Puppet, Pauper, Pirate, Poet

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This week, someone whom i respect told me that i was a “complete, mature woman.” I wouldn’t have been more stunned if someone had told me i had a superpower.  I’m loud, inappropriate, unapologetic, and prone to fits of anger and selfishness.  There are days when i’m both isolationist and terribly needy. And i can be emotionally overwhelmed by a video of baby goats. “I, myself, am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” In short, i’m a mess.

Don’t get me wrong, i know i am more grown up than some, and certainly more grown up than i have ever been before… On a scale from Lindsay Lohan to Helen Mirren, i’d be optimistic to say i’m a Drew Barrymore or Ellen DeGeneres.  And like them, i  try to be funny and kind. I don’t always succeed. But i suppose even Helen Mirren has days when she wakes with a zit on her chin and a bee in her bonnet and tells someone to fuck off for no reason at all.

I mean, she’s only human, right?

Anyway, i don’t know what it means to be “complete” and “mature”.

Wait, i take that back.

I don’t know what it means to be “mature”, but i do know what it means to be “complete”. Or, rather, i know who i want to be before my journey of life is over. That, to me, is “complete”. And i know i am not there yet.

I admit to a bit of pride in the fact that i at least know where i am headed. I have met far too many who don’t. They know what they want to be, but not who they want to be. Having been many “what”s in my life, it seems to me that the “who” is much more important. After all, it’s the one thing you’re stuck with in between “what”s. And it’s what leaves the lasting impression.

It’s true that i could be remembered for being a mother, a wife (Ok, a few wives…), a coworker, a teacher, a goofball, an annoyance…. Whole bunches of nouns that are objective labels i carry. But it’s the other stuff, the subjective stuff, that i want to be remembered for. I want my legacy to be humor, fairness, altruism, empathy, wisdom, grace…. Maybe grace is a stretch. Ok, grace is definitely a stretch. But i really believe that, if i live long enough, i can accumulate some of the others.

Because here’s the thing… God/Goddess/Universe is concerned with the “who”, not the “what”. Praying for a new car never works. We know this. But pray to be a better person, and she will put experiences in your path that will bring it about. She knows who i want to be, who i’m trying to be. And she must find it a worthy goal, because She is helping me get there bit by bit. I may not like Her teaching methods sometimes, but i do like where i’m headed.

I hope, before my journey is over, i get there.

So, no. I don’t consider myself a “mature, complete woman”. Yet. But i don’t discount the possibility that i will get there someday. That i will achieve that goal. Well, at least the “complete” part. I’m not sure about the “maturity part”… And i’m not sure i want to.

I don’t really know what “maturity” is, but it sounds boring as hell.

 

 

Travelogue – Indy Edition – Part 2

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First cat out of the bag this morning, my son tries to tell me that i woke him up four times before midnight by snoring. Interesting, since he fell asleep before nine, and i didn’t finish my book and turn out the light til one a.m.  First rule of lying, son… Know the facts first.

Anyway, breakfast this morning was at Lincoln Square Pancake House.  Banana bread french toast, toasted pecans, caramel sauce drizzled over the top. Breakfast decadence! But it was so rich and sweet, i only finished half of the three slices. My son had crepes with fresh berries, and we both had sides of breakfast meats. Waddling out of the restaurant with our boxed up leftovers, we started discussing diet plans for the coming month.

Next stop was the Indiana War Memorial Museum. I confess that i find most war museums to be rather dry and boring, like a middle school history textbook. This one, tho, kept my son and i both fully engaged for far longer than we expected. For my son, the draw was that they tried to show all the wars from many perspectives, and there were exhibits of foreign military, in addition to our own. For me, what kept my attention was the extensive collection of female military presence. Uniforms, medals, gear, and stories of women all the way back to the very first enlisted women in the state.  The icing on the cake was the building itself – Granite and marble, with an awe-inspiring top floor, roofed in stained glass, that is a shrine to all fallen soldiers everywhere. To my uniformed brothers and sisters, past and present: This place does us proud.

We left there and headed to White River State Park to walk off some food. It was even warmer today than yesterday, so the park was full of people walking, jogging, riding bikes… After a while, we found a bench, and my son took a bash at finishing his breakfast. He came pretty darned close. Then he jumps up and says that we’ve eaten too much. We should do some push-ups. WTH? I’m sure, to onlookers, we looked like a short story prompt… A park bench with the visible remains of crepes and gooey banana bread, mom and son on the walk in front of it grunting and belching as they pay penance. Mind you, i was only able to do half of my usual before my body made it known that it was not going to take any more exercise until it had digested. I had the belly of a plastic Buddha. We sat for a bit before continuing our stroll in the beautiful weather.

Next stop was Fountain Square. Reminded me a bit of a smaller Little Five Points (Atlanta.) Lots of vintage shops, comic book shops, a hall for swing dancing, some nice cafes. The highlight for me, unsurprisingly, was The Mass Ave Knit Shop. When i say that i have never been in a yarn shop as full and wonderous, i am not exaggerating. I promise you, if i lived here, i’d be at every event they had (And they have more than any place i’ve ever been!) This place was a hooker’s paradise, even if it was geared more towards knitters. I’ve never seen such selection of beautiful yarns, and the prices were reasonable. Of course, i got my trip trinket there (Two skeins of orgasmic alpaca), which prompted my son to remark that Stuart would approve of my choice. I was so relieved. I mean, it would have made me feel terrible if the bison felt slighted.

We were both feeling a bit overfed and sluggish, so we went back downtown to tackle the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. 330 steps to the top (Not including the marble steps outside.)  I made it all the way up with only a few 10 second breaks when i got to the hellishly hot top third. We considered taking the elevator back to the bottom, but i was proud of myself and on a roll, so we took the stairs down as well. By the time we were back on the street, my legs were made of jello and i was shaking like a drunk at a Baptist revival. Walking the six blocks to where we parked, i faked my best stride.

When i got into my car, i was praying i had enough strength in my leg to clutch.

By now it is late afternoon, so you know what that means… More food!

Since this was our last night here, we decided we had to get that signature Indiana dish, Hoosier Tenderloin. We had asked no less than half the locals we have met over the weekend who had the best, and by their advice, ended up at The Aristocrat. My slab of chicken-fried pork was literally bigger than the plate. Yes, literally. It was hanging off all edges. Melt-in-your-mouth, breaded and deep-fried, salty, oinking goodness. I managed a little more than half before hitting the wall and giving up. My son ate all of his crab cake burger (He is committed to having one in every city we visit) and a quarter of my Hoosier before giving in himself. It was an excellent meal with top-notch service. I recommend the place highly if you are ever in Indianapolis… But i do suggest you wear elastic waist pants.

A quick stop at a market for fruit and drinks for the road before heading back to the motel. If i were to take a selfie right now, i’ve a feeling it would look like one of those cartoon roasted pigs… pink and chubby with an apple under its snout. Stick a fork in me, i’m done. I’ve already informed my son that we’re both doing only grains and veggies for the next few weeks. Well, once we get home, that is. We’ve still one last meal before we head out of town….

*****

And this is what we learned today:

  1. In Chattanooga, we have inexpensive bike rental kiosks around the city to encourage people to go green. Here in Indy, they have similar kiosks for bikes, but also have a kiosk system for electric Smartcar rentals all over the city. How cool is that?!
  2. Hoosiers drive like Massholes. Oh, wait… I learned that yesterday.
  3.  A well-rounded museum can bring people together. Walking around the War museum, in addition to the expected Eurobrand of Americans, i saw people of various heritages. And they weren’t just walking thru. People were talking to each other, discussing things,  really learning and sharing. I watched with true happiness as an Indian (Burmese, maybe?) woman stood next to me at the case display of the first female Marine from Indiana and told her daughter why women like that were so strong and brave and important. I watched 5 young Chinese men smiling with obvious pride in front of an exhibit listing the Chinese contributions to the Allied Force in WWII. And i stood with my son in front of the Desert Storm exhibits and told him a little bit of my time there. I think the creators of the museum would be pleased.
  4. 330 steps up and down a hot spire is too much for my sorry arse.
  5. With each trip, i become more and more convinced that these are the right kinds of gifts for my weedlings. We get to share experience, laugh, chill, and really get to know each other better. As the day draws near when they will all be on their own, i am so glad that we’ll all have these memories to remind us of their weedling-hood.

Travelogue ~ Indy Edition – Part 1

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So, my son’s gift was a weekend exploring a city of his choice. It had to be less than a 10 hour drive. And it had to be someplace he had never been before. I don’t know what i expected him to pick, but it wasn’t Indianapolis.

Thankfully, i have a couple of friends who have lived there, so i had their advice, plus the usual searches on Trip Adviser, etc. My oldest even helped us out by looking up stuff that might not be on most people’s radar. I took him out of school after lunch so we could get to the city around dinnertime. We sorted ourselves out in the motel and got stoked up for a full day today….

**********

Since there was no breakfast at the motel, we found a local chain place and had a filling, homestyle meal that kept us full til late afternoon. When we were near done with the meal, i asked the first-grade-ish girl at the table beside us if, in her opinion, the zoo was worth a visit. I told her that my guess was she was an expert on the zoo (Her grandparents confirmed my suspicion), and that i would take any advice she was willing to give since we were planning on going there tomorrow. She not only gave us her full-on opinion of the best parts of the zoo, but also told us of a couple other things in the same area that she felt were worth visiting. Yes, this exchange embarrassed my son a little, but later, i reminded him that this is how he learned to form opinions… By being asked to express them.  And far too few adults do that with weedlings. As a result, they grow up to be the types of babblers we saw far too many of in the last year… The ones who shout much, but say little.

After breakfast, we took a bit of a detour from the traditional exploring-101 guide and did something we could have done anywhere… We went to a movie. But my son really  wanted to see this movie, and we didn’t really have a timetable. So we took a couple of hours to see Lego Batman.   Truly, i ended up laughing at least as much as he did. The cultural references… Oh my!… Every G and PG bad guy from my lifetime was in there somewhere. Many completely unexpected, irreverent, delightfully gratuitous. We both really enjoyed it. Find a weedling and go see it. Or go without a weedling. I won’t judge you.

The next stop was the Indiana Medical History Museum. This place is well worth a visit if you are in the Indianapolis area. It is the oldest pathology building in the country, a true gem for historians. And it is located on the grounds of an old mental asylum, a true gem for medical people and creepy lovers. Now, some of you know of my fascination with abandoned mental hospitals, and i admit, that was the initial draw for me… But this place really is a historic monument. From the original amphitheater where autopsies and lectures were held, to the pathology room with preserved diseased organs (mostly brains), to the histology, chemistry, and bacteriology labs; there are collections of original equipment, specimens, and documents dating back to the mid-1800s, back when most of mental healthcare was beyond barbaric (Tho this hospital practiced “moral medicine”, meaning that they didn’t succumb to lobotomy fever like so many asylums of the day did.) (Afterthought: Maybe that is why the place doesn’t feel haunted.) The tour guides are very knowledgable. And while the museum seems rather small from the outsides, it is packed to the gills with all manner of interesting tidbits. Do go. Especially if you are medical.

Next was downtown. The Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art . My son’s tummy was getting rumbly, and their cafe is award-winning (deservedly so), so we enjoyed a late lunch before embarking on a tour of the museum. Bellies full of sandwiches and amazing salads, we began our tour in a room dedicated to western cowboy art. The detail in some of these paintings was remarkable. Horses so painstakingly wrought in oils that you could see individual hairs in their manes. Between the main floor and the upstairs native American exhibits, there was a totem pole – a recreation by a grandson of his grandfather’s finest work. The totem tells the story of a sea monster. In the center of the totem is a figure that instigated this conversation…

My son, regarding the totem carefully, “Ma, that animal in the middle looks like she had too many piña coladas.” He turns facing me, his hands framing his chest. “Do these pineapple rings make my boobs look big???”

To play devil’s advocate, tho it was a stereotypically “boy” statement, the figure really DID look like it was holding pineapple rings…

And as a strange addendum, that section of the totem was called Mother-In-Law. No kidding.

Anyway, the Native American exhibits mostly focused on the local tribes, but i have to say, the outlay of artifacts and art was absorbing. My son, who immediately sought out the sections showcasing the native Canadians was equally enthralled. There is a lot of variety in the arts and crafts on exhibit, and the narratives that go along with the displays are very well done.

On the way out, we stopped at the museum gift shop, where my son fell in love with an overpriced bison replica that he is convinced is made of real fur and needs to be in his Canadian-themed room. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, he would pull it from the bag, smile at it, and make it “kiss” me. He named it Stuart, and it is currently staring at me from the nightstand. I love that, even as a teen, he still has a little bit of that little boy in him. That little bit of sweetness. I hope he keeps it.

After the museum, we walked to Monument Circle. We visited Rocket Fizz, a store dedicated mostly to sodas,  that had everything from nasty “barf” flavored soda to the beloved white birch beer of my youth. We also spent some time admiring the long stretch of motorcycles that had come to hang out. And we had ice cream at The Chocolate Cafe.   We walked for ages, saw some cool shops, talked to some cool people, and generally had a cool time. Well, a warm time, since it was unseasonably spring-like weather today. But still…

Now we are back in our room. My son is already asleep. He was exhausted – whether from the day or my allergy-induced snoring last night, i’m not sure. I’ve a cup of tea balanced precariously on my bloated belly (The black walnut and coffee ice creams in that giant waffle cone were worth it!) And i’m mulling over some things that i learned today:

  1. Mental Healthcare has changed both a lot and not at all in the last 150 years. It makes me sad that few treat it like “real medicine”, and as a result, it doesn’t get the research or funding that it should.
  2. Tho i knew it already, today i was reminded of the differences in Native cultures in the Americas. Many of us, myself included, tend to forget that assuming homogeneity between the Choctaw and the Hopi is like expecting the Turks and the Dutch to be the same. The cultures are very different, and each beautiful in their own right.
  3. Regardless of any differences there might be between my native New England and Indiana, Hoosiers drive exactly like Massholes.(Yes, it’s a word. See? Told ya.)
  4.  If i ever make a totem pole, i must remember to check it for boy humor first.

Going the Right Way for a Smart Bottom

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I remember once, a long time ago, when i had made a colossal mistake and my family was worried that i had blown my future, my grandmother looked me beyond-angrily in the eye and said, “For a smart girl, you did a really stupid thing!” Then she took a few moments to compose herself and said, “Now, what are we going to do to make it right?”

It wasn’t the first time i had heard a riff on the “How can someone so smart do something so stupid??” bit. I was  a smart kid, but i didn’t always make the best choices. I’d get caught up in a moment or a thought, and next thing i knew, i’d be getting the “What were you thinking???” speech from family or friends. Or, most often, from myself. And i rarely had a good response. I could tell myself that i got goaded into it, that i didn’t really have a choice, that it wasn’t my fault… But most of the time, it was one of those “It seemed like a good idea at the time” kind of things. Yes, that would include the time i read an article about the acidity of strawberries being good for stains… And came up with the brilliant idea to brush my teeth with them.

They were pink for days. I looked like some kind of dental albino.

And there have been times when i made mistakes that, in all fairness, should have done me in.  Or at least sent me to a penalty box in the 8th circle of hell or something. These mistakes are ones i should have known better than to try. The things people warn you about, and you do anyway. And no, i’m not talking about my marriages. (Well, not most of them anyway.)  I’m talking about things that harm ourselves and others. Drugs and alcohol. Self neglect and abuse. Lies to loved ones. Those mistakes really hurt. And as much as i wished for a Zamboni to come along and smooth the surface,  the only way to right the wrong was to take my punishment and use it as a ladder to help me climb out of the self-made hell hole.

Mind you, i’ve dug many more of those holes than i care to admit. And i finally grew so tired of climbing ladders that i learned to stop digging holes. (Well, i try, anyway.) (I get points for trying, right?)

Anyway…

Life is a set of cabinets from Ikea. And it doesn’t come with an instruction book. So you do your best to put things together in the right order, facing the right direction, with the right screws. Sometimes, you make a little mistake, and you have to remove the shelf you just attached because it’s upside down. You get frustrated, you bang the screwdriver on the counter, and you curse all of Sweden… But you unscrew the board, fix it and move on.

Sometimes,  you think you’re doing a decent job until you’re halfway thru and you realize you have already used up all the “A” screws, and the “B” screws don’t fit. This takes longer to fix because now you have to search in the bottom of your toolbag, as if searching for the last french fry, to find a few more screws of the correct size. But you do it, even if it means going to the hardware store to buy more, because you’ve got so much time and money invested now. You might as well.

But the worst is when you are nearly finished and you realize that you built the whole damned thing backwards and upside down. It is easy to want to give up, throw it to the curb, and let the scavengers have it. But if you do, all the effort is wasted. So take a moment, shake off the anger and disappointment, refocus and begin again. It may take more screws, some duct tape, and a whole lot of wood putty; but you can fix it. It won’t be perfect, but you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that you didn’t give up. You put in the effort to make it right. It might always be a little wonky in that back left corner, but you did it. You finished it. You made it work.  And you’ve learned your lesson: From now on, no more cabinet kits from Ikea.

My point is, we all make mistakes. Silly little ones and big bad ones. We can’t help it. We humans, we are smart… But sometimes we do really stupid things. It’s part of life. In the end, all we can do is try our best to correct what we can and learn from the experience. Turn them into ladders. And forgive. Forgive both others and ourselves for screwing up.  For making mistakes. For being human.

 

I Wanna Be a Starfish

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We learned it in some of our first science classes as kids… If a starfish loses a leg, it can regrow a new one. Lizards can grow new tails. Some worms and the often-spoken-about-but-rarely-seen sea cucumber, if you cut them into pieces, each piece becomes a new animal. Regeneration after amputation. Amazing stuff. Scientists have been studying forever in an attempt to put this information to medical use. There have been some successes, but there are still things that, once removed, never return. But not for lack of trying.

As humans, we regenerate constantly. Skin, hair, nails. blood… All constantly regrowing and replenishing themselves. The bigger body parts that we can’t regrow yet, those we can replace with transplants and prosthetics.  In one way or another, they heal. In a similar vein, the loss of face and erosion of confidence from the occasional foot-in-mouth, undone zipper, or escaped flatulence… That kind of wound to our metaphysical limbs will heal in short order. And usually with only the slightest scar.

But there are times in life where circumstances, events, or the words or actions of others cut the limb of our soul clean off. Our spirit legs taken clean out from under us, we lose propulsion and become stuck… dead in the water. Most of the time, if we wait it out, whatever aspect of our soul was cut, it will regrow. It is painful. It is difficult. But it is worth it. The regeneration process, for all its visceral discomfort, is quite simple: God/Goddess/Universe provides the first cells by surrounding us with opportunities for growth. The food of encouragement comes along and we are on our way to repair. Even if the push is small and we start out at a slow pace, we will move again. The post-amputation stumps of spirit, of confidence, of clarity… Even if the injury was near fatal at the start… Those things will eventually regrow given time.

Unless we fight it.

If we have a limb cut from us, be it the limb of trust, of motivation, of love; and we don’t want it back… Well, we will forever be crippled by the loss.

It’s not usually that we enjoy being bereft of whatever virtue was taken from us. Most of the time, the barrier is fear. Fear that if we got it back, it would only be taken again. Over and over. An endless cycle of loss and torment. And for many of us, when we think we have finally come to terms with it and are ready to move on, the phantom pains of the amputated spirit remind us of what could happen, and the little green bud drops off. We are tail-less once again.

Sometimes, that fear is a healthy thing. Sometimes, by delaying the regrowth, we strengthen the rest of our constitution. Helpful when, in fact, our fears come true, and our regrown hope is cut from us again… We are better able to handle the time without it. But if we delay the growing of the new optimism for too long, we grow accustomed to living without it. We forget how much we need it. Because unlike an actual arm or leg, as was said in Scent of a Woman, “… There is nothing like… an amputated spirit; there is no prosthetic for that.”

While it is true that we can live without an arm or a leg, or even a prosthetic for one; living without a part of your spirit is a different matter entirely.

So if you have found yourself, like i have, fighting the regrowth of something you lost, be it trust or faith or love… Try to give in. Try to give up the fear. It won’t be easy. We’ll probably lose a few tail buds in the process. And there is still a chance that, once regrown, it will get chopped again. And there will be pain. And we will have to face the fear again. And it will suck. But practice makes perfect, right? We will learn and grow and move on again. We have to. We can live without limbs. But a life without trust, or faith, or love, is really no life at all.

 

 

 

Unbatten the Hatches

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My sister has an amazing memory. I’m sure, at our age now, she occasionally mixes up her kids’ names or forgets why she walked to the basement; but she remembers things from long past that i never could. She remembers the name of every teacher she ever had, every babysitter, every celebration. Me? Not so much. There are a lot of memories that my brain has either tossed out like garbage or buried deep in some trunk, including most of the memories before i turned 8 years old, when my parents were still married, and life was “normal”.  For me, those years aren’t crisp photos in some leather covered album. They’re more like a stack of Rorschach tests that have been used to soak up spilt milk. But there are a couple that remain clear. And days like today always remind me of one in particular.

When i was 6 or so, we lived in an apartment that was on the bottom floor of 3 stories. We had a patio that was sheltered by the balconies of the apartments above us. It wasn’t big, but it was big enough for our purposes. Fold up lawn chairs, a bike, a Big Wheel, the basics of the era.  In the winter, it was a place to stash those plastic roll-up sleds and to shed the snow coated jeans and parkas (So as not to drag the wet inside the house). In the summer, the cement was spotted with popsicle stains and fluffernutter sticky spots. But my favorite thing about the patio was the rain.

I’ve never asked him why he did it, if it was planned, or if it was for his own amusement or mine. And truthfully, i couldn’t tell you if it happened only one time or 100. But the memory is as vivid as if it happened this morning. (Or more vivid, really, since, as usual,  i can barely remember this morning.)

So as i sit here on my porch listening to the thunder roll and  the rain patter, i can’t help but be brought back to that patio.

Big bad thunderstorms can be scary when you’re a kid. But i don’t remember being afraid of them. What i remember is sitting on the patio with my dad. A big bowl of popcorn (Made the RIGHT way, with lots of butter in the big stock pot on the stove). Sitting next to him, watching the storm like it was a much anticipated movie. We’d count the seconds after each electric streak across the sky, we’d jump and squeal at each resounding boom, and then we’d figure how many miles away it was. I’d sit with my dad and watch the storm with safety and comfort and a belly full of good popcorn. And i wasn’t afraid. Instead of being an explosion of God’s wrath and all those other things we kids ascribe to it, it became a beautiful and wondrous bit of nature that i learned to love and appreciate.

And when my own weedlings were young, i did the same thing with them. Our own covered porch, a bowl of popcorn, the watching and waiting and counting.  And they were never scared either

I was afraid of a lot as a weedling. Hell, i’m afraid of a lot as an adult. But i’ve never been afraid of storms. In fact, i relish them. Maybe as i grow older, i will learn to appreciate storms of other varieties,the non-weather varieties, as much as i do Mother Nature’s. Maybe, in the midst of it all, i can imagine my dad, relaxed in one of those woven-strap lawn chairs, bowl of popcorn in this lap, telling me it’s ok and reminding me to count so i’ll know when the storm starts to go away. As all storms eventually do. Yes, maybe that would be something good to add to my self-improvement “to do” list.

Raindrops, wind, thunder… The sounds of a good full-blown storm…. Therapists use it to help their patients relax, unwind, clear anxiety. It does all those things for me, too. But it also makes me smile. And think of my Dad,

Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned

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Yup. I did it. And i won’t apologize and i don’t feel guilty. Well, maybe a little bit guilty. But, damn it, isn’t that one of the best parts of being an adult? Isn’t that our silver lining for having to pay bills and get wrinkles and be responsible? I mean, lets face it… Adulting sucks a lot of the time. Most of our day is taken up with work and chores and bills and staving off the crypt-keeper. It’s these frivolous, foolish, and counter-productive things that enable us to smile.

And before you judge me, let me say that you are no angel either. You, over there… Don’t think i don’t know that you lied your way out of boxing class last Friday night so you could eat ice cream in your undies while watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons.

And you, Miss Cosmo… I know you’ve got a Harlequin Romance in your nightstand, tucked under that copy of Gloria Steinem’s biography.

Keep laughing, Terry… I know you pour chocolate milk on your Reese’s Puffs in the morning and call it “breakfast”.

And Jaime, I know you were watching the Kardashians on your laptop when i walked into your office.

We all do it. We drink from the carton and put it back in the fridge. We say cusswords and we don’t even whisper them. We pee in the shower. We fall asleep with our makeup on. We flash truckers. (Please tell me i am not the only one who has done that!)  All kinds of stuff we were warned not to do, but we do them anyway. Because they are fun. And because we know we aren’t supposed to. And our parents can’t ground us for it. (Thank God!)

(Dad, if you read this, i was only kidding about the truckers.)

So when i admit that i ate nothing but two helpings of tiramisu for supper, you can’t say anything. You’d have done it, too.

So there.

 

 

 

What He Remembered

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A memory.

Torn from my book like an

unflattering picture.

It was broken.

And frightening.

And ugly, besides.

But you kept it.

A little scrap of fabric from a filthy and

shredded quit.

Underneath the grime

and the picked out stitches

you saw a coat of many colors.

So you kept it.

Not for blackmail,

or schadenfreude,

or a tear-jerking meme…

But because…

Well, i don’t know why.

I never asked why

you kept it.

The memories from then,

dark and underexposed,

that i left to rot in a basement

riddled with

black mold and rats..

You took your copy and put it in a safe place.

And when you showed it to me, it was

as if i’d found a baby tooth,

tucked away in a forgotten jewelry box…

You kept it as a souvenir.

And now i have it again.

A picture still unflattering.

A piece still broken,

and frightening,

and ugly, besides.

A scrap of a quilt once devoid of value…

Now a symbol of victory.

I can see it.

I see it because

You kept it.

Girl Power

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When i was a kid, if i had handed an alien my U.S. History book as an insight to our country, they would have thought nearly everyone of importance was a white male.  From Columbus and his male crew meeting the (male) chief of the local tribe, to Captain John Smith, to President George Washington (And every president up til this decade)…  3/4 of the book was white men. Yes, we learned about Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Eleanor Roosevelt. We learned about George Washington Carver and Martin Luther King Jr. We learned about Harriet Tubman and Rosa Parks. We learned about Pocahontas and Sacagawea. But that was about it. The only person i remember being called out as specifically Jewish was Einstein. And if there were people of any other ethnic persuasions, i don’t remember any time being spent on them. Sad, really.

Granted, some of it is due to the fact that, until fairly recently, generally speaking, white men held the seats of power. The status quo was a European Christian male as the leader of… well.. pretty much everything. But times, they are a’changing. Every day this country becomes more diverse. And as a result, more groups are getting a chance to partake in the type of history that gets documented in textbooks. I mean, we all have always been a part of history… Just not the part that gets into the popular public record. But even that is starting to come around.

I went to see Hidden Figures  yesterday. To my surprise and delight, my son was eager to see it as well. If you somehow haven’t seen the trailers, it is the story of the “human computers”, specifically, a group of black women, who were responsible for the calculations used to get men into space. Now, i have made it a point to study women’s history for nearly 30 years, but i can honestly say that i didn’t know anything about these women until a few years back when  my daughter and i had the pleasure of hearing Dr Mae Jemison speak, and she talked about some of the women who came before her at NASA. One of the things she said about those women, women like herself, has stuck with me – They were black, they were female, and they were “nerds”; so they had three strikes against them when it came to public impressions. Thankfully, Dr. Jemison’s parents never bought into that. They encouraged her, even knowing how difficult the path would be. Becoming an astonaut is hard for anyone. But at that time, for a black woman, even more so. She did it anyway. And now it is easily conceivable for a woman, of any ethnicity, to go to space.

We need to put women like these into the history books. Important, significant women of all types to help further the aspirations of our weedlings. Lets make it easier for them to spend less time reading about the Kardashians, and more time reading about  Madame C.J. Walker, Wilma Mankiller, Maya Lin, the Notorious RBG (Ruth Bader Ginsberg, to those not in-the-know). And lesser known, but still historically significant women like Deborah Samson, Ann E. Dunwoody, Dr Helen Rodríguez Trías,  and Dr. Rebecca Lee Crumpler. By including women like these, we show that it is possible for ALL girls, and by extension, ALL children, to grow to become people of historical significance.

Lets face it, folks, it wasn’t that long ago when independent women were burned at the stake as witches. When black women were thought to be little more than oxen. When intelligent women were thought to be anomalies. When conventionally unattractive women were considered to be hopeless. And on and on. And heaven help you if you had more than one of those strikes against you.

Yes, i am fully aware that i am soap-boxing. But this is important to me.

Also of note, we need to make sure that we don’t go overboard and infringe upon those who take paths society deems “backwards”. The woman who chooses to be a stay-at-home mom is important, not because of some misogynistic fluff, but because she CHOSE to be that in the face of small-minded feminists who don’t see the value in it. The woman who becomes a Catholic nun or Buddhist monk is important not because she is sheltered from the world, but because she CHOSE to dedicate her life to something she cared deeply about in spite of others finding it old-fashioned. The young woman who attends an all-girls’ school, or an all-black school, or any separatist institution is doing so BY HER OWN CHOICE, and that makes it significant. Even if it is something that others might feel is a step back. In this context, a free choice is a step forward, even if the result is not one that seems progressive to the masses.

My daughters have never felt fettered by notions of what women are “supposed to do”. At least i don’t think they have. I hope they haven’t. I’ve tried to instill in them the belief that society’s notions are not a code that needs to be followed. I try to be the same with my son, as he, too, will find gates and fences that will try to block his path along the way. Teaching our weedlings that there are endless possibilities in life is most important… And should be followed closely by the teaching that “endless” does not mean “easy”. The norms we frequently have to buck against require effort to overcome. Swimming against the tide, literally or figuratively, is much more labor intensive than going with the flow. It is not for everyone.

And that’s ok. We don’t all have to be trailblazers. It takes all kinds of women, of people, to make the world the wonder that it is. Being a “regular Joe” (Or Josephine) is nothing shameful. The important thing is not the life you choose, but that YOU choose it. Yourself. Freely. Knowing that any choice was allowable. President or Preacher. Entertainer or Inventor. Mayor or Mother. Any choice you make freely with the conviction of your own heart is a good choice. But the only way we know that is to read and learn about those who came before us. The choices they made, the goals they set, and what it took to realize them.

These women, they were remarkable.

And so are we.

 

Wishin’ and Hopin’ and Thinkin’ and Prayin’

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The first day of the new year. It always makes me contemplative, nostalgic, and, dare i say, hopeful.

It’s been a full year for me. A new career. A new house. A new half-century. Ok, maybe that isn’t really full… I mean, there’s no new love, no new children (Thank God!), no new all-encompassing issues… But it was plenty full enough. And i got thru it mostly unscathed. Even when including the loss of so many wonderful icons and the election of the anything-but-her-and-pray-for-the-best, i can’t really say that i have too many personal complaints. My health has remained mostly good. My weedlings are all doing well. I like the new job. And the new house. I have time to read again. My finances are improving. My therapist says i am most definitely mostly sane now. And my SiriDog still thinks i’m The Shit. Life is good.

This past week, i’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the year ahead. The responsibilities. The possibilities. I want to learn to play the bass guitar (Truthfully, i’ve wanted to learn it for more than 3 decades, but i’m only now in a place to do so.) I want to become more socially active – I will find one area that i care about and can help, and i will devote effort to it. And after a recent epiphany that showed me what hole i can help fill, i will finally publish a real paper-and-print book. (Granted, the book has been on my list every year for the last half dozen, but now i have an idea worth selling.) Only the Universe knows whether i’ll actually accomplish these things,   but i have hope. And not that shiny silver hope of the holiday, but the polished brass hope of longstanding vision.

Now, there are other things that i am not laying hopes on for the coming year. I have no hopes of becoming a hard body. I know what it would require, and that ain’t happening. I have a faint wisp of a hope of dropping the 5 pounds i gained with the new job, but it has the solidity of morning fog, so i certainly can’t count it. I am not putting any hope in Liam Neeson (Or my latest crush, Karl Urban) appearing at my doorstep to profess their love, or  even just to beg for a night of naked debauchery. Nor do i have any hopes of winning a lottery (Because that would require me playing it.)

See? I’m a realist. Sort of. So there’s a good chance that the things on my list for the next year will actually come to pass.

And to add to my hopes and determination, i have a renewed sense of being blessed. I spent my New Year’s eve watching the HUMAN movie. (If you are interested, here is volume 1 of 3… HUMAN ) I had seen a couple clips from it, but had never gotten around to watching the whole thing. Until last night. It changes you. All these people, of all ages, from all over the planet, from all walks of life… Many with issues that i’ve never had to face and lives far harder than i have ever had… Their eyes, boring into the camera,  holding sadness, hunger, frustration, joy, love, and hope. The same things we all hold. I could feel my hands reaching out to them as my eyes swam with tears, and my mouth spread in smile, right along with them. These people, complete strangers, with raw emotion and honesty, became part of my heart. Reminders of what it means to be human, and how advantaged i am, even in the worst of times. If the most accursed of them can have hope, then how can i not? And if i know that these damnable conditions exist for them, as they do for so many others, how can i not do something to help?

I hope the makers of this movie know what they have achieved, because i am sure i am not the only person so affected by its contents.

And with that, onward into this new year. Holding myself accountable to a short and reasonable “to do” list of accomplishments both great and small. I am not the woman i was a year ago. I have grown. And maybe because of that, my list is shorter and simpler. And, i think, more achievable than ever before. I will fulfill it all. I will learn. I will help. I will write. And i will hope. Always, i will hope.