Loose Change
An only child misses out on little lessons in self-assertion
Columnist Mike Finigan says an only child misses out on lessons in self-assertion.
There’s no way to practise the art of assertion other than by asserting.
In my earlier guitar playing days I jammed in a band with these talented musician brothers, and the practices used to run like this: we’d play one song and then the brothers would try to kick the living daylights out of each other for 10 minutes.
And then we’d play another song. And then some more bantering would ensue, followed by taunts, pucks in the arms and the legs and then all out war.
After practice I’d retreat back to my place appreciatively, maybe watch a little TV, “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom,” “Bugs Bunny.” Make a sandwich. Read. Talk to Ma. In peace. While the brothers pushed and shoved and poked and picked and slapped and derided one another all the way home and beyond.
All over the neighbourhood, to my left, to my right, above, below and behind me — brothers, siblings, from two to 10, from one family or another. And they fought ruthlessly, all the time. It was like hanging around with a dog with a severe case of fleas. You couldn’t take two steps without somebody stopping to scratch or claw or thump or bash or kick or swear, threaten, cajole …
Me, I thought being the anomalous only child was heaven. Lots of space; nobody in my face. The lottery.
Little did I know that I was missing out on some essential learning for getting along in the world later in life. Little lessons in self-assertion.
Instead, what I learned was how to be nice.
The truth is I hate being nice. It’s like living in a straightjacket. Always agreeable. Clueless in even the most well meant confrontation. Why can’t we just be friends? Start a book club or something.
What I’ve observed in the brothers and sisters though as we’ve all aged, and often though not always, is that they have, through years of conflict and conniving, developed tact somehow, and the sense of fun and gamely challenge implicit in getting what one wants.
There seems to be a wink that they see and I miss.
Michelle — my better half — she can give orders around the house boisterously with wit and grace, have us all toting the garbage, washing the dishes, cleaning the bathroom and everyone obeys her commands maybe with a few muttered complaints but with absolutely no resentment.
Me, I suggest that somebody clear the mustard off the table and it comes across like a threat. I strategize for 20 minutes on how I can give the order affably, non-confrontationally, but then it comes out ultimately like an ultimatum.
“Put the mustard back, Bye.” No. Ehmm. “Hey. Stop right there. Where’d’ya think you’re goin’? Put that mustard back.” No, no, no …”Isn’t clearing the table your job? Then what’s that mustard doin’ there?” Shoot. No. They’ll miss the playful tone.
Anyway, eventually, the table gets cleared and then the bedroom doors are slammed.
The art of being assertive and cheerful at the same time. There’s the rub.
Unfortunately there’s no way to practise the art of assertion other than by asserting. Siblings are lucky that way; they practise unwittingly morning, noon and night. You can’t read books on it. You can’t practise with manikins or scarecrows.
Or with the cat. I can give Harold orders with perfect ease, humour, tact, confidence ... but he’s a mature and wellkept cat and doesn’t really understand English.
No, the only way to get used to being assertive is to assert and assert and assert until the confidence comes. That’s how the greats do it. The great orators, the tenors, the Mozarts and Gretzkys. Even the naturals and those born pretty.
“Hey. Couldn’t put that mustard in the fridge like a good fella, could yeh? Right on. Thanks, buddy.”
Wait. Write that down.