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.
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