A Word Edgewise
by
Mary Joe Clendenin

THE ART OF BEING WISHY-WASHY

              I guess you could call me wishy washy. I don’t even know whether Elian should go home with his father, his father stay here, or some other arrangement be made. Right now I think it would not be wise for him to go back to the Miami relatives—but---

You see, there’s always something that contradicts what I think I suppose, I imagine, when I’m  sort of convinced, think I have a definite opinion.

            It was much easier to have a dead set, definite opinion before I had much experience, when I was young and considered everything had a right answer. Just living, knowing people, trying to help kids make sense out of situations and ask questions before making major decisions, has played havoc with my cut and dried answers. (Now there is an interesting saying, “cut and dried”. Where did that come from?) See how easily I am distracted? Back to the subject.

            Many big questions in this world fall into the category of debatable. Just to list a few about which I’ve had two or three or more definite opinions:

            Should we have dropped the atomic bomb—or even have made it?

            Am I in favor of the death penalty?

            Should people have the right to make all choices concerning their personal lives?

            Should the number of children in a family be limited?

            Is telling a lie always wrong? 

Does the parent have the right to choose professions for children?

            Should parents be held responsible for all their child’s behavior?

            Should students pass a test before being graduated?

On and on the list could go. At one time or another I thought I knew the answers, but life has convinced me that I may change my mind.

            Let me tell you about a family near where we lived in New Mexico.  I think most of the answers to those questions began to get muddled way back then, in the 50s and 60s.

            The Demmings lived in a shack in the forest near the lumber mill, in conditions unfit for anyone. I was told that in all she gave birth to 12 children, all but the youngest before we moved to New Mexico. At least two, maybe three, were in homes for the severely crippled and retarded, basket cases. Two or three died in early childhood. At least one died as an infant of malnutrition. To make that worse, a man who ran a little country grocery store was giving them baby food for the child—the father ate the baby food.

            The father was killed in a fight with a cant hook at the lumber mill. When we moved there she was living with another old man who was trying to take care of the family. He was not the murderer, but the father of the youngest two children.

            I’m concentrating on a year, and some things that happened during that time.

            The oldest two boys, James and Bob had been taken out of the home where they were completely neglected and put in foster care where they stayed for more than a year, but the mother had sued the county and gotten them returned to her. However, in the short time away they had learned something about personal hygiene, proper manners, proper food and some other necessary things.

            James seemed to be the only one who would have any chance of successful independent living. At school, the teachers had formed an unwritten, non-verbal agreement to try to get James through high school that year when he was 19 years old. But it soon became obvious that he could not live at home and maintain an emotional stability to learn. So, that school year, through the week, and went home on weekends.

            At home he tried to do laundry and get two younger children, about 7 and 8 years old, ready for school the next week. One week he came back to our house Sunday night, very upset—I mean we knew he was there when we got home from church, but couldn’t find him. Melissa found him in floor of his closet, curled up in a fetal position. Among other things, his mother had cut the cord to the washing machine when he was trying to wash for them because she wanted to watch TV, and there was only one electrical outlet in the house.

            Teachers tried to help the two younger kids. They came on the school bus to school, filthy, hair uncombed for weeks, smelly. They got breakfast at school and two teachers took it upon themselves to take them to the gym and give them showers, keeping a clean change of clothing there. Worked well for a few days. (the little girl also had epilepsy, untreated. Both were severely retarded.) Then the mother came up to see the superintendent and put a stop to the bathing.

            She said, “If I want my children bathed, I’m put them under the hose.”

            We did get James graduated. Did he make the grades? He learned to read and write fairly. He could do simple math. He could work with others and converse.

            Did we bend rules? Sure we did. But James lives away from the family, holds a job, is married, has a home. I don’t know how well he does. I’ve seen him only once since he was graduated.

            Now ask me some of those questions I posed at the beginning. This and other experiences have sort of dulled the lines between right and wrong, made me wishy-washy. I’m  truthfully to say “I don’t know the answers.”