The Power of No

NO is one of the first words we learn.  It carves out our personal boundaries and proclaims that what we want is not necessarily in harmony with the desires of other beings in our universe.  NO has the power to unleash a wide variety of emotions: resentment, rage, disappointment, disapproval, or relief.

Will you help me with this?

Can we go to the party?

Do you love me?

Do I have cancer?

Will you lend me some money just one more time?

As we mature socially, we often find it useful to wrap our more offensive refusals in a little fuzzy padding. 

I’m already double-booked that day.

I have a headache.

I would love to, but my husband/wife/mother/boss would not approve.

I don’t know – let me think about it.

Under pressure, we often say yes when we really want to say no. Some can happily say “No problem!” and forget all about it five minutes later.  Others doggedly follow through, struggling to hide any fermenting resentment, guilt or self-pity. We are often tempted to use a creative excuse to free us from the burden of a commitment. Many have mastered the art of sending double messages that manipulate others into withdrawing their request. The dance of yes and no can easily become complicated and painful. Let your yes be yes and your no be no is good advice, but not easy to follow.

If we make a habit of denying what we really want, our bodies may let us know that all is not well.  Then we suffer the double burden of being sick and feeling guilty for being sick.

I don’t remember my terrible twos, or how I came to the conclusion that saying no was dangerous. I remember feeling frozen in compliance, like a deer in the headlights.  When I was ten or so, I started saying no more often, but I wasn’t able to make it stick. I could not bear the thought that I was disappointing someone else.  Today, I pretend to believe that other people’s emotions are their responsibility, not mine, but I still feel very uncomfortable with the thought that my choices are inflicting unhappiness on others. 

I have come to realize that no matter what I do, I will not please everyone.  That should be liberating – if I can please only one person, it might as well be me.  But I continue to be haunted by the idea that it is my job to keep everybody happy.  The fear of not being able to say no is a strong component of my social anxiety.

When I was a teen-ager, certain things were a no-brainer for me.  I wouldn’t let other people copy my homework (although I would invest a lot of time in coaching them so they could do it themselves).  I wouldn’t lie to my parents about where I was and what I was doing (really!).  My rural lifestyle with no personal transportation protected me from having to face a lot of the traditional teen-age temptations, but when they came, I generally upheld my personal code of ethics.  That caused me considerable distress, because I wanted desperately to belong.  I was very invested in pleasing people, and felt sub-human when I didn’t.

My most painful test came near the end of grade twelve.  I was feeling like less of an outsider that year, a member of my class.  I even had fun occasionally.  Towards the end of the year, someone decided to throw an overnight class party at their parents’ cottage.  Wonder of wonders, I was invited.  When I found out that there would be no chaperones, I said I could not go. The boy I happened to have a crush on asked, “What’s the matter?  Aren’t we good enough for you?”  Over half a century has passed since then, but I still remember the boy’s name and how I devastated I felt.

My mother was very sympathetic.  “Can’t you tell them that I won’t let you go?” she asked. 

“But you would let me go!” I wailed. 

“Of course,” she said.  “I trust you.”    

I stayed home. Maybe it was her trust.  Maybe it was self-preservation. Despite my sheltered existence, I knew enough about real life to be sure that there would be alcohol and sex.  I wasn’t particularly well-versed in human sexuality, but I knew that sex caused pregnancy and pregnancy caused interruption to the educational process, often permanently.  And I was going to university because that was my mother’s dream, one I was determined to carry out at any cost.  It never occurred to me to say no to that, although I would dearly have liked to take a year or two off after high school and experience the independence of gainful employment.

The hardest no I ever said came in my third year of teaching, after my car collided with a van in a white-out.  I spent three weeks in the hospital and came home with two plaster casts, no right kneecap, and a missing front tooth.  My father told me, with great authority, that I would no longer be doing any winter driving.  It wasn’t a power play; he just wanted me to be safe.  It would have been so easy to say yes and avoid all the challenges involved in getting behind a steering wheel again.

I took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry – that isn’t your decision to make.”  In that moment, I realized that I was a grown-up and accountable for my own choices.  If I let other people pressure me, I would be stuck with the consequences. I went on to survive two more traffic accidents.  Every time I take my vehicle on the road, I pray fervently that there will not be another one.  But I am still driving.

In the early Eighties, I endured another memorable NO.  My husband had finally realized his dream of becoming an Anglican priest, and we migrated to Turtleford, Saskatchewan, to be part of a shared ministry of a six-point parish.  I was quickly absorbed into a host of church activities.  One of them was religious education in the town of Livelong. Every Friday afternoon during the academic year, a team of dauntless volunteers invaded the classrooms of the local school for an hour.  Once a month, we would herd all the kids to our little Anglican church and have a worship service.  It was challenging, but not without its rewards.  I was inspired to write my first gospel song during that time, because the kids needed something with a beat and a message, and I heard some of them singing it afterwards.  As the end of the school year approached, I realized how overloaded my schedule was.  I wanted to drop church school.  It was only an hour a week, but it was a stressful hour that required a lot of preparation and a commute.

At that time, I was a newcomer to Anglican Renewal West, so I decided to pray about it.  My conversations with God were pretty one-sided in those days – “listen, Lord, for Your servant is speaking”.  I was startled indeed when I heard a friendly, somewhat amused voice in my head saying, “I can make it work either way.”

This message stunned me.  What?  God can make it work without my dedicated participation?  I am not really needed?  I have to make up my own mind instead of carrying on my merry martyrdom?   

I was pretty sure that this was God giving me the freedom I needed, not what my self-importance imagined was expected of me.  Even so, it was hard to say yes to what I wanted to do.  I would disappoint and inconvenience people who were depending on me.  I took comfort in the fact that they would have two months in the summer holidays to recruit someone to take my place.

They refused to hear my no. You’re doing such a great job.  Of course you’ll be back.  Every attempt to voice my decision was met with more praise and optimistic predictions that I would find it impossible to desert the cause.

When school started the following fall, I was faced with many expressions of consternation. 

You weren’t at church school!  What happened?

I am not doing that any more. I told you that last spring.

Of course you are!  We need you. 

Armed with the conviction that God was on my side, I held firm.  It was November before they realized that I was serious and a replacement was found.  From what I heard, she did a good job and all was well.

I am still learning how to say no effectively.  Every time is a mini-crisis for me, tormenting me with guilt and defensiveness.  It is a little easier than it used to be because I understand more clearly just how important it is not to live in Shouldville and be true to myself.  It is impossible to say yes whole-heartedly without the freedom to say no.  A commitment that is made under duress will crumble sooner or later.  It is impossible to love at gunpoint.

Every YES in our lives is supported by a network of NOs.  When we marry, we promise to “forsake all others” and cleave to only one.  When we are confirmed, we make a covenant to renounce the world, the flesh and the devil, and follow only one Lord and Master.

Even simple, everyday tasks require us to say no.  When I wake up in the morning, I generally think of fifteen things I could or should be doing that day.  But until I decide on one and let the other fourteen go for the time being, I am paralyzed.  Whatever I invest in will grow in value over time.

Our free will may feel like a burden at times, but it is a sacred responsibility.  When we come to a fork in the road, we have to choose a path, even at the risk of being wrong.  If we don’t, we will never get anywhere.

The Red-Eyed Monster

I am a very angry person. 

Generally, I keep it under cover.  When I talk about it, I use words like “resentment”, “frustration”, “discomfort”, or even “concern.”  Mostly I stew silently, hating myself for being a wimp.

I’ve read the books.  I’ve listened to the stories, cheered the successes, cried over the failures.  I’ve even coached people in anger management. 

I’ve been lectured, punished, prayed over, and exorcised.  I have pep-talked myself, bashed myself, rationalized and justified, self-soothed, and tried to escape. But the red-eyes monster is a permanent resident in my life.  In my moments of sanity, I realize that it is a terribly frightened part of me that needs love and attention.

In a glorious display of uninhibited self-expression, I once threw a full-length mirror down the stairs.  I will never forget the feeling of satisfaction and release I experienced when the glass crashed and splintered.  That was my personal primal scream, serving notice on the universe that I was a dissatisfied customer and wanted a refund. But the relief was short-lived, and the mess took a long time to clean up. I decided that breaking things and people was not an adequate solution.

Anger is a useful and necessary part of our emotional immune system.  It gives us the strength to set boundaries, to say no in the face of disapproval, to carve out our own territory and defend it.  It can send us on perilous quests for justice and fill us with determination to accomplish the impossible. It empowers us to protect the people, ideals and property that are the most important to us. And, like electricity, fire, or any other manifestation of powerful energy, it can get us into terrible trouble.

Early in life, I learned that permission to be angry was related to the chain of command.  Anger came from above, and could only be passed on to someone or something further down the hierarchy of power.  Even that could be risky. 

If someone bigger than me became angry, I would probably suffer violence.  If I became angry, I would probably suffer violence.  The safest thing was to numb out what I was feeling and jump through the hoops of compliance with a smile.  The result was akin to an auto-immune disorder.  A gift that was designed to protect me began to destroy me from the inside out.  For the first fifty years of my life, I was convinced that my existence was a mistake and the universe would be better off without me.

My mother often diverted her anger into helpless weeping, but under the right circumstances, she could become an unstoppable force of nature, like a tornado.  She grew up in the streets (those were the days when children were sent out to play when they were not needed at home), burdened with the responsibility of taking care of her baby brother, who was very good at picking fights.  When she was cornered and knew she could not win, she did as much damage to her opponent as possible on the way down.  She once won a fight against a much bigger boy while she had a broken arm, using her plaster cast as a weapon.

My own early life was much more sheltered. The streets of post-war Germany were not considered safe because so many buildings had been reduced to rubble, with the added hazard of unexploded bombs.  I spent most of my time with adults who were suffering the aftermath of terrible losses, and struggling daily for food, fuel and shelter.  My interactions with other children were almost invariably a disaster.  They dictated what we did and how we did it, trashed my toys, and borrowed things with no intention of returning them.  I had no idea how to defend myself.  I believed that people would always take what they wanted, and it would hurt less if I offered no resistance.  Despite my best efforts, I was never safe from unprovoked attack.  I almost lost an eye from a close encounter with a beanpole wielded by a boy I did not even know.

I was eight years old when I boarded the HMS Fairsea with my mother in search of a better life in Canada.  I knew about illness, death, critical fuel shortages, violence, homelessness, and missing limbs.  I knew that even the animals in the zoo were hungry, and their keepers were grateful for every scrap of food we could collect and share with them. I knew nothing about politics.  I was too naïve to realize that the adults who were kindest to me were part of the mysterious Enemy who had killed my father and destroyed so many homes and families. I had no idea that my mother’s job as a live-in maid for British army officers was a serious social disability.

I know now that the teacher who beat his pupils so brutally was a war veteran with serious mental health issues.  I know that people stole my mitts because they were cold, and that my mother sometimes cried because she had no way of replacing them until she had time to knit more. She did without food and cannibalized her body by giving blood too often and thanked God for the Swedes who set up feeding stations so that children could have at least one nourishing meal a day. I often rode on her back during black-market expeditions to barter with farmers who were willing to hide some their produce from the government system. 

When I was an adult, my mother often apologized to me for abandoning me to questionable child care.  I assured her that starving to death in her arms was less romantic than it sounded, and I was grateful for everything she had done to ensure our survival.  But while I was living through the daily horror, with no control over my life and often with no idea where I would sleep that night, it was an ongoing nightmare that made no sense.  I tried to look cheerful because it was expected of me.  But I was often shaken awake during night by concerned adults who told me that I had been screaming in my sleep.

During my teens, when my life had become less chaotic, my emotional numbness began to thaw out.  I was still shutting down during a distressing situation, but after a couple of days, I would start ranting and raving.  Most of my tirades were about injustices others had suffered rather than difficulties of my own.  I am still much better at defending others than I am at advocating for myself.  

I often fantasized about martyrdom – one glorious moment of defiance for the cause of freedom and justice and universal harmony, followed by swift death before I had the chance to recant.  Then, perhaps, my life might mean something.

My step-father, a life-long farmer, was wise in the ways of animals.  He taught me that there were times when we had to back off and wait for a beast to calm down. This was especially true if the animal was panic-stricken.  People are not much different.  In time, I learned to cut myself some slack and take steps to solve my problems while I was in my right mind.

My anger surfaced increasingly during my twenties.  I was in my thirties before I could become angry without being swept out of control.  I thought I was cured.  Twenty years later, I discovered that my anger was still alive and well, but buried more deeply.

I was already a mother when I experienced the practical usefulness of anger for the first time.  I was taking a walk with my two-year-old son when we were accosted by a snarling dog.  I picked up my child and stood still, talking to the dog soothingly.  This had no effect whatsoever.  The weight in my arms became heavier and heavier while I waited.  Finally, I decided that my only option was to kill the dog. I had no idea how I was going to do it, but I was absolutely determined not to let him hurt my child.

I took a few moments to gather my strength for the battle.  Then I put my son down and faced the dog with a mighty battle cry.  The dog ran away.  I imagine I looked much bigger and more dangerous once my anger obliterated my fear.  I probably even smelled different. This was a major revelation to me.  I realized that I was not condemned to be a prisoner of learned helplessness for the rest of my life.

One of the things I learned in my journey was that I need to be healed where I was hurt.  Talking to third parties can be a helpful prelude, but final freedom can only be found in confronting the what – or whom – I perceive to be the source of my anger.  There are times when I have to speak up or implode, even if the outcome might turn out to be inconvenient.  

My expression of anger does not have to be dramatic or harmful, but it does have to be authentic, and forceful enough to be taken seriously. I can’t claim to have an impressive success rate, but when it works, it works well.

During the empty nest phase of my life, while I was riding a city bus in Victoria, one of the passengers wanted to exit from the front door.  The bus driver told him that he had to use the back door.  This unleashed a tide of profanity that was so violent that my inner child became terrified as the man approached my seat near the rear exit.  I knew that unless I did something, I would be upset for the rest of the day, and I would find it harder to ride the bus.  While the man was waiting for the door to open, I interrupted his stream of profanity with my most authoritarian teacher voice.  “Sir – it is illegal in this country to engage in abusive behaviour in a public place.”  (This was inspired by an incident reported by a friend who was working in a convenience store.  When a customer was shouting at her on the phone, a policeman who was waiting in line to make a purchase asked her to hand him the receiver. He identified himself as a law enforcement professional and threatened the upset man with dire legal consequences if he did not hang up immediately and change his style of social interaction.)

The man stared at me and snarled, “Mind your own business.”

“It is ALL our business!” I proclaimed. “We have the right to ride this bus without being subjected to this kind of behavior.”

The bus had grown very quiet.  Time stood still.  Then, just before the door opened, another passenger said, “She’s right, you know.”

The man got off the bus with no further comment.  I felt strong and unafraid.  I liked myself.  I had made my statement and I had been heard.

When I saw the same man later in the day, I felt no animosity towards him.  Just compassion.  I was sure that there was more wrong with his life than a bus driver who refused to bend the rules for his benefit.  We were both caught in the same web of rage. Perhaps, in time, we could help each other find a way out.

Rules, Rules, Rules, I'm so Sick of Rules

Rules rule.  They tell us where to drive our cars, what to wear, how to conduct our social relationships, how to do our jobs, how to preserve our health, how to play our games.  Some are written in stone, others in sand.  Some are flexible enough to bend; others break easily. Some seem to fall from the sky; others are the fruit of debates and votes.  Some support traditions which seem arbitrary.  The worst kind are the unwritten ones, which lurk below the surface like land mines, ready to explode without warning.

I learned an important unwritten rule on my first day of school.  I had been seriously ill, and was not able to attend school until the academic year was well under way.  My mother tried to help by teaching me to read, which annoyed my teacher because she thought that was her job.  All the other children had slates and chalk; I had notebooks and pencils, which were rarely used in that classroom because they were too expensive and hard to get.  The teacher finished the day by having us gather around her while she told a fairy tale.  I thought this was rather strange because I thought everybody knew the same fairy tales I did.  But she seemed to be enjoying herself, soaking up the adoration of her listeners, so I tried to be as adoring as I could.  She concluded by saying, “If you like, you can draw a picture from this story.”

When I arrived at school the next day, I was horrified to discover that all the other children had drawn pictures on their slates, and were showing them off proudly to the teacher.  I had interpreted “if you like” literally, not realizing that drawing a picture was an order, not a suggestion.  I don’t recall what consequences, if any, I suffered from the misunderstanding, but I do remember how utterly stupid I felt.  I learned that teachers and other authority figures don’t always mean what they say, and their utterances have to be interpreted.  “If you like” is a veil over power – let’s pretend that you really want to do what I want you to do, and we’ll all feel good about ourselves.

I was taught that “please” is a nice word to use when we make a request.  But it actually means “if you please”, which implies freedom to refuse.  In situations of unequal power, it means absolutely nothing.  The underdog can comply with a smile, or snarl in expectation of being compelled to submit.  Sometimes manipulation is a strategic alternative.  But we always know who is holding the gun, and fantasize about the day when it will be our turn.

My confusion about rules was deepened when the teacher announced that a dentist was going to visit our class to demonstrate correct tooth-brushing technique, and we were all supposed to bring a toothbrush to practise with.  My grandmother absolutely forbade me to take my toothbrush to school on the grounds that it was “unhiegenic”.  As often happens in situations like this, she did not discuss the matter with the teacher, but left me to bear the brunt of her displeasure.  Torn between two layers of conflicting rules, I risked being struck by lightning no matter what I did.  My inability to solve the problem reinforced my growing belief that I was a stupid, unworthy person who would never get things right. Long before being exposed to any theology, I was haunted by the ghost of original sin which could never be erased.  Not good enough.  No matter how hard I tried, I would never be good enough.

The existence of a rule implies that there must be a rule-maker – someone with enough power to reward the compliant and make life unpleasant for transgressors.  Penalties vary from torture, imprisonment and death to social disapproval and loss of status.  If the law-giver is God, the menu of carrots and sticks extends even into the after-life.

Rules have one thing in common: they awaken resistance.  Almost anything becomes attractive once there is a rule against it.  We want to flex our muscles, test our power, find out what we can get away with.  Perhaps it is way of testing where we fit into the pecking order.  It feels empowering to frustrate the minions of law enforcement.  Those who can break rules openly without being challenged are virtually gods.

If we curb our rebellious impulses, we expect to be rewarded.  If we do everything right and still don’t get the brass ring we expected, we wail, “Why is this happening to me?”  Why is the vending machine of blessings not working as it is supposed to?  Did I overlook something?  Is the Rule-Maker unjust? Or is everything random?  Since the time of Job, just about every theologian has taken a kick at that particular conundrum. But the questions continue.

In 1973, when I was a newly-minted confirmed Anglican, my parish priest asked me to teach the confirmation class. I told him I was completely inadequate for the task.  He said, “You have just been through the course.  The curriculum is so complex that it requires a university degree to understand it.  And you have teaching skills.  You are the best qualified person available.”  Because I had not yet learned that no is not a four-letter word, I took on the role of spiritual guide for half a dozen twelve-year-olds.

Before the first class, a woman I had never seen around church delivered her red-headed daughter, pronouncing “It’s time to get her done.”  I smiled and kept my thoughts to myself.

My pupils sat passively around the table, waiting for the magic to happen.  If they showed up for six weeks, they would get confirmed.  Photos would be taken and documents would be signed.  Their parents would be happy.  As far as they knew, that’s how things had been done from the beginning of time.

I tried to get a conversation going.  Their faces were blank, reminding me painfully of my first day of teaching.  Clearly, my skills were not up to the task.  I would have to rely on the wonderful curriculum which required a university degree to understand.

Suddenly, the red-headed girl broke the spell.  “Why should we believe in God?  How do we know there is a God?”

I silently thanked God for her presence, anticipating a lively discussion.  Self-disclosure, sharing of secret thoughts, perhaps even a teachable moment or two.

The highest-status girl in the group fixed the newcomer with a withering stare.  “You just have to, that’s all.”

This statement of the Rule of Blind Faith put an end to the matter.  It was above discussion.  I surreptitiously looked at my watch, wondering how in the world I was going to survive the rest of that hour.

The red-head never returned.  I didn’t investigate, hoping her mother didn’t realize that she was skipping class.  I wasn’t familiar with the concept of spiritual rape at the time, but I was convinced that the worst thing that could happen to that girl was to be dragged to the communion rail for the hocus-pocus of laying-on of hands in the name of a god she had not been introduced to.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the confirmation curriculum might as well have been written in ancient Hebrew.  In the weeks that followed, I tried to shed some light on the basics – the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, the ten commandments, highlights of the catechism.  My charges waited quietly for it to be over.

“These kids don’t have a clue!”  I told the priest. “No way are they ready to be confirmed.”

He shrugged and invoked the Rule of the Expediency of Jumping Through Designated Hoops.  “They go to class, they get confirmed.”

Horrified, I made a pact with my husband that we would not permit the confirmation of our unborn children until they were at least sixteen and willing to question the status quo.  Some years later, I volunteered to give confirmation lessons, provided it could be a two-year program, the first year on general Christian belief, lifestyle and service, and the second year exploring the specific peculiarities of the denomination.  My offer was declined.  I was not surprised.  For the convenience of the patrons of the church machine, the most important commitment anyone will ever make is carried out like a shotgun wedding.

Sometimes our rules serve us; sometimes they break our spirits; sometimes they lead us to perdition.  But they will never leave or forsake us.  Even in Paradise, we need to know on which side of the road to drive our cars.