Dignity and Me

Of the many values which were imparted to me as i grew up, maintaining a sense of dignity is one of the biggies.

A huge part of my upbringing was managed by my grandmother Pearl whom I called Mamie. The family story goes that the name "Mamie" just burst from my baby mouth one day because I could not say grandmother. But thinking back now and knowing my grandmother the way that I did, I will bet that name was suggested to me and that i was encouraged to use it. My grandmother was a staunch Republican, and Mamie Eisenhower was the first lady of the land at the time of my babyhood.

I learned from her that appearances mattered. I learned this each time she gave me a throrough going over before going down to the sidewalk to visit the grocery store. I learned this lessn well that it is important how I appear to others. In my grandmother's house, I learned to do things Mamie's Way. puuled the hair tight rubberbabd--fingernails dug into forearm
Teaching me to care about appearance was a world that she understood, an din spite of the often painful ways in which she taught me, she did this from a place of love, for to her the world was a frightening place- one in which going over the line of propriety was analgous to flirtin gwith the devil.

The way she knew to love me by was teaching me about what she knew about life. And I felt that love each time teaparties, horisies, dress-up, etc.
Mainting oneself properly and playing by the rules was what she believed would keep her safe.

teaparties loretta young charleston

the shoe store, Manistee, the last leaf, sharing a bathroom with strange man,
her bathroom reader's digest and the sweet creamy smell of her foundation make-up.

her checks were soft as she brushed her face into mine. the clippity clack of the horses on the wallpaper came to life for me as she carried me upstairs for my nap

Mamie's Way meant

The dignity lesson was so emblazoned in my mother, Mamie's daughter that the first thing I remember Mama saying after she was told that she had about three months to live is, "I do not want to lose my dignity."

I, who was only thirty-nine at this time, blurted out, "Mom, no one can take your dignity from you." Those words just shot out of my mouth. I did not even know if they were true at the time, but they sounded good.

Several years earlier upon returning from a trip north to visit her parents, Mom and I were discussing the visit. with tears in her eyes she notes that my grandmother had a stain on the hat she wore to the Sunday service. This tiny detail conveyed to my momther that the mother she knew was aging, for Pearl noticed everything when it had to do with appearances. Maybe my mother thought that my grandmother was losing her dignity by appearing in public with a stained hat. But that is not it.


It is sad and hard to let go of the things that we think will protect us. We get a sense of safety from our daily rituals adn routines. We like to know that a trusted friend is just a phone call away. I have even noticed in myself that just the appearance of the same cashier behind the register at Publix can give me some sense of safety. for To even dance on the edge of vulnerability is frightening.

In late spring I threw a big party at my home. I had the luxury of working on it for days in advance. I prided myself on that fact that I, indeed, had covered every base. My house was sparkling clean and ready for guests. My grandmother would have approved. the party went off without a hitch. And the next morning I arose early feeling good about what a perfect success it had been. I cleaned the house from top to bottom that day. All was ship shape by early afternoon.

That evening I went out and was involved in a horrible car accident. Life can turn on a dime.

There is nothing dignified about wearing an ugly black hinged brace on one's knee especially when the velco sticky part is stuck up with cat fur.
There is nothing dignified about falling on your face in the shower and having to pull yourself out on your bottom because one of your legs is broken. I guess the fall is what made me face the fact that I had to ask for help. And somewhere along the line I got the idea that to ask for help was not a dignified thing to do.

After I got myself out of the shower onto the floor of the bathroom, I just lay there staring at the ceiling for what was probably only a few minutes. I lay there working at getting my emotional grip. I was focused only on how to get off the floor. My phone lay on the counter within reach.
but I did not htink of using it. With the use of my left arm and my unbroken right leg I was able to hoist myself up to the top of the commode. there I was able to dry myself off, get myself on the walker and get to my bedroom where I clothed myself.

It was only after i was in clean clothing, my hair combed into a neat topknot that I allowed myself use of the phone. I do not remember who it was that I called, but it was when I heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line that I broke down. My voice shook as I conveyed how very frightened I was.

I don't know at what point I will lost my sense of what it is that I think I must do in order to mainstain a sense of self. I know that being in a position of need is a position that I am not at all comfortable with. somehow I have needing mixed in with the loss of dignity. And maybe that is wrong, but it is my sense of dignity that continues to seve me well.

that is why even though it may seem fake, I still get up, fix my hair, put a decnet outfit on which is getting harder due to the weight gain with the mandated inacitivy because I still need to feel some sense of control even if it is that my hair and makepup look nice as i pass myself in the mirror on my walker.