Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Our brother's keeper
Back to the Suburban Grind: Our brother's keeper: My three year old is quite precocious and wise beyond her years. I love talking to her and her big sister about whatever interests them, th...
Our brother's keeper
My three year old is quite precocious and wise beyond her years. I love talking to her and her big sister about whatever interests them, though we don't talk about murders or attacks or death of any kind which terrifies Lily and leaves her reeling for days. But we do tell them honestly how we feel about certain things, in an age appropriate way. No questions are off limits. Complex subjects are broken down but not dumbed down. We talk about God, religion, sex roles and gender stereotypes, marriage, politics, money, meditation, spirituality. I trust that my people can find the center, the core concepts. Tonight as we were going to bed, her big sister long ago fast asleep due to the cold that is kicking her little behind, Virginie said to me, "Do you remember that boy (Virginie still refers to all males as boys.)who was lying in the street when we went to New York City?" I did remember the man but was rather surprised that she did, as we'd been there together more than six months prior for a birthday party.
"Yes," I answered. I do remember that man. He was homeless. Remember that I told you that he had no home?"
"The street was his home. He lived there," she announced. She wasn't proud, just stating matter of factly that he must live somewhere, so the place where he lay must be it. She sat quietly for a moment, which for anyone who knows my dear girl knows is no small feat. Then she said, "Can he drive his car to his house somewhere else?" To which I replied, "I don't think he has a car either, baby, or a house somewhere else."
Her little brow furrowed and she stared into the darkness for a minute before she said, "We have to help him, Mama. Papa gets jobs. Maybe he can show him how to get one too."
"Maybe," I said while brushing her hair from her face and trying to gently lull her to sleep. I lay there in the darkness, missing my husband who is working through this holiday season, and thought, This baby is right. We have to help this man. We have to help people. We have to help each other.
I, too, have been guilty of turning in, working on my own issues, my own problems, my own story. I have gotten used to letting go of my community, not asking of it, and being slow to offer my assistance or service, assuming either that someone else will do it or fearing calling unwanted attention to me or my action. I have figured that the connections were too personal, too scary, left me too vulnerable to attack or to love. Whenever I have had the chance to participate, I've felt so incredible, so alive, so connected, so tangibly, vibrantly, extraordinarily human. I have been reminded by this small girl who somehow saw the connection between us all and asked not if we would help, but demanded we should. I say this so much when it relates to real tragedy, to the furthest reaches of human suffering and need, but it is also true in our every day. We are our brother's keeper. We need to see each other, consider each other, support each other. Want to.
Strangely, I too, could not get that particular homeless man's face out of my mind. Maybe it was because I could see him in the distance as the girls and I were about to pass and I mulled just what I would tell them when the question was inevitably asked. But for days after, when I thought of the conversation between us, I wondered how I'd found it so easy to explain that there was a man, red-faced and cold, clinging to a box, sleeping on the sidewalk in the city of their birth, and that I was able to say it so matter-of-factly.
I remember as a child, seeing my first homeless person. It was the early eighties and we'd gone into the city to do something, probably see a show or go to a museum as was usually the case. I was older than my girls are now and homeless people we not commonplace. As more and more people found themselves unable to keep up with the excess and striving of the 80s, coupled with the closing of mental health facilities that saw many with mental disabilities actually released to the street to fend for themselves, an invisible, underground (so to speak) population grew alongside those of us living above ground. I was terrified of the man and woman I saw. They seemed out of a movie. Which is, frankly, why it was probably so easy for so many adults to consider them unreal. It was hard to look at them and see their faces, to look them in the eye, let alone consider their stories. Their real life, human stories. Stories the same as those I or others I knew might tell. I never forgot them and my feeling that as a society, as a community, we were choosing to allow these people to live out of our sight, rather than bringing them back into the fold. I was just a kid but I knew that this just didn't seem right.
I'm not sure when and where we let go of each others' hands. Maybe we were never holding them in the first place, and it is a fantasy of my youth that we were meant to care for one another, to look out for one another, to try to lift each and every one of us from our place on the sidewalk, physically and metaphorically, to allow even those living in parallel universes to be seen and acknowledged from time to time. Some people think when we are young we can still see ghosts and spirits and as we age, we lose our connection to that world, overwhelmed are we by the material world. We cannot see what children see right in front of their faces. "We have to help him." We have to help each other because we need each other.
Inherent in all the struggle we have meeting the demands of the modern world, striving for a level of success equal to that of our parents, raising our children to be decent citizens while giving them everything we can without making them completely spoiled, must be the sense, if not the realization, that we cannot leave all those people behind. That there has already been too much of that, too much "going for mine," and that it has not brought comfort or peace. The "otherness" of homeless people, black people, white people, foreigners and expats, gay people, straight people, people with disabilities of any kind, people who think differently than we, rich people, poor people, anything that doesn't look, on the surface, just as we envision ourselves, has allowed us to ignore each other, to step over each other, walk around each other, justify killing each other, justify fearing each other, set up communities where we don't have to look at each other or be with each other. But that does not negate the fact that this man was lying down on the ground, living, breathing, sleeping and that many others actually and metaphorically are doing the same. And we should help them.
My baby wants to help him. It's my job to keep it that way.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back the Suburban Grind.
"Yes," I answered. I do remember that man. He was homeless. Remember that I told you that he had no home?"
"The street was his home. He lived there," she announced. She wasn't proud, just stating matter of factly that he must live somewhere, so the place where he lay must be it. She sat quietly for a moment, which for anyone who knows my dear girl knows is no small feat. Then she said, "Can he drive his car to his house somewhere else?" To which I replied, "I don't think he has a car either, baby, or a house somewhere else."
Her little brow furrowed and she stared into the darkness for a minute before she said, "We have to help him, Mama. Papa gets jobs. Maybe he can show him how to get one too."
"Maybe," I said while brushing her hair from her face and trying to gently lull her to sleep. I lay there in the darkness, missing my husband who is working through this holiday season, and thought, This baby is right. We have to help this man. We have to help people. We have to help each other.
I, too, have been guilty of turning in, working on my own issues, my own problems, my own story. I have gotten used to letting go of my community, not asking of it, and being slow to offer my assistance or service, assuming either that someone else will do it or fearing calling unwanted attention to me or my action. I have figured that the connections were too personal, too scary, left me too vulnerable to attack or to love. Whenever I have had the chance to participate, I've felt so incredible, so alive, so connected, so tangibly, vibrantly, extraordinarily human. I have been reminded by this small girl who somehow saw the connection between us all and asked not if we would help, but demanded we should. I say this so much when it relates to real tragedy, to the furthest reaches of human suffering and need, but it is also true in our every day. We are our brother's keeper. We need to see each other, consider each other, support each other. Want to.
Strangely, I too, could not get that particular homeless man's face out of my mind. Maybe it was because I could see him in the distance as the girls and I were about to pass and I mulled just what I would tell them when the question was inevitably asked. But for days after, when I thought of the conversation between us, I wondered how I'd found it so easy to explain that there was a man, red-faced and cold, clinging to a box, sleeping on the sidewalk in the city of their birth, and that I was able to say it so matter-of-factly.
I remember as a child, seeing my first homeless person. It was the early eighties and we'd gone into the city to do something, probably see a show or go to a museum as was usually the case. I was older than my girls are now and homeless people we not commonplace. As more and more people found themselves unable to keep up with the excess and striving of the 80s, coupled with the closing of mental health facilities that saw many with mental disabilities actually released to the street to fend for themselves, an invisible, underground (so to speak) population grew alongside those of us living above ground. I was terrified of the man and woman I saw. They seemed out of a movie. Which is, frankly, why it was probably so easy for so many adults to consider them unreal. It was hard to look at them and see their faces, to look them in the eye, let alone consider their stories. Their real life, human stories. Stories the same as those I or others I knew might tell. I never forgot them and my feeling that as a society, as a community, we were choosing to allow these people to live out of our sight, rather than bringing them back into the fold. I was just a kid but I knew that this just didn't seem right.
I'm not sure when and where we let go of each others' hands. Maybe we were never holding them in the first place, and it is a fantasy of my youth that we were meant to care for one another, to look out for one another, to try to lift each and every one of us from our place on the sidewalk, physically and metaphorically, to allow even those living in parallel universes to be seen and acknowledged from time to time. Some people think when we are young we can still see ghosts and spirits and as we age, we lose our connection to that world, overwhelmed are we by the material world. We cannot see what children see right in front of their faces. "We have to help him." We have to help each other because we need each other.
Inherent in all the struggle we have meeting the demands of the modern world, striving for a level of success equal to that of our parents, raising our children to be decent citizens while giving them everything we can without making them completely spoiled, must be the sense, if not the realization, that we cannot leave all those people behind. That there has already been too much of that, too much "going for mine," and that it has not brought comfort or peace. The "otherness" of homeless people, black people, white people, foreigners and expats, gay people, straight people, people with disabilities of any kind, people who think differently than we, rich people, poor people, anything that doesn't look, on the surface, just as we envision ourselves, has allowed us to ignore each other, to step over each other, walk around each other, justify killing each other, justify fearing each other, set up communities where we don't have to look at each other or be with each other. But that does not negate the fact that this man was lying down on the ground, living, breathing, sleeping and that many others actually and metaphorically are doing the same. And we should help them.
My baby wants to help him. It's my job to keep it that way.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Massacre of the Innocents
Back to the Suburban Grind: Massacre of the Innocents: Though a requirement for my Master's Degree, statistics have never been a strong suit for me. I remember when first learning basic stats in...
Reposted: Massacre of the Innocents
As the 365th day since the Newtown massacre loomed and images of those lost were flashed on screens with soft music playing in the background, as interviews with their friends and families aired, and stories of even more gun violence continued to spatter any news cycle at any time, my sadness and sense of helplessness began to surge. I wanted to say something but found myself mute. Shaking my head and muttering to myself over again what seems to be so obvious. We have to make this stop. I share again my post from last year. Thank you for reading.
Though a requirement for my Master's Degree, statistics have never been a strong suit for me. I remember when first learning basic stats in high school there was mention about considering the stats rather than sample stories or examples because while the stories are compelling, they often do not show the bigger picture. I know this to be true, and yet when I see statistics showing that gun violence is down since the 70s and 80s, that supposedly gun assaults and the US obsession with guns and other destructive weapons is on the decline, I am not put at ease. I respond to the sample. I see the killing, the killing, the senseless killing and have a hard time taking comfort in the decreasing numbers. Though I do accept the mathematical equations showing decline, I wonder if there is not more to review here. I am concerned about the causes of the new type of killer. I remember our fears in the 70s and 80s because I was a child during that time. We were afraid of gangs, the thriving, illegal, and suspect trade in crack cocaine, a drug that seemed to take over inner city neighborhoods in a season and then spread throughout the United States. During that bloody terror, a war on drugs was declared and it was fought out in the streets. This is not what we are experiencing here and the stats don't say anything of it.
I am frozen, but not numbed, boiling inside, acid rotting my gut, my heart bleeding out of my chest. The phrase "the slaughter of the innocents" has been much used in the murder of those 28 people in Newtown, CT and it is so appropriate. My oldest daughter is the same age as many of the victims of this crime and my anxiety was not well served by this news. I envisioned her walking through the hallway, dragging her hand along the wall as she daydreamed and walked to or from the bathroom, thrilled at the little bit of freedom she'd found in the middle of her day. I have seen so many of her peers do exactly that on days that I have visited her school. They look with wonder and trust and awe at nearly everything in the world. This is the age where kids are not quite jaded or "bored" by much of anything. Where their curiosity is peaked by almost everything. They pay attention because they are studying, learning, analyzing and don't pay attention for just the same reason. The thought of all those little, peering eyes trying to compute what was unfolding before them makes me faint. I mourn the massacre of these innocents and the loss of innocence of the poor, wide-eyed children who witnessed the murder of their classmates and teachers and professionals.
I cannot stand the argument that "we" care only when the tragedy, the massacre, the deaths of children and innocents hit close to home. How can anyone know that? How can they claim that? Yes, it is true that the media chooses what to cover, works its angles to keep us all interested in their particular network. I would support the idea that the networks and cable news channels make assumptions about what the viewing population wants, finds sensational or exciting, but I don't believe that there is a collective "we" that doesn't care about murder, massacres, and human suffering wherever it happens. I believe there is a greater "we" that does. Death, destruction, war whether in reality or in television, film, gaming doesn't appeal to us because we fear the darkness it dredges. We hope, pray, occupy in the hopes that the world can rid itself of its blood lust. Let's not insinuate that we only care about our homies as reason not to discuss what is wrong. And indeed, something is wrong.
Some of us may take our temperatures and find that we don't feel well, but others are burning up with fever, sick. We are the kind of sick that we don't even want to talk about in our homes so we surely do not want to discuss in relation to the culture of our great nation. The debate about how great, how marvelous, how special the United States of America is in so many ways is not in question. What I am talking about it the overachieving, over-reaching, striving, proud, miraculous image of strength that goes home and sees something entirely different in the mirror. Emotional and spiritual wounds left unchecked for lifetimes. Heavily medicated but not brought to light. We spend so much time on our projections that we have lost how we truly feel inside. We don't even talk about how we feel and if somehow you are someone who does talk about it or want to, you are considered the one who is fucked up. There is no dialogue here, no discussion, no honesty, no admittance of our fear, our frustration, our concern for ourselves and for others, even on the small scale, so how can we begin the conversation about healing the American spirit, the American soul.
It is hard to argue that culturally and collectively, we like guns, cars, wide open spaces, our individuality, and what we consider our freedom, the right to do whatever we want, however we want, beholden to no one. We are proud and we have reason to be. It is no surprise that to much of the world, we are considered cowboys. Ye,s there is the love of the wide open space, the hard work, the commitment, the dedication but there is also that stubborn, risk-taking, man-on-my-own, my-way-or-the-highway attitude that gets in our way. It is hard to address our fears and our shortcomings when our pride refuses to allow us to even admit them.
The state of our mental health is terrifying. If we suffered physical wounds as traumatic as some of the wounds we are carrying, we'd stop immediately to salve them, heal them, warn others how we hurt ourselves in order to prevent the same from happening to them. But when we are hurt or damaged or in psychic pain, we don't want to talk about it. No one around us wants to talk about it either. We want to take something and hope that whatever it is we've just put in our mouths will make that hurt go away. That's not working. In the mass murders in Newtown, CT at the Sandy Hook Elementary school where a clearly wounded boy from a family that looks like many that I grew up around took from us all, but specifically from the trusting parents and families and friends who felt that they had the right to send their children to school to learn, the most precious, the most sacred gems of our community. The babies.
Targeting children, aiming at the very physical symbol of our hope, our dreams, our joy, he ripped out our souls and showed us how we are all truly strung together. Our souls pulled out like a string of paper dolls from a cut out. In our children, some of us have found the only place for true, pure love. We have given to them all in our hearts. They have mapped on our souls. We delight in their innocence, their openness, their trusting nature, the purity of their minds, hearts, and spirits. When children are hurt, even accidentally, we are distraught. When they are aimed at, when they are the target, we know we are dealing with a sick individual or a sick community or a sick state, country, world. We fail them and ultimately ourselves, if we cannot admit this. If we cannot find a way to make this different. If we will not try to heal ourselves.
My daughters are now trained at school how to handle a "Code Red." The first time my oldest described just what that entailed I stood, mouth agape, with tears coming down my face. At 5 1/2 years old, she was prepared to stand on a toilet seat in the bathroom if she found herself in there alone and heard gunshots or the sounds of shouting or escalating violence. She stood in closets, under desks, and contorted her body into large cabinets with her classmates and teachers "just in case there was someone who wanted to see his/her child so badly that they came into the school to get him," what she'd been told would be the reason for such a situation. She knew if the teacher gave the class her "most serious face" then she and her classmates were not to make a sound or pass notes or try to run to one another across the room, the hall, the building, but were to stay put until a "real police officer or good person" came to get them. She practiced this with the same ease as I long ago practiced the fire drill. I tell myself, "we never had a fire at school. All those drills. More than likely, my kids will have only drills.
.
"That's what the statistics say," they will assure me. But in the random sampling, young children, babies, and the people trained and hired to guide them, lead them, teach them, are dead. And to me, no matter the numbers, we are more than the numbers. We are human beings. We are our brothers' keepers and we must do better than this. We must still.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Though a requirement for my Master's Degree, statistics have never been a strong suit for me. I remember when first learning basic stats in high school there was mention about considering the stats rather than sample stories or examples because while the stories are compelling, they often do not show the bigger picture. I know this to be true, and yet when I see statistics showing that gun violence is down since the 70s and 80s, that supposedly gun assaults and the US obsession with guns and other destructive weapons is on the decline, I am not put at ease. I respond to the sample. I see the killing, the killing, the senseless killing and have a hard time taking comfort in the decreasing numbers. Though I do accept the mathematical equations showing decline, I wonder if there is not more to review here. I am concerned about the causes of the new type of killer. I remember our fears in the 70s and 80s because I was a child during that time. We were afraid of gangs, the thriving, illegal, and suspect trade in crack cocaine, a drug that seemed to take over inner city neighborhoods in a season and then spread throughout the United States. During that bloody terror, a war on drugs was declared and it was fought out in the streets. This is not what we are experiencing here and the stats don't say anything of it.
I am frozen, but not numbed, boiling inside, acid rotting my gut, my heart bleeding out of my chest. The phrase "the slaughter of the innocents" has been much used in the murder of those 28 people in Newtown, CT and it is so appropriate. My oldest daughter is the same age as many of the victims of this crime and my anxiety was not well served by this news. I envisioned her walking through the hallway, dragging her hand along the wall as she daydreamed and walked to or from the bathroom, thrilled at the little bit of freedom she'd found in the middle of her day. I have seen so many of her peers do exactly that on days that I have visited her school. They look with wonder and trust and awe at nearly everything in the world. This is the age where kids are not quite jaded or "bored" by much of anything. Where their curiosity is peaked by almost everything. They pay attention because they are studying, learning, analyzing and don't pay attention for just the same reason. The thought of all those little, peering eyes trying to compute what was unfolding before them makes me faint. I mourn the massacre of these innocents and the loss of innocence of the poor, wide-eyed children who witnessed the murder of their classmates and teachers and professionals.
I cannot stand the argument that "we" care only when the tragedy, the massacre, the deaths of children and innocents hit close to home. How can anyone know that? How can they claim that? Yes, it is true that the media chooses what to cover, works its angles to keep us all interested in their particular network. I would support the idea that the networks and cable news channels make assumptions about what the viewing population wants, finds sensational or exciting, but I don't believe that there is a collective "we" that doesn't care about murder, massacres, and human suffering wherever it happens. I believe there is a greater "we" that does. Death, destruction, war whether in reality or in television, film, gaming doesn't appeal to us because we fear the darkness it dredges. We hope, pray, occupy in the hopes that the world can rid itself of its blood lust. Let's not insinuate that we only care about our homies as reason not to discuss what is wrong. And indeed, something is wrong.
Some of us may take our temperatures and find that we don't feel well, but others are burning up with fever, sick. We are the kind of sick that we don't even want to talk about in our homes so we surely do not want to discuss in relation to the culture of our great nation. The debate about how great, how marvelous, how special the United States of America is in so many ways is not in question. What I am talking about it the overachieving, over-reaching, striving, proud, miraculous image of strength that goes home and sees something entirely different in the mirror. Emotional and spiritual wounds left unchecked for lifetimes. Heavily medicated but not brought to light. We spend so much time on our projections that we have lost how we truly feel inside. We don't even talk about how we feel and if somehow you are someone who does talk about it or want to, you are considered the one who is fucked up. There is no dialogue here, no discussion, no honesty, no admittance of our fear, our frustration, our concern for ourselves and for others, even on the small scale, so how can we begin the conversation about healing the American spirit, the American soul.
It is hard to argue that culturally and collectively, we like guns, cars, wide open spaces, our individuality, and what we consider our freedom, the right to do whatever we want, however we want, beholden to no one. We are proud and we have reason to be. It is no surprise that to much of the world, we are considered cowboys. Ye,s there is the love of the wide open space, the hard work, the commitment, the dedication but there is also that stubborn, risk-taking, man-on-my-own, my-way-or-the-highway attitude that gets in our way. It is hard to address our fears and our shortcomings when our pride refuses to allow us to even admit them.
The state of our mental health is terrifying. If we suffered physical wounds as traumatic as some of the wounds we are carrying, we'd stop immediately to salve them, heal them, warn others how we hurt ourselves in order to prevent the same from happening to them. But when we are hurt or damaged or in psychic pain, we don't want to talk about it. No one around us wants to talk about it either. We want to take something and hope that whatever it is we've just put in our mouths will make that hurt go away. That's not working. In the mass murders in Newtown, CT at the Sandy Hook Elementary school where a clearly wounded boy from a family that looks like many that I grew up around took from us all, but specifically from the trusting parents and families and friends who felt that they had the right to send their children to school to learn, the most precious, the most sacred gems of our community. The babies.
Targeting children, aiming at the very physical symbol of our hope, our dreams, our joy, he ripped out our souls and showed us how we are all truly strung together. Our souls pulled out like a string of paper dolls from a cut out. In our children, some of us have found the only place for true, pure love. We have given to them all in our hearts. They have mapped on our souls. We delight in their innocence, their openness, their trusting nature, the purity of their minds, hearts, and spirits. When children are hurt, even accidentally, we are distraught. When they are aimed at, when they are the target, we know we are dealing with a sick individual or a sick community or a sick state, country, world. We fail them and ultimately ourselves, if we cannot admit this. If we cannot find a way to make this different. If we will not try to heal ourselves.
My daughters are now trained at school how to handle a "Code Red." The first time my oldest described just what that entailed I stood, mouth agape, with tears coming down my face. At 5 1/2 years old, she was prepared to stand on a toilet seat in the bathroom if she found herself in there alone and heard gunshots or the sounds of shouting or escalating violence. She stood in closets, under desks, and contorted her body into large cabinets with her classmates and teachers "just in case there was someone who wanted to see his/her child so badly that they came into the school to get him," what she'd been told would be the reason for such a situation. She knew if the teacher gave the class her "most serious face" then she and her classmates were not to make a sound or pass notes or try to run to one another across the room, the hall, the building, but were to stay put until a "real police officer or good person" came to get them. She practiced this with the same ease as I long ago practiced the fire drill. I tell myself, "we never had a fire at school. All those drills. More than likely, my kids will have only drills.
.
"That's what the statistics say," they will assure me. But in the random sampling, young children, babies, and the people trained and hired to guide them, lead them, teach them, are dead. And to me, no matter the numbers, we are more than the numbers. We are human beings. We are our brothers' keepers and we must do better than this. We must still.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Piece of Paper
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Piece of Paper: "We're all married, right? All of us. You, Papa, me, and Lily, right? Because we are a family." 3 1/2 year old Virginie Four years ag...
The Piece of Paper
"We're all married, right? All of us. You, Papa, me, and Lily, right? Because we are a family." 3 1/2 year old Virginie
Four years ago today, my Honeypot and I ventured out in the pouring rain to City Hall in downtown Manhattan to make it official before the State of New York. We'd left our two and 1/2 year old with a sitter and met a small handful of friends and family who would be there to support us and bear witness. We'd applied for the marriage license with an eclectic mix of New Yorkers just a week earlier. Though we'd been warned and were well-prepared for crazy, DMV-style lines, the program at the Justice of the Peace was efficient if curt, and we were there for less than an hour and a 1/2. By the time we were finished, I was ravenous and had to pee. That was pretty much par for the course in those days. I was five and a 1/2 months pregnant.
I don't want to say that we were pressured to marry. Anyone who knew us back then could have told you that no fire burned hotter or brighter than we. I just didn't see the point. I'd seen successful, unsuccessful, sham, true love, high school sweetheart, known-each-other-three-month marriages and thought, "good for them." I just didn't think that the piece of paper was necessary to define who we were and what we were to each other. He'd been married previously and had had a pretty contentious divorce, one that I had suffered through with him, and frankly, we already had a child together that for us was the true symbol of our connection. We were committed, were in it to win it, and wanted to build our family, our union, our team without being told how it was meant to be done. No matter the piece of paper, I knew that my partner, the one I had chosen for life would never abandon me or my children. I had faith in the person that he showed himself to be and he had the same faith in me. I considered us a modern, honest, intellectual, artistic couple who could take it or leave it. The paper, I mean.
My parents had come for a visit in the early weeks of my pregnancy with Virginie and I was violently ill. Didier and I were proceeding with caution as I'd already suffered two miscarriages. I knew the sickness was a good sign, as they say, but we were not quite sure we were ready to disclose our condition. The problem was I couldn't hide it either. When you are one who almost never turns down a glass of wine, the refusal of one definitely raises a flag. If you find yourself suddenly running for the bathroom every few minutes and cannot chew anything without getting that dizzy, nauseous feeling, you begin to look suspect. I was nervous and jittery withholding a secret that made us giddy so in an ill-considered act of sharing, I told them the news. There was silence and then there was head shaking. There were averted eyes and sighs. Didier and I looked at each other across the room and wondered if perhaps they had not heard me correctly. So I said it again. "We are pregnant. It's just the early stages but we are coming to the end of the first trimester so I am nearly sure." Nothing.
A handful of miserably depressing phone calls later and the "you're an unmarried hussy-not a celebrity-what would the neighbors think-you will never be forgiven-find a faith" dialogue convinced me that my perspective was surely not the most popular out there. Our relationship had outlasted a sibling's marriage. We'd been together for years and had a child already. We were in love. It seemed a bit ridiculous to us to spend our money on a ceremony to appease my family when we were actually preparing for a new arrival. Sharing our plan was really a courtesy. We'd made no decision on when or where or how or why we should "make it official."
And then came the offer for a position in Barbados. Upon review of the culture of this tiny Caribbean island, we started to see the writing on the wall. We could live together, common-law, in New York, forever. Our kids could have a different last name from their father, and we could hang with our diverse group of friends, our community and feel safe, fit in, avoid definitions from outside. But in Barbados we didn't want to make waves. We didn't know anyone and didn't want to draw attention to ourselves by rolling in there to live, a French chef and his African-American girlfriend and their children. We choked and felt that the easiest way to make this transition smoothly was to get married. We'd go there as an easily recognizable family, without demanding an understanding of our own definition of ourselves. Witnessing a couple we spent a good amount of time with, a Canadian couple together longer than we, having to explain again and again that they were a couple, a family but common law partners, proved to us that we'd dodged one.
I love being married to Didier, love what we have become, love the evolution of us from lovers to parents to the team. Each night, as I put the girls to bed, the littlest one asks, "Papa is married to all of us, right? We are all married together, right?" And I tell her, every night, that we are. That without her and her big sister there would be no "married," that we saved being married for them. For them, making the commitment, putting it down on paper, rather than in a song, in a painting, in a poem, in a dance, in the way we live was worth it.
Being married, signing the love on that paper has meant that everyone understands that we have rights and privileges that were we just "together" we'd have to fight for. We'd have red tape to cut through. Folks to have to argue with so that we could see each other in the hospital, have access to accounts and funds and private information. In Barbados, being married served us well, especially during exhausting visits to the Immigration Department where having and showing our marriage license seemed to at least begin the process, was a key to the door with 1000 locks. My unmarried friends suffered endlessly the questions, the downright concern that they did not have that paper and did not share a common name. With all else I was dealing with there, that just might have put me over the edge.
I am married. And to a wonderful man. When it so moved us, we went downtown and just did it. But what of our friends and family who don't have the option to do this? Who might embrace it in a way that we didn't? Who love each other as we do? Who have every right to cut through the red tape, see their names on important documents, embrace and love their children as we do? Perhaps they want to wing it and commit in a ceremony less formal and maybe they just want the option to have that piece of paper, to be legitimized, to be included, counted, considered. Some of my gay and lesbian friends won the geographical lottery living in States where their marriage is legal, so they too could run downtown as we did and just do it. Let's see us all catch up. If I need the piece of paper to make people happy, then I wish that everyone can be so happy. Just sayin'.
Happy Anniversary to my love. I remember the first date with the same jelly-legged swoon. The first kiss as the seal to our connection. The first fight as proof of our freedom to be ourselves and continue to love one another. The years in Barbados as a big freakin' test. And the piece of paper as a dare to do it all forever.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Four years ago today, my Honeypot and I ventured out in the pouring rain to City Hall in downtown Manhattan to make it official before the State of New York. We'd left our two and 1/2 year old with a sitter and met a small handful of friends and family who would be there to support us and bear witness. We'd applied for the marriage license with an eclectic mix of New Yorkers just a week earlier. Though we'd been warned and were well-prepared for crazy, DMV-style lines, the program at the Justice of the Peace was efficient if curt, and we were there for less than an hour and a 1/2. By the time we were finished, I was ravenous and had to pee. That was pretty much par for the course in those days. I was five and a 1/2 months pregnant.
I don't want to say that we were pressured to marry. Anyone who knew us back then could have told you that no fire burned hotter or brighter than we. I just didn't see the point. I'd seen successful, unsuccessful, sham, true love, high school sweetheart, known-each-other-three-month marriages and thought, "good for them." I just didn't think that the piece of paper was necessary to define who we were and what we were to each other. He'd been married previously and had had a pretty contentious divorce, one that I had suffered through with him, and frankly, we already had a child together that for us was the true symbol of our connection. We were committed, were in it to win it, and wanted to build our family, our union, our team without being told how it was meant to be done. No matter the piece of paper, I knew that my partner, the one I had chosen for life would never abandon me or my children. I had faith in the person that he showed himself to be and he had the same faith in me. I considered us a modern, honest, intellectual, artistic couple who could take it or leave it. The paper, I mean.
My parents had come for a visit in the early weeks of my pregnancy with Virginie and I was violently ill. Didier and I were proceeding with caution as I'd already suffered two miscarriages. I knew the sickness was a good sign, as they say, but we were not quite sure we were ready to disclose our condition. The problem was I couldn't hide it either. When you are one who almost never turns down a glass of wine, the refusal of one definitely raises a flag. If you find yourself suddenly running for the bathroom every few minutes and cannot chew anything without getting that dizzy, nauseous feeling, you begin to look suspect. I was nervous and jittery withholding a secret that made us giddy so in an ill-considered act of sharing, I told them the news. There was silence and then there was head shaking. There were averted eyes and sighs. Didier and I looked at each other across the room and wondered if perhaps they had not heard me correctly. So I said it again. "We are pregnant. It's just the early stages but we are coming to the end of the first trimester so I am nearly sure." Nothing.
A handful of miserably depressing phone calls later and the "you're an unmarried hussy-not a celebrity-what would the neighbors think-you will never be forgiven-find a faith" dialogue convinced me that my perspective was surely not the most popular out there. Our relationship had outlasted a sibling's marriage. We'd been together for years and had a child already. We were in love. It seemed a bit ridiculous to us to spend our money on a ceremony to appease my family when we were actually preparing for a new arrival. Sharing our plan was really a courtesy. We'd made no decision on when or where or how or why we should "make it official."
And then came the offer for a position in Barbados. Upon review of the culture of this tiny Caribbean island, we started to see the writing on the wall. We could live together, common-law, in New York, forever. Our kids could have a different last name from their father, and we could hang with our diverse group of friends, our community and feel safe, fit in, avoid definitions from outside. But in Barbados we didn't want to make waves. We didn't know anyone and didn't want to draw attention to ourselves by rolling in there to live, a French chef and his African-American girlfriend and their children. We choked and felt that the easiest way to make this transition smoothly was to get married. We'd go there as an easily recognizable family, without demanding an understanding of our own definition of ourselves. Witnessing a couple we spent a good amount of time with, a Canadian couple together longer than we, having to explain again and again that they were a couple, a family but common law partners, proved to us that we'd dodged one.
I love being married to Didier, love what we have become, love the evolution of us from lovers to parents to the team. Each night, as I put the girls to bed, the littlest one asks, "Papa is married to all of us, right? We are all married together, right?" And I tell her, every night, that we are. That without her and her big sister there would be no "married," that we saved being married for them. For them, making the commitment, putting it down on paper, rather than in a song, in a painting, in a poem, in a dance, in the way we live was worth it.
Being married, signing the love on that paper has meant that everyone understands that we have rights and privileges that were we just "together" we'd have to fight for. We'd have red tape to cut through. Folks to have to argue with so that we could see each other in the hospital, have access to accounts and funds and private information. In Barbados, being married served us well, especially during exhausting visits to the Immigration Department where having and showing our marriage license seemed to at least begin the process, was a key to the door with 1000 locks. My unmarried friends suffered endlessly the questions, the downright concern that they did not have that paper and did not share a common name. With all else I was dealing with there, that just might have put me over the edge.
I am married. And to a wonderful man. When it so moved us, we went downtown and just did it. But what of our friends and family who don't have the option to do this? Who might embrace it in a way that we didn't? Who love each other as we do? Who have every right to cut through the red tape, see their names on important documents, embrace and love their children as we do? Perhaps they want to wing it and commit in a ceremony less formal and maybe they just want the option to have that piece of paper, to be legitimized, to be included, counted, considered. Some of my gay and lesbian friends won the geographical lottery living in States where their marriage is legal, so they too could run downtown as we did and just do it. Let's see us all catch up. If I need the piece of paper to make people happy, then I wish that everyone can be so happy. Just sayin'.
Happy Anniversary to my love. I remember the first date with the same jelly-legged swoon. The first kiss as the seal to our connection. The first fight as proof of our freedom to be ourselves and continue to love one another. The years in Barbados as a big freakin' test. And the piece of paper as a dare to do it all forever.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Ageless beauty
Back to the Suburban Grind: Ageless beauty: I almost never get to lounge around in my pajamas, pimple cream, anti-aging, anti-wrinkle cream slathered on my face, and watch TV. Certain...
Monday, December 3, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Mommy, party of one
Back to the Suburban Grind: Mommy, party of one: One is the loneliest number. But it's been a long time since I felt all alone. Sometimes in raising chidlren, navigating the waters of mar...
Ageless beauty
I almost never get to lounge around in my pajamas, pimple cream, anti-aging, anti-wrinkle cream slathered on my face, and watch TV. Certainly during the week when I am the first to get up to pack lunches, start breakfast, coffee and green tea, lining up shoes and coats, watching even a little would be out of the question. We have the morning routine timed to the last second and if anyone needs to so much as blow his nose, we could get off schedule. But some Sunday mornings when absolutely nothing is scheduled, I allow myself a Super Soul Sunday on OWN, videos on Vh1 Classic or if I really want to feel old, check out current videos and marvel at how little I know about what is happening in popular music, or maybe some entertainment news, BBC documentary, or Sex and the City reruns.
Inevitably, I stumble upon some infomercial that will guarantee with the loss of some blood, sweat, and tears AND huge bucks, gorgeous, youthful skin, a gorgeous, youthful, tight, no-signs-of-having-children or a peppermint-bark-problem body, or luxurious, youthful, tangle-free hair that looks like I get it done at the salon every day. Ageless beauty, it says, and I am mesmerized. I study the lines and wrinkles of Valerie Bertinelli and the increasingly, so easily gorgeous Cindy Crawford and I think, "That's it! That's the product for me." Or better," I will definitely work out for forty minutes a day, every day, sweating my face off and then go make dinner". Or," yeah sure, my hair is short but wouldn't it be nice to have that silky feeling even on my wee strands?"
Though I am getting older, watching my body change and let go of the lifetime of hours of tedious working out, afternoon facials, and cute haircuts, inside, I still feel like I graduated from college just moments ago. I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror while standing with the girls as they brush their teeth before bed or in the reflection of the car window as I pile everyone in or out and cannot believe that it's possible that that woman is representing me to the world. I am a softer, less angular, less stylish vision than the one I imagine of myself. I am not mad at it. Have come to accept it on some levels. But wouldn't mind a little help with the tweaking sometimes.
I have a cousin who is a plastic surgeon in Santa Barbara and have asked him and his wife countless questions involving terrifying procedures that will lift what were once hot boobies and turned into Mama mammaries, remove a bit of the junk bouncing out of the trunk, and lighten the load of the bags I am carrying under my eyes. I am a little too much of a wimp to handle these surgeries, as is my pocketbook, so I have gone a new direction. IT WORKS body wraps came to me from a friend on Facebook. She was selling them and posting pictures of all kinds of bodies on a wall of extreme transformation. I thought, "who knows if this really works, but I sure as heck want to find out!" As I mentioned, my pocketbook is a bit of a wimp and I did not want to commit to the fee for a possibly maybe. So I entered a contest on her website and if you can stand it, I won! Day two of the aforementioned experiment begins tomorrow.
I can't tell. I really can't tell if I see any difference after the first wrap which consisted of an herb-soaked, body part shaped napkin or cheesecloth that I squished and wrapped around my legs, then Saran wrapped for better travel and waited. I drank about 2 gallons of water and ate like a bunny. The next wrap will be done tomorrow, a full 72 hours after the first as is required. It smells great and I feel like my jeans might have fit a little less snugly in the thigh area. Pictures will be taken tomorrow before and after and we'll see. As I walked to my car, legs wrapped and Saran wrap swish-swish-swishing, I had to laugh out loud to myself.
What I never really realized, somehow missed all throughout my youth, was that when I was young, it came easy to me, easier than I believed. And I'm not alone. Look at a picture of yourself from back in the day. You are cute. You are hot. Your skin is smooth. Even after a night of partying, you look vibrant and fresh. I am surprisingly okay with this. I wish I looked a little better, sure. But a wiggly belly, tickled in bed by my six and three and 1/2 year old feels kind of jolly. I can work out some day. I can eat a little better, take in fewer brownies and more green things. I will. I will. I will. And I am sure twenty years from now, I will look at the pictures of me, wiggly belly and all and say, "Beautiful."
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Inevitably, I stumble upon some infomercial that will guarantee with the loss of some blood, sweat, and tears AND huge bucks, gorgeous, youthful skin, a gorgeous, youthful, tight, no-signs-of-having-children or a peppermint-bark-problem body, or luxurious, youthful, tangle-free hair that looks like I get it done at the salon every day. Ageless beauty, it says, and I am mesmerized. I study the lines and wrinkles of Valerie Bertinelli and the increasingly, so easily gorgeous Cindy Crawford and I think, "That's it! That's the product for me." Or better," I will definitely work out for forty minutes a day, every day, sweating my face off and then go make dinner". Or," yeah sure, my hair is short but wouldn't it be nice to have that silky feeling even on my wee strands?"
Though I am getting older, watching my body change and let go of the lifetime of hours of tedious working out, afternoon facials, and cute haircuts, inside, I still feel like I graduated from college just moments ago. I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror while standing with the girls as they brush their teeth before bed or in the reflection of the car window as I pile everyone in or out and cannot believe that it's possible that that woman is representing me to the world. I am a softer, less angular, less stylish vision than the one I imagine of myself. I am not mad at it. Have come to accept it on some levels. But wouldn't mind a little help with the tweaking sometimes.
I have a cousin who is a plastic surgeon in Santa Barbara and have asked him and his wife countless questions involving terrifying procedures that will lift what were once hot boobies and turned into Mama mammaries, remove a bit of the junk bouncing out of the trunk, and lighten the load of the bags I am carrying under my eyes. I am a little too much of a wimp to handle these surgeries, as is my pocketbook, so I have gone a new direction. IT WORKS body wraps came to me from a friend on Facebook. She was selling them and posting pictures of all kinds of bodies on a wall of extreme transformation. I thought, "who knows if this really works, but I sure as heck want to find out!" As I mentioned, my pocketbook is a bit of a wimp and I did not want to commit to the fee for a possibly maybe. So I entered a contest on her website and if you can stand it, I won! Day two of the aforementioned experiment begins tomorrow.
I can't tell. I really can't tell if I see any difference after the first wrap which consisted of an herb-soaked, body part shaped napkin or cheesecloth that I squished and wrapped around my legs, then Saran wrapped for better travel and waited. I drank about 2 gallons of water and ate like a bunny. The next wrap will be done tomorrow, a full 72 hours after the first as is required. It smells great and I feel like my jeans might have fit a little less snugly in the thigh area. Pictures will be taken tomorrow before and after and we'll see. As I walked to my car, legs wrapped and Saran wrap swish-swish-swishing, I had to laugh out loud to myself.
What I never really realized, somehow missed all throughout my youth, was that when I was young, it came easy to me, easier than I believed. And I'm not alone. Look at a picture of yourself from back in the day. You are cute. You are hot. Your skin is smooth. Even after a night of partying, you look vibrant and fresh. I am surprisingly okay with this. I wish I looked a little better, sure. But a wiggly belly, tickled in bed by my six and three and 1/2 year old feels kind of jolly. I can work out some day. I can eat a little better, take in fewer brownies and more green things. I will. I will. I will. And I am sure twenty years from now, I will look at the pictures of me, wiggly belly and all and say, "Beautiful."
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Mommy, party of one
One is the loneliest number. But it's been a long time since I felt all alone. Sometimes in raising chidlren, navigating the waters of marriage, relationships, and friendships, one feels that he or she is up against the world. But that feeling is fleeting and often tied to a very specific moment of tension, stress, and fatigue. I write this blog because I know I am not the only one who has stared into the eyes of a three year old in a stand off and wondered how the heck did I get here?!? I know that I am not the first to feel lost and confused as I transitioned from hot, young thing to Mummy in Mom jeans. I am not the first to fly two hours with two little ones, their car seats, almost all the toys from the toy box, snacks, DVD player, and coats tied on my head only to arrive at an overheated airport with one who has to use the toilet immediately. Or had vomit in my hair, my mouth, on the new carpet. I am not the first to have a bullied child or a baby who calls me countless times in the middle of the night. I would surely be incredibly narcissistic and self-involved if it were my intention to imply that no one has suffered as I. I write this to share, to commiserate, to have a laugh, and let off steam.
Talking with other parents and caregivers, I am mesmerized by our ability to rear these people, keep them safe, polite, kind, well-fed, dressed, well-kept, while kissing them, loving them, smiling at them, being all for them. I am often knocked senseless in shock and awe at just what it is that parents are called on to do. Had I received some kind of manual I would certainly not have believed what it was preparing me for. I would have said, no way is this going to happen, probably just minutes or seconds before said disaster came to pass. I like to talk about it, to recount the stories. Sometimes because what one of the girls has said is so funny or so profound, I want a witness to their genius. Sometimes because the conflict is so tight, the battle so heated, the fog of war so thick, I need a second mate or possibly a guide to tell me how to get through it. It is not complaining. It is pleading, it is longing for guidance and reassurance. It is questioning.
Much like we all feel original in high school, are sure no one but we have gone through the woes of heartbreak or heartache, the alienation of finding one's own way, or the wrenching panic and anxiety of not fitting in, parents often blanch at each new milestone or dilemma and shine at each new achievement or success, asserting that no one else could ever feel this proud, this hurt, this excited. It feels like the very first time, though it is not. The comfort and safety of other parents' experiences similar to my own or better, that prepare me for moments to come, give me peace. A pat on the back, a squeeze of the hand, a knowing glance can mean so much when one is in the thick of it.
In this, I call on community. This is family created from like souls in a like experience. Their love, their guidance, their support, without "I told you so's" and "buck up and get it together's"has strengthened me and made me a better mom and a better person. I am not a party of one, though mothering is often a very isolating experience for me, because I have held out my hand and others have taken it at just the right time.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Talking with other parents and caregivers, I am mesmerized by our ability to rear these people, keep them safe, polite, kind, well-fed, dressed, well-kept, while kissing them, loving them, smiling at them, being all for them. I am often knocked senseless in shock and awe at just what it is that parents are called on to do. Had I received some kind of manual I would certainly not have believed what it was preparing me for. I would have said, no way is this going to happen, probably just minutes or seconds before said disaster came to pass. I like to talk about it, to recount the stories. Sometimes because what one of the girls has said is so funny or so profound, I want a witness to their genius. Sometimes because the conflict is so tight, the battle so heated, the fog of war so thick, I need a second mate or possibly a guide to tell me how to get through it. It is not complaining. It is pleading, it is longing for guidance and reassurance. It is questioning.
Much like we all feel original in high school, are sure no one but we have gone through the woes of heartbreak or heartache, the alienation of finding one's own way, or the wrenching panic and anxiety of not fitting in, parents often blanch at each new milestone or dilemma and shine at each new achievement or success, asserting that no one else could ever feel this proud, this hurt, this excited. It feels like the very first time, though it is not. The comfort and safety of other parents' experiences similar to my own or better, that prepare me for moments to come, give me peace. A pat on the back, a squeeze of the hand, a knowing glance can mean so much when one is in the thick of it.
In this, I call on community. This is family created from like souls in a like experience. Their love, their guidance, their support, without "I told you so's" and "buck up and get it together's"has strengthened me and made me a better mom and a better person. I am not a party of one, though mothering is often a very isolating experience for me, because I have held out my hand and others have taken it at just the right time.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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