I've had nothing and everything to say. In the movies when the aliens or the mermaids or angels arrive and meet human beings they often can't speak. They don't know the language spoken where they've arrived on earth so they communicate with emotions, with touch, long gazes, and love.
I haven't known how to write or speak this feeling in which I have been wading. My vision blurry, I feel my way towards my allies and steel myself for our survival. I don't want to use too much energy so that I don't spend my reserves. It must look like depression or anxiety. It must look like panic. It feels noisy and chaotic and wordy though I've not spoken much at all. I've shared on social media, I've advocated for the rights of everyone, and I wear my heart so open and unbuttoned that is screams out, you can see its beating outline on my chest. I'm no mermaid, no angel, sometimes alien, but I don't know the words to speak here.
I see messages from friend to other friends who don't believe this mess involves them. White women who text other white women in the hopes that they have the same disdain for the disruption of their regularly scheduled privileged lives, only to find that the receiver of the message is active and hurt and organizing, and I am speechless. It figures, I've thought. And then gratitude washes over me for the friend who did respond in kind. I read posts from people in my life from way back, way, way back, who say, "Stephanie, it's only been a week. Give him a chance." And I remember giving the bullies in my high school whose torment of me crushed moment to moment and being advised to either ignore them or ask them, sincerely ask them, why they've chosen me. And I am stunned.
Sometimes people listen, really sit with you and listen, hold you in a space that they've generously given. Sometimes when you aren't even there they are praying for you, hoping for you, holding you dear, sending you strength. Sometimes, when you can hardly speak, they read between the lines and hear you. Sometimes the very best words are expressed, barely spoken.
I have before felt lonely, afraid, ashamed. I have before felt disconnected, excluded, outside. This was something else. In my spirit's journey for meaning, I'd assumed that deep down everyone was on a similar path, only to hear/see/read the most violent, hateful, racist, sexist, misogynistic, uninformed, terrified and terrifying rhetoric spewing like bile about almost everything and everyone I love and hold dear. I have felt that all-consuming fear that makes people do the craziest things. I have watched in shock, horror, and disbelief at what my black people would call the devil, take his place on a thrown right next to the people's god. They look at the throne and can't tell the difference. Angels, devils, mermaids, and aliens.
I was sitting on a bench outside the bank on the corner of an intersection in my town. I'd walked there to get out of the house where my husband was on day two and a half of man-flu and because I needed to take some fresh air into my lungs. It was 33 degrees and windy. It was perfect and it was quiet. I talked to myself and to my angels. These existential dialogues have been occurring with greater frequency, as soon as I've a free moment from the needs, desires, and demands of everything in the world. It sounds like hysteria or panic, which it truly is not, but a real consideration of purpose, mine and everyone's, that I've not really had with this much intensity in my life. This moment in history feels fraught.
The wind hit my face and my hands as I tried to type on my phone to a friend. It was so cold that I thought to just put the phone down for a while so I could just stop the sizzling in my brain that happens when I'm plugged in. I put the phone in my pocket and turned my face to the sun trying to work her magic on that cold day. When I opened my eyes, I made contact for a fleeting moment with a new friend, a woman I knew just briefly through shared friends and in our attendance at school functions, who was passing with a friend at just the moment I'd opened my eyes. She doubled back and said, "Can I just give you a hug? I want to hug you."
I said, "Oh, yes. Yes, please." And we stood on the corner of at the crazy intersection in our little town and held each other. When we let go I thanked her and we both wished each other a good day. She walked on and I sat back on my bench and took in the air deeply, tears immediately coming. Oh, my heart.
Nothing and everything to say. SHE had the very best words.
(c) Copyrighted 2017. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Drawing, work in progress. Grace, 2017. Stephanie Penn-Virot
After the whirlwind week between Christmas Eve and today, I found myself with the first free moments last night. The girls were passed out in my bed, tucked in after having had their first up-'til-midnight celebration of the new year's arrival and the following day's parties and good wishes tour through the neighborhood. Flicking through channels, sitting snuggled up on my couch with a blanket and a glass of wine, the quiet of the house brought the present upon me. I was no longer in my head planning for the next day, reflecting about those passed and things missed or not done, I was right there. And my birthday was coming in a few hours. I got to Thelma and Louise just as they were coming upon J.D., the young, handsome, brand new Brad Pitt, but I knew the story like I know myself. Thelma and Louise, like The Color Purple and Terms of Endearment and The English Patient, is a spot on my timeline, a moment of clarity and insight that I take pleasure in revisiting, no matter the tears and splatter that are sure to come.
And on the eve of my 45th, I looked with new eyes on my story. Every time, every single time, I love the charm, naiveté of Thelma. Her hope, her wonder, her journey (with massive shock and disappointment sure), her young soul charm and adorability. I beg her to see what I see before she gets into trouble, does something stupid, thwarts their chances and every time she does not. She is so cute, so sweet, so shiny. Oh, Thelma.
But I am Louise. Cautious, well-prepared, ordered, organized, playing the cards close to the vest. The thrill I get as this woman tidies her house before going away for what she expects will be a long weekend cannot be understated. The way she keeps herself in check, always on high alert, even when she is having fun is familiar. Her composure, her comportment, her trembling under that reserve is mine. I can be zany and funny and irreverent. I bet Louise was once a long time ago. Sometimes. Before Texas. Which she wants to avoid at all costs, does not want to revisit. It's the past and threatens to tear her wide open again.
Thelma and Louise takes us all on this journey across the gorgeous landscape of this country, showing us the beauty, the majesty, and the shifting contrasts and shadows made from that luminous glow. As these women let their masks fall, revealing themselves, their internal struggles and realizations and their skin, their human skin that they live in every day without make up, naked, we see the terrain change shape, see danger in the shadows, feel the ominous pull of life's magic and mystery as they sort out the mess of their circumstances. I have put myself in their shoes, lived vicariously through them every time. But this time I wondered, what if indeed one of these women were actually me. What if instead of two beautiful white women who find themselves with snowballing legal and emotional problems, Thelma and Louise or Thelma or Louise was a black woman. Was me. Would anyone be willing to take the journey with me? Would anyone want to come to my rescue? Would my choices be seen as heroic or tragic? Could I make that drive through the country, through the Midwest and Southwest of the United States as I tried to figure out how to right the wrongs, the mistakes and the impulses that got me into hot water? Would I go over the canyon or be knocked off long before my soul made that arc, reveled in its evolution and transcendence?
And then the tears fell harder even than usual when I realized that though the archetype, the Everyman (woman) journey, is indeed for everyone, I doubted that most would want to come along on the ride with me. It's where we find ourselves today or at least where I find myself. Deep in my heart, though I love with everything I can, I wonder if my love is reciprocated truly. In our "post-racial" America, I now wonder who wants to hear my story, any of our stories, to really listen to them without trying to place it in a specific genre, a special place, an "other" category. Does anyone believe that though our stories can be and are similar in so many ways, that we'd still like to see ourselves, be seen ourselves as part of the larger tale? That ours are not peripheral, supporting parts but starring roles too? I don't ask the questions to receive knee-jerk, fumbling reassurances. I ask because of how much it hurts me to even have to. Because the doubt has crept in and made me feel that whatever it was I thought I was leaving to my daughters has been eroded and that they will have to fight to be seen too.
I ended the year struggling to be open and available to people who were more than comfortable telling me how I feel, how people of color are/feel/act/think/behave or who told me they didn't see what I was showing them, telling them, expressing, shouting about, crying about, and were quick to walk away or shut down the dialogue with all sorts of "proof" and "post-racial" mumbo-jumbo. I lost people, let some go and allowed others to let me go when I took off my makeup, my mask, and showed my skin, my human skin, and it was real and pained and flawed, and could not be tidied. When I realized that even I, a friend or a colleague or acquaintance, could not make a convincing argument for recognition or compassion or even dialogue.
After years of trying not to "drive through Texas," not to go back to some painful truths, to reveal the scars I'd covered with my tidy, poised, secretive composure and protective stance, the circumstances had changed. I couldn't get out of this. Though I'd take many roads to try, they all still seem to end at the canyon. So here we are. I am hoping in the new year that we can talk to each other. That the seekers of the shiny and new, the naïve and the fresh can take the hands of the weary and the wary and the jaded and the wounded and forge a direction together. I hope that we are able to step back to think about and consider what each other says rather than react and attack. I hope that I am not met with theorems and postulates in place of real stories and truth and connection. I hope that we can find some kind of common group so that my story is as interesting, as worthy, as real, as true, as archetypal as any other. I want us to see ourselves in each other, longing more for what is similar, rather that foreign or strange. I want us to journey in all senses of the word--physically, emotionally, spiritually.
I love Thelma and Louise and wouldn't want to change their story. I road with them through their map, followed the lines that lead them to themselves and to their realizations and truths. I will again. Their journey has informed mine and they have inspired me to seek out hands to hold, to revisit old places and find undiscovered territory, maybe even some truth. Out there in that wildly powerful and spiritually haunting landscape, we all discover the essence of who we are. If we let ourselves.
(c) Copyright 2015. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I have been away from the blog for nearly two months. Keeping up with any regularity, any true perspective during the crazy, heady summer months proved to be impossible for me. Both of my children are now enrolled in "big girl" school and save the early season calendar crunching, I have time to get back to me. I'd started this post months back when a friend on Facebook tagged me in a photo of a T-shirt that said, "Hold on, I'm taking a selfie." I do take them. Have for years before they were called "selfies" except then I was not using my iPhone or computer to take snaps, I was staring into my face in the mirror and drawing or painting. I did and continue to use self-portraiture as my medium of exploration. Whether in the visual arts, writing, acting/voice work, or dance, I have used myself in the work, sometimes as the work. I am searching, seeking, looking, longing. I don't mean it to be indulgent, snaps and right-back-atcha winks, or reverential. As an artist, I am trying to understand, define, relate, connect with the world.
I had two painting professors that I adored. One I not so secretly crushed on and the other was truly one of the best people in my life, a true, dear friend and mentor. They both guided me to portraits and self-portraiture in Western art, classical and academic as well as modern and post-modern. In both art history and my studio classes, I devoured the canon and sought answers in life painting, focusing on real life, true light, a strong degree of academic emphasis, still life, portraiture, figure drawing and painting, landscape. I admired work that was imaginative, imbued with fantasy, and whimsy but felt safer and more grounded (I am, indeed, a Capricorn) with the familiar. I can still recall the afternoon when the focus shifted and I saw myself as subject, not only as author.
These two wonderful teachers gave me permission, even demanded that I look for something in my own gaze, in the curves of my face, in the soft angles where light hit my skin, creating shadows and depth I'd never considered. I was a little embarrassed really to be staring at myself so long, gazing, demanding, imploring, seeking answers to all the questions, moving paint or charcoal, graphite or pastel to tell a story, maybe about me and maybe about something else, something more. But I did prove to be an always available subject, one whom I felt comfortable tearing to pieces, putting back together, pushing and pulling the paint in ways that were not always beautiful or safe or pleasant. I was less fearful making mistakes when using myself as model or subject, more willing to look past the surface and scratch for something else, something that transcended just that moment in time. When I failed to find what I was looking for, I could try again and again and again, the onion skin always peeling back to show me something else. I am always peeling back and looking for something else.
Other than adolescent punishing sessions of miserable inner dialogue in the bathroom mirror, I didn't like to gaze upon myself. As a teenager my skin was terrible, I wore braces for years, and frankly, any therapist of mine will tell you, it took me years (or until yesterday or the day has not yet come) to find myself appealing. Maybe it was the 80's aesthetic where I was surely not listed in the beauties table of contents or my developing self-deference to make myself smaller and more invisible, but regarding myself left me deflated. Only in dance, where I studied more the lines I was able to make with my body did I emotionally and spiritually connect with my body, my image, myself.
And now I am here. I take pictures of myself and make pictures of myself and reveal, little by little, something of myself in the writing--stories, blog posts, Things My French Husband Says About Me. To me, the portraits, the selfies, the posts, the stories, the scripts, interpretation of dance choreography helps me serve the muse. I am not the first to use the medium to explore, to discover, to share. Western art has a endless number of self-portraits and other portraits that reveal much more beyond the beautifully handled surfaces or even intentionally challenging ones. The cool part is being drawn by the image or the page into something greater than was expected. For both artist and audience there is a dialogue, language, challenge or confrontation, reassurance or connection. When I am looking, when I ask, when I cry, scream, yell, whisper to be seen or heard, it is not because I believe I am the only one to search. It is because I believe we all are. I don't believe, wouldn't dare think that only I have found myself in front of the mirror staring into my eyes, searching for my soul, marveling or mourning some experience in life. That's not my intention at all. I am saying use me. Use me to reassure yourself, to steady yourself, to believe yourself, to react, to assault, to doubt, to question, to challenge. To find solidarity or solitude. To be human in all its torment and glory.
It is humbling, sometimes crippling. It is challenging and sometimes sobering. It is lonely and sometimes isolating. It is uplifting and sometimes otherworldly. Looking at myself, in my study of just a life, mine, I hope I have found a way to connect to humanity and to the divine muse. If you cannot find a way in yourself, use me.
(c) 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I always have something to say. Even when I am not saying anything I still have something to say. But there are times, like now, when the thought of opening my mouth threatens to release the hiccuping, sniveling, water running in the mouth torrent of tears and screams that I hear only in my dream state because I don't dare care or feel as much as all that in my real life. Not if I can help it. Not if I want to survive.
I am a woman of color (WOC) until I am black, really black. A little black girl does not often find herself with a voice, with the protection of everything and everyone. A little black girl is scared and only sometimes believes that anyone gives a damn. At least this little black girl. We know that very early on. Even when the people who love us tell us we are important and special and valuable (and that does not always happen), we can see. We can hear. We listen. We sense. We're low on the totem pole. A woman of color gets to talk about her perspective, share the stories of her time as a little black or brown or yellow girl, as she developed into a woman who took control of her destiny or found herself crushed by the weight of its reality. When I am a woman of color, people who want to, who dare to, listen to my perspective, want to know what I think or believe, hope they want to know my story, what I have lived, what I experience. As a woman of color I feel expert in my experience, strong, protective, prepared. But deep down, I am still a little black girl. Scared, tired, fragile, strong, endlessly hopeful, and both shamelessly fearful and fearless.
I have been unable to write or speak or even utter a gasp about the girls, kidnapped, stolen in Nigeria by the Islamic terrorist group Boko Haram. I knew, even as a young girl, that if I went missing, no one would come looking for me. And every time I tried to disappear, ran away, hid in the closet or the attic, even my parents did not stop what they were doing to find me. Everything I have ever known about my status did nothing to reinforce my sense of worth or value. Little black girls were not searched for, missed when they were gone. Yes, this was a child's perspective, and yes, they, we are valuable to many, but consider that the stories that really got the public moved to action were those of pretty little white girls stolen in the night. Rarely did I see a story about a small black child that raised everyone's consciousness, concern, pulled the community together to talk about the sanctity of childhood or innocence. I knew inside, just knew that the general population was not concerned for my virtue, my safety, or my innocence. No one who looked like me starred in the rescue story.
So when I learned they were gone, my heart sank. I felt as if I'd been kicked in the gut. And then my thoughts turned to them. Taken in the dark, scared to death, wondering what would become of them, how would the people who loved them find them, where were they going. I imagined them looking for clues on the path, a way to remember to find their way back, probably knowing they would not go back. At least not the way they came. I thought of the fucking cowardice it took to punish people, communities by raging assaults on young girls and women. I thought of the absolutely sickness of that kind of power play and how the eyes of those girls and their minds and their hearts and their bodies will be changed forever. And then I learned that I was late to the Intel. They'd been gone days when I first heard about the abduction. Many tuned in later to find that the girls had been missing for weeks.
I could not conjure up in the recesses of my mind, the most horrible fear, most alienating, soul crushing, dream stealing terror that is happening right now. They were gone for days before the world got enraged, got upset, was called to action. Taken in the night at their school by a group that rejects Westernization and education of girls and women. Their response to this affront was to kidnap the girls and, depending on who you are asking, sell them into marriage, lead them through the brutal terrain of the forest, or torment and repeatedly rape them, traumatizing and terrorizing them and leaving their families in complete anguish. Each possibility more horrifying than the next. That the possibilities are more than likely probabilities has left me supremely enraged.
Their mothers and families left to imagine the unimaginable, crying in the night, feeling the psychic pull of their children and having no idea how or where to find them. There is talk of international aid, perhaps a trade with Boko Haram for militants being held as prisoners. There are rallies and writing campaigns, and calls for action. I support those. But what I cannot get out of my mind, even when I close my eyes, are the faces I have conjured of those girls, their eyes staring at me, making our connection real. It is so easy, especially in the modern world, when the threats are not immediate or put one in imminent danger, to turn one's head. But I feel their presence and their fear and their life force.
There but by the grace of God go I. I see myself in their faces. Read my own name next to theirs. The horror lies in the absolute randomness of being unfortunate to be chosen for such violence and assault. A girl in the world learns these things. That upon her body and to her mind will be done great damage and violence in the name of anything and nothing. How I wish I could make them feel safe, secure, complete after this. Some have escaped and I have read that some may have died on the journey but many will have an "after this." What that is, where that is, how that is, we don't yet know. What serves as a metaphor for so many of us, girls in the world, lost in the dark, stolen innocence, is the reality for many more.
Hiding in the closet or in the attic, I remember my pounding heart. Its steady thunder keeping me tethered to the present, kept me from fleeing to my mind, my dreams, my outer space, disappearing place. I feel their hearts beat. All of ours. And I hope these girls are reunited with their families and brought home soon. Say their names out loud so you believe that they are as real as you are. Call out to them so they feel your hope and your rage and their strength and your love. The little black girl inside of me is screaming out, clawing at the walls, begging to be heard, to be rescued, to be healed. The WOC is prepared to be steely and strong enough to support others, to hold them up in body and spirit, to live in a place where being a girl in the world, a black girl in the world can again be wondrous and awesome, not dangerous and threatening.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin have just announced that after nearly eleven years of wedded bliss, they were "consciously uncoupling." For many people, the terminology was confounding and for many others, ridiculous. For me too, and I love all that esoteric, spiritual, evolutionary stuff. But separating, divorcing, especially with children in the mix is such a painful undertaking, this from someone who has only had breakups with boyfriends, that a perfectly civilized, seemingly emotionally neutral experience where two beautiful people express thanks for the wonderful life shared and kiss and go on their way acknowledging with gratitude and loving praise sounds awesome.
I think these two were damned if they did and damned if they didn't. Had the split been acrimonious and venomous involving cheating or abuse, there would have been chatter too. Because she often puts her properly pedicured foot in her oil-pulled, mint-chewing, Goopy mouth by talking about how the little people live (having, of course, no idea how we live), trying to stay spiritually bonded and physically untangle from her hubby, she is a yellow circle on the middle of the target in a crowd full of Katniss sharp shooters. I get it. She says stupid shit, really disconnected crap that makes her look like a real spoiled ass and seems like she thinks she is above us all and yet I am still sympathetic. I don't say so to try to convince others to feel as I do. That's not my point. Often, when I have hurt, been blinded by the direction of my life and my responsibility to it, I have lied to myself, convinced myself that my own perspective is right, that no one else has lived my experience, that no one else understands. I have tried to present painful experiences as better than they really are, have run from the quiet moments when I am left alone with myself and my reality. I have explained to anyone who will listen that no one has ever had it as bad as I, no one has every endured the way that I have, that the suffering is too much, if only people would understand. And then I come back to reality.
Gwyneth Paltrow is such an easy target because she appears to have everything, because she preaches an understanding of our interconnectedness, of an exalted human transcendence, and then completely misses the mark about how others live, because the reality she comes back to does not give her authority to speak to "everyone else." She's a human being. An incredibly spoiled, pampered woman, but a human being all the same. I forgive her her stupid remarks and complete disconnect from what the rest of us call reality because she believes strongly in her reality, is so committed to it that she cannot see the forest for the trees. She is going through a divorce, no matter what she calls it and that shit hurts. A part of me believes that she feels some sense of shame and failure around it, hurt and embarrassment, what many feel when they cannot save their relationships, and is trying to reframe it for herself. We are all just going along for the ride because she is a public figure. It really is a moment for privacy.
This past year I have seen a number of couples split or come close. I witnessed the hideous and contentious divorce of my husband that dragged on even as our relationship was forming. When you dig in with someone, plant seeds and set down roots, pulling up the flowers rather than seeing them bloom, can be disappointing and disorienting and traumatic. When forced to change the life your children have come to know and to expect, in which they have found comfort, joy, and consistency, one must find strength and courage and see hope at the end of that journey. Selling the house, new, separate homes, new rooms for the kids, starting over. Starting OVER. Conscious uncoupling sounds like a more suitable way to untangle than split, separate, or divorce, and the concept, though new to me until this week, does have its appeal.
Coupling, taking chances and risks, raising children, dealing with the day to day of that can wear down partnerships and change their shape. What was once romantic and energetic can seem mundane, tired, even painful. Most of us assume that this is the natural pattern of relationships. Perhaps it is, but perhaps there is some truth in a relationship running the full course, that it becomes platonic, comfortable, or stagnant. Perhaps it makes sense for a partnership to change shape or form. And maybe you are supposed to stay in it for the long haul and ride the ebb and flow, peaks and valleys that all long-term relationships present. I don't have the answers, none at all. But I imagine the experience of divorce, separating, consciously uncoupling, just like slogging through the wicked bad times to get to the other side is a personal choice. One we can only hope to live privately with some level of dignity, respect, and compassion.
Long ago when I was still searching for love and was completely unable to believe that it would ever happen for me, I would go on dates, meet men through friends or even just walking on the street and after many dates, I would talk to a friend who'd remind me when another "date" failed to make an impression, another connection failed, that "this person was someone else's, had another journey to make." I took comfort in that. Found solace in other destinies, possibilities. Maybe in conscious uncoupling, letting go with gratitude and kindness, walking a new path will be less littered with hurt, pain, and fear. Maybe. I hope so.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
