Thursday, November 29, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Way Back
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Way Back: I've been reconstructing so much in my life of late. We've been back in the States for a little over one year, have settled into an idyllic...
The Way Back
I've been reconstructing so much in my life of late. We've been back in the States for a little over one year, have settled into an idyllic little town on the edge of glorious NYC. I feel its presence, NYC that is, though I rarely make the trip in. I tried to do some writing there for a few days but got distracted by all the life. I figured I'd do much better writing in my local library where just my thoughts that needed processing could distract me. And I am distracted. While working like a maniac to give my girls the sense of family unity that I longed for, I've got years of sticky stuff clogging the pipes. It has shown up in migraine headaches, panic and anxiety attacks, and near nervous breakdowns, though all of these seem to be on the wane.
After what I will call euphemistically an eye-opening Thanksgiving visit with family, I returned home with a realization that I had to, needed to reconnect with and forgive my husband for what I felt was abandonment, disconnection, miscommunication during our years in Barbados. No matter the difficult times, he always came back. He never attacked me physically, verbally, or emotionally. In fact, he never tried to hurt me ever. He never left or turned his back even when I was foaming at the mouth. He never fought, just looked at me with those soft, puppy dog eyes and probably wondered where the hell the beautiful, loving, fun, cool, sexpot of a girlfriend and wife had gone off to. Wedded bliss and parenthood can alter a person. Wrestling demons and cellular emotional poison can destroy one.
As I walked through the gate at the airport on our return, two car seats, a stroller, an enormous 27-lb carry-on bag, two girls' jackets, and two girls in tow, I felt the weight lift. I marched the girls through the terminal to baggage claim to get to their father. Before we'd even made it, I saw his black coat and shy smile creeping around the corner. He'd come as far as he could to meet us, was right at the edge. We all ran to him, embraced, and relaxed into home. We'd made our way back. To see the girls and me hugging and kissing all over the man like we'd been gone five months instead of five days showed just how desperate we were to affirm our unit, our gang, our team, our family. In my arrested development, I often found it difficult to "choose" between my two families--the one into which I was born and the one I'd made myself.
I have often wondered if other people have this dilemma. We answer a different call when we make our own families, play a different role. In my family now, I am awesome. I am beautiful. I am funny. I am smart, and silly, and talented, and a good cook. (Seriously. I mean, I'm no chef, but the girls love my food and I have learned so much from my husband whether I wanted to or not!) I keep a clean house, a fun house where everyone has a favorite place but no place is off limits. I cannot help but get new things to make our home comfy and cozy and delight in the squeals and winks of my people when they see something new that makes them feel special. We delight in each other even when we can't stand each other because the latter lasts only as long as whatever conflict has formed is resolved. It doesn't linger until the poison fills up our veins.
Being a homemaker, whether one works outside the home or not, (I currently do not.) does not have to be mutually exclusive from being the same wicked hot, fun sexpot one was before getting married and making people. This, I am working on. In Barbados, it was easy to be cute with all the half- dressed, sun-dressed, no bra, sweatiness, hair in a disheveled ponytail, swimsuit as underwear hot, hot, blazing hotness going on. But back on the East Coast, it became so easy to fall into sweatpants, loose fitting jeans, trainers, and formless t-shirts, even ones with cool band names, that I felt like I looked like a co-ed on a stay-in Friday night eating ramen noodles. While I may not rock a heel every day, my high top, high heeled sneakers are doing the trick and a little mascara and lipstick when I am one bad item shy of a needed Oprah make over keeps me presentable and looking like I give a damn.
We are working on allowing ourselves breaks from the kiddles and as they get older this is much easier. Though still slim on babysitter pickings, an afternoon at the movies or walking in the reservation, a cuddle and make out on the couch on his day off, or a movie and a glass of wine, no computers, no texting, no phone calls once the people are asleep has brought us back to each others' hearts. I don't know if I ever left his. He is slow burning, patient, watchful to my hysterical, freak out, nervous, at least in loving each other. He is in it for the long haul. He wants me, loves us. And this realization on the way back from where-I'm-just-not-quite-sure gave new clarity and definition to what is MY family.
I woke up one day and discovered that I am one of the adults in this family! Ha! Not sure how this happened, but I chose to take it seriously, to commit, to handle it and I realized that it's actually quite fun (when it doesn't suck). The changes to my perspective and in turn, to my outlook on our future and our success as a family have surprised me and given me tremendous hope. Being in a family can be hard, but it doesn't have to be. I surely do not want it to be in mine.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
After what I will call euphemistically an eye-opening Thanksgiving visit with family, I returned home with a realization that I had to, needed to reconnect with and forgive my husband for what I felt was abandonment, disconnection, miscommunication during our years in Barbados. No matter the difficult times, he always came back. He never attacked me physically, verbally, or emotionally. In fact, he never tried to hurt me ever. He never left or turned his back even when I was foaming at the mouth. He never fought, just looked at me with those soft, puppy dog eyes and probably wondered where the hell the beautiful, loving, fun, cool, sexpot of a girlfriend and wife had gone off to. Wedded bliss and parenthood can alter a person. Wrestling demons and cellular emotional poison can destroy one.
As I walked through the gate at the airport on our return, two car seats, a stroller, an enormous 27-lb carry-on bag, two girls' jackets, and two girls in tow, I felt the weight lift. I marched the girls through the terminal to baggage claim to get to their father. Before we'd even made it, I saw his black coat and shy smile creeping around the corner. He'd come as far as he could to meet us, was right at the edge. We all ran to him, embraced, and relaxed into home. We'd made our way back. To see the girls and me hugging and kissing all over the man like we'd been gone five months instead of five days showed just how desperate we were to affirm our unit, our gang, our team, our family. In my arrested development, I often found it difficult to "choose" between my two families--the one into which I was born and the one I'd made myself.
I have often wondered if other people have this dilemma. We answer a different call when we make our own families, play a different role. In my family now, I am awesome. I am beautiful. I am funny. I am smart, and silly, and talented, and a good cook. (Seriously. I mean, I'm no chef, but the girls love my food and I have learned so much from my husband whether I wanted to or not!) I keep a clean house, a fun house where everyone has a favorite place but no place is off limits. I cannot help but get new things to make our home comfy and cozy and delight in the squeals and winks of my people when they see something new that makes them feel special. We delight in each other even when we can't stand each other because the latter lasts only as long as whatever conflict has formed is resolved. It doesn't linger until the poison fills up our veins.
Being a homemaker, whether one works outside the home or not, (I currently do not.) does not have to be mutually exclusive from being the same wicked hot, fun sexpot one was before getting married and making people. This, I am working on. In Barbados, it was easy to be cute with all the half- dressed, sun-dressed, no bra, sweatiness, hair in a disheveled ponytail, swimsuit as underwear hot, hot, blazing hotness going on. But back on the East Coast, it became so easy to fall into sweatpants, loose fitting jeans, trainers, and formless t-shirts, even ones with cool band names, that I felt like I looked like a co-ed on a stay-in Friday night eating ramen noodles. While I may not rock a heel every day, my high top, high heeled sneakers are doing the trick and a little mascara and lipstick when I am one bad item shy of a needed Oprah make over keeps me presentable and looking like I give a damn.
We are working on allowing ourselves breaks from the kiddles and as they get older this is much easier. Though still slim on babysitter pickings, an afternoon at the movies or walking in the reservation, a cuddle and make out on the couch on his day off, or a movie and a glass of wine, no computers, no texting, no phone calls once the people are asleep has brought us back to each others' hearts. I don't know if I ever left his. He is slow burning, patient, watchful to my hysterical, freak out, nervous, at least in loving each other. He is in it for the long haul. He wants me, loves us. And this realization on the way back from where-I'm-just-not-quite-sure gave new clarity and definition to what is MY family.
I woke up one day and discovered that I am one of the adults in this family! Ha! Not sure how this happened, but I chose to take it seriously, to commit, to handle it and I realized that it's actually quite fun (when it doesn't suck). The changes to my perspective and in turn, to my outlook on our future and our success as a family have surprised me and given me tremendous hope. Being in a family can be hard, but it doesn't have to be. I surely do not want it to be in mine.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Things I love, I am thankful
Back to the Suburban Grind: Things I love, I am thankful: I am thankful for Lily's shy smile, Virginie's eyelashes, watching Lily dance when she thinks I cannot see her, Virginie's inquisitive mind,...
Things I love, I am thankful
I am thankful for Lily's shy smile, Virginie's eyelashes, watching Lily dance when she thinks I cannot see her, Virginie's inquisitive mind, both girls' constant conversation, Didier's eyes darting from one place to the next while he thinks. I love to watch my husband walking to the train from our window, his bouncy gait as enthusiastic and energetic as the little boy I imagine him to have been. I am thankful that each day, whether we drive each other mad or not, Didier and I have something more to discover about one another and thus far, still think that's pretty freakin' cool. That we adore and admire and support our children with the same intensity and joy. I love the curiosity, the drive, the charisma, and character of my children. I love that my people trust me when they look in my eyes and know that I'll always have their backs even if just moments before, I was yelling. I love that we come back to center after every argument, every tussle, every misunderstanding and love it out. We are a family and as it is the first bond, the first experience of community and strength, I want to give that to them hard, drill it in so they never forget and wander off or get lost.
I am thankful for the families that came together to produce me. Two incredibly strong, motivated, devoted, exceptional families that valued honesty, truth, love, wisdom, service, community, and compassion over the superficial and shallow. Two families whose matriarchs and patriarchs were willing to endure and suffer setbacks and slights so that their families, their progeny could go forward and soar. I am so grateful for this blessing and so often let myself forget the strength and guidance given to me by all these people, all these folks, both when they were with me and in spirit. I am thankful for my connection to the spirit, to the universe, to God without which I would surely have given up. I am thankful that even when things are difficult, exhausting, terrifying, I want to live and live long. I accept the responsibility of my lineage and feel blessed that it is mine. I am thankful that I get to pass this on to my children.
I am thankful for my education, for all that I have learned in school and in life, even when the lessons were damned hard and I thought they might kill me. I am blessed that the value of a good, proper education was given to me by my parents, their parents, and their parents' parents. I know that being able to learn, to think for myself, to consider has provided me with many incredible opportunities and allowed me to see the world through eager, inquisitive eyes. I am so happy to be able to share these wonders with the girls. I am happy that close-mindedness, shallow thinking, hate, and disdain have not been allowed to take root in my heart or my mind.
I am thankful that as I age it is still hard to tell just exactly how old I am (for others) and that my body continues to serve me well and that I am in good health. I pray that I am able to be with the girls and my husband for a long time, a long, healthy life. I am blessed that the early signs of middle age are creeping slowly and not coming quickly (though I'd love to spend a tiny bit more time in the gym working it all out.) I have my mother to thank for that, at least her incredible genes, because she looks about fifteen to twenty years younger than she is and has stayed as youthful in spirit (or maybe it's the early onset of the "whatevs.")
My friends and family who have supported me, cared for me, loved me, given to me when I didn't dare ask but certainly needed it have my thanks and gratitude forever. These gems have shaped my life, changed me and challenged me, begged me to get my lessons when I was violently opposed, blinded by my ego, hurt feelings, and fear. There are hardly words to describe how that invisible safety net of souls feels when it lifts me up and stands me back on my feet. Through the trials and tribulations of a life lived seeking the truth, these people are invaluable. Accepting their guidance and spirit has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. I am truly thankful.
The Thanksgiving brawls, physical, psychological, and emotional that must certainly attack more than just me, often try to steal my heart and turn it to coal, may try to threaten my sense of gratitude, may try to break my heart and render me thankless. But even that won't do. My life is blessed. My heart is still open. And I am thankful, thankful, thankful that I am able to continue to love.
Happy Thanksgiving.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I am thankful for the families that came together to produce me. Two incredibly strong, motivated, devoted, exceptional families that valued honesty, truth, love, wisdom, service, community, and compassion over the superficial and shallow. Two families whose matriarchs and patriarchs were willing to endure and suffer setbacks and slights so that their families, their progeny could go forward and soar. I am so grateful for this blessing and so often let myself forget the strength and guidance given to me by all these people, all these folks, both when they were with me and in spirit. I am thankful for my connection to the spirit, to the universe, to God without which I would surely have given up. I am thankful that even when things are difficult, exhausting, terrifying, I want to live and live long. I accept the responsibility of my lineage and feel blessed that it is mine. I am thankful that I get to pass this on to my children.
I am thankful for my education, for all that I have learned in school and in life, even when the lessons were damned hard and I thought they might kill me. I am blessed that the value of a good, proper education was given to me by my parents, their parents, and their parents' parents. I know that being able to learn, to think for myself, to consider has provided me with many incredible opportunities and allowed me to see the world through eager, inquisitive eyes. I am so happy to be able to share these wonders with the girls. I am happy that close-mindedness, shallow thinking, hate, and disdain have not been allowed to take root in my heart or my mind.
I am thankful that as I age it is still hard to tell just exactly how old I am (for others) and that my body continues to serve me well and that I am in good health. I pray that I am able to be with the girls and my husband for a long time, a long, healthy life. I am blessed that the early signs of middle age are creeping slowly and not coming quickly (though I'd love to spend a tiny bit more time in the gym working it all out.) I have my mother to thank for that, at least her incredible genes, because she looks about fifteen to twenty years younger than she is and has stayed as youthful in spirit (or maybe it's the early onset of the "whatevs.")
My friends and family who have supported me, cared for me, loved me, given to me when I didn't dare ask but certainly needed it have my thanks and gratitude forever. These gems have shaped my life, changed me and challenged me, begged me to get my lessons when I was violently opposed, blinded by my ego, hurt feelings, and fear. There are hardly words to describe how that invisible safety net of souls feels when it lifts me up and stands me back on my feet. Through the trials and tribulations of a life lived seeking the truth, these people are invaluable. Accepting their guidance and spirit has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. I am truly thankful.
The Thanksgiving brawls, physical, psychological, and emotional that must certainly attack more than just me, often try to steal my heart and turn it to coal, may try to threaten my sense of gratitude, may try to break my heart and render me thankless. But even that won't do. My life is blessed. My heart is still open. And I am thankful, thankful, thankful that I am able to continue to love.
Happy Thanksgiving.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Playing the "we"
When I was younger, I had a few boyfriends that just didn't make the grade with my friends. They always invited "us" but then would find a moment to corner "me" and mention that our "we" was kinda getting on their nerves. There were all kinds of different reasons why my beau just didn't cut it, often reasons that I, blinded by love and secret schmoopy-doop whisperings, just couldn't see. Either he was stand-offish, selfish, self-involved, boring, judgmental, smothering, cruel, belligerent, exhausting, needy, whatever and just made the people in my life wonder how and when I would come to my senses and release the fool from my team. Before I settled down with the Frenchy who is charming and funny and a little arrogant but also self-depreciating and of course, French and adorable, I really had no idea how putting together a good "we" could allow "me" to have and keep good friends and relations close.
I have witnessed more than a few relationships fall apart because of this situation, but wondered, what happens when the partner in question is not a boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or pal who can be cut from the squad without legal strings, but is a husband, wife, or business partner? Can a friendship survive if the number 2 always has to tag along? Can you tell your friend that you just can't get down with her man? Out here in the suburbs, people tend to travel in clans. It's not like my former life in the city where packs of roving artists, actors, writers, and single types, often without children could move in and out of circles, trying on different personas, ideas, and accents. In the burbs, you and your partner and sometimes your kiddles move as a subset and merge with other subsets. It's awesome when the wives, the husbands, and the children get along on their own accord, when you don't have to remind someone to be on their best behavior, give them pointers on good conversation, worry that while you are having the time of your life, your partner or your kids are picking lint out of their belly buttons or worse, starting a war.
Political blowhards, lecherous Lotharios, Snoopy marshmallows (as my Frenchy calls the less interesting), inappropriate jokers, and flirty kittens can ruin any night out, dinner, or mixed family gathering. I often wonder, if before heading out the couples have a chat about how to behave. "Please honey, don't tell so and so how gorgeous you thought she was last time. I think it made her uncomfortable." or "Can you just try to add something to the conversation, babe? You have lots to talk about when we are together." I love my Frenchy and I must tell you he is damned funny in French and in English! But truth be told, sometimes I ask him if he wouldn't mind chiming in, sharing a little bit of himself, letting people see how good, funny, intelligent he is. I know that often, we fall for our friends and are so excited by them that we don't imagine that their partners will wilt our flowers, bore us to tears, piss us off to raging blindness. Maybe we don't have to always come as a package. Perhaps it's best to define that role before we force our others on the group and find the space between us grow. Perhaps "we" is too much when all we want is "you" and "me."
If someone told me that they loved hanging with me, but would I mind leaving my Gaul at home, I think I would take that as an assault on my taste and style. Really? You don't want the good stuff? Or worse, you think I don't have the good stuff? Sometimes, it's true, husbands dampen the conversation. Especially when that convo is meant to be about them individually or collectively or about sex or about running away with the trainer (even in jest) or something so private you only want to share it with a good girlfriend, not her husband. But other times, a lively repartee between couples, discourse, new ideas, funny tales can solidify a friendship, make scheduling and entertaining that much easier. And when time is limited, babysitters are scarce, and a good get-together is just what you are looking for, it's nice to know that we can all get along.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I have witnessed more than a few relationships fall apart because of this situation, but wondered, what happens when the partner in question is not a boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or pal who can be cut from the squad without legal strings, but is a husband, wife, or business partner? Can a friendship survive if the number 2 always has to tag along? Can you tell your friend that you just can't get down with her man? Out here in the suburbs, people tend to travel in clans. It's not like my former life in the city where packs of roving artists, actors, writers, and single types, often without children could move in and out of circles, trying on different personas, ideas, and accents. In the burbs, you and your partner and sometimes your kiddles move as a subset and merge with other subsets. It's awesome when the wives, the husbands, and the children get along on their own accord, when you don't have to remind someone to be on their best behavior, give them pointers on good conversation, worry that while you are having the time of your life, your partner or your kids are picking lint out of their belly buttons or worse, starting a war.
Political blowhards, lecherous Lotharios, Snoopy marshmallows (as my Frenchy calls the less interesting), inappropriate jokers, and flirty kittens can ruin any night out, dinner, or mixed family gathering. I often wonder, if before heading out the couples have a chat about how to behave. "Please honey, don't tell so and so how gorgeous you thought she was last time. I think it made her uncomfortable." or "Can you just try to add something to the conversation, babe? You have lots to talk about when we are together." I love my Frenchy and I must tell you he is damned funny in French and in English! But truth be told, sometimes I ask him if he wouldn't mind chiming in, sharing a little bit of himself, letting people see how good, funny, intelligent he is. I know that often, we fall for our friends and are so excited by them that we don't imagine that their partners will wilt our flowers, bore us to tears, piss us off to raging blindness. Maybe we don't have to always come as a package. Perhaps it's best to define that role before we force our others on the group and find the space between us grow. Perhaps "we" is too much when all we want is "you" and "me."
If someone told me that they loved hanging with me, but would I mind leaving my Gaul at home, I think I would take that as an assault on my taste and style. Really? You don't want the good stuff? Or worse, you think I don't have the good stuff? Sometimes, it's true, husbands dampen the conversation. Especially when that convo is meant to be about them individually or collectively or about sex or about running away with the trainer (even in jest) or something so private you only want to share it with a good girlfriend, not her husband. But other times, a lively repartee between couples, discourse, new ideas, funny tales can solidify a friendship, make scheduling and entertaining that much easier. And when time is limited, babysitters are scarce, and a good get-together is just what you are looking for, it's nice to know that we can all get along.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Meet and Greet
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Meet and Greet: I was not popular in high school. I wouldn't say that I was unpopular either, but I certainly didn't strut around the place cocksure that I...
The Meet and Greet
I was not popular in high school. I wouldn't say that I was unpopular either, but I certainly didn't strut around the place cocksure that I was loved, admired, or led a coveted life. Funny how so much in the adult world takes you right back to those awkward feelings in the hallways of a place where everything was learned--intellectually, emotionally, strategically, socially. I didn't hate my experience, didn't hate being odd man out, though it was often lonely and painful, well hidden behind a smile and eccentric wardrobe. It was the 80s and though our neighborhood was integrated, there was no strong minority presence, so minority students were more like novelty acts, not headliners.
Unlike teens today, I didn't plot to hurt other people when I felt hurt and didn't have social media to blow up other people metaphorically with photos, miserable, cruel texts, or revealed secrets. I always thought that becoming successful would be the best revenge. Success being measured more by my ability to get as far away from my hometown as possible, finding a mate, making a family, and just having a level of happiness that the torture of being in high school and living at home denied me. I feel so good about the life I have made with my hubby and people, even when I am staring into space wondering how the hell we got here, begging the heavens for some guidance, direction, help when I just don't know what turn to take.
But we live in our own sweet bubble. We are protected in this place because we made it and invite in only those we want. We are a family of four and any friends, family, acquaintances, or repairmen who get close do so with great scrutiny and testing. Can't play right? No more play dates. Can't speak kindly? No more phone calls. Bring the bad juju? Buh-bye. In just one situation, however, I am thrown back to the feeling I had trolling the high school hallways when I bumped into someone at the top of the heap.
A few nights ago, I forced my husband to come home early from work and attend a parents' night at Virginie's school. Were we not meeting her teachers, I would have scrapped the whole thing entirely, but we were. Meeting her teachers. And her teachers have already told us some wonderful things about our baby. Our baby who is 3 1/2 and trying to write her own name. Who talks non-stop with big words in big sentences. For her and for Lily, for each other, we will do anything. So there I found myself, with my handsome French husband with no high school hang ups because it seems that high school BS is a distinctly American problem, but with absolutely no interest in these people, meeting and greeting in the school's gymnasium while the PTA hawked books for its fundraiser and folks smiled at each other and air kissed each other and chatted about their other kids at bigger, better schools, their wonderful vacations, exciting plans for their charmed lives. I felt myself in braces, short spiky hair, and black wrestling shoes, in a sea of glamorous sorority girls.
I know, I know they are not all alike, not all the same. That we all have our crosses to bear and that the truth is often hidden behind those hair flips and blindingly flashy diamonds. Just as years later, relationships that never formed in high school have been able to develop and blossom via social media after one heck of a twentieth reunion. But the gut feeling is still there. The lump in the throat still lingers. Having spent those formative years in a nearly all white school, where just by nature of being different I found myself on the outside(not to mention the secret and not so secret racist ideals exhibited by some, but certainly not all in my community), it is hard for me to fully accept that I would be welcomed at these gatherings. Despite my attempts at self-improvement and self-acceptance, my inner teenager feels inept, awkward, and nervous in the crowd. In nearly every crowd, as I never quite fit in with the black bourgeoisie either. Fitting in has just not ever been my strongest suit.
But as a friend told me (another isolate, though introverted and not extroverted as I am) for the kids, for their development, for their friendships and relations, we have to make that effort even if we are afraid. Even if we fear judgment or attack. Even if it kills us. And you know, though it appears that this group is "keeping up" with each other, they are not checking for me. I am not part of the game. We had a perfectly lovely visit to our baby girl's school, enjoyed the projects and pictures posted all around for us to see, and even met some warm individuals. I know the projection is mine to deal with, something I work on all the time. But consider, if I, an outgoing, open, smiling individual fears being unwelcome, excluded and nearly missed such a wonderful event, how many others without the same social tools are avoiding all contact entirely? Who are not sending their kids to these great schools. Are not participating in events that can advance their children's education, experiences, development. Who feel like the dream is not meant for them.
I will meet anyone, greet anyone, if it means that I can hand over a place in the world for my people where they feel welcomed, considered, and included. I don't think it serves them or me to isolate ourselves. But I also hope that no one continues to keep their group closed, hiding all the assets and casting doubt that the world is indeed the oyster of everyone and not just a chosen few.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Unlike teens today, I didn't plot to hurt other people when I felt hurt and didn't have social media to blow up other people metaphorically with photos, miserable, cruel texts, or revealed secrets. I always thought that becoming successful would be the best revenge. Success being measured more by my ability to get as far away from my hometown as possible, finding a mate, making a family, and just having a level of happiness that the torture of being in high school and living at home denied me. I feel so good about the life I have made with my hubby and people, even when I am staring into space wondering how the hell we got here, begging the heavens for some guidance, direction, help when I just don't know what turn to take.
But we live in our own sweet bubble. We are protected in this place because we made it and invite in only those we want. We are a family of four and any friends, family, acquaintances, or repairmen who get close do so with great scrutiny and testing. Can't play right? No more play dates. Can't speak kindly? No more phone calls. Bring the bad juju? Buh-bye. In just one situation, however, I am thrown back to the feeling I had trolling the high school hallways when I bumped into someone at the top of the heap.
A few nights ago, I forced my husband to come home early from work and attend a parents' night at Virginie's school. Were we not meeting her teachers, I would have scrapped the whole thing entirely, but we were. Meeting her teachers. And her teachers have already told us some wonderful things about our baby. Our baby who is 3 1/2 and trying to write her own name. Who talks non-stop with big words in big sentences. For her and for Lily, for each other, we will do anything. So there I found myself, with my handsome French husband with no high school hang ups because it seems that high school BS is a distinctly American problem, but with absolutely no interest in these people, meeting and greeting in the school's gymnasium while the PTA hawked books for its fundraiser and folks smiled at each other and air kissed each other and chatted about their other kids at bigger, better schools, their wonderful vacations, exciting plans for their charmed lives. I felt myself in braces, short spiky hair, and black wrestling shoes, in a sea of glamorous sorority girls.
I know, I know they are not all alike, not all the same. That we all have our crosses to bear and that the truth is often hidden behind those hair flips and blindingly flashy diamonds. Just as years later, relationships that never formed in high school have been able to develop and blossom via social media after one heck of a twentieth reunion. But the gut feeling is still there. The lump in the throat still lingers. Having spent those formative years in a nearly all white school, where just by nature of being different I found myself on the outside(not to mention the secret and not so secret racist ideals exhibited by some, but certainly not all in my community), it is hard for me to fully accept that I would be welcomed at these gatherings. Despite my attempts at self-improvement and self-acceptance, my inner teenager feels inept, awkward, and nervous in the crowd. In nearly every crowd, as I never quite fit in with the black bourgeoisie either. Fitting in has just not ever been my strongest suit.
But as a friend told me (another isolate, though introverted and not extroverted as I am) for the kids, for their development, for their friendships and relations, we have to make that effort even if we are afraid. Even if we fear judgment or attack. Even if it kills us. And you know, though it appears that this group is "keeping up" with each other, they are not checking for me. I am not part of the game. We had a perfectly lovely visit to our baby girl's school, enjoyed the projects and pictures posted all around for us to see, and even met some warm individuals. I know the projection is mine to deal with, something I work on all the time. But consider, if I, an outgoing, open, smiling individual fears being unwelcome, excluded and nearly missed such a wonderful event, how many others without the same social tools are avoiding all contact entirely? Who are not sending their kids to these great schools. Are not participating in events that can advance their children's education, experiences, development. Who feel like the dream is not meant for them.
I will meet anyone, greet anyone, if it means that I can hand over a place in the world for my people where they feel welcomed, considered, and included. I don't think it serves them or me to isolate ourselves. But I also hope that no one continues to keep their group closed, hiding all the assets and casting doubt that the world is indeed the oyster of everyone and not just a chosen few.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: There are worse things...Hurricane Sandy, Part II....
Back to the Suburban Grind: There are worse things...Hurricane Sandy, Part II....: Rizzo, the sassy, brassy, bad girl from Grease sang, "There are worse things I could do..." and I keep hearing that refrain in my head thoug...
There are worse things...Hurricane Sandy, Part II.
Rizzo, the sassy, brassy, bad girl from Grease sang, "There are worse things I could do..." and I keep hearing that refrain in my head though I am not quite talking about how badly I have behaved but rather considering how much worse it could all actually be. I am finding it difficult it to keep the smooth skin over the brewing frustration and discontent. I rarely go to my community's website because on a good day there is too much chatter about what someone else is doing wrong or in what way someone has been harmed or offended. While often a great source of information, the site is also filled with folks needing to vent, tear off heads and shit down people's necks about parking, PTA, town fairs, community events, neighbors, and now Hurricane Sandy and its handling by the utilities and municipal government.
To be put out, indignant about our current situation, enough to blow up in the streets, puts me on edge. Perhaps it is my fear of an angry parent lashing out unexpectedly, randomly at the slightest infraction or the most horrific indignity with the same intensity, or my need to try to look on the bright side even while snidely bitching to myself and my closest peeps, or my naivete in expecting that people who tell me they are trying to help really are, but lengthy diatribes about "heads needing to roll" in the face of a horrific storm that brought death and total destruction to some and yes, a loss of power,heat, cable television, telephone, and internet to many others, are unfair and really not constructive. I don't mean to chastise because I know we all have our breaking points and we all need, desire, love our creature comforts. It is, in fact, quite surprising to discover just what it is we need for comfort until we are not able to have it. I totally get it.
When we were in Barbados during and after Tropical Storm Tomas and were looking at day five of no power, dwindling water supply, crying children, spoiling food, blazing heat and sweltering humidity, and animals trying to get into the house because they were scared out of their wits that whatever that was might happen again, I threatened to leave my husband and never return. I asked him why he dared put me and his children in harm's way. I brooded for days, trembled with panic, sweat my face off, and then came to my senses. Sure, I cried crocodile tears, hated the people who got power before we did, which in this case meant air conditioning and oscillating fans (oscillating fans!), resented those with cool drinking water and those who lived above sea level in the hills. I hated that though I longed for privacy, I needed to keep the windows and doors opened to keep from suffocating. I hated that my husband had to work through the clean up and I was forced to stay home alone with two kiddles. I heard myself say, "I am an American girl. I need my ____" whatever it was in that moment. I was spoiled and childish and tired and frustrated and upset in a country where I certainly had no right or ability to write to my public official days after the event and demand something be done for me now!
I had Hurricane Katrina and the Haitian earthquake in my memory and honestly, after surviving the house shaking, torrential rain-producing Tropical Storm Tomas, I felt the space between life and death, so tenuous, so silkworm-thread thin, that I thanked my lucky stars and tried to get on with it. I'd heard from my friend Kassandra who lived through Katrina what losing almost everything really felt like. It wasn't just uncomfortable and painful. It was soul crushing, energy sapping, despair producing. One could easily become catatonic with fear at the magnitude of the loss. The stories from Haiti were stunning. Seeing the images hit me at the core. What could really be said? This was life experienced at the fray. There are no words there. It is eerily quiet.
After Tomas, I decided to let go of my pride, my fear, my closed shell and open up to the friends who were reaching out to me. My good friend, Wendy, a lady I will know all my life, took me in, pep-talked me back to some level of sense, and slapped my cheeks with love and support to revive me. I learned that where I thought there were limits there was more to go and that I could endure it. I accepted that we each have our breaking points and that I would not condemn my own feelings or the feelings of others in relation to their own suffering, but that I would keep it in perspective. I empathize, I want to help. I want to listen. I want to confirm. I want to support.
Sitting in the middle of a community rendered power-less by downed trees, destroyed power lines, but with power myself, it is hard not to feel guilt, shame, discomfort at our good fortune. I do not dare complain about our lack of cable television, telephone, or internet when the temps outside are dropping well into the 40s at night and families are hunkered down, sleeping together in front of their fireplaces. I count the days with them and try to will the power back, but know that my ten cents mean nothing when showers are avoided because it's too cold to get out and bedtime comes when it gets dark. I remember the glow of the candles, trying to preserve the batteries, trying to find more batteries, becoming possessive of the flashlight, lashing out and crying out and calling out.
The sense of powerlessness to make it all better is only diminished by the ability to give and help in some way. Once we'd gotten home to find that not only was our house in tact, but that power had never failed (only the Comcast cable/telephone/internet), we were overwhelmed with the fatigue that comes after being held up by adrenaline. All I wanted to do was sleep. What I needed to do was see who needed help. We drove around with the girls in the car pointing out damaged homes, downed lines, mangled cars, patio furniture, broken trees. I wanted them to see that whatever suffering they felt at not being able to see Jake and the Neverland Pirates was nothing in comparison. When Lily saw the first images from the Jersey Shore, Staten Island, and lower Manhattan, she couldn't form the words to express the sheer magnitude of her terror. I could see it in her little face. How? Why? What will those people do? I felt worse than she because I had no answer. And because I'd grown up there. I knew those places.
Sandy brought out the light and the dark in nature and in each of us. It pummeled us, shook us, and tossed us about, and put our sense of survival and familial protection on heightened alert. She made us look at ourselves differently. Grease's Sandy wanted to change how she looked, in hopes of showing some depth, some strength and Rizzo wanted to put it all out there, pure aggression and strength to hide her vulnerability, her fearful self, her inner child. I hope that from this, we can all see both. That we have the strength to take care of ourselves and each other (more than we could ever imagine) and that we can accept being taken care of and being loved (more than we could ever allow).
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
To be put out, indignant about our current situation, enough to blow up in the streets, puts me on edge. Perhaps it is my fear of an angry parent lashing out unexpectedly, randomly at the slightest infraction or the most horrific indignity with the same intensity, or my need to try to look on the bright side even while snidely bitching to myself and my closest peeps, or my naivete in expecting that people who tell me they are trying to help really are, but lengthy diatribes about "heads needing to roll" in the face of a horrific storm that brought death and total destruction to some and yes, a loss of power,heat, cable television, telephone, and internet to many others, are unfair and really not constructive. I don't mean to chastise because I know we all have our breaking points and we all need, desire, love our creature comforts. It is, in fact, quite surprising to discover just what it is we need for comfort until we are not able to have it. I totally get it.
When we were in Barbados during and after Tropical Storm Tomas and were looking at day five of no power, dwindling water supply, crying children, spoiling food, blazing heat and sweltering humidity, and animals trying to get into the house because they were scared out of their wits that whatever that was might happen again, I threatened to leave my husband and never return. I asked him why he dared put me and his children in harm's way. I brooded for days, trembled with panic, sweat my face off, and then came to my senses. Sure, I cried crocodile tears, hated the people who got power before we did, which in this case meant air conditioning and oscillating fans (oscillating fans!), resented those with cool drinking water and those who lived above sea level in the hills. I hated that though I longed for privacy, I needed to keep the windows and doors opened to keep from suffocating. I hated that my husband had to work through the clean up and I was forced to stay home alone with two kiddles. I heard myself say, "I am an American girl. I need my ____" whatever it was in that moment. I was spoiled and childish and tired and frustrated and upset in a country where I certainly had no right or ability to write to my public official days after the event and demand something be done for me now!
I had Hurricane Katrina and the Haitian earthquake in my memory and honestly, after surviving the house shaking, torrential rain-producing Tropical Storm Tomas, I felt the space between life and death, so tenuous, so silkworm-thread thin, that I thanked my lucky stars and tried to get on with it. I'd heard from my friend Kassandra who lived through Katrina what losing almost everything really felt like. It wasn't just uncomfortable and painful. It was soul crushing, energy sapping, despair producing. One could easily become catatonic with fear at the magnitude of the loss. The stories from Haiti were stunning. Seeing the images hit me at the core. What could really be said? This was life experienced at the fray. There are no words there. It is eerily quiet.
After Tomas, I decided to let go of my pride, my fear, my closed shell and open up to the friends who were reaching out to me. My good friend, Wendy, a lady I will know all my life, took me in, pep-talked me back to some level of sense, and slapped my cheeks with love and support to revive me. I learned that where I thought there were limits there was more to go and that I could endure it. I accepted that we each have our breaking points and that I would not condemn my own feelings or the feelings of others in relation to their own suffering, but that I would keep it in perspective. I empathize, I want to help. I want to listen. I want to confirm. I want to support.
Sitting in the middle of a community rendered power-less by downed trees, destroyed power lines, but with power myself, it is hard not to feel guilt, shame, discomfort at our good fortune. I do not dare complain about our lack of cable television, telephone, or internet when the temps outside are dropping well into the 40s at night and families are hunkered down, sleeping together in front of their fireplaces. I count the days with them and try to will the power back, but know that my ten cents mean nothing when showers are avoided because it's too cold to get out and bedtime comes when it gets dark. I remember the glow of the candles, trying to preserve the batteries, trying to find more batteries, becoming possessive of the flashlight, lashing out and crying out and calling out.
The sense of powerlessness to make it all better is only diminished by the ability to give and help in some way. Once we'd gotten home to find that not only was our house in tact, but that power had never failed (only the Comcast cable/telephone/internet), we were overwhelmed with the fatigue that comes after being held up by adrenaline. All I wanted to do was sleep. What I needed to do was see who needed help. We drove around with the girls in the car pointing out damaged homes, downed lines, mangled cars, patio furniture, broken trees. I wanted them to see that whatever suffering they felt at not being able to see Jake and the Neverland Pirates was nothing in comparison. When Lily saw the first images from the Jersey Shore, Staten Island, and lower Manhattan, she couldn't form the words to express the sheer magnitude of her terror. I could see it in her little face. How? Why? What will those people do? I felt worse than she because I had no answer. And because I'd grown up there. I knew those places.
Sandy brought out the light and the dark in nature and in each of us. It pummeled us, shook us, and tossed us about, and put our sense of survival and familial protection on heightened alert. She made us look at ourselves differently. Grease's Sandy wanted to change how she looked, in hopes of showing some depth, some strength and Rizzo wanted to put it all out there, pure aggression and strength to hide her vulnerability, her fearful self, her inner child. I hope that from this, we can all see both. That we have the strength to take care of ourselves and each other (more than we could ever imagine) and that we can accept being taken care of and being loved (more than we could ever allow).
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: A poor man's Sandra Dee, Hurricane Sandy Part I.
Back to the Suburban Grind: A poor man's Sandra Dee, Hurricane Sandy Part I.: Leading up to what would become Hurricane Sandy, a Category 1 hurricane that came and decimated the state where I grew up and essentially be...
A poor man's Sandra Dee, Hurricane Sandy Part I.
Leading up to what would become Hurricane Sandy, a Category 1 hurricane that came and decimated the state where I grew up and essentially became me, there were lots of silly graphics showing its path. One that seemed to heavily make the rounds was one of Olivia Newton-John in the character of Sandy from Grease going from hair flipped, head-banded, kind-hearted Sandy to the fierce 70s-disco, Lycra-wearing, hair cork-screwed and wild, red Candie's slings, still kind-hearted Sandy. It gave me a giggle but really, it didn't ease my fears. After living through Tropical Storm Tomas in Barbados which kicked our asses and left us powerless and many waterless for five days (many more even longer than that) I knew there would be nothing cute and kind-hearted about it.
The Friday before the Monday storm, Didier and I began collecting supplies. Batteries, cases of water, soup, snacks for the kids (and way too many snacks for the mommy), and gas for the tank. We started charging the portable DVD players, yes players, downloading videos and games for the iPad, using and savoring the electricity. On Saturday morning, in a panic, I ran to Target to get a portable radio to find that they were sold out, and were wiped clean of all the water and C and D batteries. There were no flashlights, no tents, no lamps, lanterns, and very few coolers. I bought a cooler and six rain ponchos. We had five flashlights at home, bought as soon as Hurricane Irene had left us, because we'd been without even one when she hit. After Target I went to Pathmark, not sure for what, where I bought more Halloween candy (just in case the storm tracking as a direct hit on New Jersey somehow diverted and went out to sea and we'd be able to celebrate). There, I saw a woman buying twelve boxes of Wheat Thins. "I love them,"she told me. "And they are on sale!" Then the nervous laughter.
Of course there have been other massive hurricanes and bad storms in New Jersey's history. Just last year there was Irene. But none had the size and scope and sheer power that Sandy was bringing and most felt powerless. All the collecting and hoarding, removing Halloween decorations and tying down garbage cans, still did not provide comfort or ease the thickening air around us. By Monday, school was cancelled in anticipation. There was wind, but not much more than a typical windy or rainy day, and many said so, wishing their kids could be at school, hoping that this was all that was coming, that somehow the forecasters had gotten it wrong and that Sandy was just a little wind, a little rain. My stomach was in knots when it wasn't fluttering nervously wit butterflies. I did laundry, cleaned the house, refused to allow the kids to use the iPad, but did allow about ten hours of television, expecting the cable to go. And then we waited.
At about six-thirty we decided to head over to our friends' home on higher ground. Last year during Hurricane Irene, the creek behind our house flooded and our street was evacuated in the early morning hours in pitch blackness. I did not look forward to moving the girls during gale force winds and rain, so we got out of dodge and went a few blocks higher but still in town. We were in the house probably fifteen minutes when the power flickered and then went out. It would stay that way until...well, now. Our dear friends still have no power and I imagine that all the promises and mixed messages regarding its return are have begun to roll off their backs. They'll believe it when they see it. They are better than I. I just don't think I could do it with the girls, the cold, and the flashbacks of storms past. Such is my constitution. Our hosts, new friends, but incredibly warm, honest, and exceptionally decent, provided us all with shelter, warm beds, and good company.
While the kids went wild, having "the best sleepover ever" the adults sat at the table, opening lovely bottles of wine, falling silent only when a particularly strong gust of wind left us all with the feeling that the house might actually lift off. In the distance we saw flashing blue light and I, for one, assumed that a silent thunderstorm was also raging. Turns out the transformers in our small village were blowing one after another as trees and branches began battling with the power lines. In the darkness we could only guess what was happening out there, all of us listening intently for the sound of a crash of wood on wood that meant a tree had fallen on the house or the shattering of glass. Were it not for social media we would have been, quite literally, in the dark. News of Freehold, the town where I grew up, and other parts of southern New Jersey and the shore came in like Morse code. We got short dashes of information--power lines down, Atlantic City deluged, subway stations flooded--and envisioned the worst as we waited for pictures, all the while hoping that where we sat would not provide an equally devastating headline.
Bedtime for the kiddies was an enormous snugglefest with each tucked into a cute sleeping bag lined up like a row of princess pink and rainbow sardines and some sailboats on the end for the little brother of Lily's friend. I want to say that they were out like a light, but I was summoned to sit with mine for a little bit. Once all were fast asleep, I made my way back downstairs, where not a single adult was to be found. I could see small dots of light moving about in the night so I opened the front door to the howling wind to investigate. Walking through the yard and up the street were our hosts and my husband trying to make heads or tails of all the sounds and light flashes. Fearful of being struck by something, anything dangerous, all made their way back inside to the comfort and safety of the house.
Exhaustion came quickly, sleep less so. As I began dozing off next to the hubby, I would shudder and twitch and jolt at every loud sound, strain my ears to hear any peep from this kids' room. After hours of going in and out of consciousness, I heard Lily's whimper and went to the room to consult. A quick visit to the bathroom and a plea for me to massage her aching legs (growing pains) changed the sleep arrangements and Lily followed me to the room where her father, her little sister, and I had arranged ourselves. To prevent us from piling on top of one another, I proposed that Lily and I sleep on the floor. Virginie came down too leaving just Papa on the bed and the three ladies curled up on the floor. And even still I slept. In and out.
In the morning we all ventured out to see what Sandy had delivered. She'd come fierce and she'd come hard. There were enormous trees mangled and twisted, lying in the streets, across power lines, on rooftops, and across gardens. Power lines were everywhere. We'd been spared the expected rain and for that we were most grateful. Had severe flooding been added to the crazy mix we'd be weeks away from a return to basics instead of days. After a morning coffee and breakfast, we packed up our things and head home to see how we'd fared. As we zigzagged through our once idyllic community, absolute shock and awe struck our faces. Everything looked the same and yet completely and totally different. Our town felt vulnerable, raw, and stunned but also hopeful, motivated, and connected. The invisible lines of community began to glow like energy bands from one to another. People came out of their homes offering whatever they had, food, batteries, chainsaws, gas cans, skills and they started to immediately to try put it back together again.
As we rounded the corner to our street we saw light. Lights inside of our neighbors' homes! Our street had been spared the power outage that has disrupted most of the area. I heard music, tv's blaring, laughter. There were no downed trees, no power lines wiggling on the ground, no one outside. Just blocks away there was an eery calm, a silence, just the occasional hum of a chainsaw or just started generator. People were standing outside, staring in awe, thanking their stars the trees had fallen one way instead of another. Sandy had danced through the fun house in her tight pants all over our township, but on our street, she was still a poor man's Sandra Dee, quiet, wistful, hopeful. A wallflower.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The Friday before the Monday storm, Didier and I began collecting supplies. Batteries, cases of water, soup, snacks for the kids (and way too many snacks for the mommy), and gas for the tank. We started charging the portable DVD players, yes players, downloading videos and games for the iPad, using and savoring the electricity. On Saturday morning, in a panic, I ran to Target to get a portable radio to find that they were sold out, and were wiped clean of all the water and C and D batteries. There were no flashlights, no tents, no lamps, lanterns, and very few coolers. I bought a cooler and six rain ponchos. We had five flashlights at home, bought as soon as Hurricane Irene had left us, because we'd been without even one when she hit. After Target I went to Pathmark, not sure for what, where I bought more Halloween candy (just in case the storm tracking as a direct hit on New Jersey somehow diverted and went out to sea and we'd be able to celebrate). There, I saw a woman buying twelve boxes of Wheat Thins. "I love them,"she told me. "And they are on sale!" Then the nervous laughter.
Of course there have been other massive hurricanes and bad storms in New Jersey's history. Just last year there was Irene. But none had the size and scope and sheer power that Sandy was bringing and most felt powerless. All the collecting and hoarding, removing Halloween decorations and tying down garbage cans, still did not provide comfort or ease the thickening air around us. By Monday, school was cancelled in anticipation. There was wind, but not much more than a typical windy or rainy day, and many said so, wishing their kids could be at school, hoping that this was all that was coming, that somehow the forecasters had gotten it wrong and that Sandy was just a little wind, a little rain. My stomach was in knots when it wasn't fluttering nervously wit butterflies. I did laundry, cleaned the house, refused to allow the kids to use the iPad, but did allow about ten hours of television, expecting the cable to go. And then we waited.
At about six-thirty we decided to head over to our friends' home on higher ground. Last year during Hurricane Irene, the creek behind our house flooded and our street was evacuated in the early morning hours in pitch blackness. I did not look forward to moving the girls during gale force winds and rain, so we got out of dodge and went a few blocks higher but still in town. We were in the house probably fifteen minutes when the power flickered and then went out. It would stay that way until...well, now. Our dear friends still have no power and I imagine that all the promises and mixed messages regarding its return are have begun to roll off their backs. They'll believe it when they see it. They are better than I. I just don't think I could do it with the girls, the cold, and the flashbacks of storms past. Such is my constitution. Our hosts, new friends, but incredibly warm, honest, and exceptionally decent, provided us all with shelter, warm beds, and good company.
While the kids went wild, having "the best sleepover ever" the adults sat at the table, opening lovely bottles of wine, falling silent only when a particularly strong gust of wind left us all with the feeling that the house might actually lift off. In the distance we saw flashing blue light and I, for one, assumed that a silent thunderstorm was also raging. Turns out the transformers in our small village were blowing one after another as trees and branches began battling with the power lines. In the darkness we could only guess what was happening out there, all of us listening intently for the sound of a crash of wood on wood that meant a tree had fallen on the house or the shattering of glass. Were it not for social media we would have been, quite literally, in the dark. News of Freehold, the town where I grew up, and other parts of southern New Jersey and the shore came in like Morse code. We got short dashes of information--power lines down, Atlantic City deluged, subway stations flooded--and envisioned the worst as we waited for pictures, all the while hoping that where we sat would not provide an equally devastating headline.
Bedtime for the kiddies was an enormous snugglefest with each tucked into a cute sleeping bag lined up like a row of princess pink and rainbow sardines and some sailboats on the end for the little brother of Lily's friend. I want to say that they were out like a light, but I was summoned to sit with mine for a little bit. Once all were fast asleep, I made my way back downstairs, where not a single adult was to be found. I could see small dots of light moving about in the night so I opened the front door to the howling wind to investigate. Walking through the yard and up the street were our hosts and my husband trying to make heads or tails of all the sounds and light flashes. Fearful of being struck by something, anything dangerous, all made their way back inside to the comfort and safety of the house.
Exhaustion came quickly, sleep less so. As I began dozing off next to the hubby, I would shudder and twitch and jolt at every loud sound, strain my ears to hear any peep from this kids' room. After hours of going in and out of consciousness, I heard Lily's whimper and went to the room to consult. A quick visit to the bathroom and a plea for me to massage her aching legs (growing pains) changed the sleep arrangements and Lily followed me to the room where her father, her little sister, and I had arranged ourselves. To prevent us from piling on top of one another, I proposed that Lily and I sleep on the floor. Virginie came down too leaving just Papa on the bed and the three ladies curled up on the floor. And even still I slept. In and out.
In the morning we all ventured out to see what Sandy had delivered. She'd come fierce and she'd come hard. There were enormous trees mangled and twisted, lying in the streets, across power lines, on rooftops, and across gardens. Power lines were everywhere. We'd been spared the expected rain and for that we were most grateful. Had severe flooding been added to the crazy mix we'd be weeks away from a return to basics instead of days. After a morning coffee and breakfast, we packed up our things and head home to see how we'd fared. As we zigzagged through our once idyllic community, absolute shock and awe struck our faces. Everything looked the same and yet completely and totally different. Our town felt vulnerable, raw, and stunned but also hopeful, motivated, and connected. The invisible lines of community began to glow like energy bands from one to another. People came out of their homes offering whatever they had, food, batteries, chainsaws, gas cans, skills and they started to immediately to try put it back together again.
As we rounded the corner to our street we saw light. Lights inside of our neighbors' homes! Our street had been spared the power outage that has disrupted most of the area. I heard music, tv's blaring, laughter. There were no downed trees, no power lines wiggling on the ground, no one outside. Just blocks away there was an eery calm, a silence, just the occasional hum of a chainsaw or just started generator. People were standing outside, staring in awe, thanking their stars the trees had fallen one way instead of another. Sandy had danced through the fun house in her tight pants all over our township, but on our street, she was still a poor man's Sandra Dee, quiet, wistful, hopeful. A wallflower.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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