I've always thought guilt was a funny thing. As the daughter of a Jewish mother, feeling guilty is as natural as feeling hungry or tired, as is true of my mom and her mom and so on. It's not really their fault, it's more like a cultural trait we're all obligated to pass on to our children.
But it's awful. Like someone tasered me 20 times before plopping down next to me and berating me mercilessly for a few hours. To avoid this horrible guilt at all costs, I have learned to twist stories in my favor to evade that scornful glare that turns my stomach inside out.
Why doesn't that Johnson girl ever come over anymore? Aren't you two still friends?"" my mom asked me in the sixth grade. I imagined telling her that her new haircut makes her look like a boy, a defiant act on her part that had resulted in her expulsion from my group of friends. If I were to be seen with her, I might face the same fate.
My mom's brown eyes would briefly turn red with rage, but quickly fade to melancholy gray. She'd sigh mournfully and purse her lips before walking away without saying anything. During this act, I'd feel my insides being ripped out of me. Then I would've wished I'd chosen to dedicate my life as a servant to the outcasted she-male rather than ever see my mom do that again.
I contemplated this inevitable phenomenon and then made my decision.
""She's totally crazy,"" I told her. ""She eats sandwiches made out of clipped nails and melted Barbie dolls.""
""Eeeuw,"" my mom said. ""That's disgusting.""
I don't think little Jenna Johnson ever figured out why my mom brought her Malibu Barbie and a lighter on my birthday instead of the cupcake everyone else got.
The trend continued as I got older and entered my college years. Although for years I had been looking forward to ridding myself of my mother's guilt by leaving home for school, I quickly discovered that distance was no challenge for the age-old condemnation.
""Explain to me again why you failed your midterm?"" my mom asked me last semester.
I contemplated the night before the exam. I remembered mojitos. I remembered shaving my roommate - before realizing I was in the wrong building. I remembered announcing my candidacy for president, and even receiving a few donations in the mail a week later, which I used to try to pay off my professor for a better grade.
""My professor had an affair with my ex-boyfriend and he made her fail me,"" I told her.
""Kiera,"" she said in that skeptical tone, ""Did you study?""
""Of course! I was up until 4 a.m. reviewing."" I told her, realizing at 4 a.m. I had already received the endorsement of the socialists that hand out pamphlets on State Street in addition to a black eye from an angry, bald stranger.
Even though I had escaped her painstaking glare on numerous occasions by taking a few minor liberties with my explanations, I quickly learned the guilt was already embedded in me. It didn't matter what she knew or didn't know. It was too late. Eighteen years at home had ingrained in me a moral code directly contradicting most of the things I wanted to do.
But really, I think I just realized what most people eventually realize in an unconventional way: that we can never escape the people who made us who we are. Even if it means the occasional lie to avoid a stray dish or two, a bad grade or, when necessary, quell an otherwise successful presidential campaign with a suspect story about a Barbie doll sandwich.
Give Kiera your vote! E-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
