Perspective

Perspective

Tonight, I reflect on perspective by sharing a story from my perspective. Dad, Becky, Mom, and the man at the tattoo parlor would probably tell the story differently.

                Some people can see things from many angles. Others can only see things their way. The ability to see multiple perspectives allows people to develop empathy and compassion, and I am thankful to my parents for teaching my siblings and me to do this.

                One of the most memorable examples of my parents having different perspectives was when my little sister became an only child (well, living at home). At 16-years-old, Becky hardly did more than sleep at that house in Arvada because she was so busy maintaining high grades in challenging A-West classes, serving as student body secretary (later to become senior class president!), scoring goals on the soccer team, staying teeny tiny and super fit with track and cross-country, cheerfully cashiering and expertly making sandwiches at Einstein Bagels, and hanging out with her first serious boyfriend. Like most 16-year-old girls, Becky had some major insecurity when it came to her body, so it came as a shock to my parents when she wanted to get her belly button pierced.

                “No,” my dad answered flatly. He imagined the male attention she would get, and he missed his little girl! One boyfriend for his youngest daughter was already more than he was particularly thrilled about, and he was sure that if she had a belly button ring, she would have to show it off and more boys would be knocking down the doors. “No.”

                Like any stubborn child who desperately wants something, when Becky heard no, she went to the other parent. My mom thought about what it was like to be an adolescent and how difficult it was as a teenage girl to appreciate one’s own beauty. My mom thought about Becky’s low self esteem and thought that if she got her belly button pierced, she would be more confident in herself because of the positive way she would be able to look at herself and the positive and adoring compliments her soccer, cross country, and track friends would shower her with. “Okay.”

                I was home for spring break at this time, so Mom, Becky, and I got in the red speed racer Accord and headed toward Old Town Arvada, where I had gotten my belly button pierced back in the day. When we got to the cute little shop, though, it was closed. Mom saw the disappointment on Becky’s face, turned the car around, and parked in front of a dark, rackety, rotting tattoo parlor. We sat in the car and looked at each other.

                “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. I was beginning to think that my mom had perhaps planned this to discourage Becky from this piercing, but Becky nodded and in we went.

                Now, reader, you should know a couple of things about little Becky Mayer. First, when she was five and getting her ears pierced, she screamed and cried so loud that my brothers and I could hear her on the other side of Villa Italia Mall! Second, her only experience with piercing was when she got her ears pierced and when Dan (second oldest) bought do-it-yourself piercing kits from Sally Beauty supply to pierce (against my Dad’s wishes) his ear. And third, Becky passes out when she is poked with needles, an unfortunate trait she picked up from my dad.

                So there we were, three women very clearly sheltered by the Arvada lifestyle we had lived for 16 years standing at the tall counter, face-to-face with a large, very tattooed man. “Can I help you?” the man asked. He was clearly better versed in dealing with sheltered Arvadians than we were in dealing with very tattooed men.

                “Do you pierce belly buttons?” my mom asked.

                His steel eyes stared at her. He blinked. “Naval piercing? Yeah. How many?” His eyes narrowed as they shifted from my mom to my sister to me and back to my mom.

                “One,” my mom said, and we both pointed at Becky. The man reached under the counter. I held my breath, sure he was going to pull out a weapon and make us all get something pierced.

                “You’ll have to sign the waiver since she ain’t 18,” he said as he slid the paper and a pen to my mom.

                He turned his back and when he faced us again, he was wearing rubber gloves and holding a very large needle and strange hook. I put an arm around Becky’s back, sure she was going to faint from just the sight of the gleaming silver. The man nodded toward a table like you would find at a doctor’s office, and Becky gulped as she climbed on. Mom and I stood on the table across from the man, thinking that if Becky looked at us and not at the dagger, she would do better.

                Thinking back at that moment with Becky looking at us, I’m surprised she went through with the piercing. I don’t have to say anything and people can know exactly what I am thinking or feeling because of the look on my face, and I either inherited or learned this “trick” from my mom! Becky was one brave teenager for getting her belly button pierced after seeing the place, meeting the man, and especially while staring into horror-stricken faces during the actual act!

                Everything went well, Becky didn’t pass out, and she didn’t scream or cry so loud that Old Town would have heard. She got what she wanted because she knew someone would see things her way. I don’t think my dad was ever particularly enthusiastic about her belly button piercing, but when she didn’t become a different teenage daughter, he decided it wasn’t the worst thing she could have pierced… but that’s a story for another day.

                For tonight, I think about the many perspectives that I try (sometimes successfully, sometimes less successfully) to consider each day. Mom and Dad were raised in different communities with different home situations, and they each had specific experiences with their families and friends that helped them grow into the parents they became. It makes sense that people with different upbringings would have different perspectives, but it has really only been since losing Mom that I have been able to appreciate the different perspectives my brothers, sister, and I have. After all, we have the same parents, lived in the same house, and shared the same home life and vacations. The differences in our perspectives are a result of our internalization of these shared experiences based on the perspectives we had at the time.