My Wanting Approval, Asking Permission Life

I grew up in a poor Catholic family of eight children. My mother worked as a nurse’s aid when I was young, but quit when she knew she was going to have more kids. I ended up with four older brothers and sister, and then me, with one younger sister and two younger brothers. Being the oldest of the last four kids, I took care of them as if they were my own. I don’t remember much about it except my Mom seemed to be nicer when she was working.

My Dad was a foreman, building houses in Chamblee, Georgia, and he drank a lot. I don’t blame him; he had eight kids. This was in the late 1940s and early 1950s and beyond.

There were so many of us with our daily wants and needs that I think I got shuffled to the rear a lot and didn’t get much attention. I was always a good child and never really made much fuss. And then I started school.

When I was in the first grade, on the first day, I was a loud when I wanted to talk because I felt I would have some freedom there. Probably because all my family was not there. Anyway, as usual, I was shushed again for being loud and I had to remember to raise my hand to get permission to speak. Well, that was better than not being able to speak at all.

As time went by I became more confident at school because there were rules to follow and I did and still do. I still ran into some differences with teachers and students and a time or two I was wrong, but I mostly was right and it all turned out to be misunderstandings.

It was a wealthy school and I was poor which in itself is a misunderstanding. I was smarter than some of the wealthier kids, but they got away with whatever problem they had with me. They showed that I was the one in the wrong when in actuality I was not. They were just spoiled and had to get their way.

One time I had a huge upset with a teacher or she had one with me. Her name was Mrs. Eager and she drove a 1957 Blue and White Chevy. Coooooool car!

I found out that she was “not so cool.” She berated me in front of the whole class of 33 students after my Mom did my homework for me. I didn’t think anything of my Mom doing my homework, it was just what my Mom did, I thought. Anyway, in front of the whole class she shows my work and gives me a big red “F” because someone else did my work. “Let this be an example for all of you. . . . . . . . . “ and on and on she went while I stuck my head under my desktop lid hiding my face from the barrage of words that struck so deeply.

After that my head was hurting and my heart was about to beat out of my chest. I was shaking all over from that, crying, sweating and turning red from the anxiety that she her words brought on me; and I was only seven years old.

After that my self-esteem went into the toilet and I was afraid to do anything, or say anything in case what I said or did was wrong. I was painfully shy and stopped speaking loudly or even with a regular tone. I became invisible when I needed to so I would not be called on in class. I was the definition of a “wallflower.” I would fade to the back of the group if we were being called on to pick sides for teams. I was in essence “scared to death” of being known.

From grade 1 thru 7, I had one friend all during that time in grammar school. Her name was Lynn and she was really cool. She teased me enough to bring me out of my shell and we had fun. She made me laugh again. My sister and I went to her house to spend the night once or twice. Their house was nice and had air conditioning. Wow! I thought.

One Christmas she showed me all the clothes she got for school. She kept bringing out more things and more things to wear. I was blown away with the opulence. It was amazing and I didn’t want to go home anymore. But of course, I did and wasn’t happy anymore with what I had.

Adulthood

This wanting approval and asking permission life has followed me into adulthood to the deepest degree. I had to have approval from anyone that would give it, especially from boyfriends and husbands. I had many boyfriends and four husbands. Employers loved me because I would work most effectively and efficiently as a member of the support staff. “Support Staff,” permission and approval central.

Until one day, I asked myself after I had been run over too, too, many times by an overbearing, critical, manipulative corporation of individuals, “What are you doing, Jo Ann? Why do you feel you have to be everyone’s doormat?” Until this minute, today, I did not know why.

You could blame it on mostly male-dominated industries that treated women as their underlings. You could blame it on not having a Dad after I was ten because he passed away and I did not have a male role model to help me. You could blame it on not having much education and no one to depend on or … you could blame it on that teacher that made mashed potatoes of me in front of the whole class of 33 classmates.

That’s child abuse, pure and simple and it messes up your life. After that incident was over in class, on that day, I told my Mom. She was surprised and upset that it happened to me. She even said she was sorry. That was something coming from my Mom as she never commented on anything.

Today, I write, paint, draw. I have had three children that are grown; two not yet out of the house. I still have blocks and barricades stopping me from this, that and the other, but I can usually go around them and deal much better.

I have found that criticism and abuse comes from a place that the person who is dealing it out is stuck in. Whatever it is it is them and not you; no matter what they tell you.

If you need approval and permission just to take a breathe. Please leave and find a better place to be with better people that love you.

You can’t be all that bad.