Thoughts on autism, religion, culture and language and their intersections: Introduction

I was originally going to title this topic something along the lines of “My experiences of the intersection of being autistic (undiagnosed for 60 years), being religious, being in a mixed marriage (by the way of ethnicity, language and religion), living in a liberal, secular, bicultural, multi ethnic society, and how language and social expectations affect communication across these intersections“. A little bit long and yet still not quite defining what I wish to say over a series of posts starting with this introduction.

Being autistic in a neurotypical world is fraught with difficulties, not least of which is communication. Because of how I communicate I have been described as deceitful, dishonest, devious, disingenuous, confused, incoherent and a liar, amongst many other derogatory terms. Perhaps from a non-autistic perspective it may seem so, but it most certainly not my intent. I earnestly try to be unambiguous, accurate and truthful at all times. I abandoned trying to be succinct a long time ago as doing so guarantees a misunderstanding of what I am trying to communicate, so I tend to be somewhat wordy as I throw in analogies and examples to hopefully illustrate what I mean.

Autism is usually defined in terms of deficits – for example: “Deficits in social communication and interaction”; “Lack of facial expression”; “Lack of eye contact”; “Not engaging in imaginative play”. This is how the DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, version 5) defines autism and is the “Bible” used by the American medical profession to diagnose and treat mental disorders. For this post I will briefly touch on Deficits in social communication and interaction. At best, that description is deceptive, at worst, it is patently false.

Until the internet became ubiquitous, autistic folk had little to no opportunity to meet and share experiences with other autistics. Before the internet I had never met another autistic person, and although I might have met as many as a handful “in the flesh” in the past 20 years, I communicate with fellow autistics every day online. We were lead to believe that we were little more than a list of deficits. We do indeed struggle when communicating with neurotypical people. But now we can meet in the tens or even the hundreds, and on such occasions it is the neurotypical minority of those who have joined us who display the very same deficits usually attributed to autistics. It has become evident that autistics can communicate just as effectively as neurotypicals when that communication is with others of the same neurology. The problem arises when people of different neurologies communicate. As neurotypical folk outnumber autistic folk by about sixty to one, usually the blame is placed entirely at the feet of autistics.

What I am describing here is the double empathy problem. It’s a theory put forward by Dr Damian Milton around 2010 and has been slowly gaining traction ever since. The theory does fit the experience of autistics and most of us believe the available evidence supports it, but the non-autistic community seems to be less willing to even contemplate the concept let alone investigate it. Here follows a very brief summary of the double empathy theory:

Simply put, the theory of the double empathy problem suggests that when people with very different experiences of the world interact with one another, they will struggle to empathise with each other. This is likely to be exacerbated through differences in language use and comprehension.

Dr D Milton, 02 March 2018

Perhaps I could have titled this series “The double Empathy Problem”, as it seems apparent to me that the theory fits not only the issue of mutual understanding between autistics and non-autistics, but also mutual understanding between those of different religious persuasions, and those with different ethic, cultural and language experiences. However, I don’t intend this series to be theoretical or based on anything other than my own personal experiences and how those experiences have coloured the way I perceive and respond to the world in which I live. So for the meantime, the current title will remain.

I wish this series to be an exploration with no destination in mind. I am 73 years of age and autistic, although I and everyone else was unaware of that fact for 60 years. I have suffered from migraines for a little over 60 years, and of that I have been painfully aware (pun intended). More recently I have discovered I have aphantasia (an inability to form mental images), alexithymia (emotional blindness) and prosopagnosia (face blindness), and although I have probably had these from the day I was born I was not aware that how I experienced the world was any different from that of my peers.

I have no idea where this series may lead nor if it will go far. It’s been an on and off affair for some time in the wordlessness of my mind. Yes, that’s another unusual characteristic I possess. I don’t, can’t think in words, again something I didn’t realise others could do until perhaps a year or two ago. There’s probably a scientific name for this condition but I have not seen any reference to the condition let alone a name for it. Converting thoughts into words is a laborious procedure if I can’t draw on my stored source of preconstructed or memorised word sequences, so it’s unlikely that future posts in this series will occur at frequent intervals. For example I started this post at 8 this morning and apart from an hour while attending a Zoom meeting, and breaks for refreshments and calls of nature, I have been working solidly on it all day. It’s now 11pm. That works out at less than 100 words per hour!

If you wish to join me on this journey, you’re more than welcome. If you wish to contribute a comment or question my interpretation of my experiences, please feel free to do so. What I will not tolerate is any attempt at gaslighting. If you don’t know what that is, Google it, or wait until I cover the topic in a future post in this series. I have been subjected to gaslighting, both intentional and unintentional for much of my life as no one, including myself, realised my experiences were any different from those of my peers. I now know differently, so please don’t try.

And on that note, I will pause for now.

Are some people truly evil?

This post is a response to a question posed by jilldennison in a reply to a comment I made on one of her articles. I felt it was a little too long for a comment there hence this post. You can view the original thread by visiting here. The following is a story originally told to me by my father on the rare occasions he opened up about his experiences of war.

My father was a platoon sergeant at a time when the front line was moving favourably for the allies. In an early morning patrol my father’s platoon stumbled across some 50 – 100 enemy soldiers who had taken over a school in which to spend the previous night. It was evident that they were unaware of how much the front line had moved, as most of the soldiers were in various states of undress and conducting morning ablutions in a stream that bordered one side of the school. Their weapons and helmets were neatly lined up against one of the school rooms and were actually closer to my father’s platoon than to most of the enemy. The lieutenant commanding the platoon ordered the platoon to advance to a slightly more advantageous position then on the command of my father to open fire.

My father ordered the platoon to stay put and under no circumstances to open fire. He made it clear to his men and the lieutenant that such an action was not only unnecessary, it was immoral. The enemy were clearly unarmed, and in no position to resist. Their best chances would have been to try to escape across the stream, but an embankment on the other side would have made them easy targets as they clambered up it. The morale of the enemy at that point of the war was very low, and often they viewed surrender as the best possible outcome regardless of any military advantage they might have.

The lieutenant and my father got into a heated (but whispered) argument which didn’t end even after my father was relieved of his command. My father never revealed what happened next apart from the final outcome where he paraphrased the official report of the incident, but it was clear that it didn’t go well for the enemy. The official report recorded that “heavy casualties” were inflicted on the enemy, and eleven combatants were captured. When asked on what happened to the rest, all my father would say was that a few crossed the stream and “one or two” escaped. Even when pressed he refused to say what happened to the rest. When I put it to him that they had all been killed, he refused to look at me and didn’t respond. Even I, as an autistic, was able to grasp the significance of his (lack of) response.

My question is: was the lieutenant and those soldiers who opened fire evil (a few, like my father refused)? If you say no, they were in a war situation, does that justify the slaughtering of up to 100 unarmed men, who, as my father described, “were sons, husbands, fathers, lovers, labourers, professionals, and most probably honest, decent people first and foremost”? If you excuse their action, then surely those who kill for different, but in their mind equally valid reasons, must also be excused. If, as in the case of the Christchurch mosque shooting or the Sandy Hook shooting, you consider them acts of pure evil, and therefore the persons committing them also evil, then surely the same applies to those who my father witnessed kill unarmed defenceless men.

If you believe one act was evil, but another not (and it doesn’t matter which you consider evil and which not) are you not justifying the event based on the premise that one group of perpetrators are “friends” while you regard the others as “enemy”. Do you not think that those who support the “enemy” might have the same mindset?

My father first relayed that story to me when he was in his mid to late seventies, some 55 years, perhaps a few more, after the event, and I heard it retold two or three times before his death at 90 years of age. There were minor discrepancies in the description of the locale between each telling, but not what happened, and as I last heard it perhaps 15 years ago, I can’t be sure I have remembered with absolute accuracy. However I am confident that the essential elements of the story are true.

In case you’re wondering, the lieutenant mentioned above was commended for his deeds that day. My father was court marshalled.

Adopted – a follow up

A few weeks ago we decided we take The Cat, aka Puss, to the vet for a health check. Although she seemed to be in good health, there was the question of whether or not she had been spayed, and whether she needed vaccinations and flea and worm treatment. So we hired a cat transport cage and took a very indignant cat off to the vets.

We came back with Frankie, and he is a desexed three year old purebred Chinchilla born in the Wairarapa, several hours drive from Feilding. No we didn’t swap felines. It turns out that Puss, is Frankie, micro-chipped and he lives lived at the opposite end of our street. He was on the vet’s books and was last seen only three months previously for flea and worm treatment. So the vet contacted the guardians of Frankie (they don’t use the term “owner” for companion animals, and besides, does anyone really own a cat?).

Within ten minutes, Frankie’s official guardian was in the veterinary consulting rooms. She was a very nice woman and she and her family had been quite concerned for Frankie’s wellbeing. Since they obtained him as a kitten he has been spending more and more away from home, and over the last year or so he’d return perhaps once or twice a week to sample his food and then disappear again. Once she learnt that Frankie spent most of his time at our place, she agreed that it was probably in Frankie’s best interest if we took over guardianship,

We’ve noticed that Frankie likes quiet (a trait quite common with the chinchilla breed), and after learning what his previous domestic life was like, it’s hardly surprising he sought out an alternative home. His previous home consisted of two adults, three pre-teenage children, two dogs, and another cat who thoroughly disliked Frankie and make that very clear at every available moment, plus an assortment of poultry and goats.

So we became the official guardian of Frankie, and after he received his annual vaccination and quarterly flea and worm treatment, we brought Frankie home with us. And here he remains. Occasionally he might disappear for an hour or so, so perhaps he might visit his old home on some of those occasions, but now he’s well and truly settled in having laid claim three spots as his own: the deck chair on the main front balcony where he can observe the street below, an armchair in the lounge, when the weather makes the desk chair less than ideal, and on top of a pile of duvets and quilts on a spare bed in an upstairs bedroom, the dormer windows from which he can purvey his kingdom and watch birds cavorting on the roof outside.

The bedroom is one I frequently use so as not to disturb the Wife – I’m a restless sleeper at the best of times but restless leg syndrome (Willis-Ekbom Disease – a condition I inherited from my mother and which has progressively intensified over the last fifty years) keeps not only me awake, but also the Wife. On such occasions I move to the other bedroom and Frankie moves from his pile of duvets and snuggles up against my chest and/or neck keeping well away from my constantly moving legs.

Frankie may have a pedigree, but his fur has “cosmetic faults” that make him “pet quality” rather than “show quality” or “breeder quality”. He has a long and luxurious coat, which he manages to keep well groomed all by himself apart his chest area between his front legs, and his lower neck, which I discovered is prone to matting and tangles, big time. Now that most of the matting has been removed, Frankie has learnt to guide my hand to that area with his paws as I brush him. We now spend ten to fifteen minutes, several times every day carefully grooming his chest and throat, even though it obviously hurts at times.

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Adopted

But who adopted who?

Let’s step back to last winter. Often when we opened the home office curtains in the morning we’d notice a fluffy cat asleep on one of the seats on the balcony. If it heard the curtains open it would wake and run away. I began to be careful opening the curtains so as not to disturb the cat.

As the weather warmed, we’d see it more often, either in it’s favourite seat on the balcony or taking advantage of a sunny spot in our garden. At first it would keep its distance from me, but I’d gently talk to it as I went about chores outside. It’s an extremely vocal cat and would let me know it was nearby. By mid Spring she (I think it’s a she) would flop down right in front of me (even when I was walking) roll on her back and demand a tummy rub and a head scratch. How could I refuse?

At first, I assumed she was a friendly neighbourhood pet that had decided our section (property/lot) was part of her territory, but as spring turned into summer and our exterior doors were open for much of the day, the cat decided that the interior of our home belonged to her as well. I had no objection, but the Wife disagreed, and would chase the cat away whenever it approached the house. However the cat persisted.

By midsummer, the cat seemed to be spending nearly all her time near our house and irrespective of the weather and we’d often see her on one of the front balconies or in the back porch depending of the prevailing wind, and she’d often meow for up to an hour pleading to be let in. The wife still wouldn’t let the cat inside, but ceased chasing it away.

My migraines can put me into a kind of dissociative state. At such times the presence of an animal can help me keep a grip on reality. Sitting outside where I can feel a breeze can also help. When that type of migraine started, I would sit outside, and the cat would come close and knead whatever part part of my anatomy it could reach – usually an arm or a leg. No demand to be rubbed and scratched as it usually did. That was the clincher!

The Wife recognised the therapeutic effect the cat had on me and relented – so long as the cat kept out of the kitchen and the master bedroom. We’re still working on the kitchen, but the cat now knows the bedroom is a no go area. Up until this point we had not fed her, but I kept clean water available for her outside as I noticed she’d drink from any source available, even from an abandoned algae filled flower pot I discovered hidden in an overgrown corner the garden.

By early March she had taken an armchair in the lounge as her own, and as the days where a door could be left open for her became fewer, I found myself becoming her personal doorman, at her beck and call as she made her very vocal demands to be let in or out. And I mean very vocal. The solution? I installed a cat flap in the back door. It took just a few days for her to learn how to use it. Now she comes and goes as she pleases.

The cat has taken to bringing us thank you presents for making her welcome – in the form of mice. Usually one or two every day, but often more. She sits outside with her gift and meows until either I go out and praise her or until she gives up waiting and brings the mouse inside to present personally. I’ve learnt not to keep her waiting.

At least she’s not wasteful, consuming the rodent in its entirely. We haven’t had a cat for more than than 30 years, but previous cats tended to leave the tails. Not this cat.

If the cat does belong to a household in the neighbourhood, it’s not from one nearby. I suspect that if it has had an owner, they have moved and abandoned it or the cat has found its way back to familiar territory. Either way there seems to be an adoption in progress. Our next move will be to take her to the vet and find out if she’s been microchipped, vaccinated and spayed. And if she belongs to a nearby family. In the meantime, we have started feeding her. Not that she eats much. It depends on the number of mice she’s caught. On a good hunting day, she doesn’t ask for food at all.

We haven’t given her a name. She’s referred to as The Cat or Puss. That seems to be sufficient in my view and it appears she’s not bothered, but some family members are demanding she be given a “proper” name. I’ve suggested neko or ngeru (the word for cat in Japanese and Māori respectively), but for some reason neither name has met with approval.

I give you The Cat:

The newest addition to the family – The Cat

Christmas past

I haven’t been able to find the time nor the energy to blog over the past few days. It’s a hectic time of the year with extra family and dogs, days too warm for my comfort, a mild migraine that kept me in a sort of brain fog for days and hayfever medication that makes me drowsy regardless of the counterclaims on the packaging.

In our household, Christmas is usually a time of overindulgence when it comes to food, and this year was no exception. The one glaring difference was that we had our family Christmas meal on Christmas Eve, as family obligations meant some were not able to be present on the day. There were ten of us present, which is about as many as I can cope with: myself, The Wife, our son and his wife, our daughter, her three children, her partner and his son, plus two dogs.

The meal itself was typical family favourites and I daresay is not too different from that served up at many Kiwi Christmas get togethers. We started off with a watermelon and cucumber soup (cold of course). For mains we had glazed ham, chicken nibbles, potatoes, peas, beans, carrots, and a selection of salads. As it was three days ago I am struggling to remember them all but here goes: pasta salad with with (lots of) preserved ginger, red and green glazed cherries, pineapple, red capsicum, baby peas and and beans, and corn; mandarin, almonds and rocket salad; apple and celery salad with dried cranberries and feta cheese; watermelon and cucumber salad with mint and crumbled feta; cucumber salad with red and yellow Tom Thumb tomatoes and pan fried halloumi cheese.

For desserts we had trifle (the grandchildren claim it wouldn’t be Christmas without it), pavlova topped with whipped cream and berries, fresh cherries, an assortment of fresh berries (blueberries, strawberries and raspberries if I remember correctly), tiramisu, apple crumble and an assortment of ice creams (triple chocolate, salted caramel, rum and raisin).

Then gifts were exchanged with those who would not be present on Christmas morning, and what was left of the day was spent quietly recovering from eating too much. On Christmas morning, gifts were exchanged and by 9 am something like normality resumed, with just myself, The Wife, our daughter and one dog remaining. Tonight our daughter is staying with a friend who lives nearby leaving her dog with us, and tomorrow it will be fully back to normal with just The Wife and I occupying the house. Until next year…

Twenty-seven in the shade

Summer is just a few days away. In this part of the world summer “officially” starts on the first day of December. I’m already looking forward to late autumn.

A characteristic commonly shared amongst autistics is hyposensitivities and hypersensitivities when compared to non-autistic folk. Depending on the senses involved being hypo or hyper can be an blessing or a curse. For example I’m mostly oblivious to low and moderate levels of pain. It’s not until it reaches the level one experiences of momentary pain when slamming a car door on a finger, or the ongoing pain when the body unsuccessfully attempts to eject kidney stones, or when attempting to move muscles affected by polio that I experience “real” pain. Breaking my arm or gashing my foot exposing the bones resulted in curiosity about the outcome more than any conscious sense of pain. In fact I experience more pain from the noise of a typical shopping mall or from lighting effects commonly found in modern forms of entertainment.

I do not like warm weather. I have a narrow band of “comfortable”. Below 18℃ (64℉) I start to feel the chill, while anything above 24℃ (75℉) feels unpleasantly warm. As I age, the level of discomfort I experience increases when the temperature goes outside my comfort zone.

As temperature drops, it’s a simple matter of adding an extra layer of clothing to maintain a level of comfort although I have to be careful to avoid spontaneous “attacks” of Raynaud’s syndrome in my fingers and/or toes, which can be very painful as the symptoms wane. Coping with heat is a different matter.

Take today for example. Our indoor/outdoor temperature gauge, shows the outside temperature as being 27.2℃ (81℉) in the shade and inside as being 26.4℃ (79.5℉). I find myself extremely restless, pacing about aimlessly, unable to concentrate much on anything apart from wishing it was cooler. If I had my way, I’d close the windows and doors and switch on the heat pump, and allow it to maintain its default setting of 22℃ (72℉) as it does during the colder months of the year.

Unfortunately The Wife has other ideas. She relishes such temperatures. My suggestion that we turn on the heat pump resulted in a very emphatic “No!” What happened to so called neurotypical empathy? So in order to maintain domestic harmony I find myself wandering aimlessly about our home, keeping out of her line of sight as she finds my pacing “annoying”.

Postscript

The Wife acknowledged my efforts not to annoy her in my discomfort and provided the perfect meal for a day such as today – somen (cold Japanese noodles).

A long journey, but oh so quick

Fifty years ago today, in the privacy of a suite in a ryokan (Japanese style inn), the wife prostrated herself in front of me and vowed to be a good, dutiful and obedient wife. I suppose some new husbands might delight in such a moving offer, but I was shocked and appalled. That was not what I envisioned. I had grown up in a very egalitarian society and in a whānau that was even more so.

I had seen in her – and still do – a wilful, independent spirit that was at the same time, tender, gentle, wild and fierce. What she was offering was servitude. What I wanted was someone to share my life with – as equal partners. For life. I don’t recall exactly what I said in response, but I remember lifting her up from the floor and (apparently crossly, according to the wife) telling her that if that was what she wanted, we may as well end the relationship right now, as I wanted her to be herself, my partner and friend, not my servant.

I’ve made many mistakes during my life, and I sometimes joke that my biggest mistake was telling the wife I didn’t want her to be obedient. It certainly has made life more unpredictable and challenging, but oh so wonderful – exciting even. I still sometimes wonder what she saw in me – a reserved, socially awkward undiagnosed autistic, not known for expressing or showing emotions. Certainly not handsome by western standards, more exotic than handsome by Japanese standards of the day, but she often reminds me that my patience, sense of fairness, absence of negativity and being ridiculously accepting and tolerant of alternative beliefs and perspectives attracted her, and my declaration in that ryokan confirmed her choice. She makes a point of emphasising ‘ridiculously‘ at times as she often finds tolerating my tolerance very difficult.

Fifty years seem to have flown by in less than a blink of an eye. I have spent 70% of my life with a woman who is both delightful and charming yet at times tests my patience and tolerance almost to breaking point. But I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. We really have shared out delights and dispairs together.

As to the future, there’s little chance of another fifty years together, but with a history of longevity in both our families, another twenty to twenty-five years is a distinct possibility. I sincerely hope that those years pass at a more leisurely pace than those already gone for no other reason than to delight in the company of the person I have grown to love in a way I never thought possible.

It’s unlikely that she will read this post – she’s never asked me to provide her with a link to my blog – but I wish to extend a public expression of my gratitude for having her as my life partner. So thank you Sayoko, my Honey-chan, for being my friend, confidante and lover.

Winter meals

Winter and Meals go together so nicely, and this winter has been no different. And we’re not going to let the inconvenience of a lockdown get in the way. The video clip is here to remind me of the pleasure I get sharing meals with the wife and whānau. If you enjoy it too, so much the better.

The meals have been made by the wife and/or myself. Care to speculate who cooked what?

Flawed logic?

Where one person prepares a meal, others who partake of the meal have a responsibility tidy up the kitchen and dining area afterwards. That seems logical and fair to me.

When one makes a mess, one has a responsibility to tidy that mess up. That seems logical and fair also.

So why does it seem so unfair when the first rule above applies only when the wife cooks and the second rule applies only when I cook?

Changing perspectives

It still comes as a surprise to me to realise my perspective on many aspects of life have changed over the years. I’m also reminded that much of what I comprehend about the society in which I live is viewed differently by others. Some nuances are so subtle that it is only now in hindsight and because they are topics of debate today that I realise I did not understand let alone appreciate some social norms I grew up with.

One of these is gender roles. I completely failed to recognise that society had different expectations of men and women. It even baffled me why certain types of attire were considered appropriate for one gender but not the other. But it was the more subtle expectations for both men and women that I failed to pick up on and was oblivious of their existence.

I grew up in an era where most families could live in moderate comfort on a single income and virtually every household had a stay at home parent while there were children in their care. It never occurred to me that the reason most households had a stay at home mother and not a stay at home father was primarily due to social expectations and not a matter of choice negotiated between the parents.

Prior to my teen years, I adopted whatever behaviour and role I felt suited me, and being unaware of social expectations, I simply took on aspects that today would be viewed as gender nonconforming or nonbinary. Starting in my early teens I had most of this adaptation knocked out of me as I became aware of the negative views many held about me, and especially by acts of violence that I thought I had provoked merely by being different from the norm. I wasn’t fully cognisant of the disapproval being gender biased. Instead I had an understanding that it was not acceptable for me, as an individual, to exhibit such behaviour without understanding why.

It wasn’t until my mid twenties when it dawned on me that there were oh so subtle ways that societies place different expectations on men an women. The first occurred on my honeymoon when my new mate prostrated herself in front of me promising to be a good and obedient wife. To say that I was surprised is an understatement. I was shocked and appalled. I made it very clear that I was expecting an equal partner, not a servant. I later learnt that she was just as shocked at my response, but pleasantly so. Admittedly her culture had (and still has) more clearly defined gender roles, but it’s only a matter of degree, not that it was absent in my own culture.

The second occurred after I grew a beard in the mid 1970s when they were far less common than now, but more often worn by men of privilege. I didn’t grow it as a sign of masculinity or as a fashion statement, but because I loathed shaving and having very wavy hair, ingrown hairs were an all too often painful fact of life. Overnight the way both men and women responded to me changed – especially those who did not know me personally. It was quite an eye opener.

Both genders tended to be more polite to me but in different ways. Men tended to treat me as an equal or as someone slightly more “knowledgeable” than themselves. I was also assumed to be older than I was. Women on the other hand tended to display a sightly more subservient role in my presence as if somehow the beard gave me more authority. I felt even more uncomfortable in the company of others than ever before – both men and women.

The reason I was prompted to write this post was that I heard a song this morning that was a favourite of mine in the late 1960s. It has always brought a lump to my throat and a little water to the eye. It reminded me so much of the relationship between my parents who had so much respect and love for each other, although rarely expressed in the presence of others. I’ve always viewed the words as an expression of love by an equal partner, but when I now hear the answer to “what should I want from life?” in the last verse, the answer makes me somewhat uneasy. There’s an implication that one’s worth as a woman is measured by having a loving spouse. Or am I reading too much into the lyrics?

Allison Durbin – I have loved me a man (1968)

I have loved me a man, like my momma did
I have loved me a man.
Tall and tender, his hands like my daddy's were
With a mind that understands

And the arms that held me when I would cry
The lips that kissed away my tears
They're a part of the man that my momma loved
And I have loved me a man

I have wed me a man, like my momma did
I have wed me a man
I can still feel the warmth of the words he said
He held my heart tied in his hands

And in the morning I would wake by his side
And wonder what I could have done
To be loved by a man like my momma loved
And I have loved me a man

I would bear him a child, like my momma did
I would bear him a child
She'd be gentle and sweet, like my momma was
I'd watch her grow and in a while

She'd ask me momma what should I want from life
And I would tell her with a smile
Just be loved by a man like your momma loved
And I have loved me a man

And I have loved me a man