Hiding ourselves

"Jackson, where's your memoir?  I've been looking forward to reading it," I asked, leafing through my son's school folder.

"You can't.  It's personal," he replied.

Maybe he was joking. "Well, I want to read it," I plodded on.  "I read your last one.  I love your writing.  I want to read it."  

"Fine," he sighed, but two days later I have still not seen the memoir.  

I understand where my 14 year old son is coming from.  I can remember my dad opening my portfolio when I was in art school and feeling sqeamish, mildly violated, and embarrassed as he flipped through my drawings and paintings.  My artwork was so personal.  I didn't share that part of myself with my parents: my full, adult, sexual, spiritual, daring self.  I felt like I had a whole aspect of myself that I shielded from my parents because it didn't meld with who I thought they would want or expect me to be.  In retrospect, I was shielding them from me, not me from them.  I didn't think they could handle it, and I was too scared to find out.

And even though I am an adult, 40 years old, I still don't want to share many of my stories with my parents.  It's absurd!  Why should I be ashamed?  Yes, I was foolish, reckless, passionate, but they love me as I love my child.  Maybe I'm fooling myself.  Maybe they don't want to know.  

I'm a different parent than my parents were.  I teach sex ed, for goodness sake.  I let my son swear--at home only!--and listen to all his stories and complaints with the prime objective of being a listener and not always an adviser or corrector.  I have told Jackson many times that I accept him completely as he is.  Everyone can improve themselves, but I accept him and love him.  But really, he probably just hears, "I love you, blah blah blah."  The point is, I'm open, I don't shock easily, and I'm accepting.  

This does not change the fact that there are sides to my son that he does not want to show me.  I'm not talking about behavior.  I don't expect or want him to behave with me as he would with his buddies.  And I know that this is the time that teens must begin to break away from their parents.  But his memoir?  He shared that with his class, his teachers.  What could he share with them that he can't share with me?  Is he afraid I will scrutinize his recollection of the events?  That could be.  We are a family of debaters.  

Maybe Jackson's desire for privacy is that is another part of him that I have to accept. But I'm not sure.  I think not letting the people we love see us for who we wholly are, especially creatively, is selling everyone short.  Can I heed my own advice?  Can I be brave and share more with my parents?  If I can't can I expect my son to?