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 (He has since been replaced by my oldest daughter.)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.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Merci Beaucoup!
Did you know I went on a health clinic mission to Haiti? Guess I didn't hit you up for money to help pay my way, then. Anyway, I went. I missioned. I had the best experiences, and some of the worst, of my life, sometimes within the same afternoon. Reflecting, I get to look at what was really cool and grows daily in meaning, and what wasn't as important as I thought it was when I was in that particular moment. For instance, at the time I learned that FOUR other team members out of nine were alcoholics recovering through the 12 steps of A.A., I was blown away. I fired off e-mails to my A.A. gang at home, hoping to translate my breathless surprise and joy through typed language. Really, I was fired up. Nine days later, not so hot about it, more warmly appreciative. (Of course half the gang was in recovery; drunks and junkies do it UP when it's time to give back! No simple local food bank for us, we go to fuckin' HAITI cross fuckin' MOUNTAINS and save some LIVES, mothafuckers!) Looking back on what meant the most, my most defining experience could have happened in my own back yard, but I'm like Dorothy and need to travel around some and end up beat and vulnerable in a strange land before I can learn my lesson.
My travel companion was an acquaintance from work, our school's nurse, Pam. We've always been friendly within the confines of work; we made our plans to travel to Haiti together without ever having had a cup of coffee or any conversation outside school walls. We did not have each others' phone numbers, or e-mails. We weren't sure how old the other was, or how old the others' daughters were. General niceties gleaned some random bits, like one of her daughters was a tv producer, but which daughter eluded me. I called her husband Steve, when his name is David, so it was pretty much like that between us. One afternoon we booked flights to Haiti from her office, and I realized I might be making a real friend, and that was more frightening than the prospect of a Haitian kidnapping. Better to keep Pam at an arm's length, no matter what country we were in.
I guarded myself while we planned and shopped and gave interviews to the local news. We met each other at our front doors to swap boots and bug spray. We didn't mind that we might sleep in separate rooms, or that our airplane seats weren't adjoining. We were just two travellers, each on our own trip, happy for a companion but ready for individual adventure.
Once in Haiti, though, almost immediately upon landing, the dynamics changed. In the Port au Prince airport we found out that we needed each other, or things would go very badly very quickly. One would guard while the other gathered belongings, not individual bags, but our luggage, our supplies. We locked arms through the pressing crowds, and shared the trip through the city wide-eyed and astounded. We shared everything: matches, food, clothes, tears, tantrums, intolerance of stigma, frustration with dogma, dislike of others. Because of the heat, we were more comfortable undressed than clothed (which is really huge for me, I cannot walk around in my own living room with only unders on, I have to wear something more to hide my body, to protect me). We swam in our panties, we made up songs about other travellers, we laughed until we cried. We became the very best of friends, in spite of me. I didn't have to work or analyze or manipulate it, it happened, and it was, and is, beautiful.
The most meaningful thing I brought home from Haiti is a friend. At work, we share whispers and songs, and put silly stuff in each others' mailboxes. After hours we call each other on the phone, and write e-mails to add that one more thing we forgot in conversation. And even without talking or writing or holding hands through airplane turbulance, I know Pam is my friend. And I am hers. Haiti gave me what I couldn't give myself.
My travel companion was an acquaintance from work, our school's nurse, Pam. We've always been friendly within the confines of work; we made our plans to travel to Haiti together without ever having had a cup of coffee or any conversation outside school walls. We did not have each others' phone numbers, or e-mails. We weren't sure how old the other was, or how old the others' daughters were. General niceties gleaned some random bits, like one of her daughters was a tv producer, but which daughter eluded me. I called her husband Steve, when his name is David, so it was pretty much like that between us. One afternoon we booked flights to Haiti from her office, and I realized I might be making a real friend, and that was more frightening than the prospect of a Haitian kidnapping. Better to keep Pam at an arm's length, no matter what country we were in.
I guarded myself while we planned and shopped and gave interviews to the local news. We met each other at our front doors to swap boots and bug spray. We didn't mind that we might sleep in separate rooms, or that our airplane seats weren't adjoining. We were just two travellers, each on our own trip, happy for a companion but ready for individual adventure.
Once in Haiti, though, almost immediately upon landing, the dynamics changed. In the Port au Prince airport we found out that we needed each other, or things would go very badly very quickly. One would guard while the other gathered belongings, not individual bags, but our luggage, our supplies. We locked arms through the pressing crowds, and shared the trip through the city wide-eyed and astounded. We shared everything: matches, food, clothes, tears, tantrums, intolerance of stigma, frustration with dogma, dislike of others. Because of the heat, we were more comfortable undressed than clothed (which is really huge for me, I cannot walk around in my own living room with only unders on, I have to wear something more to hide my body, to protect me). We swam in our panties, we made up songs about other travellers, we laughed until we cried. We became the very best of friends, in spite of me. I didn't have to work or analyze or manipulate it, it happened, and it was, and is, beautiful.
The most meaningful thing I brought home from Haiti is a friend. At work, we share whispers and songs, and put silly stuff in each others' mailboxes. After hours we call each other on the phone, and write e-mails to add that one more thing we forgot in conversation. And even without talking or writing or holding hands through airplane turbulance, I know Pam is my friend. And I am hers. Haiti gave me what I couldn't give myself.
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