According to the Cambridge online dictionary, the meaning of reconciliation is “a situation in which two people or groups of people become friendly again after they have argued OR the process of making two opposite beliefs, ideas or situations agree”. Like wearing a mask or not wearing a mask; Black Lives Matter or All Lives Matter; Republican or Democrat; Vaxers or Anti-Vaxers; Refugees Welcome or No Refugees Allowed, and the list goes on. This might seem like it will be a negative or depressing post, but it isn’t. I’m here to tell you a personal story of my reconciliation with my family, my parents to be exact, and how opening the door, even just a tiny bit, can bring opposing sides to a point of compromise and understanding. My story begins in 1982 at a dinner with my parents, fiance, and me.

While I was growing up, I lacked the ability to voice any disagreement with decisions made by my parents. I was a rule follower and respected my parents, actually idolized my parents, for being the all-knowing and compassionate examples I needed to emulate. When I moved to Miami, Florida in 1978 for grad school, I had no idea that would all change. I happened to meet a young, Kuwaiti grad student right before I left. I assumed once I moved, our friendship would be distant and we’d soon move onto other relationships. However, we remained in contact throughout the year I spent completing my MBA and continued after I moved to Atlanta, Georgia to work. I began to sense a gap building between my parents and me as I moved away from their vision of an obedient child and began venturing out to discos (it was the 70s) and letting my boyfriend stay with me when he visited. I lived with a sense of guilt that I was somehow betraying their trust, but I also wanted to “be my own person”. After two years of a long-distance relationship that blossomed into a more serious one, I decided it was time to move back to Buffalo. I packed and headed north. I decided to rent an apartment near my boyfriend (who soon became my fiance) since it was convenient to get to my work, and after all, I was independent of my parents by then. That was 1980.

My parents knew about my relationship with my fiance, but I never really asked how they felt about me dating a Muslim when I had grown up in the Jewish tradition. I just assumed since they’d raised my siblings and me to be open-minded and accepting, this would be acceptable to them. Now that I was back in my hometown, I invited my parents to dinner, so they could get to know him better. There was friction between my parents and me that had started while I was away. I believed they were picturing me as the “old” Ilene; obedient, rule follower, etc. But now I was partying, staying out late, and not contacting them as often as I used to. One evening, I invited them to an early dinner at my apartment. My fiance joined us to socialize before we ate and stayed for a while afterward. Then he excused himself to return to his apartment for a nap. As soon as he was out the door, my parents began criticizing him for disrespecting them because he left before they did. I tried to explain that it was his culture and habit, but they weren’t persuaded. After a few minutes of shouting, they left and demanded I return my house key (they’d given me a spare in case I came by and they weren’t home yet). That was the last time I spoke to them for almost eight years. I moved to Kuwait in 1984, married, and had two sons. My parents had no idea where I was or what was happening in my life during that time. None of us tried to reach out during that time.

Then, in a phone call with my brother in 1988, who I’d kept in touch with throughout my estrangement with my parents, he asked me if I’d consider contacting them. I had recently been thinking about it since I felt so hypocritical talking to my sons about how important family is, but they didn’t have a clue about my side of the family, except my brother. I told him I needed to think about it. I remember sitting on the side of my bed that night and thinking, “If I never see or talk to my parents again, will I be alright with that?” The answer was a resounding, “No”. I never want to live regretting any part of my life, and I realized that my children needed to grow up knowing my side of the family.

My brother helped me set up a phone call with my mother and father a few weeks later. The tone was reserved, but I’d decided to keep an open mind and heart. I knew it was going to be difficult and I had no idea how long it would take, but I was determined to make it work. We arranged a visit to their home the following summer (1989) and corresponded by snail mail and phone calls in the meantime. The visit was good. My parents were so happy to meet their grandsons and that served as the initial bridge between us. My husband was so supportive and determined to make sure the broken fences were mended. It definitely didn’t happen overnight. There was shouting, especially between my mother and me, and lots of remembering about past words we said to each other in anger. She stung me many times, but throughout, I was determined to speak my mind, so we could continue building our way back to a relationship. My father let us work it out. He seemed to understand we were past the time of being apart. My mother needed to work out all the details, including the hurt and the depression she suffered during those eight years. Once we were on better terms, she and I made several road trips to take my sons to summer camp. While they were in the car, we reminisced about good times, and she chatted with her grandsons. After all, she only had two months with them each year, since we always returned to Kuwait in August. Once we were on our way home, inevitably we would hit upon a subject that reminded her of our split and the anger would creep in again.

Let me say that the process of reconciliation was raw and difficult, but it was worth every moment because the result was we laid our feelings, good and bad, out in the open. With time, we came to learn that each of our perceptions created our misunderstandings. My perceptions were deep-rooted and included my lack of understanding of how much my parents cared about me that I interpreted as trying to control how I lived my life. On my parent’s part, they believed I was rejecting the life I’d grown up with and, in turn, rejecting their values.

The time we spent reconciling was worth all the initial pain and suffering. Our relationship is better than ever because now we can talk about anything and everything without getting angry. I Skype with my mom almost every day. We often say how blessed we are that we lived long enough to have this wonderful and joyous time together. My children have deep and abiding respect and love for their grandmother and miss their grandfather dearly since he passed away in 2009.

I’m sharing this very personal story today because we all need to take a close look at who we believe is on the opposite side of whatever issue we hold a tight grip on and consider “loving anyway”, just reaching out and starting a conversation with them. It’s amazing what you find out when you open that door, even aa tiny bit.