I dreamed I was scripting a peace negotiation between two factions. It was a highly tense situation. The negotiation was to take place at the intersection of two streets on the edge of each groups' territory. When I woke up I stayed in the dream as long as I could to work out the details of the choreography before it all faded out of memory.
I don't know who the two sides were, but we were both armed. The peace negotiators were to enter the intersection at the same time, unarmed. They were to extend their hands. They were not to be wearing headsets, though that was being decided in the dream. It was understood that both sides would have people watching from hidden vantage points, and that those people would most likely be armed.
I was helping with the choreography and the actual words that would be spoken by the side I was on, which apparently was in control, at least of the script. I was both the actor preparing for the moment of confrontation, getting ready to extend my hand in peace, and the hidden protector, crouching nearby with a headset on and ready to use my weapon if needed, but hoping desperately that I wouldn't.
Brokering power.
It is what I often find myself doing. At work..say, between the bigger boss and the employees. Trying to level out the playing field, to remove or mitigate perceived power imbalances so that communication may take place. So that work can get done. Together.
At home, between myself, Joe and each of my kids.
Between three of my brothers who have deep seeded resentments and seemingly irreconcilable differences. And who love to play music together more than almost anything.
Between members of Joe's family day before yesterday at an akward "family reunion." It was at a restaurant/sports bar in a shiny new mall in East Bumfuck, aka the Inland Empire.
Neutral territory is key. Round tables are best. Unfortunately, when we arrived at the sports bar on Saturday people were already seated at long bar table with high bar stools. Why in the bar and not the restaurant? Because I was not in charge. Cocktails, I discovered though, can help. I was relieved that the Christian contingent was also drinking. I didn't care that the uptight stepmom was teetotalling, as usual.
It was the first such meeting in seven years, since Joe's dad died. There were new kids we hadn't met. There were teens who had been little kids before. I made sure to engage as many people as I could including the overweight sixteen year old who looked so buttoned up and straight, as though from another era. He looked exactly like his dad, Joe's brother, who we are pretty sure is developing secret weapons for the U.S. government. (Oops! Is that classified?)
I'm glad it's over. Two hours and fifteen minutes, and now we are done with them for perhaps many years. It was successful simply because we made it there, and we made it out in just over two hours. I wanted my own kids to know their father's family a little bit more. Most of his family has never visited us.
My friend Arianne said last night, "You do not have to go back there." My kids are grown now. Now, it is up to them. And to Joe.
Why do I write about that this morning?
I guess because the holidays mean family, and family means brokering highly charged situations with people you both love and hate. It brings up jealousy and bad memories, and pity, and rage as well as all the warm feelings of love that family is supposed to conjure. Family: where we are most vulnerable.
My poor unconscious brain is working overtime to prepare. To make sure the table is set for peace. That the right people are in charge so that it doesn't turn into a shit show. We all know that can happen. Too many cocktails can be as bad as too few. The blarring TV can totally ruin a gathering.
Four days until Thanksgiving. A relatively small contingent is going to my parents' house on Friday. Small because I did not insist on a plan six months ago. We were all distracted with my brother's arrest and the horrific dealings with "Child Protective Services." Yeah. The agency that is supposed to protect families.
On Saturday, Zoe, now 25, asked in the car as we were approaching the sports/bar, "What do we each want out of this meeting?" It was a good question. It was good to confront our expectations, to air them, and to notch them down, or to remind us we each had a responsibility to at least try for what we wanted. Zoe wanted to find out where Joe's mother, her grandmother who died in 1970, was buried. I told her I didn't think anyone there would know. Except Joe's stepmom. The woman who told her four young step kids never to mention their real mom again, and hid all the pictures from them and weirdly mailed them to us about a decade ago. I think Zoe decided not to ask her.
What do I want at this Friday's Thanksgiving? I want something real to take place. But not too real. In fact, maybe I just want to have some cocktails and enjoy watching my kids play with their baby cousin, the one who suffered months of foster care and is finally back with my brother and his wife. That's good enough. Nothing too heavy.
What do you want?
I don't know who the two sides were, but we were both armed. The peace negotiators were to enter the intersection at the same time, unarmed. They were to extend their hands. They were not to be wearing headsets, though that was being decided in the dream. It was understood that both sides would have people watching from hidden vantage points, and that those people would most likely be armed.
I was helping with the choreography and the actual words that would be spoken by the side I was on, which apparently was in control, at least of the script. I was both the actor preparing for the moment of confrontation, getting ready to extend my hand in peace, and the hidden protector, crouching nearby with a headset on and ready to use my weapon if needed, but hoping desperately that I wouldn't.
Brokering power.
It is what I often find myself doing. At work..say, between the bigger boss and the employees. Trying to level out the playing field, to remove or mitigate perceived power imbalances so that communication may take place. So that work can get done. Together.
At home, between myself, Joe and each of my kids.
Between three of my brothers who have deep seeded resentments and seemingly irreconcilable differences. And who love to play music together more than almost anything.
Between members of Joe's family day before yesterday at an akward "family reunion." It was at a restaurant/sports bar in a shiny new mall in East Bumfuck, aka the Inland Empire.
Neutral territory is key. Round tables are best. Unfortunately, when we arrived at the sports bar on Saturday people were already seated at long bar table with high bar stools. Why in the bar and not the restaurant? Because I was not in charge. Cocktails, I discovered though, can help. I was relieved that the Christian contingent was also drinking. I didn't care that the uptight stepmom was teetotalling, as usual.
It was the first such meeting in seven years, since Joe's dad died. There were new kids we hadn't met. There were teens who had been little kids before. I made sure to engage as many people as I could including the overweight sixteen year old who looked so buttoned up and straight, as though from another era. He looked exactly like his dad, Joe's brother, who we are pretty sure is developing secret weapons for the U.S. government. (Oops! Is that classified?)
I'm glad it's over. Two hours and fifteen minutes, and now we are done with them for perhaps many years. It was successful simply because we made it there, and we made it out in just over two hours. I wanted my own kids to know their father's family a little bit more. Most of his family has never visited us.
My friend Arianne said last night, "You do not have to go back there." My kids are grown now. Now, it is up to them. And to Joe.
Why do I write about that this morning?
I guess because the holidays mean family, and family means brokering highly charged situations with people you both love and hate. It brings up jealousy and bad memories, and pity, and rage as well as all the warm feelings of love that family is supposed to conjure. Family: where we are most vulnerable.
My poor unconscious brain is working overtime to prepare. To make sure the table is set for peace. That the right people are in charge so that it doesn't turn into a shit show. We all know that can happen. Too many cocktails can be as bad as too few. The blarring TV can totally ruin a gathering.
Four days until Thanksgiving. A relatively small contingent is going to my parents' house on Friday. Small because I did not insist on a plan six months ago. We were all distracted with my brother's arrest and the horrific dealings with "Child Protective Services." Yeah. The agency that is supposed to protect families.
On Saturday, Zoe, now 25, asked in the car as we were approaching the sports/bar, "What do we each want out of this meeting?" It was a good question. It was good to confront our expectations, to air them, and to notch them down, or to remind us we each had a responsibility to at least try for what we wanted. Zoe wanted to find out where Joe's mother, her grandmother who died in 1970, was buried. I told her I didn't think anyone there would know. Except Joe's stepmom. The woman who told her four young step kids never to mention their real mom again, and hid all the pictures from them and weirdly mailed them to us about a decade ago. I think Zoe decided not to ask her.
What do I want at this Friday's Thanksgiving? I want something real to take place. But not too real. In fact, maybe I just want to have some cocktails and enjoy watching my kids play with their baby cousin, the one who suffered months of foster care and is finally back with my brother and his wife. That's good enough. Nothing too heavy.
What do you want?
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