That’s just it: I don’t see my punishment. I have suffered, true, but I don’t see “suffering” as equivalent to “punishment.” It’s truly an unfair connection.
Let me consider: I don’t remember ever being punished as a child. I must have been in some ways. My memory tells me that I was just let to do things, my parents trusting that I’d do the right thing, or at least the reasonable one. I was not “sent to my room” (crowded with my sister in it; it was a small room) or denied the toy or dress I wanted. Or the lessons. I got it all. I guess it was the expectation, somehow, that I’d follow through.
No punishment.
I try to remember whether I ever punished my own children. I told them things; I yelled at them sometimes; I got frustrated, particularly when I was on my own with them as toddlers, trying to teach high school, get them to nursery school, manage a car that broke down, their chicken pox and so on. I was impatient if they didn’t cooperate. But punishing them? Spanking? No. “Quiet time” or “Timeout” – those were expressions I never heard until a generation later, overheard from others with their children. I probably yanked them into the back seat (forget children’s seats—they didn’t exist), cried in frustration while they watched me cry when they were little. Maybe that was punishment enough for them.
And, as teenagers? John was always on his own, as I once was, and never needed to be “punished” for anything. He followed through. Susan, though, I argued with over any number of matters. Once I got so angry—I do remember this!—I put her clothes and some bedroom furniture out on the lawn, declaring if she didn’t like this arrangement (it was just me and them, the three of us, always), she could go somewhere else. That was awful and just made us both cry and I moved it all back in again.
And men. Did I “see” my punishment with them, anticipate that if I didn’t toe the line, so to speak, they wouldn’t call back or they’d give me up or whatever? Yes, I probably was aware of that, but, again, I saw it as a control matter. Was it “punishment” for assuming control? I don’t know.
And I think of my husband of all those years, the one I lost a few years ago: he was incapable of punishment of any kind. If I made him unhappy or he disagreed or was hurt, he “punished,” by saying nothing. Nothing. Taking it in, with a degree of patience that made me rethink what had happened, apologize. I think he would be offended to be accused of punishing in any way.
So: I do not see my punishment.
I see my banishment—from the anticipated joys of old age (people claim there are some)—because of all my losses, and no gains, as in grandchildren. I have to admit that I have a difficult time listening to anecdotes of other people’s grandchildren as a substitute for conversation.
I sit there as my sister’s neighbor tells me what her granddaughter likes for breakfast. I nod when strangers whom I’ve met on a trip announce, with a constancy that’s infuriating, what they’re buying “for the grandkids” or photos they’re taking “for the grandkids, you know.” And I want to shout, no I do not know.
I see that my role in life is to be silent in these situations, to wait it out. But is that punishment? For what? No, I don’t think so. I don’t see it.