Weak and strong nodes... (Clara B. Jones)

Weak and Strong Nodes in the Panopticon Network

At eighteen, I married. It was a major source of relief to escape the chaos of my nuclear family and the humiliation of my college experience. As the only negro student on a campus with about one thousand girls, I was emotionally and intellectually unprepared to “pave the way” (the Dean’s proscription) for future non-immigrant African-American* students. Years later, when I was the only non-immigrant African-American professor at another small, exclusive girls’ college**, I was, likewise, not able or willing to accept the challenge of being a “first.” Social phobia has plagued my life, leading, at times, to unhealthy dependence upon ego-defense mechanisms, especially intellectualization, to poor social skills, and to numerous hospitalizations for manic depression—usually with psychotic overtones. Proper diagnosis was made only since, approximately, the late 1980s during which time my illness mercifully has been in remission until a recent and very serious episode. Twenty years of my adult life—the 70s and, especially, 80s—years that might have been my most productive, were spent in and out of state and private mental hospitals and clinics, financed primarily by my parents after my divorce in 1974.

It is ironic that I continued to bear such powerful resentment*** toward these two individuals; yet, they are to me symbols of my many failures and neglectful patterns of behavior as a parent and as an academic and as a woman. Perhaps the deepest sources of my resentment remain that—for the whole of my life—my parents filled my emotional needs only when I was powerless and sick and only through finances or food****.

My mother had a saying that impressed me as if it were the sign of power incarnate: “Never be sorry; always be right.” Although this statement frightened me as a child, it was clear that I was to please her and not complain—and, be perfect*****. I am reminded of the diligent father who I heard call a radio program for advice: “What do you say to your three year old when he cries?”, the therapist asked. “I tell him never to cry unless he is bleeding.”

I did not cry…not even alone in bed at night. I imagined that I was the only grown-up in the household and that I was destined to keep my mother safe from herself and others (do no harm). Once I saved my brother from choking by dangling him upside-down by his ankles to dislodge a wedge of beef. On many occasions I have wished that I had let chance have its way. But, I enjoyed being in control, taking charge of the family with my own hand, determining the course of lives. Once, when I was eight and very sad—empty more than consciously sad—I stepped slowly down the basement stairway and cut my arm very deeply, a visible wound that no one commented on or appeared to notice. It seemed important to know before a more definitive attempt whether the act would hurt. Cutting through my skin with my father’s razor blade was not particularly unpleasant or uncomfortable.

*College of Saint Elizabeth, Convent Station, NJ

**Today, I identify as a Woman of Color (WOC)

***I didn't “recover” from resentment towards my parents and my ex-husband until the late 1900s or early 2000s when a psychiatrist told me, in effect, “Get over it!” lest I ruin the rest of my life by not taking responsibility for it.

****In all fairness to my parents, they went out of their way to provide cultural, educational, & social experiences for their children, & I learned a lot from them and from their exposures in many ways. It may be interesting to note, however, that I received little in the way of intellectual training or stimulation directly. As one of many examples, in ~1974, after studying semi-terrestrial fish, my father, who had become politicized by this time (during the “riots” that swept the country after Martin L. King's assassination), told me I should not have studied Entomacrodus nigricans because “nigricans” sounded like “nigger.”

*****I am reminded of a Japanese Proverb: “It's acceptable to be ignorant; it's not acceptable to make a mistake.”