In the 80's, we danced with our arms way up high, and spun around slowly with intricate little footsteps. Perhaps this move, with our bodies open to the wind, was an expression of freedom from the tight, dancy shoulder-shakes of disco, a smoothing-out of the Travolta-esque rapid-arm bag punch. Maybe we were reaching upwards for four minutes at a time to draw the air and sky and sun toward us as we entered an earth-conscious age that joined us in world-wide human love and ended the Cold War. The time proved us eager to dissolve the board room establishment, escape land-line constraints, and render "the Man" powerless. We greeted each other with open arms, hugged trees, and lifted ourselves into the bliss of self-awareness. Our dancing jived with our anthropology, a fluid uprising of collective souls.
Debasing these noble evolutions through truth and vanity, I must admit that logistics played more of a role in our dancing style that any earthy or spiritual expressions, because we wore huge clothing. Our physical movements had to accommodate for our enormous outfits, and our sleeves in particular. Dolman sleeves, they were, and our jackets and shirts had big shoulder pads and tight cuffs, with yards of swingy, wingy fabric to connect them. The nightclub crowd looked like a party of bats trying walk upright, moving with arms above our heads and cautious little steps.
We wore our big, beautiful sleeves in lime green and neon yellow, with matching bangle bracelets, pounds of them at a time, jangling above our heads. Girls and boys alike rocked those sleeves sewn into grey pin-striped zoot suits, in fatigue army jackets, and in torn black sweatshirts (which made us all, instantly, flashdancers). Eventually our pants went dolman ("can't touch this"), and we were sailing through the 80's like paratroopers, arms and legs wide open.
Now, I am a creature of habit not only in my day-to-day, but from decade-to-decade. I've made my bed, every single morning, since I could walk. I cannot sleep without shutting all the closet doors in the house and whispering the prayer that I learned before I could speak. And when I feel crappy, really blue and despondent, I play a smooth beat like "Clock of the Heart" and dance around with my arms up high above my head. For thirty years, nothing can compete with that song to get me nearer to cool again, I close my eyes with a shy smile on my face, and I find comfort in every breathy word. Today, I needed to breathe like that again, and smile that smile again, and dance just that way. I wore the closest dolman top I could find, a whispy robe that flows around my arms, and turned up the speakers to hear my youtubed savior, George Alan O'Dowd. I gave myself 3:40 break from my chores, and danced like I did when I won my junior year dance contest. And like the clock of my heart, it worked.
Here, try it yourself, and check the billowy lab-coat:
PS. If you don't feel quite awesome yet, or you have nothing much going on right now, check out this original video. You don't want to miss the sleeves on Boy George's Amish-inspired overcoat at about 1:20.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Breaking News from High Atop the GWB
I think that Sarah Palin has put the icing on my home-made rose-topped sickeningly sweet-strawberry-frooty-tooty angel food cake...the dessert that looks perfectly baked and decorated, but when you take a big bite you pucker, double over, gag, and puke the thing out. She has gotten a face lift, and has now gone Skeletor on Fox News. All smooth forehead and no more eye bags, and cheekbones that stick out a la corpse. This, along with many other dysfunctional social and personal defects I'm facing, has put me near the point of jumping off the bridge, or waking up tomorrow morning in the gutter in front of the Ringside Pub, a soggy cigarette between my lips.
Here is what I sound like when I'm drunk:
"I've worked so HARD! And SACRIFICED! And I got up earlier than everyone else, stayed up longer than everyone else, to get better scores than everyone else, and I get along with people, and they LIKE me, and I give the shirt off my back, and I never make time for myself, and no one UNDERSTANDS me..." You get the drift. Sick stuff, right? Not the classic pity pot that everyone shits in once in a while; it's the everyday experiences that guarantee nights of me feeling resentful, desperate, and alone. Very very alone. I'm singing the same song (to myself only...a kind of melancholy a-capella broody bit) without the "time for myself" part, because I got a mani/pedi yesterday, and I wouldn't want to sound completely ungrateful. I've worked really hard yet I'm unemployed, my last boss is denying my unemployment claim, I'm busting my ass at an internship and I owe them thousands for the pleasure, and I can NOT wait patiently from my latest job application to see if I'll be called back, or not hired at all. I almost wish the guy would send the e-mail that says, "We regret to inform you" to end my misery; only thing is, I really am the most qualified and best person for the job. I was made for it. I can bring new insight and integrity to that office...and that's where I start to sound like Palin, and my self-loathing begins anew. Women who get facelifts just to look less wrinkly should not be taken seriously in politics. And how far away am I from the lipstick-on-a-pig in-over-my-head wink-and-a-nod failed governor-slash-beauty queen? My recovery hides my deep flaws, my academic achievements hide my social phobias, and my resentments grow as others who are less brilliant and more dishonest write million-dollar sellers while I stay safe on a cheap and easy blog. I bet Sarah didn't even write her own book, and with that, I resent her ghostwriter. I could ghostwrite better than anyone, I bet.
Just got a call from the kid I checked into rehab a few months ago. She's sober, struggling, and has had to take herself out of a challenging situation. She needs a place to hang tonight...and that is why I am here. That, thankfully, plants me with the root of who I am. And of who she is. We are not fake or make-believe. We are real, honest, hardworking women who have made a profound change, not just plumped up our breasts or tightened the turkey necks. We keep going, growing, and we never let the rough times bring us down. That's my story to tell, and it's a good one.
I think I'll call my book "Undefeated". Well, maybe not.
Here is what I sound like when I'm drunk:
"I've worked so HARD! And SACRIFICED! And I got up earlier than everyone else, stayed up longer than everyone else, to get better scores than everyone else, and I get along with people, and they LIKE me, and I give the shirt off my back, and I never make time for myself, and no one UNDERSTANDS me..." You get the drift. Sick stuff, right? Not the classic pity pot that everyone shits in once in a while; it's the everyday experiences that guarantee nights of me feeling resentful, desperate, and alone. Very very alone. I'm singing the same song (to myself only...a kind of melancholy a-capella broody bit) without the "time for myself" part, because I got a mani/pedi yesterday, and I wouldn't want to sound completely ungrateful. I've worked really hard yet I'm unemployed, my last boss is denying my unemployment claim, I'm busting my ass at an internship and I owe them thousands for the pleasure, and I can NOT wait patiently from my latest job application to see if I'll be called back, or not hired at all. I almost wish the guy would send the e-mail that says, "We regret to inform you" to end my misery; only thing is, I really am the most qualified and best person for the job. I was made for it. I can bring new insight and integrity to that office...and that's where I start to sound like Palin, and my self-loathing begins anew. Women who get facelifts just to look less wrinkly should not be taken seriously in politics. And how far away am I from the lipstick-on-a-pig in-over-my-head wink-and-a-nod failed governor-slash-beauty queen? My recovery hides my deep flaws, my academic achievements hide my social phobias, and my resentments grow as others who are less brilliant and more dishonest write million-dollar sellers while I stay safe on a cheap and easy blog. I bet Sarah didn't even write her own book, and with that, I resent her ghostwriter. I could ghostwrite better than anyone, I bet.
Just got a call from the kid I checked into rehab a few months ago. She's sober, struggling, and has had to take herself out of a challenging situation. She needs a place to hang tonight...and that is why I am here. That, thankfully, plants me with the root of who I am. And of who she is. We are not fake or make-believe. We are real, honest, hardworking women who have made a profound change, not just plumped up our breasts or tightened the turkey necks. We keep going, growing, and we never let the rough times bring us down. That's my story to tell, and it's a good one.
I think I'll call my book "Undefeated". Well, maybe not.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Do You Think I'll Get an A?
God and the Human Condition: What’s in it for Me
There is something to be said for good parenting. As a young reader, prolific beyond my years, I would often come across a word with elusive meaning. I’d follow the trail of cigarette smoke in my search for my mother to ask for help, and often found her sprawled out on her bed, a heavy book in her free hand. When I questioned my mother about the troubling word, she would ask if I’d identified any Latin or Germanic clues; “There are none”, I’d respond, sure even before my approach. “Well then, look it up” she’d say, and lower her head back to her Margaret Atwood. As I got older and became determined to write the great American novel (I think I was nine), my grammar school spelling would betray my Steinbeck vocabulary, and I would find my mother again and ask for help. “How do you spell dispassionate?” I’d ask, so afraid of her standard answer. I was in a hurry to get back to my thread, and our dictionary often went missing, shared by six siblings! But no, ease could not be mine, and “Look it up” she would say, a pen between her teeth, smoke around her head, as she worked her way through a dimestore collection of New York Times crossword puzzles.
Such has been my experience in this class. As I study the world’s religions, I am motivated to answer the very many questions of “why”, “how”, and “where” that nag at me with each chapter. Many late nights I was motivated to “look it up”, the connections that lead us through time and culture. The study of religion is not simply to find comprehension of a particular dogma; for me, religion is part of the world’s historical whole. Who found faith in what, where were they going, from where had they come, why were they motivated to find answers to their human condition at that point in time…for me, all these questions relate human beings to each other over time, generations, boundaries created and re-created, and human experience. In my opinion, there is no other subject which can teach us so completely about history, literature, art, ethics, culture, and philosophy, all under one empirically accurate roof. The study of religion to me does not point out our personal differences, but unifies us as world travelers, muddling through life the best way we know how. Really, to me it’s all the best way, as long as the path is kind, fair, and promotes the independent spiritual growth of followers. Do no harm, do unto others, feed the starving, teach what you know…it’s all really very good.
An objective look at a religion different than one’s own allows insight to another lifestyle, and maybe greater appreciation for one’s own lifestyle once educated. I am not at all uncomfortable with the Catholic who thinks of the Jew, “Well, that doesn’t sound right”, as long as she finds no hatred in such difference. Unfortunately, there are too many of that type of bigot, and it was obvious that such ignorance got in the way of objective learning while I sat in our religion class. There are those so cloaked in their religion they wear it like a self-righteous burqa, with only small slits cut out for limited vision, lacking a peripheral view of the world. Their education is inadequate by design; if another person’s reality lies outside their field of vision, it cannot be reality, and may even seem ridiculous. Thus I am motivated to return home and “look it up”, the how’s and why’s of man’s personal motivations, cloaked as religious behavior. My annoyance at some classmates’ blindness serves to illuminate my own illiteracy, and through the study of religion, I am enlightened. And that is why I am here, as a college student, aiming for a degree in higher education. For this experience, I thank my classmates, my professor and, of course, my mother.
There is something to be said for good parenting. As a young reader, prolific beyond my years, I would often come across a word with elusive meaning. I’d follow the trail of cigarette smoke in my search for my mother to ask for help, and often found her sprawled out on her bed, a heavy book in her free hand. When I questioned my mother about the troubling word, she would ask if I’d identified any Latin or Germanic clues; “There are none”, I’d respond, sure even before my approach. “Well then, look it up” she’d say, and lower her head back to her Margaret Atwood. As I got older and became determined to write the great American novel (I think I was nine), my grammar school spelling would betray my Steinbeck vocabulary, and I would find my mother again and ask for help. “How do you spell dispassionate?” I’d ask, so afraid of her standard answer. I was in a hurry to get back to my thread, and our dictionary often went missing, shared by six siblings! But no, ease could not be mine, and “Look it up” she would say, a pen between her teeth, smoke around her head, as she worked her way through a dimestore collection of New York Times crossword puzzles.
Such has been my experience in this class. As I study the world’s religions, I am motivated to answer the very many questions of “why”, “how”, and “where” that nag at me with each chapter. Many late nights I was motivated to “look it up”, the connections that lead us through time and culture. The study of religion is not simply to find comprehension of a particular dogma; for me, religion is part of the world’s historical whole. Who found faith in what, where were they going, from where had they come, why were they motivated to find answers to their human condition at that point in time…for me, all these questions relate human beings to each other over time, generations, boundaries created and re-created, and human experience. In my opinion, there is no other subject which can teach us so completely about history, literature, art, ethics, culture, and philosophy, all under one empirically accurate roof. The study of religion to me does not point out our personal differences, but unifies us as world travelers, muddling through life the best way we know how. Really, to me it’s all the best way, as long as the path is kind, fair, and promotes the independent spiritual growth of followers. Do no harm, do unto others, feed the starving, teach what you know…it’s all really very good.
An objective look at a religion different than one’s own allows insight to another lifestyle, and maybe greater appreciation for one’s own lifestyle once educated. I am not at all uncomfortable with the Catholic who thinks of the Jew, “Well, that doesn’t sound right”, as long as she finds no hatred in such difference. Unfortunately, there are too many of that type of bigot, and it was obvious that such ignorance got in the way of objective learning while I sat in our religion class. There are those so cloaked in their religion they wear it like a self-righteous burqa, with only small slits cut out for limited vision, lacking a peripheral view of the world. Their education is inadequate by design; if another person’s reality lies outside their field of vision, it cannot be reality, and may even seem ridiculous. Thus I am motivated to return home and “look it up”, the how’s and why’s of man’s personal motivations, cloaked as religious behavior. My annoyance at some classmates’ blindness serves to illuminate my own illiteracy, and through the study of religion, I am enlightened. And that is why I am here, as a college student, aiming for a degree in higher education. For this experience, I thank my classmates, my professor and, of course, my mother.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
A Communion of Us
My friend Karen talks about the Second Step of 12-Step recovery in a way that skinny old chainsmoking bar flies can really hear: The First Step tells you, "You're fucked!", and the Second Step whispers, "Maybe not!"
When you finally admit you've got a problem, it is suggested that you find a "higher power", or as my sponser refers to in her text messages, a "HP". This can be a challenge for those who can't seem to shake their disappointment in God, or the hypocrisy of religion, or the self-righteous indignation of very right and judgemental churches. The need for the HP is urgent and real; you need to know that there is a power greater than you, and it is...NOT YOU! Face it, your ideas, as far as being a drunk goes, suck. So, mull it over, argue with your sponsor, tell the Lord what you really think of Him, and then pick something, anything, that is iconic enough to keep you from drinking. And do it quick.
There are those who, like me, start out with AA itself as their HP. After all, I thought, the room is full of people who found a way not to drink so much that they fall down the stairs today, so, maybe I should shut the hell up and listen to what they have to say. I have a friend who has taken a deceased group member as her higher power, and there are a few who may have followed that lead, and just don't say it out loud. (Believe me, this guy is worthy.) There are myths and legends of AAs that chose a non-conventional higher power, like a pet, or a squirrel, or grandma's quilt. Then there is the woman who, whenever she raised her hand, thanked her higher power, whom she chose to call "wood". Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right?
Now, if you are like me, and you choose the group as a starting line HP, all goes well until someone in the group does something really stupid, and then your resentments start to build. After all, you've put this group on a pedestal, and now someone is screwing the young newcomer/gossiping about your ex-boyfriend/cheating on their taxes, and that shaky house of cards begins to fall. You need a real higher power, real quick. Who do you call?
Long story short, I called Mary. Well, maybe she called me. Anyway, I ended up at her feet, and there I remain. She stands in my kitchen, looks down from my car visor, and watches over my classrooms. She's everywhere, she always has been, and she's IT for me. I love her, talk to her, and listen to her. We have conversations. I talk to the Mother of God, and She talks to Me. Crazy, you say? Well, don't whisper Joan of Arc-y things about me to the Pope, or any other Catholic true believer, because they will have to tell you, it's true. The Catechism tells me that not only is it possible, it happens all the time, and the willingness to believe it is necessary to Catholics. "The Communion of Saints" is the interactive relationship of all believers between heaven, purgatory, and Earth. I didn't know this until yesterday, and when I learned it, I cried. I had imagined the communion of saints to be a recited line in a creed I really didn't care to understand, a club for dead stigmatics. Not so. The saints, Mary included, are there to help us and lead us toward what is best for us, even when we don't know it ourselves. They are like kind and loving grandparents, or godparents, or best friends. Mary is my best friend. She hears me, and sets me straight, and the Church will tell you it's all true. How else do you know it's true?
I didn't drink today. Miracles can happen.
When you finally admit you've got a problem, it is suggested that you find a "higher power", or as my sponser refers to in her text messages, a "HP". This can be a challenge for those who can't seem to shake their disappointment in God, or the hypocrisy of religion, or the self-righteous indignation of very right and judgemental churches. The need for the HP is urgent and real; you need to know that there is a power greater than you, and it is...NOT YOU! Face it, your ideas, as far as being a drunk goes, suck. So, mull it over, argue with your sponsor, tell the Lord what you really think of Him, and then pick something, anything, that is iconic enough to keep you from drinking. And do it quick.
There are those who, like me, start out with AA itself as their HP. After all, I thought, the room is full of people who found a way not to drink so much that they fall down the stairs today, so, maybe I should shut the hell up and listen to what they have to say. I have a friend who has taken a deceased group member as her higher power, and there are a few who may have followed that lead, and just don't say it out loud. (Believe me, this guy is worthy.) There are myths and legends of AAs that chose a non-conventional higher power, like a pet, or a squirrel, or grandma's quilt. Then there is the woman who, whenever she raised her hand, thanked her higher power, whom she chose to call "wood". Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right?
Now, if you are like me, and you choose the group as a starting line HP, all goes well until someone in the group does something really stupid, and then your resentments start to build. After all, you've put this group on a pedestal, and now someone is screwing the young newcomer/gossiping about your ex-boyfriend/cheating on their taxes, and that shaky house of cards begins to fall. You need a real higher power, real quick. Who do you call?
Long story short, I called Mary. Well, maybe she called me. Anyway, I ended up at her feet, and there I remain. She stands in my kitchen, looks down from my car visor, and watches over my classrooms. She's everywhere, she always has been, and she's IT for me. I love her, talk to her, and listen to her. We have conversations. I talk to the Mother of God, and She talks to Me. Crazy, you say? Well, don't whisper Joan of Arc-y things about me to the Pope, or any other Catholic true believer, because they will have to tell you, it's true. The Catechism tells me that not only is it possible, it happens all the time, and the willingness to believe it is necessary to Catholics. "The Communion of Saints" is the interactive relationship of all believers between heaven, purgatory, and Earth. I didn't know this until yesterday, and when I learned it, I cried. I had imagined the communion of saints to be a recited line in a creed I really didn't care to understand, a club for dead stigmatics. Not so. The saints, Mary included, are there to help us and lead us toward what is best for us, even when we don't know it ourselves. They are like kind and loving grandparents, or godparents, or best friends. Mary is my best friend. She hears me, and sets me straight, and the Church will tell you it's all true. How else do you know it's true?
I didn't drink today. Miracles can happen.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Bowery Boys vs. John Wayne (or, How the Duke Goes Down)
While researching a paper on the Catholic influence on world peace, I came across a quote by John Wayne. (Yes, this is how I often end up on the road less travelled.) Regarding Native Americans, he said:
"I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them. There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves."
And he meant it.
Boy, do I miss my dad.
My father would tell stories of how his younger brother was an insufferable whiny brat. Whatever Timmy wanted to eat, that was lunch. Whatever he wanted to play, that toy became his, even if it belonged to his older brothers. Whatever he wanted to watch on TV, that show blared into the living room. Now, Uncle Timmy loved John Wayne movies. Back in the day of the Sunday Afternoon Classic, and the Friday Night Late Show, and the NBC Holiday Classic or whatever Show, you could choose from two movies for the afternoon or evening. Well, if one movie was "Big Jim McLain" and the other was "The Bowery Boys Meet the Monsters", little Timmy would cry and say, "But Mom, it's my favorite! Dickie NEVER lets me watch my favorite movies!" He'd run in front the old tube wearing a kid's toy holster and cowboy hat, stick out his tongue at his brother, and grin that smug bratty grin. Insufferable. Whiny. Brat.
My father, the older brother, had little recourse. Just about anything he might do would get him pounded by the adults in the home who just wanted Timmy to shut the hell up; he couldn't change the channel, steal Tim's toy gun, or smack the hell out of him. So, he'd grin a bigger grin in the Whiner's face, lean down low to him, and whisper, "John Wayne is a fairy." It would ruin my uncle's afternoon, everytime. The Whiner became the Tantrumer ("I'll kill you for that, Dickie! John Wayne is an AMERICAN HERO, he is NOT A FAIRY! So WHAT if his real name is Marion!"), and my father would smile and take to his room, the Quiet Victor.
Now, my father is gone, and my uncle remains. He calls Asians "gooks", blacks "niggers", Latinos "spics", and God knows what he calls gays; I don't spend enough time with him to hear it. That my father used a slur against homosexuals may not have been nice, as far as homosexuals are concerned. But my dad wasn't looking to offend gays; he was using his brother's own weapons against him. The tools my uncle used to cut another man down would leave him crying and red in the face when turned in his direction. His hero was a man who stood on principle of murder, displacement, and a sense of entitlement. When it comes to giving the other guy a break, my hero was, is, my dad.
Men and women of every color, race, sexual orientation, and religion came to pay their respects at my dad's wake. They were his real friends, not icons on the screen. My father's lasting quotes are, though borrowed, kind: Keep on keepin' on. Home safe. Shower the people you love with love. Never go to bed angry.
And then, there is that quote all his own: John Wayne was a fairy.
"I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them. There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves."
And he meant it.
Boy, do I miss my dad.
My father would tell stories of how his younger brother was an insufferable whiny brat. Whatever Timmy wanted to eat, that was lunch. Whatever he wanted to play, that toy became his, even if it belonged to his older brothers. Whatever he wanted to watch on TV, that show blared into the living room. Now, Uncle Timmy loved John Wayne movies. Back in the day of the Sunday Afternoon Classic, and the Friday Night Late Show, and the NBC Holiday Classic or whatever Show, you could choose from two movies for the afternoon or evening. Well, if one movie was "Big Jim McLain" and the other was "The Bowery Boys Meet the Monsters", little Timmy would cry and say, "But Mom, it's my favorite! Dickie NEVER lets me watch my favorite movies!" He'd run in front the old tube wearing a kid's toy holster and cowboy hat, stick out his tongue at his brother, and grin that smug bratty grin. Insufferable. Whiny. Brat.
My father, the older brother, had little recourse. Just about anything he might do would get him pounded by the adults in the home who just wanted Timmy to shut the hell up; he couldn't change the channel, steal Tim's toy gun, or smack the hell out of him. So, he'd grin a bigger grin in the Whiner's face, lean down low to him, and whisper, "John Wayne is a fairy." It would ruin my uncle's afternoon, everytime. The Whiner became the Tantrumer ("I'll kill you for that, Dickie! John Wayne is an AMERICAN HERO, he is NOT A FAIRY! So WHAT if his real name is Marion!"), and my father would smile and take to his room, the Quiet Victor.
Now, my father is gone, and my uncle remains. He calls Asians "gooks", blacks "niggers", Latinos "spics", and God knows what he calls gays; I don't spend enough time with him to hear it. That my father used a slur against homosexuals may not have been nice, as far as homosexuals are concerned. But my dad wasn't looking to offend gays; he was using his brother's own weapons against him. The tools my uncle used to cut another man down would leave him crying and red in the face when turned in his direction. His hero was a man who stood on principle of murder, displacement, and a sense of entitlement. When it comes to giving the other guy a break, my hero was, is, my dad.
Men and women of every color, race, sexual orientation, and religion came to pay their respects at my dad's wake. They were his real friends, not icons on the screen. My father's lasting quotes are, though borrowed, kind: Keep on keepin' on. Home safe. Shower the people you love with love. Never go to bed angry.
And then, there is that quote all his own: John Wayne was a fairy.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Excuse Me Sir, That Seat Was Taken
How do we DO this?! How do we stay sober?!
Big exam in Psych Statistics tonight, the kind where I pull out my hair while working my pencil, and end up getting an A. Killing myself, because that is what I do. (Let's remember, I did not get A's in college the first time around. I was into blackouts, cracked ribs, stealing cigarettes. And there was a tail-gate party that, as good drunks, we didn't party out of the trunk of the car; we rented a U-Haul cube to hold the kegs. I got mud in my braids, puked all over, and had to ride home in the back of the cube, which was scary and made me even pukier.) These days, why do it unless you do it right, which means full throttle, pull-your-hair-out-late-night-statistics.
There is an Indian dandy who comes in late when he comes to class, which is almost never. Wild hair and gorgeous black eyes, and a smell you'd imagine comes from his car, gassy and smokey and boozy. His skin should be lovely, too, but it's not, it's yellow, and there are bits of tobacco-like things in his hair. He chooses to sit by me, probably because it's the easiest seat to take when late and leave when early. (Some of you might say a higher power put him there, but I believe it's just a matter of logistics.) He takes off his coat and his smell comes to me, lets me know what he's been up to. On lecture nights, he raises his hand and asks questions that no one but the professor can understand, and she dismisses him because his questions will be answered two chapters down the line. The kid is in overdrive on some crazy Jim Beam-and-speed math ride, and the teacher can't keep up. Tonight is exam night, and he's drunk again, swaying again, and getting an A...again. How does he DO it?
And why couldn't I? That's what still can piss us right off. Why can't we be like "other" people? Why can't we drink like normal, and act normal, and have normal relationships with normal expectations and disppointments? Have a drink at Friday happy hour, toast the bride and groom at a wedding, have a few beers from the trunk in the Giants' parking lot? Well, we can't. We just can't. We've proven it over and over. We don't know more than we know, and we know we cannot drink at all if we are to live like "other" people.
Besides, the sotten Indian is not one of the "other" people, he is like me. He just doesn't know it yet.
Big exam in Psych Statistics tonight, the kind where I pull out my hair while working my pencil, and end up getting an A. Killing myself, because that is what I do. (Let's remember, I did not get A's in college the first time around. I was into blackouts, cracked ribs, stealing cigarettes. And there was a tail-gate party that, as good drunks, we didn't party out of the trunk of the car; we rented a U-Haul cube to hold the kegs. I got mud in my braids, puked all over, and had to ride home in the back of the cube, which was scary and made me even pukier.) These days, why do it unless you do it right, which means full throttle, pull-your-hair-out-late-night-statistics.
There is an Indian dandy who comes in late when he comes to class, which is almost never. Wild hair and gorgeous black eyes, and a smell you'd imagine comes from his car, gassy and smokey and boozy. His skin should be lovely, too, but it's not, it's yellow, and there are bits of tobacco-like things in his hair. He chooses to sit by me, probably because it's the easiest seat to take when late and leave when early. (Some of you might say a higher power put him there, but I believe it's just a matter of logistics.) He takes off his coat and his smell comes to me, lets me know what he's been up to. On lecture nights, he raises his hand and asks questions that no one but the professor can understand, and she dismisses him because his questions will be answered two chapters down the line. The kid is in overdrive on some crazy Jim Beam-and-speed math ride, and the teacher can't keep up. Tonight is exam night, and he's drunk again, swaying again, and getting an A...again. How does he DO it?
And why couldn't I? That's what still can piss us right off. Why can't we be like "other" people? Why can't we drink like normal, and act normal, and have normal relationships with normal expectations and disppointments? Have a drink at Friday happy hour, toast the bride and groom at a wedding, have a few beers from the trunk in the Giants' parking lot? Well, we can't. We just can't. We've proven it over and over. We don't know more than we know, and we know we cannot drink at all if we are to live like "other" people.
Besides, the sotten Indian is not one of the "other" people, he is like me. He just doesn't know it yet.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I'm Sorry, I Don't Think We've Met
When I was 16 I had the most beautiful boyfriend in the world. Really. He looked like Jim Morrison, without a shirt, a strand of love beads over his hairless chest. Maybe that's why I loved him, because God knows I loved Jim, and to make the deal sweeter, this gorgeous blonde kid with big curls at his neck even wrote poetry like Jim's, so, there.
He could draw, too, my Adonis, and at the time I thought he was the greatest artist ever to sketch with a pencil in a book. (He has since been replaced by my oldest daughter.) Serious and sly, he would draw anything anywhere...except me. He never drew me. Not my face, my mouth, my eye. After years and reams of paper, I asked him why. "You wouldn't like it," he said, "I'd draw you as you are, and not how you want me to see you." He thought I wouldn't recognize myself.
Fast forward twenty-some years, and I know now what he meant. Because I never can recognize myself. Sometimes, in my mind, I see myself as a sexy siren, a feminine fox with a great walk and a nice mouth. The with-it girl that guys want. The woman that you can't guess her age, you'd guess a bit low. A passionate lover who can't wait to be unbuttoned. Other times, I see an ogre. A fat, ugly, pockmarked lump. A crazy-ass chick that only a crazy-ass ogre would want. An aging beast that makes a solid friend, but you wouldn't want to see her naked. You wouldn't dare touch her, please her, love her. Even if she'd let you, but she probably won't.
Today when I checked the mirror, I didn't see either of those. I could see a bit of my grandmother's face, a shine my dark eye, a too-broad nose, set on a rounding body. Nice shoulders, though. Maybe my old sweetheart should have just drawn my shoulder, my line to my clavicle, a few dark freckles and lots of light ones. That, I might recognize. That part of me doesn't seem to change.
And who wants to love that? Fucking shoulder...Is it enough to rip the clothes off a woman, throw her down, kiss her round belly? Is it enough to make a man want to bite that shoulder just to get a part of me in him? To say my name, to beg my name?
Nope. But, it's all I've got, all I can rely on right now. It's a start. So, a drawing of me might be something I would like. I wouldn't be able to wonder, and waver. I'd learn to recognize myself, maybe. And maybe learn to like that pencil-sketched girl, too. I bet she's kind of pretty.
He could draw, too, my Adonis, and at the time I thought he was the greatest artist ever to sketch with a pencil in a book. (He has since been replaced by my oldest daughter.) Serious and sly, he would draw anything anywhere...except me. He never drew me. Not my face, my mouth, my eye. After years and reams of paper, I asked him why. "You wouldn't like it," he said, "I'd draw you as you are, and not how you want me to see you." He thought I wouldn't recognize myself.
Fast forward twenty-some years, and I know now what he meant. Because I never can recognize myself. Sometimes, in my mind, I see myself as a sexy siren, a feminine fox with a great walk and a nice mouth. The with-it girl that guys want. The woman that you can't guess her age, you'd guess a bit low. A passionate lover who can't wait to be unbuttoned. Other times, I see an ogre. A fat, ugly, pockmarked lump. A crazy-ass chick that only a crazy-ass ogre would want. An aging beast that makes a solid friend, but you wouldn't want to see her naked. You wouldn't dare touch her, please her, love her. Even if she'd let you, but she probably won't.
Today when I checked the mirror, I didn't see either of those. I could see a bit of my grandmother's face, a shine my dark eye, a too-broad nose, set on a rounding body. Nice shoulders, though. Maybe my old sweetheart should have just drawn my shoulder, my line to my clavicle, a few dark freckles and lots of light ones. That, I might recognize. That part of me doesn't seem to change.
And who wants to love that? Fucking shoulder...Is it enough to rip the clothes off a woman, throw her down, kiss her round belly? Is it enough to make a man want to bite that shoulder just to get a part of me in him? To say my name, to beg my name?
Nope. But, it's all I've got, all I can rely on right now. It's a start. So, a drawing of me might be something I would like. I wouldn't be able to wonder, and waver. I'd learn to recognize myself, maybe. And maybe learn to like that pencil-sketched girl, too. I bet she's kind of pretty.
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