November 1996
An Intricate Dance
by Sheri Reda
My grandmother’s duty, and proof of her love: from the earliest day I can remember, and in stories extending before that time, my grandma has had a single response to every compliment coming her way.
“You like it?” she asks you, obviously pleased.
You assure her you do, and she answers, “It’s yours.”
You are firmly trapped. If you say you don’t want her gift, she doubts your honest praise. If you take it home, you leave a big space in her sparsely furnished life. You can’t stop being gracious, and you can’t take home her house; eventually, you have to find a gracious way to refuse.
Some people in my family feel the only way out is to claim that you have one of whatever it is you praised — a statue of the mythic water-bearer, a planter that is also a bust of the Virgin mary, or a classic lamp in Italianate style. Others have learned to bemoan the lack of room in their freezers, closets, bedrooms, yards. Still others bring decoys and watch them bluster when our grandmother gives them her couch.
The children in the family — and this is tradition — learn quickly to compliment cookies, cakes, and cash. Adolescents get the gifts from her that no one else will give. Adults get a laugh, and a chotchke or two. But everyone learns and relearns from it all that giving can be joyous, and receiving, a gift in itself.
When my husband first met my family, a mild culture clash ensued. He was small-town, Nordic, quiet; they (we) were mostly urban, Mediterranean, and loud. My mother quickly pronounced him “boring” — a step or two down from my “disgusting” ex (she now denies ever even thinking such a thing). My sisters and brothers, all younger, were indifferent; and my father, ever fair and impartial, suspected Rob (he couldn’t put his finger on it) at once.
He had offered my sweetheart a sandwich, and when Rob refused, pressed him to eat. I could see an ethnic war start to simmer as Rob shook his head while my dad pressed on.
Finally, I poked Rob (it was the first of many times) and murmured, “Take a sandwich.”
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.
“Take it,” I said. He frowned. I added, briefly, under my breath, “I’ll explain it later.”
Rob, quiescent, took a sandwich. We sat and he ate, till my father left the room. This time, my dad was the one shaking his head. Alarmed, Rob asked me what he had done wrong. I explained that in our house, you don’t refuse food.
A year or two later, Rob’s mother decided to make her peace with that Italian from Chicago (after all, she’d never actually seen me carry a gun). She decided to treat me like one of her own. She began to advise (criticize), opine (pick), and... nag until I dreaded coming by. I didn’t know that she was acting out her mother-hen version of love; so when she sent me a Christmas gift, I sent it back. I told Rob to tell her I knew she didn’t like me, and not to pretend that she did.
It worked: she shut up, and never nagged again — but I found it was no more comfortable to be regarded with fear. My singular show of independence (and lack of diplomatic charm) ensured family silence for years to come. Our relationship didn’t thaw for nearly eight years, when I finally took a human form by having a child, and we became (sort of like) friends.
We are all handed platitudes about giving from the time we are very young. Parenting books have chapters and sections on teaching your child to give or to share. Christianity lionizes the three Magi, and everyone knows the story of Scrooge — and the message that it’s better to give than receive. In reality, however, neither act is inherently better. Each one is tied directly to the other, and either can be innocent, selfish, or divine.
It is rare that a person repeatedly gives without any thought of reward. We give to charities that are tax-deductible, for example. We establish funds in our own or our loved-ones’ names. We thrill to think of the grace that will send us to heaven or the karmic burden we’re shedding like a worn-out skin.
At the very least, we usually give because it feels good. Even my sweet and generous grandma gives things away to see people smile. So perhaps there’s no such thing as selfless giving — and perhaps that’s okay. Spiritual leaders around the world have said everything we give to the world we give right back to ourselves (explain that to Monsanto, please). Maybe the best we can hope to do is to overflow with joy and then share it. On the other hand, there are generous ways to receive. We can eat the sandwich we don’t need; accept the offer of an opened door; regret the lack of yard space that makes us turn down the plastic garden gnome — and receive the friendship, the kindness, the offer; receive the spirit of the gift, if not the gift itself. We can acknowledge and accept the good intentions behind compliments, gifts, and advice we don’t need. We can leave our paranoias at the door and accept each gift as the token it is.
By extending our sense of generosity to include our response to others’ gifts, we can transform our gift exchange into a joyous, partnered dance. Giving and getting can melt and change and contain each other like yin and yang. And maybe, if we believe enough, we can retrieve and reclaim for ourselves a spirit of bountiful joy.
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