I hear her voice in my head: “God forbid a stranger should find fault with you.” Such an event would of course embarrass the whole family. I wonder how many generations have heard this — I had heard two — then repeated it when they became parents. “God forbid that a stranger should criticize you. Better that your family should scrutinize you, inform you of all your faults and flaws before a stranger should do that. God forbid.”
When my brothers and I were little, my mother would occasionally point to the front door and say, “It’s a jungle out there.” She taught her children her fear. She criticized us at least in part out of a need to protect, just as she was criticized. And so we learned that it was better to be torn down by family than strangers but we would still wind up being torn down.
And the confusing benchmarks: to be friendly but not too friendly. To look nice but not too fashionable because then you would be perceived as superficial. To achieve but not overachieve, not threaten anyone. There was no one handing out gold stars anyway.
I imagine a retirement party for my Inner Critic. I have made her a luxurious robe of hand-dyed cashmere, seated her in a magnificent armchair, handed her a lit cigar and a cup of the best cocoa. I tell her that she can relax now. She can watch television and criticize any shows she watches as thoroughly as she likes if she needs to keep her razor-sharp wit in proper mettle. She could blog about these shows and tell people what to watch. I will check on her from time to time and make sure she is comfortably off-duty.
Christine O