no longer let my ideas of what it means to wear/buy/like/read something cloud my impression of someone. From now on, I will try to appreciate people at face value. Because the other option has left me bitter and scared. And if there is any possibility of me starting to save at least part of my little world, it is by embracing people, rather than trying to make sense of them using "the police".
Now the only thing I have to be vigilant about is that I do not turn into the "give-no-heed-to-the-police"police myself...
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