The High Road Gives Me Nose Bleeds
I can describe each twist and turn. I memorized the texture of every brick that paves this imagined path. The slight arches of my feet ache with every step, but I remember to stiffen my back and hold my head high with humility. The High Road. Its image takes new shape with different circumstances. From fights with friends, conflicts at work, passive aggressive silent wars with my husband, and moments of tension, I can hear my mother’s voice firmly say, “take the high road Kristian”. In those moments she is imparting generational wisdom, because women like us did not have the luxury of feeling. She would tell me to be classy, to never give them the satisfaction of my uncontrollable fury, to use my words – the ones I learned from library books – and to always take the high road when dealing with other people and their messiness.
Decades later and years of invaluable therapy provide the space to re-evaluate, to think … to feel. The process of rerouting and coming down from the high road feels like a betrayal to my mother – a woman who did the best she could, with what she knew and had. In reality, she was simply following the directions of other women in our family because emotive outbursts, direct conversation, standing up for oneself is not something that we do. Feeling, and showing any signs at that, is for the weak, and my crybaby-self learned this familial lesson in the cradle. Being the bigger person is the practice of shrinking for convenience - being polite when the cashier won't put your change in your hand, being helped after White people, even if you were there first.
It feels like holding your breath because showing them how hurt you are will only give them fodder for mistreating you in the first place. Taking the high road is like pretending to have humility, even though you don't know what humility feels like when your college roommate accidentally refers to you with racial slurs in the group text. Being the bigger person means keeping your mouth shut when White women remove you from committees and question why everything needs to include diversity at work. In all these instances, being the bigger person is actually like being small - sacrificing the fact that you deserve better for a silence that seems more dignified.
The climb down seems more treacherous as I've lost footing. Without axiomatic faith that silence will protect and guide me, the high road does not feel as safe or rewarding. The nose bleeds are getting to me and I'm tired of my silence, the loneliness, and the hurt weighing down my body. In this next chapter, I'm figuring out what "going low" looks like. After all, I don't have many examples to pull from childhood or adulthood. I try to image standing up for myself with tears in my eyes and a quiver in my voice without feeling ashamed; I think of ways to tell my mother she won't be less of a woman if she let herself feel. I'm trying to find the coordinates of a new path, for her and for me.
