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.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Hold me closer, tiny dancer.
Oh, the past two weeks! A visit from my mom, and she brought a wonderful guest. Seems "Aunt" Ellen is the same good old friend she used to be, as she has grown into her age like a perfect Golden Girl; sassy, generous, and tattooed. Both Mom and Aunt were three days in and out, though, and now it's over and all really good. Except...
My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.
I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.
All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.
After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.
My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.
I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.
All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.
After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.
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