You're Just Like Your Father!
When my mother was frustrated with me and I mean really, really pissed off. Where you could see the smoke rising from her head and her fair cream complexion turn pink. I knew I missed the boat. And when she said, "You're just like your father." I knew I neglected to talk and share. And my stubbornness was in the way of something else.
As a young person I wasn't well versed in people acumen. To be honest, I was awkward except when I was in the water. I hardly spoke unless spoken to. You wouldn't have known I was standing next to you. Seriously, if it weren't for the whites of my eyes against my very popolo (almost) purple skin color I was a mute. I didn't find much value in the "talk" or a talk or a series of talks.
My sister on the other hand could wala'au for hours. There were evenings when she would get home from graduate school and relax with my mom. Over a beer (or two, three), they would converse for hours.
I realized (much later), as a parent, to have a child who didn't share is a very scary thing. My siblings always had the knack for shooting the breeze. Talking about their day, work, friends, school, whatever. They poured it on like condensed milk on white bread before dipping it into hot chocolate.
By the time I reached college my parents gave me a long leash; kind of. And that's another story for another time. I attended the University of Hawaii full-time, working 3 part-time gigs, paddling, teaching aerobics, weight training, and dancing hula. Out of the door at 4:30AM (before my dad), returning home very close to the bewitching hour. And layered on this independence, I was not as forthcoming with my whereabouts or my doings. At least not as easily as my sister and brother.
Needless to say, I became a parent's worst nightmare. If I didn't speak, how could they gauge my emotional well being? How could they possibly know if I'm ok or depressed. Healthy or on drugs.
However, when it came to school, I was always the first to call my dad when I performed poorly on a test or paper. I'd let him know where I missed the mark and what I needed to do to improve. This on the other hand was very natural. In my world, there was a point to this conversation.
From time to time when I get in my own way. Or when I'm missing the boat with people that matter, I hear my mom whispering, "You're just like your father." Rather than digging my heels and ramming my head through the wall. Now, I look up and say, "Yes mom, I hear you."