tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40481400209777432592024-03-08T10:15:03.340-08:00Always MusingA frustrated writer muses about her life and her family history, and what happened to her dreams.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-3741447155086875172013-04-15T13:27:00.003-07:002013-04-15T14:51:42.525-07:00Walking on the Wing of a Whim<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My neighborhood
looked like a ghost town.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As far as I could
see down the block, the driveways were empty of cars. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had already been walking about a half a
mile, but hadn't seen a single soul. It was Monday morning and everyone had
scampered off to their jobs and commitments, leaving the neighborhood in
peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to be one
of those people, I thought to myself, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as
I walked, noticing a tree blooming with pink blossoms. A beautiful tree filled with tiny little pink slips. I could see how beautiful pink slips could be.<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was only 10 days ago that I, too, was
fighting my way through the urban jungle to earn a living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But all of that had suddenly stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had gotten the proverbial pink slip.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned onto my
favorite path through the park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I
was safe to close my eyes, and walk as if blind as long as I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without sight, the sounds of the morning
formed a necklace of tweets and chirps and roars, like different colored
jewels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a huge breath of cool
air, and tried to distinguish all of the different bird sounds I could identify.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard a distant roar of a jet plane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lone bark of a dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was almost in a trance-like state, and
forgot I was even walking.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Good
Morning!" came a new sound which startled me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened my eyes to see a short Asian woman,
dressed in white sneakers and a wide brimmed hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had chubby cheeks and was sporting a wide
grin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I hope you enjoy your walk
today!" she said, as if we'd been friends all of our lives. I muttered a
cheery retort, noticing specifically that I was smiling wider than I had in a
long time.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Calmness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It all seemed unfamiliar.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
I decided to walk with my eyes open for awhile, and soon I encountered an elderly gentleman walking his dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was surprised when he, too, spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Beautiful morning, isn't it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear the wind will be coming back today
though," he said to me smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
spoke with such informality, I expected him to call me by name.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Yes, I
heard that too," I heard myself say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It felt odd to be speaking to a perfect stranger on a Monday
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even stranger was the
happiness I encountered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world seemed
at peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was oxygen to
breathe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was space into between
the sounds, like the rests between the notes of a concerto.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It struck me
how different these encounters were than those I came across when I still had a
job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daily commute felt more like
going to war; I left the house with a stern stare, prepared to enter into
battle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pervasive feeling on those
stretches of concrete for me was eat or be eaten, kill or be killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The semi-trucks surrounding me towered like
buildings in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Manhattan; they blocked the sky. But worse, they'd</st1:city></st1:place>
purposely push me off the road when changing lanes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sweat shop of angry people, not letting you in, not letting you
pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loud honks of frustration; cars
battling for a slice of highway, just to be allowed to go where they needed to
go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Merry
Christmas, bitch," the words spoken to me by an angry driver four months
ago, flashed in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
struggling to get into the proper lane to get on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
which often seemed impossible until it was accomplished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted me to let her in, but she couldn't
see that on the other side of me, a car had angled perpendicularly in front of
me, and I couldn't move. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"You'll
get your Karma one day, bitch," she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"Happy HAPPY holidays."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rolled up
my window to block out her continued diatribe, which stung.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn't that person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a giving loving sort, who tried to live
my life with kindness and generosity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wasn't designed for this daily war zone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just wanted to go home.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I
want to go home," I heard myself say out loud in the quiet empty park as I continued my
walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it wasn't the first time I'd
uttered that exact phrase out loud.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many years
ago, I had developed a verbal tick; a sort of tourette, where I would
unconsciously speak those words out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"I want to go home."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never really
knew precisely where this disorder had come from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I thought I'd normally say it in moments
of anxiety or sadness; or when an unpleasant thought crossed my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when I entered my 20's and 30's, I began
to say it louder and louder and with more frequency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a joke among all of my friends and
family who knew me well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I yelled it
out at home, they'd yell back, "You are home," with peels of
laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found myself saying it
loudly in movie theaters when the plot took an objectionable twist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then once I said it so loudly in a clothing
store, because I couldn't find a blouse to fit me right, that I thought I
should see a psychiatrist.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After weeks on
the couch, as it were, the shrink determined it was a death-wish, in some
senses, but it was also a desire to return to the womb, where it was safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She worked with me not on eradicating the
annoying habit, but rather to help me get it under control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn't help me stop saying it, but rather
to stop saying it so loudly, and she taught me how to halt it, on
occasion, mid-phrase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've been better
ever since, but there's never been a day my entire adult life, I don't think,
where I haven't said it at least once.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironically,
it was this bad habit that in part caused me to lose my job.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my two
bosses called me into the conference room at 3:00 o'clock on that last day, I
had noticed that the entire office had been cleared of my co-workers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was then that I knew. I was about to get
laid off.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when my
bosses began spouting off the reasons they came to this decision, they told me that they had walked by my office on several occasions, and heard me say,
"I want to go home."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"We kept
overhearing you say you wanted to go home," they told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"It's obvious to us that you don't want to be here
anymore."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while this
was in part true, I burst out laughing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even in the
midst of this horrible moment, and getting fired or laid off is a horrible
moment, their reasoning filled me with mirth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I explained to them that this was a verbal tick that I had had most of
my life, and I couldn't help it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
fact, most of the time I didn't even realize I was saying it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Well,
you can understand why we might misinterpret that, can't you?" they told
me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to
further explain just how silly they were to base their opinions of me on that,
but I could see the writing on the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dye had been cast, the decision had been made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My severance check was on the table.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no
desire to argue with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no
desire to defend myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to
begin the unceremonious ritual of cleaning out my desk and packing my
belongings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted the final walk of
shame to my car, trying to hold my head high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But most importantly, I wanted to go home.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I sped
away, attacking that bridge on-ramp for the last time, my head was filled with
a myriad of emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shock, outrage,
fear, and humiliation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hit with
financial concerns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The apprehension
about what was to come next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
realized I wasn't crying.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My bosses were like Goodfellas, or Wise
Guys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They knew how to skirt the
system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to steal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to get work done for free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything was everyone else's fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They took no responsibility for anything.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"The
porta potties need to be cleaned at the job site,"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told my boss one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"They're beginning to stink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The neighbors are complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have to pay them something so they'll come
out and clean them."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Tell
them to go fuck themselves," was his response.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"But your
employees have nowhere to use the bathroom," I argued.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Tell
them to use a bush."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversations
like this, and many others whirled through my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought of the daily barrage of phone calls
I received every day; people crying that we needed to pay them, people
screaming at me, people threatening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"There's nothing I can do," I'd say softly, trying to keep a
wall around my sanity. I needed to create my own boundaries to keep myself safe.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Thanks
a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell your bosses they're
assholes. And you're an asshole too."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought of
how often I was called names out there in the world of work. How I had tuned out being abused on a daily basis.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> That last day, m</span>y car
careened down the freeway toward home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My job was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My paycheck was
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even as I experienced a heap
of nasty emotions, I also felt an undeniable bliss in the deepest part of my
gut. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would no longer be called a
bitch every day, when I was anything but.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I would no longer have to aid people in stealing from hard working
folks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would no longer have to sell my
soul to make someone else rich.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flew through the horrendous commute traffic
as if I had wings for the first time; as if my car was flying overhead, looking
down upon their madness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was free of
that freeway; I had been liberated from the ugly humanity cursing in their
vehicles, honking and shouting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was no
longer one of the rats scrambling through a maze, or a hamster spinning
needlessly on their wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was free!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My car was traveling high in the clouds,
keeping pace with the birds, soaring without boundaries.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I don't have to go back!" I screamed out with glee.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have always
had a difficult time expressing to others how much I detest working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people see it as a sign of laziness, and
society views it as wicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea that
the poor should have leisure has always seemed shocking to most people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past, fifteen hours was the ordinary
day's work for a man, and twelve hours per day was the norm for children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those days, if people voiced their opinion
that perhaps the hours were too long, they were told that work kept adults from
drink and children from mischief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
culture has long taught us that we should consider it a privilege to be allowed
to exist only to work.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I would
voice my obvious hatred for what I perceived as wasting my life and going somewhere to be yelled
at, ridiculed and treated disrespectfully, I was told, "You should be
grateful you have a job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many people
would feel lucky to have what you have."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Yes, of
course I'm grateful," I would dutifully answer back, but I never really
felt I was telling the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought
instead that I should be grateful, and wondered why I was the only one who
really wasn't.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"What
would you do if you didn't work?" I would be asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the question which always amused me
the most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind would fill with joyful
images of travel. Of long walks in the sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mornings celebrating my true passion of writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afternoons of cooking, and creating healthy
culinary masterpieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evenings of
singing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afternoons of
just being. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Space to hear
the rests between the notes.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time to close my eyes and listen to bird
noises, and to greet strangers with a cheery hello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To embrace life.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was deep in thought, thinking of how I'd lost my job, and all that I had left behind. When I looked up,
I found myself standing in front of my house.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had walked
for miles and miles, but I was hardly aware of having done it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I had a
job, I walked every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A desk job and
a long commute is a sedentary lifestyle, and I did everything I could to
counter attack it swallowing me into ill health.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During my
lunch time walks, I was often plagued with horrible sciatica, a pain that
extended from my lower waist, down my right leg, and all the way into my
toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while I wanted to enjoy my
walk, I sometimes could not, because each step was painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had long wondered if it was caused by
commuting, by my right leg being poised for hours a day between the gas and
brake pedals.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized I
hadn't felt that pain for 10 days, since I had lost my job.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized
that my walk had felt more like flying than exertion.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
cleaning off the dust that had covered my soul and was seeing a fresh and shiny
being underneath.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was 53 and
unemployed once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I had wanted to go home, and now I was home.</span><br />
I smiled, then turned the page
and began the next chapter.</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-91093472976408357202011-11-04T16:45:00.000-07:002011-11-04T16:45:24.939-07:00My Mother Has AlzheimersMy mother has Alzheimer's.<br />
<br />
<br />
I know. Isn't that terribly sad. So painful for the family. What a horrible disease. Blah, blah, blah.<br />
<br />
As a child, I was terrified that my mother would die. I worried about it daily. Now, most days I wish she would die. She was always very proper; she would find her current state most undignified.<br />
<br />
But, yes. It is sad. My mother was bright--very bright--I even considered her an intellectual. She was a voracious reader, and nothing delighted her more than a rollicking debate on religion, politics, or whatever.<br />
<br />
Now she's been reduced to a child-like state. I see her sitting at the kitchen table; she is adamant about having her pen and paper; and she scribbles notes all day long--being very careful with her penmanship, much like a five year old--and writes tiny notes about who she loves, and who she misses.<br />
<br />
I guess that's what it really comes down to in the end, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
Whom you love, and whom you miss.<br />
<br />
I miss her.<br />
<br />
Her capacity to love me hasn't changed a whit. And it fascinates me to see what else hasn't changed. Her humor is unchanged. She both makes jokes and understands them. I always thought humor was connected to your intellectual capabilities, but I no longer think so.<br />
<br />
What has happened is, she's been reduced to her true essence. She's been boiled down to who she really was all along.<br />
<br />
After spending time with her, I notice how people spend a lot of time hiding their true essence. They put forth a facade to the world; and for some reason struggle to cover up who they really are; their true essence; and their tender underbelly.<br />
<br />
My mother now is sweet, polite, and funny. She was always that.<br />
<br />
But she's also plagued by constant fear and anxiety.<br />
<br />
She was always that too. <br />
<br />
She just did a damn good job of covering it up.<br />
<br />
My mother took a lot of valium. That helped calm her anxiety. She never really dealt with the cause of her anxiety and fear. She never just took it out, put it under a bright light, and faced it.<br />
<br />
Instead, she spent her energy trying to forget. Trying to forget the past that hurt her. She tried to bury it. She kept shoveling the dirt of obscurity on top of her spirit.<br />
<br />
Maybe she finally succeeded.<br />
<br />
They say, "Be careful of what you wish for."<br />
<br />
A fairy godmother came down, and granted my mother her one wish. "Help me forget what hurts me," she whispered. And her wish was granted.<br />
<br />
If only forgetting finally brought her peace.<br />
<br />
It didn't.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-22067603438092242552011-04-04T14:34:00.000-07:002011-04-04T14:34:11.886-07:00The Long Good-Bye-My mother's eulogyWhen I was a little girl, I was consumed by fear that my mother would die.<br />
<br />
<br />
At the time, she worked for Bank of America in Pacifica, and she would travel each day over Devil's slide from our home in Moss Beach and back again. The windy bit of road, with its sheer cliffs on each side terrified me, and I was convinced that a mere gust of wind might blow my mother's small V.W. bug off the road and plunge her into the sea. I would wait for her each night, my face pressed to my bedroom window, almost holding my breath until I saw her car turn into the driveway. On nights that she was inexplicably delayed, I would be in tears by the time she arrived, and I would run out to greet her, crying and wrapping my arms around her waist. She would collect me in her arms and laugh in that comforting way she had, and would remind me that cars don't just blow off the road. "Don't be silly, my car will not fall into the sea. You needn't worry anymore, okay? I love you."<br />
<br />
I was always terrified about losing my mother. I thought it might happen in an instant, and I would never have the chance to hold her again. But as it turned out, losing my Mom took an agonizingly long time.<br />
<br />
They call Alzheimer's "The Long Good-bye" for a reason. Because I've been grieving my mother's death for a good ten years, ever since she was diagnosed with a disease that terrified her. From the first day she told me-- when she and Dad called me at work to deliver the devastating news-- I went outside and sobbed uncontrollably. They may have well have told me she had died; it felt no different. To me, at least, a part of her died that day. But what I couldn't quite grasp is that I'd be experiencing her slow death for the next decade.<br />
<br />
Each month, each day robbed me of my mother; and piece by piece I would watch her deteriorate; I would watch her die. <br />
<br />
I had always known that my mother was brilliant. Not only was she a linguist, who could speak several languages fluently and effortlessly, she had a grand command of the English language as well. She had a wickedly good vocabulary, and there was no one I trusted more than her to read my writing, to grasp and edit my work, and through her gentle teachings, open my mind more and more to a language that I loved.<br />
<br />
Like me, she loved words. She loved crossword puzzles. She loved scrabble. She loved chimpanzees that talked. She loved languages. She loved vocabulary. But what she really enjoyed the most was intellectual discourse. Nothing pleased my mother more than a good debate with the family; her favorite subject being the existence--or non-existence of a God. A staunch atheist, she would only accept science as a way of explanation for life and the Universe. She had no use for such fantasies as a supreme being, heaven or hell, or an after life of any kind. If I close my eyes, I can see her in her favorite chair; legs crossed underneath her like a woman a third of her age; a cold martini clasped in one hand and a cigarette held tightly in the other. Soon enough we'd all be embroiled in a rather lively discussion about the meaning of life; debates so heated that new friends would find themselves alarmed; they would fear they were witnessing a family squabble. But in reality, it was a way that our family loved each other. "We are a clover passionate lot"--that was what my mother would say. <br />
<br />
I never saw Mom happier than during cocktail hour with the family, with a good rousing discussion about the meaning of life. "Is the sun over the yard arm yet?" she'd say excitedly when 5 o'clock approached. Mom was always counting the minutes to cocktail hour. Eventually Mom and Dad set an alarm that would go off at 5 o'clock to warn them that it was time. "How about a nice cold martini?" Mom would ask me, as if it were the very first time she ever had. But each time she would wait for my excited response. "Oh yes, a martini sounds perfect," I would reply. And Mom's eyes would light up as if it were Christmas morning.<br />
<br />
When Alzheimer's started stealing my mother from me, what pained me the most was watching her lose that great intellect of hers. When I first received emails from her with misspelled words and grammatical errors, the pain was almost too much to bear. Mom was a great linguist; but I'll never forget the day she asked me to teach her French --a again-- using the Rosetta Stone software on her computer. To see her struggle with a foreign tongue she had all but mastered, would greatly depress me. Mom was a life long banker and mathematician; but I remember the day when I realized she could no longer balance her checkbook. Mom was a voracious reader; but there came a day when I found her pretending to read a book upside down and I knew she could no longer read. <br />
<br />
She was regressing--she was turning back the hands of time--she was becoming a child.<br />
<br />
Some days her slow decline was so painful, that I wanted to avoid her company. Her constant questions and anxiety unnerved me, and I would find myself growing impatient with her. But other days I couldn't get to her fast enough; I needed to feel her kiss on my cheek; I needed to have that moment of clarity or lucidity that was evaporating before my very eyes. There was no time to waste. If I waited two months to see her, her decline would be evident. I had to catch every moment that I could. But those moments often left me dissatisfied and depressed.<br />
<br />
For a long time, I never believed that I would find any peace with my mother's disease. But the biggest gift in all of this, is that I did. While her brain seemingly began to deteriorate into ash, I discovered that her soul was still very much there, unharmed, untainted, exactly the way her soul had always been there.<br />
<br />
I can hear my mom arguing with me now, pointing out that there is no such thing as a soul; that life is nothing but a series of brain synapses firing. But I witnessed her soul first hand, and even in her final day, her soul was the way I had always remembered it. Though she spoke nonsensically, she had the same lyrical voice and particular way of phrasing. Her humor was intact, she knew when we were joking with her and would laugh right on cue. Her love of music remained the same; I can hear her singing along with Peter's guitar as he played her Beatle songs at the rest home. Her love of her family remained constant; on my last visit with her she knew us all, and still referred to me as "My Cathy." Her soul was the same. Her huge heart and capacity for love, her gentle loving spirit. All the same. That hadn't changed a whit. It was still Mom. <br />
<br />
But what was gone, and what I was grateful for, were her fears, her anxieties, her constant nagging worry, and the grief she wore like a glove; a grief that she never seemed to heal; anger that she never could let go of from experiences in her life and choices that she had made. All of my life, I have known that Mom could never forgive herself or others who contributed to the worst period of her life. But as her disease progressed, that was all gone. Suddenly she was lighter; she was freer than she'd ever been. I learned to love her in a new way. She was still alive. She was still there. She was still my Mom.<br />
<br />
So when I learned of her death on Monday, it still came as an utter shock. I was once again that little girl with her nose pressed against the window, not wanting her mother to die. I sobbed from a place that I had long buried, and I realized, finally, that I was at last able to grieve. I couldn't give myself permission to grieve her when she was alive, so I disconnected. But finally I could. And ten years of anguish bubbled up inside of me. I missed my mother. I wanted her back.<br />
<br />
I love my mother with all of my heart, and today I remember all the things that made Mom, mom.<br />
<br />
How as children, she made Chris and I the sweetest little breakfasts every day. A fruit course would be served first, along with some orange juice and a vitamin pill. Then a second course would be served. Even if it was only toast, she'd make it cute, with little individual pots containing such things as butter, cream cheese, or jam.<br />
<br />
She was the kind of Mom that would type your papers, darn your socks, iron your blouses, sew outfits for your teddy-bear, embroider flowers on your wedding dress, and tell you that everything was going to be okay, when you were in the bottom of despair. "Something so so bad has happened," I'd tell her. She'd stroke my hair gently, and say, "Tell me what happened, so I can fix it." And fix it she would.<br />
<br />
I still love the time I got kicked out of the Brownies, and she was so angry that she called up the Troop Leader and demanded to know what had happened. When the meek troupe leader told her I had used unsavory language, my mother began a litany of guesses. "Did she say SHIT? DID SHE SAY FUCK?" The poor troupe leader, all a'tizzy whispered, "No, she took the lord's name in vain." My mother laughed. "OH GOD," she yelled, duplicating the words that had gotten me thrown out. It goes without saying that she got me reinstated in the Brownies, although I never went back. And when I was fired from a job for not working on a holiday, she called my boss and got my job back for me as well. I only needed to tell her what troubled me, and she would fix it. I think people saw her as meek, but when it came to her children, she was a fierce lioness intent on protecting us.<br />
<br />
Mom never lost her English accent, although she thought she had. But she remained a true blue Brit her entire life. She was proud of the fact that she had never become an American citizen, although I think she was jealous when we would discuss voting issues and Presidential races. You could take Mom out of England, but England never left her; from her roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, to her sausage rolls and English trifle. And to me, what made Mom, Mom, like a black and white photograph, were her stories of World War II in London, and how living through that experience shaped her, including her strong dislike for English tea and margarine.<br />
<br />
The other time of her life that most shaped her, is when she was in the Linguist Club. Whenever she'd talk about it, her eyes would light up, and she'd often say it was one of the happiest times of her life. On one visit to Hopland, I learned part of the reason she was so happy. She showed Chris and I a scrapbook of sorts that she kept during that time, which had been signed by members of the club. My sister and I laughed when we read the entries from the men; many were apparently quite smitten with her, and one professed his love. Mom had never considered herself very attractive, even though that wasn't true. But still, I'm glad that for a time she was the Belle of the Ball. She deserved that.<br />
<br />
Mom loved to cook and she loved to entertain. How can any of us forget her other signature dishes. Her curry with the endless tiny bowls of toppings. Her Paella. her Coq Au Vin. Her brussel sprouts with chestnuts at Thanksgiving. Her strawberry pie at Easter. How she lovingly prepared everything ahead of time, so she could spend time with her guests. There are many things my siblings and I learned from Mom and Dad, but how to throw a party was certainly one of them.<br />
<br />
Her favorite song in the world was the Rolling Stones, "I can't get no satisfaction." That is the song that she chose to walk down the aisle to when she married Ray, and she enjoyed nothing more than when we would blast the Stones, Janis Joplin, Jacque Brel, Dr. Hook or one of her favorites. Sometimes I'd go wild, singing at the top of my lungs, expressing myself with a fiery passion, and she would watch me with a big smile on her face. "I wish I could be like that," she often told me. "I wish I could be more like you. I like you."<br />
<br />
And I liked her.<br />
<br />
Of all the memories that have been flooding my head this week, it's funny the one that has been coming back most often. It was one day when Chris and I were talking to Mom as she was getting dressed. She thought she was putting her sweatshirt over her head, but instead she tried to put her pants over her head. With one arm in each of the legs, she tried to push her head through the neck hole which didn't exist. In short time, Chris and I both fell on the floor howling in hysterics, and when Mom realized that it was pants she was trying to get over her head, she rolled onto her back, pants still over her head, howling with laughter. The three of us laughed until our stomachs hurt.<br />
<br />
I liked my mother. Because beneath that English demeanor, she did have a fire. She did have a great passion. She was an artist, creating her ceramics and all the daemons and angels and creatures that she created. She was that mother lion. She was Artist. She was Sculptor. Banker. Linguist. Cook. Entertainer. Intellectual. She was all of those things.<br />
<br />
But mostly what I saw was a woman that took care of me, and took care of everyone that she loved. A woman that was so self sacrificing it was to her own detriment at times. A mother, a grandmother and a wife who let us know--every single day-- how fiercely she loved us.<br />
<br />
And today I want to say how fiercely I loved her. She is at last at peace. She has her dignity back. She is now preserved perfectly in our memories and hearts. She lives on in me, and she lives on in her family. We are a part of her. We came from her. And she will always be a part of us.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-74587604436435558142010-09-04T14:17:00.000-07:002010-09-04T17:08:53.108-07:00Grandmother's suicide (said the spider to the fly.)I never thought my grandmother was the type of person who would kill herself. She was too self-absorbed, too spirited, and much too selfish to take herself willingly out of the game. Or at least that’s what I thought.<br />
<br />
I had always seen my grandmother as someone who was both cunning and artistic; not unlike a spider. I do know that she spent a lifetime spinning a web that while beautiful, had a soul purpose of trapping prey. But I didn’t know how many fell victim to her silky ambush until I was much older.<br />
<br />
As a child, I considered her a larger than life sort of character. She wasn’t like my friend’s grandmothers; there was no grey bun or dowdy clothes. In fact, we couldn’t even call her grandmother; we had to call her “Gogo” which was originally my sister’s attempt at saying her first name Dorothy. <br />
<br />
My grandmother considered herself quite fetching, and loved to dress the part. She was a Cracker Jack seamstress, certainly the best I’ve ever seen. Not only did she make all of her own dresses, but mine and my siblings as well. She rarely needed a pattern. She would lay the fabric on the floor, and like a mad artist clutching a pair of scissors, she would quickly snip out the sections she would need for her creation, take them to her sewing machine, and hours later would present the most beautiful creations. Perfect tailored suits for the boys, custom fitted dresses for the girls. She herself always looked stunning. She preferred tight dresses, sometimes backless. With a perfect hat and gloves to match, and her rather tallish frame, she would make quite an entrance into any room. She thought her long slender legs were her most valuable asset, and she loved to hike up her dresses as high as possible whenever she had the chance, and would revel in the attention she received for her striking gams. <br />
<br />
When I got older, she’d make regular shopping trips to Europe and would buy clothes for me. She’d bring me back the tightest pants and skimpiest of halter tops to wear. “Show it off, Duckie,” she’d tell me. “Show the world just how fetching you are. Be a heartbreaker.”<br />
<br />
My grandmother came from England. With her thick cockney accent, and the gift of story-telling, I could listen to her for hours. Some days, she might regale me with tales about World War II in England. “Yes, there were strict rations. But I bought me butter and me eggs from the black market. I wasn’t having any of that nonsense. I had a husband I wanted to keep happy.” <br />
<br />
Other days, she’d tell me about the poltergeists she believed lived amongst us. “Don’t be frightened,” she’d tell me when something mysterious and peculiar would happen, which was a regular occurrence whenever I was with her. Things would disappear and reappear; cigarettes would go out cold, and once her dress flew up. “They’re just having a bit of fun with you. Be grateful that their existence proves that there’s a world beyond the one we know.”<br />
<br />
She also believed in ghosts. Deceased members of her family would often visit her, even more so as she grew old. “Duckie, come quick,” she’d yell at me as I lay asleep in bed. “Look at this imprint on the bed. My brother was just sitting here, real as life he was. He was welcoming me to the other side. I couldn’t make up that imprint, now could I? Do you see it? Feel it, it’s still warm.”<br />
<br />
One day she told me about a flying saucer that flew right over head. “Big as life it was, Duckie. As real as you standing there. It was a total eclipse of the sun. I could smell it.”<br />
<br />
My grandmother was on a steady diet of methamphetamines. Although the medication was prescription, we all knew that what she was taking was speed. “Oooh, I love my tablets, Duckie. I get so depressed sometimes, you know. So sad. And all I need do is take one of my tablets and the world is right again.” When she took her tablets, she was full of piss and vinegar, and had boundless energy. She would do hours and hours of yoga, an activity few people had ever heard of back then. She would play the piano and sing. She would paint landscapes and flirt with young men.<br />
<br />
When I was younger, she would usually make me a cup of English tea to sip while she told me her stories. When she put the kettle on the stove, I knew she was in the mood to talk. “You must SHOCK the tea bag,” she’d tell me as she’d pour the boiling water into the cup. “Otherwise the tea will be just dreadful.” But when I got a little older, her choice of beverage changed. “Vodka Orange?” she’d ask me, when I was only 15. I would never say no. “Let’s have ourselves a chat then, shall we?” she’d say as she poured me my drink over the rocks.<br />
<br />
Over cocktails, she’d often talk to me about sex. “I believe in enjoying sex to the fullest,” she’d tell me, almost getting teary-eyed just thinking about it. She was always very dramatic. “Me Grand Mum couldn’t enjoy sex at all. Her and my grandfather’s sleeping costumes had holes cut into each of them, in the strategic place, so they could have relations without touching or seeing each other, do you understand?” she’d ask me and I’d nod. “And it wasn’t just me Grand Mum. Me own Mum thought it a rather dirty activity herself. When I was going through puberty, she talked to me about sex, told me how disgusting it was. She advised me just to lie there and think of the Queen,” Gogo told me. “But I wasn’t going to have any of that nonsense. I enjoy the passion, do you understand Duckie?”<br />
<br />
My grandmother left her husband, my mother’s father, when my mother was only a little girl. They met in the 1920’s when my grandmother played piano in a tavern, and he was hired to sing. “He was a lovely man,” she’d tell me, “but he was too proper English for my taste. I have always been a bit daring, if you understand,” she’d say with a lift of her eyebrows. But she didn’t just leave him, she left him for another man. “But when I first laid eyes on Spishek, oh Duckie, I could have fainted dead on the spot. He was so dashing; he nearly took my breath away.”<br />
<br />
My grandmother met Spishek, a Polish air force pilot, during World War 11. A good 22 years her junior, she immediately lied about her own age when she met him. She went so far as to lie about my mother to him as well; she didn’t want him to know she was old enough to have a daughter my mother’s age. Whenever Spishek was around, she forced my mother to say that they were cousins. She would do anything to have him; she would do anything to keep him. She would tell any lie as long as it supported the fantasy she was trying to create.<br />
<br />
Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. The spider was dropping down her web at an alarming speed. The silk was unraveling out of her abdomen faster than I could imagine. But my grandmother’s silk was so sticky, that Spishek never had a chance. <br />
<br />
In their wedding photo, you can hardly tell the difference in their ages. My grandmother stands tall, wearing a slim-fitting dark dress; I have always wondered what color it was. Although the picture is black and white, I have always imagined that the dress was red. Wearing red on her wedding day would be something my grandmother would do.<br />
The dress hugs her figure tightly until just below the knee than flounces in a frilly skirt at the bottom. Her legs are still visible in very high heels. She has an explosion of white flowers which dance over her left breast, and atop her curly hair she wears a wide brim hat, with a jungle of white flowers around the lip. Her painted mouth is smiling widely, and her expression is just like a spider that snagged an unsuspecting fly into her web.<br />
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;<br />
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy.<br />
<br />
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,<br />
<br />
And I have many curious things <br />
<br />
to show when you are there."<br />
<br />
But Spishek looks a tad more innocent in the photograph. He has a dazed expression on his face, and he is looking off camera somewhere, as if he’s thinking, “What have I done?” He wears a loose fitting suit with a white flower and a white kerchief peaking from the breast pocket. He holds the fingers of my grandmother’s arm with his left hand, which she has tucked underneath his right arm.<br />
<br />
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain,<br />
<br />
For who goes up your winding stair <br />
<br />
can ne'er come down again."<br />
We called Spishek “Beba”, and to me, he was my grandfather. To the children in the house, we thought Gogo and Beba looked like Ricky and Lucy Ricardo from the “I love Lucy” show. Gogo, like Lucy, had the same curly hair-do, and they seemed to dress in similar styles, with the most dramatic of hats. And Beba, with his thick accent and handsome swarthy looks, could be a dead ringer for Ricky.<br />
<br />
In front of the children, my grandparents were just like Lucy and Ricky, affable, tender and funny. But their marriage more resembled that of Lucy and Desi Arnez; it was passionate, volatile, and explosive. I could never understand what the dark cloud was that seemed to follow them around. But that is because I didn’t know the truth. That they had put a burden on their marriage that few couples could withstand; they shared a secret. But more importantly, they shared a lie.<br />
<br />
My grandmother had coerced my mother into giving her a child.<br />
<br />
My grandmother would have done anything for her young husband. He eventually forgave her for lying about her age, but he never gave up on the idea of having children. My grandmother, in her 40’s, tried and tried to conceive, but she never could get pregnant. She feared her young husband would leave her, and find a younger woman who could bare his children.<br />
<br />
She was desperate. She asked my Mom for her only child, her daughter, Chris. My older sister.<br />
<br />
“You can have loads more children,” my grandmother told my mother, trying to convince her. “Just give me Christine. Spishek and I cannot conceive and he wants children so badly. Please.”<br />
<br />
My mother refused. My grandmother begged. She fainted. She pleaded. My mother would not relent. <br />
<br />
“Then have another one for me, Duckie. Have a child and I’ll raise him. We’ll never tell a soul. The child will be known as mine and Spishek’s. Please.”<br />
<br />
My grandmother eventually wore her down, and my mother became a surrogate for her own mother. And the day she gave birth to my brother George, she immediately relinquished him. My mother never even held him. The doctor handed over her first born son directly into her own mother’s arms. My father had not wanted this surrogacy, and even as my mother was in labor begged her not to give their son away. He left my mother after that; he couldn’t live with the lies. But he didn’t leave until he impregnated my mother with me. Then he was gone for good.<br />
<br />
I was told my brother was my Uncle, and he was told his Mother was his sister. We all lived in one big house where they had to be reminded of their deceit every single day. From that day on, our family home, became a house of cards. Our foundation was no more solid than a floor of Jack’s, Queens and Aces. Our family was based on a falsehood, and thus everything that went on in our home was a sham.<br />
<br />
We were in a web of lies. And in the center of that magnificent web, was a spider. A black widow. <br />
<br />
My grandmother.<br />
<br />
She had spun a silken masterpiece, a symmetrical tour de force, with threads that were nearly transparent, save for their sliminess, which glistened in the morning sun. Which gland had my grandmother used this time? Was she merely spinning thread to make a safety line, or was she making sticky silk for trapping prey. Or today might she be producing the finest of her threads to completely wrap and envelop the fly?<br />
I’m still trying to understand the web that she wove over time. She created netting so complicated and coarse, that she was ultimately trapped in her own trap, and she became her own prey. She was strangled by the complex maze of threads that she herself created. She had become the fly.<br />
<br />
It was truth which was the real super hero in this story. At first, the truth only barely seeped out; it was a trickle, if that. But soon thereafter the trickle became a flow, and that flow grew in strength and magnitude, and it became a river, which overtook the banks of our reality. The truth has a way of doing that. You can suppress it for a time, but it has a strange way of wriggling out; it is a little like a Houdini. And this truth was eventually set free, and one by one we learned the facts about who my brother really was.<br />
<br />
Eventually, we all knew. But we didn’t let onto my grandmother that we knew. We grew up in a house of lies, so it was easy for us to protect her delusions for a time. Besides, my mother begged us not to let her know that we had learned the truth.<br />
<br />
My brother was still living alone with her, that winter that she died. He came home one day from college to find her sobbing. “Mum, what’s wrong?” he asked her, scrambling to his knees and grabbing both her hands in his. But he knew what was wrong. He had known what was wrong ever since he learned himself about the truth of his identity. He knew that she cried nearly every single day because of the secret she held inside; because of the lifetime of lies. <br />
<br />
It was the same pain I had seen in my mother’s eyes my entire life.<br />
<br />
It was that day that the final bits of truth at last came out. Spontaneously, my brother confessed that he knew. “Mummy, I know. I know. I know the truth. And I love you.”<br />
My grandmother’s tears stopped and her gray eyes glanced upwards to his face. A look of recognition took over her expression. Perhaps there was just a flicker of relief, as if she’d been unburdened at last. But soon her face expressed a look of horror and shame.<br />
The next day, Gogo called my mother. “I won’t be making the English Trifle for Christmas this year, Duckie,” she told my mother. “Be a good girl, won’t you, and make it this year? Your trifle is every bit as good as mine; why I taught you of course. Be a dear?”<br />
<br />
The next day she called me. “Don’t buy me a Christmas present this year, Duckie,” she told me, her voice sounding weak. She was only 74.<br />
<br />
“What do you mean?” I cried. “I already bought you one thing, and it’s wrapped and under my tree.” I had bought her a book about Princess Di’s wedding, which had only just happened.<br />
<br />
“No ducks, take it back if you could. I won’t need any presents this year. Tell your sister too.”<br />
<br />
The next day, my brother came home to find her about to swallow a mountain of pills. She had dozens and dozen spilled into her lap, and she was staring down at them. She had always liked her tablets, here and there, but her doctors had long cut her off. And to make matters worse, she had just gotten out of the hospital from a bad case if pneumonia. They had put her on steroids, and she was forbidden to have any other medication whatsoever. “Mum,” George yelled, grabbing her arm. “What the hell are you doing? You’re not supposed to be taking any pills! Are you trying to kill yourself?” My brother took her pills away from her and she burst into tears. It was too late. Her fantasy had all fallen apart. Spishek was gone. Her shame was plastered onto each of our faces. “You promise me you won’t take any more pills?” my brother said, scolding her. She nodded as if to promise that she wouldn’t. But the next day, she would swallow as many pills as she could.<br />
<br />
I was driving alone that day in my white mustang, speeding down the coast highway toward Half Moon Bay. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, my hood came loose and flew up with a terrifying jolt, and blocked my vision. I skidded to the side of the road, shaken, but relieved that I was able to stop safely.<br />
<br />
But then I realized my heart was thumping for a different reason. I knew. I just knew. I knew the hood and my grandmother were connected. For some inexplicable reason I knew that the hood flying up was my grandmother, saying good-bye.<br />
<br />
I raced home. By the time I reached my front door I was sobbing myself. I spotted her wrapped gift under the Christmas tree as I reached for the phone. I called her apartment over and over and over, but there was no answer. At this point, Gogo rarely left the house. I became frantic. <br />
<br />
At last someone picked up. It was her next door neighbor. And when I identified myself, she promptly hung up on me.<br />
<br />
It took several tries before the woman would talk to me. She was breathless and teary, and explained how she’d seen my grandmother through the window, lying motionless on the floor. Neither loud knocks nor frenzied screams seemed to rouse my grandmother, and eventually the neighbor broke the window and crawled in to help. She thought she had felt a pulse and had called paramedics. “They’re here now,” she told me. “They’re trying to resuscitate her right now,” she said, as she hung up on me for the fifth time. <br />
<br />
I knew my grandmother was dead. She died when my hood flew up.<br />
<br />
I never thought my grandmother was the type of person to take her own life. I thought her too self-absorbed, too spirited, and too selfish to take herself willingly out of the game. But everything she had worked so hard to create, was gone. Even the illusions.<br />
<br />
My grandmother was a spider caught in its own web; she was nothing but a corpse enveloped by yards of her own slimy textile. She had become tangled in her own web of lies. <br />
<br />
I learned that day that lies can kill us.<br />
<br />
An itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout. Down came the lies and washed the spider out. Up came the sun and it dried up all the pain, and the itsy bitsy spider lives in our hearts again.<br />
___________________________________________________<br />
<span style="color: red;">I apologize for being gone so long...life can just get too busy sometimes. Please feel free to leave a comment below. Happy Labor Day Weekend!</span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-25682643410160682062010-05-16T12:48:00.000-07:002010-05-18T06:41:05.653-07:00James Brown and Me; Harlem, N.Y.The only white faces on the street belonged to me and my companions. All of the other faces were black. They smiled at us from behind their paintbrushes as they painted broad brightly colored murals on the storefronts. They leered at us as if we were a curiosity they had never really seen before. They nodded at us with shy respect as if they thought us brave to visit their neighborhood at all. But mostly they just smiled.<br />
<br />
The only other white faces were on tourist busses that rolled up and down the street, carrying drivers who described Harlem culture over loud speakers. The white faces peered out of the glass in long rows. Their eyes were both probing and inquisitive, yet they told of fear. It was as if they were on an African Safari, and wouldn’t dream of getting out of the vehicle to join the natives and wild animals in their habitat. They preferred the safety of something on wheels.<br />
<br />
I could only laugh. I had always wanted to go to Harlem. I had long imagined it like a brightly woven tapestry of culture. From the art, to the gospel, to the jazz, I had always been intrigued by this jewel of Manhattan. <br />
<br />
I was intrigued by the Apollo Theater which had featured jazz legends such as Billie Holiday, Miles Davis, and John Coltrane, as well as reputedly being a hangout for Malcolm X.<br />
<br />
I was intrigued by the restaurants, spilling out the smells of Soul Food into the gritty streets. I could imagine cooks boasting of hot ribs which fell right off the bone, and pork chops that induced finger licking. I heard the black eyed peas sizzling in bacon fat. I could smell the sweet potato pie, and the Rum and coconut cakes baking on every corner. <br />
<br />
I was intrigued by the churches. And I was intrigued by the art; the murals of their culture painted on every storefront. All of it spoke to me. And I wanted to go.<br />
<br />
My family didn’t think it a very good idea.<br />
<br />
I remember that when I expressed my desire to go to Harlem to my family, many of them discouraged me from going. I had been born into a family of left wing liberals, open minded and intellectual folk who fought against racism at every turn, and I could hardly believe my ears. “We’re just afraid for your safety,” they told us. “It’s a fact that Harlem is full of crime.” I believed they had succumbed to the fear mongers who exaggerated stories to create drama for their news shows. I was not deterred in the slightest.<br />
<br />
In fact, I made the pilgrimage to Harlem twice, and both trips were unforgettable journeys.<br />
<br />
I remember attending a gospel service at a downtown Baptist Church one Sunday. My companion and I were the only white faces in the church that Sunday morning, and as the Ladies arrived, I had never seen in my life such a dizzying array of costumes. They wore every color of the rainbow; one might be dressed head to toe in orange, with an enormous orange hat perched on their head and orange right down to their orange shoes. Another would be in lime green, and the third in purple. Each hat was more outrageous than the next; reminding me of Beach Blanket Babylon in San Francisco. I noticed there were very few men, only women and children. They preached hard about the black men abandoning their families. But mostly they just made music. The band made you want to jump out of your seat and dance in the aisles, which most of us did. And the singers raised the roof.<br />
<br />
I remember visiting the Apollo. I touched the walls as if to soak in the history. I remember buying street art from street vendors. I treasured that art for years to come. <br />
<br />
But the best moment of all was the night we went to the Cotton Club. <br />
<br />
The Cotton Club called me like no other place in Harlem. Even the name evoked romantic feelings inside of me, and I could almost taste the history when I said the name of the Club out loud. <br />
<br />
The Cotton Club.<br />
<br />
Since its inception in 1923, The Cotton Club has gained worldwide notoriety for booking the finest musical entertainment in the country. It has been home to numerous legendary greats, including Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, Ethel Waters and Lena Horne. I found that the thought of going was irresistible.<br />
<br />
But even the locals warned us we might not want to hang out in Harlem at night. “You’re fine during the day,” our new friends would tell us. “But after dark is another matter.”<br />
<br />
But it didn’t stop us. We were determined to go. And that night, we jumped in a cab and entered the Cotton Club just after eight o’ clock in the evening. It was already packed.<br />
<br />
A few eyebrows rose as we found our way to our table. It was apparent that the regular patrons were a little surprised to see a group of white folk enter their club, but mostly, all I remember were smiles. Smile after smile. A sea of smiles.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me,” I said to the cocktail waitress. “I hear it is not at all uncommon for some big names to wander in here on any given Saturday night.”<br />
<br />
She smiled big. “Well, you’re in for a treat. Rumor has it that James Brown and his entourage is coming in tonight.”<br />
<br />
We were all stunned. Our eyes got as wide as saucers. “THE James Brown?”<br />
<br />
She laughed. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they’re sayin’. I’ll keep you posted.”<br />
<br />
But she didn’t need to update us. When James Brown entered the Club, he would have been pretty hard to miss. His presence alone filled the room with energy. His black cape made a dramatic twist to his velvet suit.<br />
<br />
Standing beside him was the Reverend Al Sharpton. Beside the Reverend stood the X Mrs. Sharpton.<br />
Behind him stood a half a dozen body guards, all sporting black suits and sunglasses.<br />
<br />
Behind the guards we spotted the actress Clarice Taylor, who played Anna Huxtable, the grandmother on the Cosby Show.<br />
<br />
The cocktail waitresses fell all over this tribe of Greats, and ushered them to the very front row of the Club, directly in front of the stage. But they weren’t far from us, and I watched James Brown like an eagle hunting it’s prey; I was glued on every move he made. I was literally bubbling over with excitement.<br />
<br />
The band called Rev. Al Sharpton’s wife to the stage almost immediately. I really didn’t know much about her at the time, but she turned out to be funny and engaging, and she had a powerful singing voice. She wowed the crowd with a James Brown song, and as she performed, the crowd went wild. <br />
<br />
But I don’t think anyone went as wild as I did. <br />
<br />
I was beside myself, singing at the top of my lungs, dancing on my seat. I was swept over by a passion I can hardly explain.<br />
<br />
When Mrs. Sharpton finished her song, she pointed in my direction, and said loudly into her mic, “Yo sho look like you’re having one hell of a good time!”<br />
<br />
The crowd at the Club burst into laughter. I looked to my left, and then to my right, wondering who she was talking about.<br />
<br />
“I’m talkin’ to YOU!” She said, pointing directly at me.<br />
<br />
“Me?” I whispered pointing to my chest.<br />
<br />
“Yes, YOU. You got the spirit in you TONIGHT! You sound GOOD. You know any James Brown songs? Why don’t you get up here on stage and sing him one.”<br />
<br />
Suddenly, my reality snapped out of focus. I was dreaming, certainly, and Mrs. Sharpton’s voice started sounding as if it were underwater. This surely couldn’t be happening. My cheeks were hot.<br />
<br />
My friends all started shoving at my shoulders, pushing me out of my chair. “They want you to sing,” they’re all whispering. “Go.”<br />
<br />
“But why?”<br />
<br />
“JUST GO.”<br />
<br />
It was one of the craziest moments of my life.<br />
<br />
To this day, I can’t remember which James Brown song I sang. I was in some sort of delirious auto pilot as I took my place on the stage and told the band the song I would like to sing. The music started in earnest, and I found my way to the mic.<br />
<br />
But what gave me chills was seeing James Brown himself, seated directly in front of me. He removed his sunglasses and stared me down, eyeball to eyeball. And then he winked.<br />
<br />
And I began to sing. I was in Harlem, New York at the Cotton Club. I was singing a James Brown song to James Brown himself. And when James Brown got up to sing after me, I realized that in a way, I had just opened for James Brown. It was an ethereal moment. I can’t remember finding my way back to my seat. I was utterly limp.<br />
<br />
I often think that people who live their lives in fear miss out on all of the best stuff.<br />
<br />
I can still hear the pianist tickling the ivory and doing a tap dance up a ladder of sound. I can still feel the saxophone blowing kisses on the back of my neck as I cried the blues to the moon. I can still smell the sugar on the streets of Harlem. They smelled like cinnamon buns. Hot and sticky. <br />
<br />
I can still remember that hot summer evening in Harlem. It smelled like caramel.<br />
________________________________________________<br />
<span style="background-color: magenta;">Please feel free to leave a comment down below. And thanks for stopping by.</span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-4766466721423646692010-04-11T12:05:00.000-07:002010-04-30T09:00:01.874-07:00Pickle NoseDuring the summer between my Kindergarten year and First Grade, my mother moved my sister and me to a rural town called Half Moon Bay, an isolated hamlet which hugged the Pacific Coast and a bay the shape of a crescent moon. We were moving in with my step-father Ray, a man my Mom planned on marrying. He had found us a cottage near the beach, and rent was only $60 per month.<br />
<br />
It was a house that is difficult to forget, as each room was painted a bright vivid jewel tone. Living there was like living inside of a Kaleidoscope, and I would roam from a purple room to an orange one, through a yellow one and into the green. It was the 60’s and the house only matched the hues of an era, where love and peace had taken on new meaning. But the coast side seemed far from the revolution that was happening in San Francisco only 30 miles away. Remote, inaccessible and secluded, the town felt more like an island, with a low moaning fog horn as our only reminder that we were a part of the world.<br />
<br />
That summer I only had cypress trees and the succulent plants which lined the bluffs to keep me company. For the most part, my sister and I stayed indoors and played records; she was determined to teach me all of the latest dances before I started “real school.” I remember long afternoons where I struggled to learn The Twist, or The Jerk, watching my sister’s white go-go boots teach me the tempo. But that summer isn’t a joyful memory for me; I remember feeling scared. The world outside of those fluorescent walls seemed ominous to me. I was certain there would be death or dismemberment if I explored the town too thoroughly. The farmers in their tractors, the fields of artichokes and Brussels sprouts, the hermit crabs in the tide pools all intrigued me. But I felt frozen with fear. I dreamed of the suburban street where we had just moved from, where lawns were all identical and there was a sense of order in a neighborhood. But Half Moon Bay felt more like chaos to me; I saw ghosts everywhere, from the haunted trees to the rusty boats in the harbor.<br />
<br />
That summer seemed endless, the way that summers do when you’re very young. I was painfully lonely, and I began to look forward to the first day of school with excited anticipation. I wanted to make friends. While I enjoyed spending time with my sister, we were too far apart in age to be fit companions, and I needed someone who spoke my language. I chose a very proper dress for my first day, a red knit dress my grandmother had made which sported a big yellow school bell over the heart. I felt very grown up as I walked into a brand new school that morning. But my excitement turned into anxiety almost immediately.<br />
<br />
I saw a huge girl in the corner. She was at least twice the size of any of us, maybe even more. She looked out of place, and it took me some time to realize that she was both retarded and older than the rest of us, even though she was in our class. She was pleasant enough in an awkward way, and I found her to be more of an oddity than anything else. But the other children teased her, calling her “Pickle Nose,” and taunting and bullying her. I thought it was horrible what they were doing to her, and it filled me with profound grief.<br />
<br />
I was too afraid to try and befriend her. Not that I wanted to pal about with the big girl, I only wanted to say something nice, to soothe her somehow. She was often in the corner crying, but I didn’t dare approach her to pat her comfortingly on the arm. I couldn’t go against the crowd. It was a pack mentality, and I didn’t want them to know I didn’t agree with them.<br />
<br />
It was then that I noticed a girl named Linda. Linda wasn’t afraid to go against the crowd at all; she walked right up to Pickle Nose and asked her to be her friend. I was startled by her bravery, and her maturity. I wished I could be so brave. But I knew the consequences of taking such a stand.<br />
<br />
Within a matter of days, the children had turned on Linda for befriending the big retarded girl. And now it was this brave girl named Linda who was being called Pickle Nose. In fact, they hardly bothered the original Pickle Nose anymore. They’d found a new victim. And they were relentless in trying to make every day a living hell for her.<br />
<br />
I admired Linda for the way she seemed to brush it off. Where I would have been terrified, she just went about her day as if the taunting children didn’t exist. She would spend her days with the original Pickle Nose, or would spend time by herself. I often noticed her. And it seemed that she noticed me as well. And one day, she had come up to me and introduced herself. “I’m Linda, do you want to be friends?”<br />
<br />
I wasn’t sure how to respond at first, if I were willing to link arms with the girl who had cooties. I looked around to make sure that the other kids weren’t watching. I wasn’t sure what might happen to me if they spotted me talking with her. But it was then that I noticed the red ball in her hands.<br />
<br />
I learned almost the first day of school that in order to be cool, you had to have a Super Ball. A small red rubber ball with a dramatic bounce was all the rage that year, and I begged my parents to buy me one. I, like all of the kids, would take our super ball out at recess and play a variety of games. But I noticed the ball that Linda was holding didn’t look like all the rest. “That’s not a Super Ball, is it?” was how I responded to her request.<br />
<br />
“My Mom told me she didn’t have any money to buy a Super Ball. But I found this, and it’s close enough.”<br />
<br />
Well, it wasn’t nearly close enough, I thought. In a time when everyone had to be exactly the same or face being ostracized, her huge red rubber ball didn’t fit in. Just like the original Pickle Nose, it was at least twice the size of all the others. It seemed to me she was breaking all the rules.<br />
<br />
She threw it on the ground to show me, and I watched it hit the pavement like a bag of rocks. She laughed, knowing how ridiculous it looked.<br />
<br />
“But it doesn’t even bounce,” I said laughing.<br />
<br />
It was then that the ball rolled over to reveal a face. I didn’t believe what I was seeing at first, and bent down to retrieve the ball so I could study it more closely. On one side of the ball, she had carefully glued two eyes, a nose and a mouth that she had drawn on paper and glued. And then she had glued real hair to form a mustache and a beard. She took the ball from my hand and started squeezing it, and making a funny voice. “It doesn’t bounce,” Linda said, “but it talks. Watch.” Soon the ball was talking a mile a minute, making me laugh as loud as I could.<br />
<br />
I was mesmerized with Linda and this ball. “Yes,” I said. “I would like to be your friend.” And so it began.<br />
<br />
But I wasn’t brave enough to befriend Linda in the open. I carefully explained to her that because she was so intensely disliked at the school, that our friendship would have to remain private. We couldn’t let the children know we were friends, or else I would have to face the same ridicule as she did. She said she understood, but I always remember the pain in her eyes. And while we played together every day after school, and began sleeping over at each other’s houses almost nightly, we pretended not to know each other during the school day.<br />
<br />
Every day at lunch Linda and I would sneak into the girl’s bathroom. We would take turns standing on the toilet so that only one pair of legs was visible underneath the door, should someone peek beneath to check for occupancy. We would eat our lunches that way, whispering and giggling, until we heard the bathroom door swing open and we’d eat in silence until the intruder left. We maintained our relationship like this for a long while.<br />
<br />
Each day as we drove the big yellow school bus home, Linda and I would sit separately. I would fight back tears watching Linda when it was her stop. She would always begin to get out of her seat before the bus came to a complete halt; she was intent on getting a head start. Because once the big door swung open and Linda sprinted down the street toward home, she’d be chased by a gaggle of twits who would scream pejoratives and hurl insults toward her. The bus driver never did a thing about it. I would watch her until she turned the corner and I couldn’t see her anymore, praying every day she wouldn’t be hurt. But more important, I was struggling with my conscience.<br />
<br />
It took me a long time to have the strength to face my guilt and make some changes. I’ll never forget the day when lunchtime came, and I said to Linda, “Let’s eat at the picnic bench today.” I remember the look of surprise and relief in her eyes. I remember how wonderful it felt to sit in the sunshine, laughing and eating peanut butter sandwiches together, while the kids surrounded us with looks of shock on their face. And I’ll never forget returning to the classroom that day after lunch and being pelted with chalk board erasers by all of the children, and the vicious screams of “Pickle Nose” in my direction.<br />
<br />
But that was the end of it. I was well-liked, and my boyfriend was a popular boy who told the kids to shut up. And no one tormented me, or Linda, or the Original Pickle Nose ever again.<br />
<br />
Years later Linda admitted to me that she resented me during the period when I hid our friendship behind a bathroom door of shame. And I told her how sorry I was, and that I did the best I could at the time. I’m still sorry it wasn’t enough. But despite that, Linda’s and my friendship has endured for forty-five years. <br />
<br />
She didn’t invite me to her last birthday, for the first time in our lives. And she has spoken with me in soft tones how our lives have taken different directions. While we’re not estranged, it feels as if we are, as if I’m losing another sister.<br />
<br />
I can still hear our laughter echoing over the rocks near our favorite blow hole at the beach. I can still hear the whir of my bicycle wheels as I chased her bike through the hay fields and through the cypress trees. I can still feel the sting of the salt air on my throat as I tipped it back to let out a roar of joy.<br />
<br />
I had thought I was being a hero. But I only added to her shame and humiliation. Linda was the real hero. She had strength in the face of adversity that I’ve never forgotten. And she taught me to never hide how I feel just because it’s different. And I never have again.<br />
<br />
To this day, I cannot look at a pickle without hearing those vicious taunts. While I try and enjoy this crisp cold snack, pickles will forever remind me of hatred and prejudice, of injustice and small minds. But worse, and a pickle reminds me of my own failures. And I choke on it.<br />
<br />
_____________________________________________________________<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Please feel free to leave a comment below!</span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-72156543151220754832010-03-12T14:32:00.000-08:002010-03-19T10:14:52.331-07:00Go Ask AliceEven after they knew she was dead, they continued to shove birthday cake into her open mouth. It’s an image that will forever haunt me. But that’s not how it started.<br />
<br />
My friend Siobhan was a personal chef to Alice Kent, a wealthy living legend with a history that could fill volumes of gold gilded manuscripts with fascinating tales. Kentfield, a quixotic little town in Marin County, California, was actually named after her family. She was born both wealthy and powerful, and lived a life that most of us only dream about. Her husband, Roger Kent, was a powerful attorney, who had Richard Nixon as his client. And Alice, a staunch democrat, was known for rubbing shoulders with Jimmy Carter. They knew artists and writers and famous people from around the globe. And they had lived the glamorous life that only a few, and very rich, can even imagine.<br />
<br />
But by the time my friend was hired on as her personal chef, Alice was approaching the final days of her life. Alice was old, and her husband was dead. She had long ago given up her mansion and most of her belongings, and moved to a modest condominium in Kentfield. She used her money to surround herself with a variety of talent; she hired astrologers, masseuses, psychiatrists, writers, Professors, and live-in caretakers to fill her days. And my friend Siobhan cooked for her; filling her mouth with every delectable treat that she might have a yen for. “This morning, only a raspberry scone seems palatable,” she might say. And soon the kitchen filled with the sounds of Siobhan’s laughter, and the smells of rising yeast and butter.<br />
<br />
Siobhan mentioned to me that Alice was looking for a writer, and I applied immediately. All of my life, I’ve dreamed of making my living as a writer. Of course, for the most part, this was just a pipe dream, imagined by a little girl who believed she would always have a mountain of opportunities at her feet. Life never turned out that way for me, and it seems I’ve always struggled in a career I detested. But occasionally, because I enjoyed writing so much, opportunities came my way. With my friend’s wonderful references, I was hired.<br />
<br />
When I met Alice, I realized her body was on its last legs. She was so hunched over, I don’t think she stood over four feet tall, if she could stand at all. For the most part, she got around in a wheel chair, and for much of the day was hooked up to an oxygen tank. Her day was scheduled and regimented; a reflexologist might come to massage her feet at 9:00 a.m., and a holistic healer might be scheduled to give her nutritional recommendations at 10:00. But while her body was withering, her mind was sharp, and she had stories to tell. She asked me to help her tell those stories.<br />
<br />
So my days at my new job began.<br />
<br />
My shift was 6 hours, which took up most of Alice’s day. Certainly we might break for one of Siobhan’s exquisite luncheons, or to take tea on the veranda. But for the most part, my instructions were simple. She wanted me to talk with her. She wanted me to converse with her for hours and hours, while all the while I would be taping the discourse. Then using a transcriber with a sticky pedal, and her archaic apple computer, I would transcribe our entire conversation. <br />
<br />
Following that, I would turn her words into prose.<br />
<br />
I loved this job. Alice Kent was a fascinating spirit. She regaled me with stories about the Kennedys, rejoicing in little quips about what Jack or Bobby might have done as children, recounting her memories of the First Family with a wistful look in her eye. She captivated my attention as she told how she helped to start the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. “I had a vision, it was that simple,” Alice told me in her no nonsense way. “So I set out to create that vision. I’ve always had money.” She had met the Beatniks, including Jack Kerouac himself. “He was devilishly handsome,” I remember her telling me, her eyes lifting in a flirtatious way. I was mesmerized by her stories, and was always egging her on to go deeper and deeper into her rich history. I was fishing for golden material that I could use later that day when I turned her stories into living fairy tales.<br />
<br />
In the mornings we would talk about anything and everything, from her Jungian Therapy work to her belief in astrology. Sometimes we’d have other guests, from Theology Professors to Historians, sitting in on our chats. It was always a far more difficult job to transcribe conversations when there were more than two people talking. I can still hear the whir of the tape and the clicking of the pedals, as I stepped on them rewinding and forwarding and rewinding again, to catch every phrase and nuance. Sometimes I would take a little respite and sneak into the kitchen to giggle with Siobhan, and poke a spoon into her aromatic concoctions. Then, in the afternoons, as Alice was having her massage, I would sit at the dusty Apple, turning her words into paragraphs and then into chapters, creating until it was time for me to go home for the day. I felt happy.<br />
<br />
I hardly noticed the months passing, or how rapidly Alice’s health was deteriorating. She began to take to her bed more and more, and we began to have our taped conversations while she lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. She became incontinent, and our conversations often took an unpleasant turn to her urine concerns. Soon, a little potty was set up right next to my work station; and as I tried to create paragraphs of lyrical prose, I was treated to the sight of a bowl filled with yellow liquid, that didn’t have a particularly good smell. The condominium became more like a hospital to me as time went on, and it became more difficult to find my inspiration.<br />
<br />
One cold winter morning in December, I arrived at work to find her alert and sitting up in her wheel chair. “Good morning, Alice,” I started. “You look well.”<br />
<br />
“We need to talk,” she said gravely. “Please wheel me into the parlor. Siobhan is preparing our tea.”<br />
<br />
I did as she asked, and was soon seated directly in front of her on a pink French Chintz chair. Siobhan came in and served us tea, and she and I exchanged a meaningful giggle as we always did. “Enough carrying on,” Alice warned us sharply. “I need some privacy with Cathy please.” Alice’s live-in caretaker ushered Siobhan from the room.<br />
<br />
Alice didn’t waste any time. “I am about to die,” she told me. The words hung in the air as if they were heavier than most. As if they were incapable of dissolving.<br />
<br />
“Of course you’re not,” I quickly assured her, the way we do even when we know we’re lying. “Look at you today! You look well.”<br />
<br />
“I will be dead, in my estimation, in approximately a fortnight. In fourteen days, give or take a day or two. I’m not sure of the exact day,” she said, sipping on her tea and looking placidly out of the window.<br />
<br />
I saw no sense in arguing with her. “In that case, I’ll miss you.”<br />
<br />
“I know you’ll be flying to Washington D.C. next month for Bill Clinton’s inauguration. I should have really done this sooner, but I have arranged for you and your companion to have a special invitation into the Presidential Ball, and two tickets to sit in the V.I.P. section when the President is sworn in. These are highly coveted tickets, and worth a mint. They’ll be arriving by mail.”<br />
<br />
I was both overjoyed and touched, and I fell all over myself trying to thank her properly. <br />
<br />
“Thank you so much, Alice. You’re too kind.”<br />
<br />
“There’s more.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. With great difficulty, and with her fingers shaking, she unfolded it, and then held it out toward me. I put down my tea and reached over to fetch the paper she was holding. It was a check. And for a pretty healthy amount of money.<br />
<br />
“What is this for?” I asked, astounded.<br />
<br />
“I wanted you to have that. It’s too late to put you in my will, and my family would battle you for the money for years. Just take that and use it for something that would help you in your writing. Perhaps a magical trip somewhere. Perhaps a writer’s retreat. Whatever you think best. Perfect your gift. Hone your craft. Follow your passion.”<br />
<br />
I was stunned. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”<br />
<br />
“You’re very welcome,” she said quietly. “But you mustn’t tell anyone. For instance, I am not leaving anything to any of the staff. And that includes Siobhan.”<br />
<br />
This hurt me to my core. “But I don’t understand. Why not?” Siobhan had worked for her for years, while I’d barely completed thirteen months. Not to mention, she’d gotten me the job.<br />
<br />
“As liberal as you know me to be, this might come as a shock to you. But the way I grew up, the cooks were merely servants. Your services are on another scale. You are an artist, and your efforts must be supported. You are not my employee. I am commissioning you for your talent. Do you see the difference?”<br />
<br />
“Not really,” I told her. “Siobhan is an artist. She is a chef. What she creates in the kitchen is mind blowing.”<br />
<br />
“And I agree with you,” she told me. “It’s just not the way I was raised to believe. I hope you don’t think less of me, and that you use this money to further your craft.”<br />
<br />
“I will,” I said, folding the check and putting it in my pocket. “Thank you.”<br />
<br />
“Because I can’t pinpoint my exact moment of death, it is impossible for me to know if I will die on your shift or not. It could be in the middle of the night, while you’re sleeping at home. But if at all possible, I would like you to be here.”<br />
<br />
“I hope I will be.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you. And once I’m gone, I’d like you to publish this book you’ve been working on for me. This is the legacy I want to leave behind. I’m certain my family will try and prevent it. I hope you’ll persevere. Promise me.”<br />
<br />
“I promise.”<br />
<br />
“Good,” she said loudly clapping her hands together. “Then let’s get busy. We have a lot of work to do. We need to come up with a viable ending for this story that has become my life. Go grab the tape recorder. I am ready.”<br />
<br />
For the next two weeks, Alice and I worked tirelessly, my six hour shift stretching to eight or ten hours per day. In the evenings I would type away next to her bowl of urine, working as quickly as I could to write my conclusions to her life story. Time was running out, and Alice wanted to make sure it was completed.<br />
<br />
The last day I saw Alice, it was her birthday.<br />
<br />
She had been doing well during her last few weeks of her life. But when I arrived at work that day, I found her stretched out in her bed, moaning into her oxygen tank.<br />
“Happy Birthday, Alice,” I said softly, as I stood at her bedside. <br />
Alice took the oxygen tube out of her mouth for a moment, as if she was struggling to say something to me. I waited, but no words came. She put the tube back into her mouth, and began breathing slowly and methodically. The sound reminded me of snorkeling under water.<br />
“Are you up to doing any work today?” I asked. <br />
<br />
She shook her head vehemently, indicating that she was not. Then she took out her tube and spoke.<br />
<br />
“You finish.” She said in a labored way. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask if I understood. I nodded. “I will lie here and listen to you type. I love the sound. It sounds like rain.” It took her several moments to get those three short sentences out. I didn’t want to tire her, so I took my place on the computer and began to write.<br />
I wrote for hours, with the slow labored sounds of her breathing my only company. Once in awhile I’d look over and smile at her and she would only nod, as if to say, “Keep working.”<br />
<br />
The afternoon slipped by, and by the day’s end, I felt as though I finally had a finished draft. “Alice, I think we have a book!” I shouted excitedly. “Would you like me to read you the end?”<br />
<br />
She struggled to take the oxygen tube out of her mouth. “No,” she almost choked. “I. Trust. You.”<br />
<br />
I smiled. “My shift is over .Would you like me to go home?”<br />
<br />
“Not. Yet.” She struggled over every syllable. “Sit. With. Me.”<br />
<br />
I pulled a chair near her bedside and took her hand. “Funny we finished the book on your birthday,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Yes.” She tried to laugh. “And. My. Death. Day.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t argue; I just held her hand tighter. We sat in silence for at least fifteen minutes.<br />
<br />
“You. Go. Home,” she said at last. Her breath had become even shallower.<br />
<br />
“Are you sure?”<br />
<br />
“Good. Bye. Good. Luck.”<br />
<br />
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”<br />
<br />
She shook her head again, although this time it seemed a bit sad. I grabbed my purse and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. The last words she said to me, as if with a sudden burst of energy, were “Do you hear the sounds of the birds singing?”<br />
<br />
I strained my ears, but there were no birds. It was utterly silent. I nodded yes, and then left.<br />
<br />
Alice died later that night. <br />
<br />
After I left, her children came over and joined Siobhan for what was supposed to be a birthday celebration. Siobhan had just put the finishing touches on Alice’s birthday cake as the family arrived. But when the family went in to say hello to Alice, they realized it was only a matter of time.<br />
<br />
They gathered around her bedside, and held hands with Alice, in a complete circle. Siobhan recounted later that they had called her in to join them. “It’s any minute now,” they had told her. “Come join our circle and say good-bye to mother.”<br />
<br />
Siobhan wasn’t sure what to do with the birthday cake, but she wasn’t a chef that would allow one of her stellar creations to go to waste. With shaking hands, she put candles in the cake and lit them. Then she brought in the flaming dessert to Alice’s bedside. She was singing “Happy Birthday.” The family joined in, and they all serenaded her as Alice slipped away.<br />
<br />
A final gasp was heard before she passed over to the other side. The family, along with Siobhan, continued to sing; they blessed her spirit as it filled the room, and just as quickly vanished.<br />
<br />
To this day, Siobhan isn’t sure why she did this. But she broke off a piece of the birthday cake, and opened Alice’s mouth and laid it on her tongue. Of course I joked with her later that she was too conceited over her creation for Alice to die without even tasting it. But the real reason is a mystery to us all. All I know is that she continued to shove bits of birthday cake in Alice’s mouth as she lay dead, and as her children continued to sing. Soon the mouth was too full, and crumbs began falling into the crevices of her neck. It is an image that has always haunted me.<br />
<br />
By the time I went to Clinton’s inauguration that winter, the VIP tickets and invitations she had promised me hadn’t arrived, and I left to D.C. without them. But when I returned home, I found them in my mail. Sadly, Alice had procrastinated a little too long in getting them to me on time, but I still treasured them. I framed them, and hung them on my wall as a remembrance.<br />
<br />
A few days later, a funeral and wake was held in Alice’s honor. Both Siobhan and I attended this event, and felt quite honored to be there. The guest list was long and distinguished; from politicians to actresses to writers. The event was featured on the Society Page.<br />
<br />
At the wake, I pulled aside Alice’s son to tell him how sorry I was to lose her, and how much she had taught me. He met my smile with reproach, and ignored my offers of sympathy. Instead, he told me that he had heard of my “little endowment,” as he called it. “I hope you didn’t take advantage of my mother and her money,” is what he told me. “In her diminished state, I’m sure you could have convinced her of anything.”<br />
<br />
I was hurt and offended. “I never asked anything of Alice, except my paycheck. She offered me that money.”<br />
<br />
“If you say so,” was his sharp reply. Then he scoffed. “Enjoy it.”<br />
<br />
“Her only request was that I finish and publish the book the two of us have been working on.”<br />
<br />
He laughed and tipped back his glass of champagne, letting the last few drops of expensive effervescent bubbles fall onto his tongue. “There will be no book,” is what he said, wiping his mouth and wearing too big of a grin.<br />
<br />
“That was her last wish.”<br />
<br />
“Let me make this clear,” he told me. “I’m an attorney. There will be no book.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left me standing there.<br />
<br />
And there was no book. I contacted the rest of the family following the funeral with parts of the manuscript, and her dying wish to have it published. I was ignored, rebuffed and even threatened. I eventually dropped the idea.<br />
<br />
But I think of Alice and her stories often. I’ve always wondered what birds Alice heard that winter day when there were no birds. All I know is that she heard them.<br />
<br />
I, too, often hear birds that aren’t there. They are the sounds of ultimate peace. And with them I am able to pull an entire blanket of stars over my shoulders like a blanket, and for just one minute, I am reminded how things never really die. And how if we listen very carefully, the birds are always singing.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-23232016479479237242010-02-05T14:57:00.000-08:002010-02-26T13:17:09.402-08:00A Valentine to RememberIt was almost Valentine’s Day, 2001, and I wanted a man. In fact, I was positively hungry for one. I wanted something steamy and romantic for the day of hearts and roses. And I was intent on making it happen.<br />
<br />
I had just ended an insane relationship with a crazy man, and I wanted to wipe all memory of him out of my brain stem. I wanted to replace him with a masculine distraction. I had barely been dabbling in meeting men at bars, but these chance encounters had yielded some frightening results. So I thought I might try my hand at finding a man on the Internet.<br />
<br />
I liked the idea of putting what I wanted in a man out into cyberspace, and then sitting tight while they pursued me. And in the end, I would have the power to choose among them. I felt powerful.<br />
<br />
So I set out to go about it. But before I began, I made a decision that I would meet two men. No more, no less. And if neither worked, I’d drop the idea for good.<br />
<br />
I knew that I didn’t want to spend the money to join an official dating sight, so instead I placed an ad on Craig’s list, which was absolutely free, and the ad length had no limitations. In other words, you could wax poetic about yourself for a couple of pages, if you so desired.<br />
<br />
And I did desire. I wanted to say as much as possible about myself, in an effort to really show the potential candidates who I was and what I wanted. I was as honest as I could possibly be, and I put it all out there for anyone to read. I had no idea if I’d get a response or if anyone would even read it.<br />
<br />
The next day I turned on my computer, and I was utterly shocked to see that I had hundreds of responses. And the next day, this was followed by hundreds more. At first I was rather happy about it, until I realized how much time it took to look at them all. I remember remarking to friends that weeding through the responses was like a part-time job. It would have been one thing if I were dazzled by the countless emails I received, but it was quite the contrary; I disliked every single response I got! I was horrified, and let almost all of them dangle, without even a word from me.<br />
<br />
Reading them all was arduous. I learned quickly how to identify the spam responses—and those had been simply cut and pasted and distributed by lonely hearts to every single available ad. Those were first to be deleted.<br />
<br />
But the other responses were hideous as well. I had mentioned the word “boyish” in my list of attributes that I appreciated about the opposite sex. What I meant by this more than anything else was a man’s physical appearance; I had never gone for the rugged Marlboro man kind of guy...I went for the cute ones with a big mop of hair. Although I think Paul Neuman is unbelievably handsome, I’d take Paul McCartney over him hands down. It’s their appearance, but it’s also a quality too. Sort of playful and full of life.<br />
<br />
But the responses I received around this one little innocuous word sent my head spinning. The way men interpreted that response was far and wide, and to me, a little shocking. Men would tell me that they still lived with their mother, and were relieved to find someone that would finally appreciate their “boyishness.” Many interpreted the word to mean that it was okay if they were out of work, and not financially responsible. Some very young men responded, looking for an older woman. “I’m VERY boyish,” I would read. “I’m 20 years old!” The interpretations about what I meant were far ranging and funny. But what was worse, was that it seemed to attract countless dolts, the uneducated and ignorant. I also found that countless men would respond without a picture, and wouldn’t forward one if I requested it. This was blind dating enough; at least I needed some sort of visual to proceed.<br />
<br />
I was tearing my hair out, but I didn’t give up. After all, I had promised that I would date two men, and this is what I would do. The entire occurrence was a tremendous learning experience, and I learned slowly that I needed to be even more specific than I thought I already was. I decided to edit my ad. I removed the word “boyish” from the text, and I added at the end “PhD’s ONLY.” I still laugh when I think back to it. Finally, I said “Do NOT respond without a picture.”<br />
<br />
When I published the edited ad, I felt content. I was sure that this would bring me better responses, and I was right. The next batch was far more reasonable. I still had a lot of work to do, reading all of the emails, conversing with the possible candidates, and blocking the stalkers. But after weeks of work, I finally weeded all of them down to two men. And I must say, I was pretty excited about both of them.<br />
<br />
One of them was an impossibly good looking bicyclist from San Francisco. Italian with “boyish” good looks, he was also obviously intelligent. He graduated with an English Literature degree just as I had, and enjoyed literature—something that was a big plus for me. In fact, he enjoyed many of the same things I did—the Beatniks, and espresso, and Italian food... poetry, The Beatles, and Independent films. We conversed for weeks, and finally I agreed to meet him in person.<br />
<br />
The second was wildly intelligent, and every letter to me was so wonderfully crafted, that I felt as if I was talking to a fellow writer. It was his words that kept me coming back to him, because damn it, he’d broken one of my rules. He never sent a picture.<br />
<br />
But I couldn’t stop talking with him. And soon letters turned to phone calls. He was so witty; he’d have me bent over laughing every time we talked. He was so intelligent he would wow me with his angles. I loved his voice; I found it so sexy my stomach would do flip flops every time I heard it on the other end.<br />
<br />
I was certain that he would be the second man that I would choose to meet in person. But when he’d ask me to make a date, I’d say, “Not until you send a picture!”<br />
<br />
“Oh come on,” he’d complain. I don’t have one! If I had one, I’d send it. Look, I told you I’ve dated models right? I mean, how homely could I be?” I didn’t really like his comments about dating models, I found it pretentious. Not to mention, I was certainly no model. And I found the fact that he couldn’t find a single picture of himself to send a bit strange. Still, with his charm, he eventually wore me down, and I agreed to meet him.<br />
<br />
Both of these gentlemen lived in San Francisco. I have never enjoyed driving around the city by myself; I prefer to be driven. I get lost very easily, and driving there by myself has always seemed like a challenge. On the other hand, I really didn’t want either one of them to know where I lived. So I agreed to meet them in the city.<br />
<br />
But there was a kicker. I agreed to meet them both on the same night. I had one date at 7:00 p.m. and the second date set up for 10:00. These dates were to take place on Valentine’s Day, of all days. It was a little surreal.<br />
<br />
I didn’t feel at all bad making both dates on the same night, although others might find that a bit rude. First of all, it would save me from driving to the city twice, and I believed that first dates that are blind dates should be kept somewhat short. I believe one knows in the first five seconds of meeting someone if there is even a chance of it continuing. So why prolong the potential horror for an entire night? I thought I was being smart about it.<br />
<br />
But where I wasn’t smart, I suppose, is that I agreed to meet them both in their apartments. Internet dating was still fairly new at that time, and there wasn’t the protocol that has since been developed-- advice like meeting your date in a public arena, like a coffee shop. I was a little nervous about it, but felt I had talked to both of them enough to rule out either being a serial killer at least. <br />
<br />
I spent the afternoon bathing and luxuriating and getting ready the proper way. Then I set out for San Francisco that Saturday night, feeling nervous, but hopeful. I really believed either man could be a real candidate for my next significant other, although secretly it was my second date that I felt had the most potential. The one that claimed he didn’t have a picture.<br />
<br />
I had difficulty finding the first man’s apartment. But I felt proud of myself when at last I found it, and even found a parking place. I smoked a quick cigarette; knowing I would want one, but having already decided I wouldn’t smoke on this first meeting. Following that, I took a deep breath, and with a muttered, “You can do this, girl,” I marched myself up two flights of stairs in a beautiful Victorian apartment building.<br />
<br />
He swung open the door before I even reached the landing. He was smiling a huge grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back. He was every bit as handsome as his picture depicted, and he had that boyish quality that I found irresistible. “Hi,” he said, and quickly kissed me on the cheek. From behind his back, he pulled out a rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”<br />
<br />
I loved it. “Thank you. A blind date on Valentine’s day, imagine that,” I quipped. It felt a little romantic.<br />
<br />
“Do you like espresso? I can make you a cappuccino.”<br />
<br />
“I would love one, thank you.” I thought a little caffeine might be just the thing I needed, especially with a second date later that night.<br />
<br />
I entered his apartment and I was impressed. It was quite adult, nicely decorated, and had beautifully framed prints on the walls. He had a picture of Charles Bukowski; a poet I had long admired, on top of his stereo. It was the perfect opening conversation, to share our love of the poet and of literature. And soon we were sipping our coffees on the couch talking easily and animatedly, and I almost wished I didn’t have to leave so soon for my second date.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me for a minute, will you? I have to hit the restroom,” he said, standing up. Being a bicyclist, he had a beautiful build. I nodded happily as he disappeared down the hall.<br />
A few minutes later I heard a door open and knew he was returning. I stared at the hall entrance with a big grin on my face, waiting for him to come into view.<br />
<br />
When he did, he was stark naked.<br />
<br />
He saw my look of shock and dismay, and tried to deflate the situation, as if this were possible. “I know, I know,” he said coming toward me with his hand up as if to stop me from talking. “I know this seems a little odd, but please don’t freak out or anything. Give me a few moments to explain.”<br />
<br />
I could hardly believe what I was seeing. My first thought was to find my car keys and sprint toward the door. My second thought was one of curiosity, wondering what on earth this man planned to say. “What are you doing?” is all I could think of to say.<br />
<br />
He took a seat beside me on the couch. “Listen to me for a minute,” he started. “For spiritual reasons, and for artistic reasons, I have been celibate for four years. I have been taking a sexual coaching course, and we learn how we give away our power and our creativity through ejaculation. Not only must we endure a period of celibacy, we are not allowed to have an orgasm by our own hand either. We are allowed to masturbate, and are even encouraged to do so, but we learn how to stop it just before the moment of fruition. This practice, over time, gives us our power back. Do you understand?”<br />
<br />
I couldn’t even respond. I was in utter shock. What on earth was this speech all about? “I understand, but I don’t care,” I finally spit out exasperated. “Is this supposed to be some sort of justification for this behavior? I’m going to leave.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t leave,” he said grabbing my arm. “When you came in tonight, I realized that it was time for me to break this fast. I had never planned on being celibate forever, or never having an orgasm. Tonight is the night I want to be reborn again, and I want to be reborn with you.”<br />
<br />
I looked behind his naked body and noticed a fire escape outside of the window. I grabbed a cigarette and a lighter, and climbed out the window and lit my cigarette. He scampered after me and kneeled in front of the window. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know you smoked.”<br />
<br />
“And I didn’t know you were going to be naked. I guess we’re both surprised,” I answered.<br />
<br />
“Please come back in.”<br />
<br />
“If you go get dressed, I’ll come back in.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t send me away. I see you as my future wife!”<br />
<br />
“That’s not going to happen,” I said as I rubbed my cigarette butt against the metal to put it out. “In fact, I have to get going. I have another date. Put your clothes on.”<br />
<br />
“You made another date on the same night we made a date? I don’t think you realize how much potential I think the two of us have. Let me explain. All of my life I’ve been a real Mama’s boy. Every girl I’ve dated I’ve told them the same thing. I’ll never get married as long as my Mama is alive. But once she dies, I’ll want to marry whatever woman I’m with, because it would be too lonely to be single. My Mama is very ill.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry to hear that,” I said, crawling back through the window. I grabbed my purse off from the couch and fished its contents for my keys. “Thanks for the coffee. It’s been an interesting night,” and with that I ran toward the door, imagining him trying to block my escape. Thankfully he did not.<br />
<br />
With my ears burning I ran into the night and to the safety of my car. It was quarter to ten, and time for my second date. My stomach was in knots and I felt so anxious. I hadn’t yet recovered from my first date, and didn’t know how emotionally ready I was for a second. I was frightened to go to this other man’s apartment, so late at night. But the plan was for me to call from my car once I arrived in the city, and he’d talk me through the directions as I drove to his house.<br />
<br />
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed his number. “Hi it’s me. I’m on Geary Street. Where to?”<br />
<br />
The minute I heard his voice, I relaxed. He took charge, and seemed to know the city like the back of his hand. Surely, this was going to be better, I thought to myself. And really, this was the date I was looking forward to the most. “Okay,” he said, “so you must be in front of a pink building now, do you see it?” He knew every street and every landmark that I passed as if he were in the car with me. But he was also making me laugh uproariously as he always did. I hardly noticed where I was going as I was whizzed through the streets easily, guided by my human GPS. And soon I was led safely and easily right to his apartment building. “I think I’m here!” I said as I hovered in the middle of the street.<br />
<br />
“Yes, I can see you. Park right in front of the green truck. I’m on the third floor. I’ll buzz you in.”<br />
<br />
“What apartment number?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Oh, don’t worry. You can follow the sound of my voice,” he said laughing, and then hung up the phone.<br />
<br />
It felt eerie that he could see me and I couldn’t see him. Not to mention he had seen countless photos of me, and I had never seen a single snapshot of him. I imagined him watching me as I got out of my car and crossed the street. I glanced upwards at the apartment building, wondering if I might get a glimpse of him. The windows looked dark.<br />
<br />
When I reached the stoop, the door was already buzzing. I ran to push it open, and I entered the dimly lit foyer. The door slammed behind me. I stood in the quiet.<br />
<br />
“Helloooooooooooo,” I heard from high above my head. “Follow my voice.” It echoed strangely in the muted dusk of the hall.<br />
<br />
I began climbing the steps, and I surprised myself to feel myself smiling. This man and I had been having the best rapport for weeks, and I was excited. Even though I had no idea what he looked like, I mused, how bad could it be? As I climbed the second set of stairs, I fantasized about finally seeing him, and how we would fall into each other’s arms for a passionate kiss.<br />
<br />
I climbed the third set of steps. “Down here,” came his voice. “Walk toward me.” I did as I was told. “Turn the corner and here I am.”<br />
<br />
I turned the corner.<br />
<br />
And there he was.<br />
<br />
I’ve never been one to be overly shallow about a person’s appearance. I find beauty in most people. But there are very few individuals I find so repulsive that I actually recoil in their presence. This was one such person.<br />
<br />
His bald head was large, and seemed to sit on top of folds of loose flesh that served as his neck. His skin was so white that it was translucent, and I could see blue veins in his neck, cheeks, and arms. His body was huge and shapeless, and he looked more like a ball with a bowling pin on top. When he saw me he laughed, and his entire body undulated in a blubbery orgasm.<br />
<br />
He was dressed in beige from head to foot. He wore beige conservative slacks and a beige conventional shirt. He had beige socks.<br />
<br />
We exchanged a glance. I smiled weakly. The idea of kissing him flew away as if it had wings.<br />
<br />
He opened the door wide for me to enter. His living room was beige with wall to wall beige carpets, and a beige couch. There was not one piece of art anywhere. The walls were blank. The coffee table was empty. The only thing in the room were bookshelves upon bookshelves of VCR tapes, all labeled. “What are these?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Tapes of my lectures. I’m a Professor, remember?”<br />
<br />
I just nodded. I looked out the window to see if I might see a second fire escape I might crawl down. But I was distracted when the mood suddenly took a sudden, almost violent detour.<br />
<br />
“See this wine?” he said, pointing to a bottle on the counter. “This is the best there is. This bottle cost hundreds of dollars. HUNDREDS. And I bought it for you.”<br />
<br />
“That’s very nice of you. I’d love a glass,” I told him.<br />
<br />
“Well, you don’t get a glass. You can have some water.”<br />
<br />
“Excuse me?” I said laughing, thinking he surely must be joking.<br />
<br />
“I’m not going to open this wine for you. Don’t you think I saw your face when you saw me? You looked as if you might vomit. Am I really that hideous? The only reason you even came inside was to be polite. Why would I share something so expensive with someone who will never give me a second date?”<br />
<br />
I was so stunned, I couldn’t respond. He lumbered over to the beige couch, and with great effort, fell into it. Then he lay down, as if he were ready for a nap. “I could turn on the T.V,” he said dryly.<br />
<br />
I might have just turned on my heel at that moment, and walked out. But I didn’t.<br />
<br />
To this day, I really don’t know why. A part of me felt sorry for him; I had never intended to be so obvous about my distaste, although the truth would have reared it’s ugly head soon enough. There was also a part of me that really liked him; I had been enjoying his mind for weeks. But more than anything, I was so angry at him I plunked myself down and started yelling at him.<br />
<br />
“Do you know what a rude ass you are?” I said. “I drove all the way into the city to meet you.”<br />
<br />
“Pity I turned out to be such a hideous monster, isn’t it? I have no interest in anyone as shallow as you.”<br />
<br />
This conversation would end up continuing until 2 in the morning. He might not be my cup of tea in the romantic department, but he was a potent adversary and could throw a mean intellectual debate. I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy that evening on some level.<br />
<br />
When I climbed into my car that morning, dazed and exhausted, I decided I would never venture into the world of blind dating ever again. And I kept that promise. But a week later, I went back to trying to meet men in bars. I met a dandy of a man my first time out, or so I thought. I followed him to his lovely home and took me outside to show me the view from the deck. He disappeared for a moment, he claimed, to open a bottle of wine. When he returned, he was stark naked.<br />
<br />
Men really seem like a different species at times.<br />
<br />
I could only start laughing, thinking back to my blind date on Valentine’s Day. My laughter embarrassed him, I was sure of that. I poked his nude body with a giggle, on my way out the door.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-66026504829416754952010-01-24T12:31:00.000-08:002010-01-24T13:19:26.283-08:00Turning a Gay Man StraightI still remember the phone call that changed my life; the call which set off a flurry of unfortunate events and sent my life into a tailspin. It was my friend Tommy on the other line, and by the breathless way he was talking, I knew he had big news for me.<br />
<br />
“I’m getting married,” he told me. I could envision him literally beaming through the phone lines. “And I want you to be my Maid of Honor.”<br />
<br />
“I’d be honored to be your Maid of Honor!” I answered him laughing. “Brent is a lucky man.”<br />
<br />
Tom was gay and single. He was the 7th member of our tiny troupe of friends, and he had always been the odd man out; the third wheel as it were. The rest of the six were in pairs. Tom had been searching for love since I met him, but he could never find the right guy. I was thrilled to see him so happy.<br />
<br />
We had all met his betrothed, of course. Young, handsome and boyish, Brent was the life of the party. He loved to drink, he loved to laugh, and he loved to shock. Our first impressions of him were pretty good; he wasn’t shy in the slightest, and had us all in stitches in the first hour that we met him. He was loud, flamboyant, and quick witted. I thought they made a good pair.<br />
<br />
Brent asked my boyfriend to stand up for him as Best Man. He had only just met him, of course, but he explained that all of his friends were on the other side of the country. He had come to San Francisco on a vacation; he had long been curious about the Castro District of San Francisco, and he came out for a fortnight and an adventure. But he would never use his return ticket home, as it turned out, because when he met Tommy in a gay bar one night, it was love at first sight. And least that’s the story they loved to tell, while holding hands and smiling. They ended up framing his return ticket and later hung it in their marital home.<br />
<br />
The marriage took place on Twin Peaks. A perch high above the ivory buildings of San Francisco, it has a panoramic view that rivals any other place in the city. On a clear day, which their wedding day was, it can be positively magical.<br />
<br />
I wore a black sequin gown and white orchids. Brent was very insistent as to what I should wear, and as I got to know him more, it seemed he was always trying to dress me. He loved picking out clothes for me, but he often went with six inch high heels and a dress befitting a Diva. His choices were never really my style, but when I was with him, it always felt like I was playing, and when it came to clothes, I felt as though I were playing dress up. When he wanted black sequins on his wedding day, I didn’t even blink, and bought the dress he asked me to buy. I was sipping on cold champagne, staring out into the view when the first sequin fell off of that dress. By days end it would have completely disintegrated right off of my body.<br />
<br />
The wedding went well. Brent and Tom wore white tuxedos with purple orchid leis. They wrote their own vows and both shed tears as they made promises to each other that should have lasted a lifetime. My boyfriend and I stood at their sides, while the rest of the wedding party fanned out in front of us.<br />
<br />
I remember a tourist bus pulling into the parking lot. In a moment we could hear feverish shouts from its inhabitants; “It’s a gay wedding! Oh my GOD! We ARE in San Francisco,” they bellowed, when suddenly dozens of flash bulbs began blinding us. When I stared out into the sea of faces watching, all I could see were cameras everywhere. I felt for a moment as if we were movie stars surrounded by the paparazzi.<br />
<br />
Following the ceremony, we bid our adieus. Brent and Tom had rented a limousine for the rest of the day, and Brent had made it clear to everyone that the Newlyweds wanted to leave directly after the wedding with only my boyfriend and me, for an afternoon and night of drinking and revelry. “I just want the four of us,” Brent said over and over as others tried to join our fun. And in a moment we had made our getaway, and the four of us were speeding down the hill toward the city, pouring champagne and laughing.<br />
<br />
Our first stop was the Top of the Mark, the famous restaurant and bar that turns slowly like a planet on its axis, for stunning and ever changing 360 degree views. When I got out of the limo at that first stop, I noticed the seat was covered in sequins. “I think my dress is falling apart,” I said laughing. But that didn’t stop me at the Mark, nor did it stop me at the half a dozen or so bars we visited after.<br />
<br />
Our last stop was to be the Castro, for a drink at the very bar where Tom and Brent met. When I climbed out of the limo, the seat was covered in sequins. The driver was incensed; he began sweeping the shiny circles from the back with a noticeable grumble. “Damn it,” he mumbled under his breath, shooting dagger looks in my direction. “You’re making a mess,” he told me.<br />
<br />
“My dear,” Brent said in his lowest baritone, “your entire rear end is now exposed.” And it was true. There was nothing left of my dress behind me except a few bare threads. “Thank god I’m wearing underwear,” I said as I laughed out of sheer embarrassment. Brent immediately wrapped me in his tuxedo jacket, and told the limo to rush us to his house. There he gave me a pair of jeans, and let me to continue to wear the tuxedo jacket. It seemed he always wanted to take care of me. And soon the party made its way to Uncle Bert’s Saloon, in the heart of the Castro District.<br />
<br />
Brent and Tom were the toast of the town that night in the gay district of San Francisco. They seemed to epitomize the dreams of many a lonely gay man in that town; men that were sick of the rather sordid and prolific sexual encounters that many of them enjoyed; one night stands that went on nightly into infinity, without the love and commitment they craved. Tom and Brent were happy and healthy; robust and obviously in love, and their union seemed to give hope to so many. I was welcomed into their community with open arms; and it was a neighborhood I would end up spending a lot of time in.<br />
<br />
We had a grand time on their wedding day. I still remember the moment when Brent left the bar briefly and when he returned, he had roses for me. This was a gesture that he would repeat many times in the future; whenever we were all out together he’d leave and bring me back flowers and gifts. “Are you trying to make me look bad?” my boyfriend would joke, who didn’t make these gestures toward me nearly often enough. And in truth, it did make him look bad, because I so obviously enjoyed the attention. But all of it was in good fun. No one at first raised so much of an eyebrow of Brent’s fondness of me. He was gay, after all, and we were nothing more than friends.<br />
<br />
The wedding day came and went, but Brent’s gestures toward me didn’t stop with flowers and gifts; he worked overtime to befriend me. He would call me constantly, and he continually suggested we spend a day alone together. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough at first, and I resisted his many requests, but slowly he wore me down. <br />
<br />
At the time, I had every Tuesday off from work, and it eventually became our ritual to spend that day together. I would drive into the city, pick Brent up at their Twin Peaks apartment, and we’d spend the day in the Castro at the bars.<br />
<br />
I really had no idea that Brent was an alcoholic at the time. I knew he drank a lot, and it took me a long while to get used to the idea of plunking myself on a bar stool at nine in the morning and ordering my first drink. But I followed his lead, and this is what we would do; we’d do shots of hard liquor and we would drink all day and all night, roaming from bar to bar, and getting ourselves in all kinds of trouble.<br />
<br />
The community loved me. I was known everywhere by name, and they’d call out my name when I’d enter a venue and holler with joy. The two of us had become the life of the party; we would dance, sing, engage with everyone, and fully participate in their worlds. At one place, they named a sandwich after us. At another they’d have our drinks made before we even ordered them. The lesbians wanted to kiss me, and the boys wanted to do my hair. I can’t tell you how many times I sat in one of those bars, my hair all rolled up in curlers, with several boys fussing around me with brushes and bobby pins. We had become quite popular.<br />
<br />
Tuesdays seemed endless, and for good reason. Our days together would stretch out into nearly 24 hour marathons of drinking, misbehaving, and carousing. We would find ourselves in all sorts of dastardly situations; we found ourselves in the middle of sex, drugs, and just about everything in between. Some of the things I saw at that time in my life I couldn’t possibly repeat here, but it all fascinated me. Our times together became increasingly wilder, and we’d stay up later and later. Eventually, we’d crawl back to Brent’s house at dawn, still giggling and carrying on.<br />
<br />
Tom would just shake his head when he’d see us walking in at 5 in the morning. “I’m getting up for work,” he would say to us as we stumbled in the door. “Instead of me making up a bed for Cathy, why don’t you both just sleep in our bed for a few hours?” he would suggest.<br />
<br />
And that is what we would do. We would get into bed together and sleep for an hour or two, before I’d jump up and head off to work.<br />
<br />
My boyfriend became increasingly annoyed by this growing alliance between Brent and me. I would write off his concerns as hogwash; there was nothing to be jealous of, the man was gay for goodness sake. I would tell him he was being ridiculous, and I’d look forward to the next Tuesday with increasing anticipation.<br />
<br />
Brent kissed everyone, so when he began kissing me, I didn’t think much of it. Fueled by alcohol and fun, we would often kiss; sometimes even driving up to Twin Peaks where their wedding took place to smooch. I was kissing a gay man after all; a man who would kiss strangers right in front of his husband. Tom never seemed to care; he would only laugh at his antics. I believed it all was perfectly innocent.<br />
<br />
Months later, the four of us decided to take a trip together to Vermont, to Brent’s home town. It wasn’t until that trip that I began to wonder if Brent’s flirtations toward me meant much more than I had thought. His friends and family treated me more like his wife than they treated Tom like his husband. It was as if they all knew that I was going to be Brent’s next victim, even before I did. Because they knew him, and they knew his patterns; and they knew he’d chosen me to circle like a hungry hawk after its prey.<br />
<br />
But my life didn’t fall apart until we returned to California.<br />
<br />
Tom and Brent had a party at their house, which my boyfriend and I attended. The party began to thin out, one by one as parties do, but we were having such a good time, I didn’t want to leave. Tom suggested we stay the night, and eventually both Tom and my boyfriend took to their beds, leaving only Brent and I up and alone.<br />
<br />
We didn’t do anything bad that night. I have a vague recollection of us playing horsey. We were both wearing bathrobes and Brent took the rope of his robe and wrapped it around my neck, like a halter. He was standing up with his robe untied, and I was on my hands and knees in front of him, with the rope around my neck, when my boyfriend came into the room.<br />
<br />
He didn’t say a word. He got dressed, and with a slam of the door, left me there.<br />
<br />
Not for even a minute did I really believe this was the end of our relationship. I loved my boyfriend more than I could possibly love anyone; what we had was rich and deep. This alliance with Brent was just for laughs; it was a distraction and nothing more. Besides, my boyfriend and I had been together more than 16 years, and when you reach those kinds of milestones you know it’s for life. I believed it was for life with all of my heart. But shockingly my relationship did end that night.<br />
<br />
There were phone calls and tears; promises and regrets. But he left the key to my house on my kitchen table, and he told me it was over. I don’t think it really would have been, but I believed it at the time. I was so distraught, I asked Brent to run off to Mexico with me.<br />
<br />
Within three hours of making the decision, Brent and I were sitting in an airplane awaiting take-off to Cabo San Lucas for 18 days. We didn’t tell a single soul we were going, except for my boss whom I called from the airport.<br />
<br />
If I hadn’t run off to Mexico, I’m sure my boyfriend and I would have found our way back to each other. But that little trip sealed the deal. No one knew where we had gone; Tom came home, discovered Brent gone, and being the sleuth that he is, he hit redial on the last number we called from their phone. It was Mexican Airlines. When no one had seen or heard from either of us for days, word spread like wildfire that we’d gone off to Mexico.<br />
<br />
When I think back to that trip, I can still smell our cheap hotel; I can still hear the thump of the music playing; I can still smell the odor of enchiladas, tequila, and exhaust fumes. I can still remember the horror as it dawned on me at last that Brent was a raging alcoholic.<br />
<br />
Brent went on a bender for 18 days, the likes of which no one has ever seen. We would take a boat every morning to a bar that was on an island, and the bar owners would scream “Borracho” as he got off the boat and headed toward the bar. Borracho means ‘drunk’ but Brent was proud of his title and began referring to himself that way. <br />
<br />
When we returned from Mexico, Brent moved in with me. Tom didn’t want him back, and I had broken my boyfriend’s heart. It felt as though we had no one but each other, and out of need more than anything else, we became a couple. I began to wake up in a nightmare that would last six years.<br />
<br />
I’ll never forget our first visit to Uncle Bert’s, our favorite bar in the Castro. We approached the door, chatting happily, when the bartender came out from around the bar and ran up to the door. He shoved his hand in my face. “Brent can go in,” he told me. “But you’ll have to wait here.”<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?” I said, still laughing, and pushing his hand down. I assumed he was joking and tried to go around him. He grabbed both of my shoulders and pushed me backwards. “What are you doing?” I said, growing angry.<br />
<br />
I looked behind him and noticed something had changed about the dart board that I had seen so many times hanging above the bar. I squinted in its direction, trying to make out an image that had been placed in the center of the dart board. <br />
<br />
The picture on the dartboard was me.<br />
<br />
As of that day, I was blacklisted from the community. Brent would argue with them loudly, saying that if anyone should understand prejudice, it should be the gay community. And aren’t they now ostracizing us because we’re straight? We had many heated discussions on the streets of the Castro, but I was no longer welcome there. It took me years to be able to return and not be noticed.<br />
<br />
From that point onward, my life only endured. The idea of saddling up to a bar and drinking all day sickened me. I found myself living with a full-fledged alcoholic, which is a story unto itself.<br />
<br />
It is interesting to me how we can look back on our lives and see the precise moment we went around a bad corner. I never got back what I lost that summer, but my life moved on from there. It was a chapter where everything that I knew I trusted blew apart in smithereens, as though hit by a bomb.<br />
<br />
For years, I felt that episode had been the biggest mistake of my life. I had made so many mistakes; my behavior was selfish and I hurt so many people. But whenever I’d share the sad saga with people I met, they weren’t interested in my pain or my regrets. They weren't interested in the pain I caused, or what I had learned. They were really only interested in one thing.<br />
<br />
It always began the same; they’d stare at me as if I had some kind of magical power; as if I were a Siren of unbelievable proportions. I would begin to feel they were no longer listening to my story; they only had one thing on their minds. And staring at me with a creepy look of admiration and awe, they’d bring the entire relationship down to one question. “What’s your secret?” they would titter.<br />
<br />
“My secret?” I’d ask.<br />
<br />
“How did you turn a gay man straight?” they’d ask me. I would only smile in response and stare down at the ground. <br />
--------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<span style="background-color: lime; color: red;">If you have a comment to make, please feel free to make one below. And if you enjoyed what you read, please follow me by pushing the "Groupies" button on the far left. Thanks for visiting!</span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-79147673311365749802010-01-02T14:54:00.000-08:002010-01-03T09:42:50.853-08:00The New Year Good-byeIt had been a great New Years, and I faced the prospect of returning to work with my usual dread. My thoughts were still wrapped up in tinsel; my memories were lit up with party hats and noise makers, and it felt nearly impossible to leave the brilliant fireworks of the season behind me. January is always a tough month for those who do accounting work, and each New Year I would find myself despising the ledgers that called me back and extinguished the festive lights of the holidays. And this January was no different. <br />
<br />
As I headed to work that morning, I felt depressed. But the last thing I expected on that winter dawn was that death was coming to my day. But death was indeed coming; with its bony fingers, it was scratching the back of my neck, warning me of its presence.<br />
<br />
I found an empty space in front of my office and parked, and then I looked up at my office window and sighed. Because while January is a time I most wanted to hibernate in the comfort of my heaters and quilts, it was also the busiest time for me at work. The year had ended, and it was time to send out W4’s, 1099’s, and begin the arduous task of closing out the fiscal year. There were accounts to close, journal transactions to be entered, and new books to open. And that morning as I arrived at work, I felt like I was a helium balloon that had just been popped, and all of my joy was hissing out like a sorrowful gas. It was Monday morning.<br />
<br />
I got straight to work. It has always been my goal to get out W2’s and 1099’s as soon as humanly possible. It has also been my belief that employees have the right to know, once the year ends, what their prior year earnings were so that they might plan for their taxes. But I have also always done them first thing for selfish reasons. I had learned over the years that the longer I would delay this task, the more phone calls and questions I would receive from my co-workers. So, in part, I cranked out the forms quickly as a way to give myself a little more peace; as a way to keep the hoards of curious and anxious employees at a distance.<br />
<br />
It was a busy morning. I spent hours that day reconciling the 1099 accounts and I finally began printing the forms out on the printer. This particular task always filled me with stress; because if the forms moved even a millimeter, they would print incorrectly and render the rest useless. I stood by the printer, my heart in my throat, and watched the forms like a hungry cat; I pawed at them from time to time to guide them in the right direction, and I was ready to pounce on them should something go terribly awry. But on that morning, I had few problems, and soon enough I was stuffing the forms into envelopes and was ready to distribute them.<br />
<br />
At the time I worked for a Real Estate office, and most of the employees were Independent Contractors, who worked strictly on the commissions they received from selling homes. Only the office workers were on payroll, so when I produced the 1099’s that morning, the vast majority of them were for people I worked with every day. My office was on the second floor, and I had a little balcony, and if I peered over I could see the entire ground floor of the office and an overview of all of the agents in their cubicles. Rather than wasting money on stamps, I began passing the 1099 forms to my co-workers as I spotted them, running up and down the stairs to bring them their envelope. I felt like the Grim Reaper; because although people wanted these forms as quickly as possible, they didn’t like receiving them. As the Accountant, I have always noticed the looks on faces as I hand out the forms; it’s a pinched, barely discernable expression of scorn and dread.<br />
<br />
Directly below my balcony sat a nice man named Rob. Since his office was squarely below mine, I often would stare at the various pictures and things that he hung on the walls of his cubicle. He had children, of that I was sure; as I often saw childish scrawls in bright colors tacked beside his computer. And I would also peruse his photographs and the bits and scraps that made up his life. He seemed like a kind fellow; a sentimental fellow. He was always supremely polite to me.<br />
<br />
On this morning as I was staring down, I saw Rob scurry by, and rush into his cubicle. I watched him as he hurriedly removed his coat and I noticed he looked unusually anxious to begin his day. He might have just sold a house, I mused to myself, because he looked particularly harried. <br />
<br />
“Happy New Year Rob,” I yelled down from my perch.<br />
<br />
He looked up like a skittish rat, obviously unnerved by my outcry. “Yes,” he said, slowly smiling. “Happy New Year to you too.”<br />
<br />
“Morning. I finished the 1099’s,” I called back. “I’m going to toss it down there; are you ready to catch it?”<br />
<br />
I saw his face fill with a slight twinge of pain. “Those are what we need to file taxes, right?” he asked me. <br />
<br />
My face scrunched up without my even realizing it. I was frankly a bit surprised that he didn’t seem to know what a 1099 was. “Yes,” I called down. “Let me know if you need any help deciphering it,” I finished, smiling. He nodded, and I flew the envelope toward him like a paper plane.<br />
<br />
He didn’t thank me. They never thanked me. They unknowingly treated me more like I was a cop handing out speeding tickets. At best, they seemed to accept my New Years gifts with polite loathing.<br />
<br />
He caught the envelope and looked up and nodded. I smiled then returned to my work.<br />
<br />
I don’t know how many hours had passed, but I had been working steadily all day, completing one dreaded task after another, going as fast as I could so that I might be finished with it. But when I looked up, the sky out of my office window had gone from light to the darkest black. It was winter, and the days were shorter, but I suddenly felt as though it were the middle of the night. I looked over my balcony, and noticed that Rob’s cubicle was empty, and then as I allowed my eyes to wander around the entire ground floor, I noticed that most of the agents had gone home for the day, and only a few lamps were burning. I had decided it was time to pack it up and head home, just as my phone began to ring.<br />
<br />
I answered with my usual nonchalant greeting; the name of the company followed by my own name. I was tired, and didn’t feel like dealing with anything more that day. “May I help you?”<br />
<br />
“Hey, this is Rob,” the voice on the other end said. He sounded frantic and hurried, and he was strangely out of breath. It alarmed me a bit.<br />
<br />
“Evening Rob,” I said, listening with only half an ear. I was busy turning off my computer and shutting everything down for the night. I was ready to go home.<br />
<br />
“Okay, can you explain this 1099 to me? What exactly is it.” His voice was rough; accusatory.<br />
<br />
“Well,” I said, stopping to grab a pen and begin doodling, “it’s a report of your gross income for the year. When you do your taxes, you’ll take this number, and depending on many factors, such as dependents and deductions, you will use it to determine what taxes you owe. I assume you’ve been paying quarterly?”<br />
<br />
There was a pause. “Paying WHAT quarterly.” He almost yelled it, and his voice scared me a little.<br />
<br />
“Your taxes? It depends on your income, but most Independent Contractors have to pay their taxes quarterly.”<br />
<br />
“And how in the hell am I supposed to know that?” he asked me. He was getting angrier. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before now?”<br />
<br />
I didn’t like his tone, and I pushed back. “Listen Rob, I’m not in charge of your income taxes. I’m in charge of the company’s income taxes. Your income taxes are your responsibility. What did you do last year? Is this your first year as an Independent Contractor?”<br />
<br />
He let out a long seething sigh. “Yes. My taxes have always been taken out in the past. I thought you were taking my taxes out.”<br />
<br />
“No, that’s not how it works with commission,” I answered him. “You pay your own taxes. You’re not technically an employee. You get all of your money gross.”<br />
<br />
There was a pause. “GOD DAMN IT,” he screamed into the phone.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me?”<br />
<br />
“IF I HAVE TO PAY TAXES ON THIS, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH GOD DAMN TAX I OWE? I DON’T HAVE THIS KIND OF MONEY. I’VE USED THE MONEY I’VE EARNED HERE TO PUT GOD DAMN FOOD ON MY TABLE. I DON’T HAVE ANY SAVINGS. I THOUGHT I WAS PAYING MY GOD DAMN TAXES. GOD DAMN YOU!”<br />
<br />
I was becoming increasingly annoyed by his attitude. “Rob, this isn’t MY fault,” I said softly, trying to steady my voice. “I’m sorry this came as a surprise to you.” I noticed my hands were shaking. <br />
<br />
“OH WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO DIE,” he screamed in the phone, and then I heard a deafening click as he hung up on me.<br />
<br />
I sat there for a moment dumbfounded as his voice still rang in my ears. When I looked down, I saw the doodles I had created while talking to Rob; I had pushed the pen so hard that I had made holes in the paper. My doodles were overly dark and angry. The way he had talked to me had shaken me to the core, and as I gathered up my belongings and shut off my lamp, my heart filled to the brim with nagging sorrow. I knew that I wanted to cry. I knew I hated my job. I knew that I hated January. And that night as I got into bed, I tossed and turned for hours, going over every last word that he said to me, wondering how I would face him the following morning.<br />
<br />
But I wouldn’t have to face Rob.<br />
<br />
When I awoke the next dawn, I dreaded going to work even more than I usually did. I decided that I would give myself a little treat so that I would feel better, so I went in a little early so that I could enjoy a cappuccino before work at the coffee shop across the street. On this morning it was bustling with patrons, and I spotted at least five of my co-workers talking excitedly in the corner, their eyes dancing wildly, their voices frenzied.<br />
<br />
I smiled hello and walked toward the counter to get my coffee. But the group waved me over; it was apparent they had something urgent to talk with me about.<br />
<br />
“What’s going on?” I asked as I approached them.<br />
<br />
“Did you hear about Rob?” they asked, almost in unison.<br />
<br />
I felt a black shadow pass over my heart. “What about Rob?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“He killed himself last night,” was the answer.<br />
<br />
It was one of those moments that time seems to stand still. It was difficult to believe what I was hearing; I almost felt as if I were dreaming. I was stunned into silence, and couldn’t speak. The group of agents continued to talk. “Apparently he left the office last night and killed himself. He never spoke to anyone after leaving here last night.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t want to say it, but I had to say it. “Yes, he did. I talked to him last night.”<br />
<br />
The group of agents stared at me, their collective eyes as wide as saucers. I heard a gasp. They wanted every detail; every last word that was uttered. But I didn’t want to talk about it; it felt strangely private. I knew now that I was the one who had witnessed his grief; his final hour. I knew what I had heard on the phone the previous night was his last good-bye.<br />
<br />
But I also felt a horrific sense of guilt creeping over my extremities. I felt somehow responsible, as though it could have been my words, and my actions, which pushed him over the edge. Or at the very least, I knew that in those final seconds before he took his life, it was me who he blamed.<br />
<br />
I felt connected to him, and strangely protective of him. My throat was dry. But the group continued to hound me for details. “The family will want to know what he said to you,” they scolded me, trying to coerce the truth out of me. “And probably the police too. Because if you have a clue as to why he did this, you have to tell. So you might as well tell us. What did he say? Come on. It’s important.”<br />
<br />
Their voices were shrill, like cackling hens.<br />
Nosey bitches. <br />
I felt sick.<br />
But I couldn’t get the words out that cold January morning. For just a few more hours I was going to allow this man his privacy. I was going to allow him to rest in peace.<br />
<br />
Instead, I was treated to a diatribe of what had occurred. <br />
<br />
He must have been at home when he called me. There were no cell phones back then.<br />
<br />
After he spoke with me he gathered several necessary items from his house, and then packed them into his car. He drove for over an hour, to a remote cabin that his family owned.<br />
<br />
But he didn’t park in the driveway of the cabin. He parked about a mile away, and left his car hidden in a grove of trees. His car couldn’t be spotted on the road; he made sure that no one driving by could see that he was there, and surprise him.<br />
<br />
He walked a mile to the cabin. And once inside, he gave himself the triple cocktail of death. First he swallowed a bottle of pills. Then he covered his head with a plastic bag. And if that wasn’t enough, he took a gun and blew his brains all over the gnarled walls of his family log cabin.<br />
<br />
There would be no mistake. He took every possible precaution. This wasn’t a cry for help, a dramatic gesture; a plea for someone to find him. He made sure he would die. Triple sure.<br />
<br />
When my co-workers finished telling me the story, I could taste the poison. I could feel the plastic sticking to my sweating face. I could smell the gun powder.<br />
<br />
I was not self-absorbed enough to believe I caused this man to take his life that evening. Nor did I think his suicide was my fault. But I do believe I might have been the final straw that snapped the back of the proverbial camel. And for that reason, I have always felt connected to him; it has always felt as though my left hand holds his, six feet under the damp earth, and I touch his corpse with compassion.<br />
<br />
On a cold January evening, when the year was brand new again and ripe with possibilities, and when smiling people were still wishing each other a Happy New Year as they passed by on the street, this man let a monetary reality determine the value of his life.<br />
<br />
I am still saddened that he felt that the numbers on that form were of greater value than his own soul. Because I am assured that whatever that number was, it was only a fraction of his worth.<br />
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<span style="background-color: blue; color: magenta;"><strong>Please feel free to leave comments below, and if you enjoy the blog become a fan by pushing the "following button." Y'all come back now, ya hear?</strong></span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-73261430122701194102009-12-11T11:30:00.000-08:002009-12-11T12:24:24.745-08:00A Christmas StoryWhen I was 14, I worked in a convalescent hospital.<br />
<br />
I was too young to legally work, but the word about town was that St. Catherine’s was so desperate for Candy Stripers that they would look the other way. All of my friends jumped on this opportunity, and the best part of that job was that we were all together.<br />
<br />
I remember the staff asking me for my social security number, and I had no idea what that was. “I’ll have to call you back,” I told them, then ran to ask my big sister. “Just make it up,” she counseled me. “It’s three numbers, then two, then four.” Her words were reassuring, and I got the job.<br />
<br />
My friends were all hired as Candy Stripers, and wore red and white striped pinafores, like candy canes. Candy Stripers were underage girls hired to attend to all of the patient’s needs. To me, the name “Candy Striper” and the duties they performed had a ring of prostitution about it, and I didn’t like the idea at all. Not to mention, I have always been squeamish about nursing. I don’t have that nurture bone that makes it palatable to clean up feces and sponge bodies; and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. <br />
<br />
So instead, I asked if I could work in the kitchen. And I was the only person who did.<br />
<br />
I’ll never forget my first day of work. I was met at the door with a time card, and was shown how to “punch in.” It was very mechanical; the whir of the machine as it spit out my card with a blue ink time stamp upon it. It felt robotic. I felt robotic. <br />
<br />
The smell was overwhelming. It was a noxious odor that was a combination of medicine and vomit; cleanser and urine. I was led down the hall to sign my paperwork, and I was suddenly accosted by a patient; an elderly lady who was sneering and hissing at me as I walked by. Suddenly she grabbed the back of my collar and pulled me toward her. She stood there posed like a fragile gorilla; arms outstretched as if about to pounce, exposed white legs covered in blue veins, her mouth angry. “For you, my dear,” she said in a guttural malevolent way, and then she squatted over my shoes and urinated.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure if I was more horrified or terrified.<br />
<br />
“The bathroom is right there,” said the nurse who was leading me toward my destination. “You can clean your shoes.” She was so matter-of-fact, that I wanted to scream, is that all I get? That woman peed on me! I wanted sympathy; but there would be none of that.<br />
<br />
I rounded the corner to the bathroom and was stopped by another elderly woman in the hallway. “Last payment on the welfare check,” she told me. I nodded impatiently, and she continued. “Yep, it’s the very last payment. The LAST payment of the welfare check.” In the coming months, I would learn that this was all she said. Over and over. All day long.<br />
<br />
Once my shoes were clean and my paperwork signed, which included my false social security number, I was led to the kitchen. I was introduced to my boss; a very tidy woman, with pert lips and a perpetually tight neck. She was a nutritionist; and she went on to instruct me on how to prepare the food. Before each meal, the carts would be wheeled into the kitchen, which were bright silver and all metal. The carts were bunk bed style, and came with about fifty trays per cart in rows which went about as high as I could reach. On each tray was a patient’s name, their food requests, requirements and restrictions. Each meal I would aid her in preparation; the regular patients got things like meatloaf, mash potatoes and frozen peas. A few could even request wine with their dinner, which was served in tiny wine bottles with a plastic wine glass. But many patients couldn’t eat this or that, and we had to prepare a variety of dishes. The worst were the Mechanical Soft patients, who could only drink liquid. For those patients, I would normally just throw the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas in a blender and serve it to them as a meaty milkshake.<br />
<br />
My other job was to wash the dishes. I would stand before the industrialized size stainless steel sinks, and a steady stream of trays would come toward me, moving on a conveyer belt. Each plate was capped off with a white marbled plastic lid. I would remove the lid, wash that and the plate under hot water, and then put it into a big washer that would slide it through like a car wash. It was hot, and I would always sweat as I performed this particular task. I didn’t so much mind doing the dishes, but the patients would often leave me little surprises under the white marbled lids. A pile of feces was their favorite gift to me. But a pool of vomit was an equally popular donation. <br />
<br />
When I finished with the dishes, I would have to count all the trays, and if I was short, I’d have to roam the hospital and look for them. I remember entering one woman’s room, and I was pleased when I spotted the one missing tray and the white marbled lid on her bed stand. “Good evening Mrs. Wilson,” I said, as I walked in to retrieve it.<br />
<br />
“Good evening,” she said in a wicked voice that made me shudder. Then she pulled up her white nightgown, and began extracting bits of salad from her vagina and tossing it in my direction. She was screaming pejoratives as she did this; it was like a scene from the Exorcist. I ran from that room as if I was a soldier running from shrapnel, ducking the pellets that were flung toward my head and the few that landed square on my cheek.<br />
<br />
I thought of it like an insane asylum. And I hated every single second of every single day there.<br />
<br />
But I had it easy compared to my friends, who were forced to deal with the patients all day long, as well as wash the bodies of the dead, and prepare them for pick up. My best friend begged me to stay in the room with her the first time she did it; as she was so frightened. I’ll never forget the thud as she turned the dead man over to wash him, and revealed his back which looked like raw red meat, and was covered in bruises, scabs and blood. “HE’S ROTTING!” I almost choked. The smell was putrid. “WHAT IS THAT?” I screamed. But she knew what it was, as part of her job was to give sponge baths, and had seen them regularly. <br />
<br />
“Bed sores,” she whispered. I was often educated during my tenure there. And the sound of ambulances in the parking lot was the lullaby by which I worked.<br />
<br />
There were three levels of patients there. Group One consisted of patients who were almost comatose; sitting in wheel chairs or lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and without any recognition of the world around them. We rarely needed to tend to them at all; only the doctors and nurses fed and bathed them. Group Two were the patients that the Candy Stripers and I would deal with the most; the ones who hid salad in their crotch and like to urinate on young girl’s shoes. They were by far the most difficult, and it was a regular occurrence to see one of the Candy Stripers in the lunch room in tears.<br />
<br />
But it was Group Three that broke my heart every single day.<br />
<br />
The patients in Group Three, to me, didn’t look as if they belonged there. They looked like someone’s jolly grandmother or grandfather; wise and lucid, laughing with crinkly eyes that would light up anyone’s soul. Whether it would through circumstance or poverty, the reason they lived there I never knew. And most disturbing to me, was that few of them ever had visitors from the outside; and it would always be a big deal if they did. “Mrs. White is having her daughter here today,” I would be told. “Put some flowers on her tray, would you?” It always made me happy when the visitors came, but these occasions were rare.<br />
<br />
Group Three would dine in the dining hall, which was right outside the kitchen where I spent most of my day.<br />
<br />
It was Christmas Eve and I’d been forced to work. I remember being resentful, and I had done everything humanly possible to be excused. I would need to work until 9 p.m., and would miss many of the festive Eve traditions that my family would do at home. But the management made it clear; either work that day, or lose my job. So I went.<br />
<br />
I remember that the dinner was a little more special that evening. The nutritionist and I roasted many turkeys in the gigantic ovens, and I was busy preparing stuffing and cranberry sauce. They had piped Christmas Carols through the entire building, and I was singing as I worked; and I was determined to still find my spirit in a situation that was less than optimal for me. We had dozens of pecan pies ordered; and they came in piles in big pink boxes. This wouldn’t be so bad, I thought to myself.<br />
<br />
I remember swinging open the two sided kitchen doors and running into the dining room to set the table. I saw around the corner the community room, and I smiled to myself as I took in a moment to drink in the Christmas tree that the staff had put there. But it wasn’t the tree that kept my attention; rather it was the sight I saw below the tree.<br />
<br />
I saw two of the Group Three patients sitting in their wheel chairs in front of the tree, holding hands. I had never seen any physical interaction between the patients whatsoever; and the sight of it held me spellbound and curious.<br />
<br />
I dropped the pile of napkins I was carrying and walked over to where they sat. They were both smiling broadly; their eyes crinkling like Santa Claus; and they were holding hands so tight that their fingers were red.<br />
<br />
“Merry Christmas,” I said, tapping the man quickly on his hand.<br />
<br />
“Merry Christmas, my dear!” he answered enthusiastically. “And what a magical night it is!” I looked around at the gray room, and breathed in the familiar rancid smell, and could barely muster a smile. I couldn’t fathom how this man could be happy; not in the situation that he was in.<br />
<br />
“Yes, it is,” I answered weakly.<br />
<br />
“And I’ve got my best girl at my side,” he said, squeezing and shaking the woman’s hand in the air. “And she’s my Christmas Sugar Plum.” With all of his might, he struggled and leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips. He was shaking almost violently as he did so. She giggled like a girl and laid her head on his shoulder. “Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to sit next to Mrs. Roth at supper,” he continued. “And it was love at first sight, I tell you. Love at first sight.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, you do go on, Mr. Jenkins,” the woman giggled, snuggling into his white issued nightgown.<br />
<br />
“I’ll shout it to the rooftops Mrs. Roth!” he yelled, and then laughed so robust he could have been Santa Claus himself. I smiled but neither of them were looking at me; they only had eyes for each other. Without a sound, I went back into the dining room and continued setting the table.<br />
<br />
But it wasn’t the last I’d hear from Mr. Jenkins that evening.<br />
<br />
I was preparing the trays for Group Three which be served in the dining room that evening. I always had to check each patient’s card, which spelled out their meal requests and restrictions, to make certain they were given what they wanted, and were not given what they couldn’t have. On Mr. Jenkins card, under the category for alcohol, he had circled the word “wine” in thick red felt pen, about a dozen times, until the circle of urgent red took up half the card. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was a big red arrow pointing to the circle. Just to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. It made me laugh.<br />
<br />
But I was sad, too, as Mr. Jenkins was not allowed any alcohol in his diet. “Mr. Jenkins is requesting wine tonight,” I said to the nutritionist.<br />
<br />
“Well, he knows he’s not allowed alcohol. That is the worst possible thing for his condition. Go out and tell him that he can’t have any,” she instructed me.<br />
<br />
I walked despondently out of the kitchen and back to the Christmas tree where the happy couple still sat. I didn’t want to interrupt them again.<br />
<br />
“Mr. Jenkins,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. But you requested wine tonight and that is not on your diet. I just wanted to let you know we can’t give it to you.”<br />
<br />
I never expected what came next. <br />
<br />
He lingered for a few seconds more on his lady’s blushing face, and then turned to me with a look that meant business.<br />
<br />
“I want you to listen to me, dear, are you listening?” he said. His eyes pierced into mine.<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“I’m 86 years old. I have no living family or children. It is Christmas Eve. I am dying. I am in love. Are you listening?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
Then he motioned for me to come closer. He beckoned me with one bony finger, and continued to beckon me until my ear was right to his mouth. “So, if I want some god damn wine, I’ll have some god damn wine, do you hear me?”<br />
<br />
“I understand,” I answered. “But I’m not allowed. I can’t.”<br />
<br />
He took his hand and gripped my arm as tight as he could. “You CAN,” he said sternly. There was a pause. Then he whispered, with as much passion as I’ve ever heard in my life, “Please.” I stood up and stared into his eyes for several seconds. There was a world of conversation held captive in that stare; a monument of understanding.<br />
<br />
That night, I told my boss that Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins had requested to eat in the courtyard alone, rather than dine with the other patients in the Dining Hall. “They’ll freeze,” my boss said, in an annoyed tone. “But I don’t have time to argue. Take a couple of T.V. trays, will you, and wheel them out?”<br />
<br />
I nodded. <br />
<br />
Her annoyance at this request was like looking in a mirror, and my soul filled with guilt and remorse at how I had felt about these people since I began work there. They weren’t people to me. They were just problems. <br />
<br />
I chastised myself for my heartlessness. But just as quickly, I began to forgive myself. I knew I had distanced myself from feeling compassion, because down deep the entire place was more depressing than I had tools to bear. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel; the problem was, I felt too much. And it was time to give myself permission to feel.<br />
<br />
That night I wheeled Mrs. Roth and Mr. Jenkins to the chilly courtyard, which was strung up with Christmas lights. “You two will have dinner out here tonight, okay?” I said as I grabbed several blankets from the linen closet and draped them over both of them, so they were snuggled in together. They nodded enthusiastically.<br />
<br />
Then I brought them their trays and their roast turkey. I had carried the trays right from the kitchen, so there was no wine on the trays. When I put the trays down, Mr. Jenkins just stared at them. His disappointment was so palatable that it brought a lump to my throat. He looked up at me with eyes that screamed his anguish; eyes which asked me why. “I’ll be right back Mr. Jenkins,” was all I needed to say. I gave him a knowing look. He didn’t need to speak, he only nodded and smiled.<br />
<br />
I went back to the dining room and grabbed a full carafe of wine off one of the tables, along with two plastic wine glasses.<br />
<br />
I hurried down the hall, as if I was a burglar escaping the scene of a crime. My heart was in my throat as I rushed past the nurse’s station, carrying the carafe as low as I could so no one would see.<br />
<br />
When I reached the courtyard, they were kissing. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I waited for them to finish. I placed the wine carafe and glasses between the wheel chairs, beneath the blankets. “My shift is over, I’m going home. I hope you have a merry evening,” I said, winking at Mr. Jenkins.<br />
<br />
“Indeed we shall,” he said winking back. And then in a whisper he mouthed the words, “thank you.”<br />
<br />
When I walked out that evening, I worried for a moment, wondering what would happen when the inevitable discovery of the wine carafe occurred later that evening. I tried to comfort myself with the notion that perhaps it wouldn’t be noticed; that it would just be swept up with the rest of the dirty dishes, and carried into the kitchen without <strong>raising</strong> an eyebrow. But I also worried that when the wine carafe was found, I would be found out as well, and I would lose my job. But the worry only lasted a moment.<br />
<br />
I walked out of the hospital and stared into a night sky filled with Christmas stars. And suddenly I didn’t care. It had all been worth it. <br />
<br />
It was a Silent Night that night. All was calm, and all was very bright.<br />
-------------------------------------------------------<br />
<span style="background-color: #6aa84f; color: red;"><strong>If you like what you see, please "follow" me by pressing the following button on the left of the screen. And please feel free to leave comments below. Happy Holidays.</strong></span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-74425034221564946372009-12-01T14:32:00.000-08:002009-12-02T07:46:43.040-08:00Why I Believe in Santa ClausI have always been giddy about Christmas. Since the moment I realized that Christmas existed, the season has energized me in a way I can scarcely explain. For an entire month, I feel like a child with my nose pressed against the windowpane, staring into a snowy landscape of inexplicable joy.<br />
<br />
I know it doesn't fill me because of religion, or because of Paganism. Or because of the conglomeration of traditions and rituals that dozens of cultures bring to the holiday. Its roots spread out farther than the strongest tree, and each root contributes its own piece to a culmination that is different to so many people. There are countless cultures, faiths, ethnicities and societies that have contributed to the modern concept of Christmas, but that’s not why I love Christmas.<br />
<br />
I know it’s none of those things that make me love Christmas, but I do know it’s because of all of those reasons. I love the risqué and utterly hedonistic undertones that the Pagans lent us; both riotous and lusty, which still makes Christmas feel so merry. I love the reverence that the Church brought to us; the somber and haunting elegance, the Christmas Carols, and the undeniable charm. The magical, dark and joyous conglomeration of what Christmas is. Whatever the hell it is, I love it. And I believe the reason I love it, is the sense of wonderment and awe that was inspired in my tiny soul, when I was barely old enough to understand that Christmas existed. And that stupefaction, I believe, was inspired by my grandmother.<br />
<br />
My Grandmother was the Grand Dame of story telling.<br />
<br />
Gogo, as we called her, had a keen imagination. Until she died, she mesmerized us with long detailed stories about anything from her history to the fantastical. We were told about World War II in London, England; how she and my mother were so tired of spending their days in the dark, damp bomb shelters, or in their house with the curtains drawn, that one night they decided to brave the streets and go to the movie theater. That night, not only was the back of the theater bombed, but when they returned home, their house had been as well. “If we hadn’t gone to the movies that evening, you all wouldn’t be here, Duckies,” she’d explain in her thick cockney accent. And she would tell the story in such detail, that some nights I felt as if I had been there. I could smell the rancid margarine they were given to eat on rations, and I could taste the cold tea. I could hear the whistles of the bombs as they fell from the sky, and then the dreaded silence, only seconds before they detonated. I could feel the explosion all around me.<br />
<br />
But those aren’t the only stories that Gogo told. Gogo believed in the spiritual, the unexplained, the paranormal, and about everything else odd that you might imagine. And in turn, we believed it too. The combination of the fact that she believed in these things herself, combined with her breathtaking narrative, imprinted these ideas in our minds as truth.<br />
<br />
Gogo told us about poltergeists; an entity she really did believe in. When we’d be around her, strange things would always seem to be happening; things would disappear then reappear in the oddest places. It always frightened me, and sometimes I would cry. “Don’t worry Duckie,” she’d tell me. “The Poltergeists are mischievous, but they won’t hurt you. When you encounter one, just count your blessings, and let it bring you comfort. Because they give us proof that there is more to this world than we can imagine.”<br />
<br />
She would also tell us yarns about ghosts and being visited by her dead relatives; but this wasn’t fantasy, to her this was all true. “My brother just visited me in my bedroom,” she’d tell me. “Look ducky, you can still see the imprint on the blankets where he sat beside me. Don’t be silly, of course a dent that perfect could not be made any other way. When he sat, I could feel his weight, tugging at my top sheet. <br />
<br />
She told us once about a Flying Saucer which had flown right over her head, as she was sipping on tea on her porch. She described in dizzying detail every single facet of what she saw; the way the air smelled when it passed overhead, similar to that strange metallic smell right after a rain. She told us how its enormity covered the sky and appeared to eclipse the sun; she described how theforce of its velocity blew back her hair, and the wake of its tremendous wind nearly pushed her over. “Of course I didn’t imagine it, Ducky. I saw it as clearly as I see you right now.” <br />
<br />
Gogo also had out-of-body experiences. They always began in the twilight between sleep and awake, she explained, when her body would begin to violently shake. Suddenly she would hear a sort of a pop, and she’d find herself free of her physical restraints. She would rise slowly to the ceiling, until she could see every speck of dust and fragment of cobweb only inches from her eyes. Then after years of practice, she was able to push herself through the ceiling and into the world. Eventually she could go anywhere she wanted. “I visited my sister last night in England; I did you know. I could see the frock she was wearing; it was brown plaid cotton. She was making herself a cup of tea, and I kept touching her, and she would swat the air like a fly. This morning I called her, and I told her I liked her new brown dress, and she almost fell over, Duckies. Because she didn’t know how I knew.”<br />
<br />
She believed it all, and we did as well. So when she began to stretch the truth a little, and tell us stories about fairies, especially one little fairy named Joey who lived in our fireplace, I had no reason to doubt her. The stories she told us about Joey were as complicated and as full of imagery as any of stories. But she also would provide physical evidence that Joey existed; if one of our toys broke, for instance, all we needed to do was leave it in the fireplace for Joey to fix. And sure enough, when we awoke the next day, our damaged toys were good as new, and sitting in the fireplace.<br />
<br />
So when Gogo told us about Santa Claus, she did it in such a magical way it was clearly plausible. Santa was as real to me as Hitler was in World War II.<br />
<br />
We weren’t given the American version of Santa Claus. The corpulent white man in the cheap red suit wasn’t a part of my upbringing. Father Christmas was somebody that Charles Dickens might describe; a cross between a hippie, and the God of Wine, Bacchus. He was tall, gaunt; with long flowing hair. In fact, I think he had a little bit of Jesus in him. He wore a Victorian crown of mistletoe and holly; and he wore tattered velvet suits of red and green; his shoulders were dusted with perpetual snow. I preferred his solemn sweetness to the other Santa Claus’ obtuse jolliness. I loved his wise Victorian manner; I loved the winter plants that wound around his forehead; I loved the cane with which he walked.<br />
<br />
Of course we weren’t spared a single solitary incredible detail. How his leather boots were a bit charred, because he wore them too close to the fire. How he had a burn on his green velvet sleeve, from an accident with a bit of soot. How his brown satchel, tied up with brown twine, could hold enough presents for all the children in the world. And how, exactly, this sorcerer, this magical elf, possessed the powers that he did; and how Santa came to be.<br />
<br />
My grandmother would have never been so silly as to try and pass off a department store Santa as the real Santa. We would never have fallen for that rouse; we saw their plastic boots and synthetic beards, and we couldn’t fathom how other children believed such nonsense. Those charlatans, we were told, were just men hired by the stores to pose as Santa Claus, to sell merchandise. We also knew that the slightly drunken fool that appeared at various holiday parties wasn’t Santa either. Santa was dressed in real velvet and fur and leather; and he was an elf. No taller than four feet. He wouldn’t look like a man, she explained. He would look like a mythical creature; something we’d never seen before.<br />
<br />
But we would never see Santa. <br />
<br />
When we would ask her how she knew for sure that none of those imposters were the real Santa, she explained it was because no one had ever seen the real Santa. He existed only in legends and stories; passed down by elves and Santa himself. Even if you tried, you’d never catch a glimpse of the real Santa, because the moment you opened your eyes to try and catch him, he’d disappear. And this mystery made it all the more spectacular.<br />
<br />
Just as most of my friends were told, Santa came down the chimney and filled the stockings that the children had hung there on Christmas Eve. But in our house, Santa would come and bring them to our individual beds, and would lay them across our sleeping feet. Just knowing that Santa would be in my very bedroom that night was more excitement than my heart could stand.<br />
<br />
But the oddest tradition we had, was there was absolutely no sign of Christmas in the house when we went to bed on Christmas Eve. There wasn’t a tree; there wasn’t as much as a wreath or poinsettia. There was nothing; not a stitch of anything that would remind anyone that it was Christmas Eve. And when we hung our stockings in the bare room on the night before Christmas, it was a simple and strange event; almost haunting and unreal. The anticipation of it all would make my heart beat so fast, I could hardly catch my breath.<br />
<br />
But that was nothing compared to what it was like in the morning.<br />
<br />
We’d awaken to feel the weight of our laden stockings, which had been laid across our ankles. With every slight movement we’d make with our legs, the stocking would shift, and the paper on the packages would rustle and crunch. I would always reach down first with my eyes closed; I liked to peruse the contents of my stocking first utterly blind, with only my fingertips. It didn’t much matter what was in those packages; only that a magical elf had visited me in the night and left them. And when at last I would open my eyes to see the colorfully wrapped packages in Christmas colors, it felt as though a little fairy dust had been sprinkled on my shoulders.<br />
<br />
Then when all the presents were open, and I was sitting in bed surrounded by torn paper and presents, it was time to creep downstairs.<br />
<br />
Of course the reality was I was being knocked over by my older brother and sister. My brother would step on me to get downstairs first. But in my own mind, I was silently creeping; slowly; almost too afraid to take it all in.<br />
<br />
I was afraid to look, because as we slept, dreaming of sugar plums and the rest, something miraculous had happened. Something magical and unbelievable. <br />
<br />
The naked house which was devoid of any Christmas spirit had been transformed overnight. By fairies. There was fairy dust in front of the fireplace. There was fairy dust on the stairwell. There was fairy dust on the presents.<br />
<br />
A fully decorated tree had appeared as we slept, and was surrounded by every bit of garland, tinsel, trim, and Christmas joy that a child could possibly imagine. Everything sparkled and shimmied; lights danced everywhere, Christmas music filled the room, and the smell of mincemeat pie wafted from the kitchen. Santa had come. He’d really come. He’d really been here. And with the help of dozens of busy fairies, Christmas had come to our house.<br />
<br />
I hardly remember any of the presents I ever got, only a few stand out in my mind. What lingers is that feeling; that thrilling and enchanting joy, where I knew for one day that all I needed to do was believe, and I would discover that the world was truly a magical place, filled with miracles. <br />
<br />
Since that time, my life has taken many devilish turns. I wouldn’t say I’ve become jaded, but I’ve adopted a healthy wallop of cynicism over the years, and I am sometimes filled with doubt and mistrust. But when I see the first Christmas lights go up on my block, or when I sing Christmas carols or decorate the evergreen I just fetched in the cold, all of that goes away. I am suddenly that child again, with my nose pressed against the windowpane, staring into a snowy landscape of inexplicable joy. I am once again transported back to a time when I believed that life was both a marvel and a phenomenon; to a time when I trusted the world and everything and everyone in it. <br />
<br />
And that is why I love Christmas.<br />
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<span style="color: red;"><strong>If you enjoyed this, please follow me by pressing the "following" button on the left side of the blog. Also, please feel free to leave any comments below; they always make my day. And thank you for all of your wonderful past comments! <span style="color: #38761d;">Merry Christmas.</span></strong></span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-29351877998047969662009-11-18T15:00:00.000-08:002009-11-18T18:34:40.945-08:00Gun To My TempleI was fast asleep, dreaming the dreams of the innocent. I was 13 years old. <br />
<br />
But something interrupted my dream. I awoke when I felt a cold metal object being shoved with some urgency into my temple. <br />
<br />
It was a gun. <br />
<br />
I have always been an extremely light sleeper. With even the slightest unwelcome sound, I can go from a dream state to completely alert in a flash. A simple sigh in the corner of my room can startle me. So feeling icy steel press against my temple awoke me with a start.<br />
<br />
I had never seen a gun, much less felt one, but somehow I knew for certain that it was a gun being pressed against my head. I was utterly frozen with fear. I laid there with my eyes closed, my breathing was shallow. I tried not to swallow; I tried not to make a sound. <br />
<br />
I heard the gun being cocked. I recognized the sound from television; that horrid lifeless click that readies the gun for release.<br />
<br />
I opened my eye into an imperceptible slit, and I could see a man’s pinky finger hanging languidly next to my cheek. It was adorned with a bright gold ring that sported a jewel of some sort; possibly a diamond. It was a man’s hand, of that I was sure. I had never seen such a fancy ring on a man’s hand before. His other fingers were curled around a metal handle. I could see a finger on the trigger.<br />
<br />
The steel was shoved harder into my temple. I could feel my heart beating in my throat; I was certain that my pulsing veins were visible. I prepared myself for death, or even worse; torture. I waited.<br />
<br />
I had always been a weary child; I was terrified that one day I would be kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. I would run from a car if I saw a man driving it; and black cars especially terrified me, because that was the color of the car of a kidnapper who took a child in my neighborhood, when I was five. Black cars and strange men spoke to me of unspeakable horrors; and I vowed to do what ever I needed to do to never get caught in a predator’s web. Each day when I came home from school, I would check the entire house thoroughly; I would check behind the shower curtain, in every closet, and in every possible hiding place for an intruder. It was a ritual I did every day before I could settle down in my own home. It was as if I had always known a terrible time was coming, and here it was. <br />
<br />
Suddenly the man bellowed with laughter. I sprung upright and leapt from my bed in an instant, and saw my sister’s boyfriend standing in my dark bedroom, a revolver in his hand. The gleam of the silver pistol looked luminous in the moonlight and only that and his teeth showed up in the dark. “What are you doing?” I choked. While I felt relieved that I knew my midnight intruder, I hardly felt safe. I didn’t trust this man, not even a little bit. He laughed again.<br />
<br />
“Do you like my gun?” he asked me.<br />
“No,” was all I said. I was shaking like a leaf.<br />
<br />
He flicked on my bedroom light. “Check it out baby. It’s a Ruger Redhawk, cocked and ready. Pretty cool, huh?”<br />
<br />
“No. You scared me.”<br />
<br />
“And check out my new ring baby!” he said, wiggling his pinky in my direction. It was the same finger I had seen dangling near my cheek when he held the gun to my head. “That diamond must be a carat at least. Ever seen anything like it?”<br />
<br />
“No. Where did you get it?”<br />
<br />
“Get up! Get up!” he screamed excitedly, “You’ll want to see this.” And in a moment he was hollering and shouting and turning on all the lights in the house. He was bellowing for my sister to wake up; she was still fast asleep. Unlike me, my sister slept like the dead. He entered her room and started shaking her, while singing a Rolling Stones song as loud as he could. Finally I heard her sleepy voice, asking him what he was doing. He could hardly contain himself; he sounded like a little boy on Christmas morning, anxious for us to share in his bounty from Santa Claus.<br />
<br />
It was only my sister and I in the house; there was no adult supervision. When I was close to being a teenager, my Dad decided he couldn’t tolerate living with two girls in their teens. “I know what goes on with girls your age,” he would often tell us, and frankly I didn’t know what he was talking about. It felt as though he was accusing me of doing something I wasn’t doing; it was as though we were suddenly bad girls, and he could no longer tolerate us. My father decided to build a new house for the family, but this time he built two houses; one for my mother and him, and the other for my sister and me. They were completely separate units, with a courtyard in the middle.<br />
<br />
Our unit had no kitchen, but most everything else we might want. We each had our own room, and shared a living room and bathroom. It was the early 70’s, and the room had a water bed that served as a couch, a black and white television, and a good stereo. The rug was a thick white shag carpet; a popular look in the day, and we had a hanging wicker chair, and multitudes of hanging plants in macramé plant holders.<br />
<br />
I never felt safe there. While I was only in 8th grade, my sister was a senior in High School, and once her friends caught wind that we had our own place, it became the hang out for seemingly every young person in a ten mile radius. Since we never locked our doors, the kids would gather there even if we weren’t home; and I would often come home from school to a living room filled with older kids, smoking marijuana and drinking beer. There were days I would long to come home to an empty house; perhaps turn on the television and have some cookies and milk. But instead I was faced daily by a rowdy scene; raucous music, drinking games, and unruly behavior.<br />
<br />
One of their favorite things to do was to torture our pet rat. They began by blowing pot smoke into his cage, until he went insane; he would no longer stay in his cage and would roam the house looking for marijuana. If he found a bag, he’d eat right through the plastic baggy, seemingly addicted to the stuff. They also liked putting him in the freezer and leaving him in there almost too long, or putting him in a hanging plant, and twisting the macramé around and around until it was wound up tight, then releasing it and laughing as the rat went for a dizzying ride. I hated it. Even more, I hated that we had no parents present to stop some of the behavior, especially when it seemed dangerous to me. And it often did. But I never let on how afraid I was, and began partying with the older kids, which was much too soon.<br />
<br />
My sister’s boyfriend had begun to have his fun with me on a daily basis. His favorite game was to lie in wait for me in the bathroom. Everyone knew that I got up several times in the night to use the bathroom, and he would hide in the shadows; usually behind the shower curtain. And when I’d come in sleepy with my eyes half shut, he would pounce on top of me, and would do everything he could to feel me up. His hands would be everywhere; down my pajama pants and up my shirt. If I were to complain, he’d shove me up against the wall and put his hand over my mouth. Then he’d whisper deep into my ear, and the sound would make me cringe. “You don’t want your sister to hear us, do you? Don’t you think it would hurt her feelings if she knew how much I wanted you?” He would hold me there until I nodded, and then he’d release me. Then he’d laugh silently and allow me return to my bed.<br />
<br />
This became a nightly ritual. I was very developed for my age, and I began to wear bras and panties to bed, underneath my pajamas. I would do anything to create one more barrier between his wandering hands and me. But that didn’t stop him. Eventually I began to go into the back yard to go to the bathroom. But he was a light sleeper too, and the minute he heard movement in my bedroom, he’d find me. My sister, on the other hand, slept through anything.<br />
<br />
One night I was sneaking out to go the bathroom. I opened the front door as quietly as I could, and I dashed into the night. I hovered in the darkness, looking for a corner of the yard in the shadows, when I felt his arm grab me by the neck. His breath was in my ear; it smelled of beer. “I love you, don’t you realize that yet?”<br />
<br />
“Please, please, please leave me alone.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t. You’re all I think about, night and day. I want you so bad. But you can’t tell your sister. You don’t want to hurt her, do you?”<br />
<br />
“No. Please let me go back to bed. I won’t say anything. Please.”<br />
<br />
He let me go.<br />
<br />
He terrified me. So on the night he held a gun to my head, I really couldn’t be sure of what his intentions might be. And even by the time my sister finally awoke and crawled out of bed, my heart was still thumping loudly in my chest. I had never seen him as erratic as he was that night, turning on every light in the house, and yelling excitedly, as he began to move a large array of items through our front door. I walked into the living room and watched him; he had radios, stereos, jewelry, records; I can’t remember all that he had, but he began piling it into the center of the room, all the while talking excitedly.<br />
<br />
“Look at this stereo, baby!” he said to me, patting its sides. “Is this a beautiful machine or what? Huh?”<br />
<br />
My sister emerged from her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and hardly conscious. It always took her forever to wake up and I could tell she wasn’t really registering what was going on. She finally asked, “What is all of this stuff?”<br />
<br />
“We ripped off a house, baby, we ripped off a house! And we scored BIG time. Look at this ring; that’s a diamond. Check it out! Man, it was a rush. What a night! We cleaned those suckers OUT!”<br />
<br />
My sister stared dumbfounded. Then she woke up. “ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU ROBBED A HOUSE?” She yelled this, and I felt relieved; she was the closest thing to an adult that I had. I needed some guidance; I needed a firm hand. I needed someone to yell.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, baby, don’t get all uptight on me now,” he said, and then he went over and languidly kissed her neck.<br />
<br />
She pushed him away. Hard. Unlike I could ever do.<br />
<br />
“DON’T TOUCH ME,” she screamed. “And I want this stuff out of my house NOW.”<br />
<br />
“Hey baby, where am I supposed to take it? My Dad is a COP,” he said laughing, appreciating the irony of the situation. “I have to stash it here for awhile.”<br />
<br />
“NO!” my sister screamed, and her voice meant business. “YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK.”<br />
<br />
“Taking what back?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK TO THE HOUSE WHERE YOU GOT IT FROM,” she said. By now she was fuming.<br />
<br />
“But look at this stereo! Is that fine, or what? I was going to give it to you, baby!”<br />
<br />
My sister walked over to where the stereo was lying in the middle of the floor. We both stared at it. It was stunningly beautiful; the owner had encased it in a striking wooden case, which had obviously been handcrafted. Each detail was perfect. My sister broke into tears.<br />
<br />
“Someone made this!” she sobbed. “Someone made this wood case! Someone spent hours and hours on this! They made this with love! And you just go and STEAL it? YOU MAKE ME SICK. You take it all back or I don’t want to ever see you again!”<br />
<br />
“How can I take it back?” he asked. “You want me to break in again? I was lucky I didn’t get caught the first time!”<br />
<br />
“Then leave it on the porch. Leave it at the front door. I don’t care, but YOU’RE TAKING IT BACK RIGHT NOW.”<br />
<br />
I had never seen him look so sheepish. And he did take it all back. In my life, I have often wondered what it must have been like for those people; to come home to find everything valuable they owned on their front porch.<br />
<br />
I was mesmerized by how she handled the situation; she had a force that I did not have. She had a strength that I did not have. And that night after he returned from taking back his loot, I heard them arguing for hours in bed, and he doing everything in his power to charm his way back into her good grace. And eventually he did.<br />
<br />
After that night, he seemed to change his tactics with me. While he still told me he loved me daily, he began to treat me more like a big brother might, or even a father; he began to pay an inordinate amount of attention to me. He would always ask me what was going on in my life; he would listen to me drone on and on about all of my problems, and he always seemed interested and willing to help. I never really trusted him, but I began to confide in him little by little, and just like my sister, he began to charm himself back into my good graces.<br />
<br />
I was very much in love with a young boy in my class, named Barry. Our relationship was innocent and sweet; and even at that tender age he was romancing me. He brought me a dozen red roses to class one day, and had recently even bought me a gorgeous opal ring. Up until that point, I had never really trusted any man. But I trusted Barry with all of my heart, and although I wasn’t ready for anything too sexual yet, we had begun experimenting a little. My sister’s boyfriend would press me for details, and would warn me all about young boys and their hormones, and what they REALLY wanted. “He loves me,” I’d tell him. “He would never pressure me. Besides, neither of us is even CLOSE to ready.”<br />
<br />
“Well, if he does pressure you, you come and tell me, okay? And I’ll put him in his place,” my sister’s boyfriend would say. I began to believe that he really might have my best interests at heart, and since my step-father never spoke to me in a protective way, I began to crave what I believed was love.<br />
<br />
It was a few weeks later when we were all at a party a few blocks from home. Our friend Kim didn’t have much adult supervision either, and on this night a rather wild party was going on at her house. I was sitting in the backyard when my sister’s boyfriend came over and began talking to me.<br />
<br />
We were joking and laughing, and he was trying to wrestle with me. I never enjoyed when he’d become physical with me; he was a huge boy and on the football team. But on this night, he wouldn’t stop.<br />
<br />
Suddenly he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I laughingly asked him to put me down. But he didn’t. He headed out of the back yard and started walking down the dimly lit street. I kicked and screamed, still laughing, but as he continued his march down the street into the darkness, I became afraid. “Put me down,” I said sternly. “I mean it.” But my commentary was only met with silence, which filled me with dread.<br />
<br />
“PUT ME DOWN, LET ME GO!” I wailed. But he was like an android, marching every forward, without ever acknowledging me at all.<br />
<br />
The beach was only a block and a half away, and soon I could hear the crashing waves and feel the salt on my lips. He climbed over some rocks that blocked our entrance, all the while holding me in a tight grip, and not saying a word. When he reached the sand, he threw me down and climbed on top of me. I began to sob. “GET OFF ME; LET ME GO BACK TO THE PARTY.”<br />
<br />
Still he said nothing. He put one beefy arm across my neck to hold me in place, and with the other hand ripped off my jeans with such force that he broke the zipper. I had borrowed the jeans from my sister that night, after much begging. “I don’t want you to wreck them,” she had told me.<br />
<br />
“I won’t wreck them! Please!”<br />
<br />
And this is the only thing that was going through my head as he began to rip at the rest of my clothes. I screamed as loud as I could, and he took his hand and covered my mouth. Then he raped me.<br />
<br />
I don’t remember much that happened the rest of that evening. All I remember is going home, and going into my parents unit. My father wasn’t home, and my sister was in bed with my mother crying. And I got into bed with them and started crying too. I had assumed that somehow my sister knew; and it was too painful to talk about. But she really didn’t know. We never spoke about it again; not at least, for many years.<br />
<br />
Then I went into my room and grabbed a pen and paper. Grabbing a pen and paper was something I did almost on a daily basis in those days; as I was constantly writing poetry. But as I stared at the blank sheet of paper, no poetry came. Only one sentence came to my mind, which I scribbled down. I wrote, “I am still a virgin.” I stared at it, and the words helped me somehow. This didn’t count, it couldn’t count. I wrote the words again. “I am still a virgin.” And then as tears streamed down my cheeks, I wrote it again and again and again. And soon enough I needed a second piece of paper, which I filled up with the same sentence, written ad nauseam. <br />
<br />
I broke up with my boyfriend Barry the following morning. We had been whispering sweet nothings in each others ears for so long; we had decided we would lose our virginity together, sometime later down the road, and eventually we’d marry. That dream was now dead, and I couldn’t face him. I broke his heart.<br />
<br />
My sister’s boyfriend continued to prey on me after that, always threatening to tell my sister if I ever told. I had decided it was my lot in life to do what he said, and to carry that shame. When I was 15, I fell in love and once my new boyfriend caught wind of it, he told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever laid a hand on me again, that he’d kill him. The abuse, finally, stopped. But it took me years to realize that none of it had been my fault. And even more years to realize that the gun he held at my head that night was symbolic of my entire relationship with him.<br />
<br />
I was an adult before I connected to my sexuality again. To me, it was something you did like an actress on a stage, because that’s all it had ever been for me; a game of pretend. Instead of learning how to fight back, I learned instead how to take it. Men could hit me, men could lie to me, men could rape me; but they could never touch my soul. And whenever a man treated me badly, I’d rise above it, and I would say to myself, “go ahead and give it to me. This doesn’t hurt me. You can’t touch me. The only person this hurts is you.”<br />
<br />
Of course that’s not true. It’s a defense mechanism we learn in order to cope. And I suppose I’ve developed many of those in my journey through life.<br />
<br />
But the secret of shame is always stamped upon your soul; a faint, indelible watermark. My child will always be face down on the floor; a little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear, her face red with panic, her tiny fists bloody from pounding on a cement wall. The sheets still grow heavy with the thought of a lecher’s kiss; and the sin, the sin, flicks on and off like a nauseating fluorescent light, outside of the dive bar of my mind. There will always be a permanent smell.<br />
<br />
I know life deals us blows. But I know that every morning when I wake up, I’m still singing. I’m still laughing. I’m still dancing. There is a place inside of each of us that is untouchable. It is where the angels swim, and the stars swim too. And sadly, where indifference swims as well.<br />
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<strong><span style="color: magenta;">Please feel free to leave comments below. And if you enjoy what you read, please become a follower by pressing the 'following' button on the left of the blog. Thanks so much for visiting!</span></strong>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-60072529906480959132009-11-10T07:56:00.000-08:002009-11-11T15:34:32.916-08:00Homeless in Panty HoseI was homeless, once. For six months. I was 24 years old.<br />
<br />
I will understand if that statement causes you to have a particular image of me. I think most of us create a picture of what we perceive a homeless person to be; perhaps someone who is lazy, or simply chooses not to work or be productive. Perhaps you imagine frail, dispossessed bums sleeping under plastic bags in subways and doorways. Perhaps you imagine beggars who reach out a shaky hand for coins, or the insane screaming out profanities while searching through dumpsters. I suppose those are the obvious images. But I promise you that there are homeless who walk among us we would never recognize. <br />
<br />
I was one of those. I thought of myself as homeless in panty hose.<br />
<br />
I left my husband in the middle of the night. The truth had finally come out that I had fallen in love with another man, and my new relationship was controversial to say the least. Hardly anyone approved, and I was seemingly ostracized over night. It had been an exhausting weekend; my new lover and I met with parents, siblings and friends who screamed, shouted and cried about our choices, begging us to come to our senses. But there was no going back for either of us; we were in love.<br />
<br />
This emotional spectacle culminated Sunday night when I went home to tell my husband. It was a draining marathon of heartache and arguing, and I was so exhausted from emotional stress that I wanted nothing more than to get into my marital bed and fall asleep. It was about midnight; I had come in earlier and awoke him to tell him my news. After hours of tears, my husband was still in our bed, covering his face with his hands. As much as I wanted to suggest that we continue the discussion in the morning, I knew that it would be cruel to prolong his agony. I opened the closet and pulled down a suitcase, hurriedly stuffed it with clothes and toiletries, zipped it shut, then softly said “Goodbye.” I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that none of it was his fault, but the words never came. I waited for a moment to see if he’d respond, but the room was quiet. I walked out the front door and never looked back.<br />
<br />
I used a joint credit card to fill my tank with gas as I sped away from town. It was the last money I would use of the funds I shared with my husband; I left with only my clothes and nothing else. I never fought for 50% of our assets, and I signed off on property that we mutually owned. That night after I filled my gas tank, I cut all of our credit cards in two. Then I put my key in the ignition, and when the engine came to life, I felt I had sprouted wings, and that I was flying to freedom. I had no idea where I was going. But soon I had turned up the radio loud, and I was singing. <br />
<br />
The future was unknown, and I was excited to begin a new life. The only problem was, I had nowhere to sleep and I had to be at work by 8:00 a.m. And I had no watch.<br />
<br />
That first night of homelessness is as clear to me as any other memory of my life. I parked my car at a rest stop at the beach, and then sat for a long time on a chilly precipice, staring out over the ocean highlighted by a blue tinged moon. I had no idea the time, but I knew it was very late. If I wasn’t so exhausted that first night, I don’t think I would have ever fallen asleep. But I climbed into the backseat of my car, rolled some clothes into a ball to serve as a pillow, and covering myself with a jacket, I soon fell asleep. <br />
<br />
When I awoke, it was daylight. I jumped out of the car and started going through my suitcase, hurriedly looking for my work clothes. Soon I was sitting on a rock; the sand blowing in my face, and the ocean crashing loudly beside me. It was cold and the wind was whipping through my hair. But I laughed as I realized what a comic sight I was. I was struggling to put on my panty hose; one foot at a time, and trying not to rip them as I stood on the rough terrain of the cliff.<br />
<br />
In those days I wore skirts, hose and heels to work; it was what was considered to be appropriate business attire. I detested panty hose with a passion, and the heels would make my feet ache by the end of every day. But on this morning, it was more disturbing than usual, I remember, trying to crawl into them on the beach. I was homeless in panty hose.<br />
<br />
I turned on my car engine and the radio, praying that they would announce the time so I had some idea as I slipped into a business suit. It was later than I had thought.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I was late for work that morning, as well as other mornings thereafter. The ironic thing was I had always been exceptionally prompt; but waking up in a car without a time piece made arriving at work on time somewhat difficult. When my boss called me in to his office to complain about my tardiness, I spat back that I was homeless and living on the beach. He was a lot more lenient after that. It was my first accounting job, and I worked in the Accounts Payable department. Earnings were meager, but I was saving every available penny I could toward first and last month’s rent for an apartment of my own.<br />
<br />
Well, not every penny. I made a very important allowance. On weekends, I would meet my new lover at hotels. It was a big expenditure, but a necessary one, as it was the only time I was able to shower. It was also a reprieve from my every day existence, which was more than surreal. For two days I would have love, luxury and soap, and for that brief time I could distance myself from my cruel reality. But Monday morning would come too soon, and my new boyfriend would return to his family home, where he still lived with his parents. I would go off to work, and once again become the lonely waif sleeping in the salt air by night, and working at a job I despised by day.<br />
<br />
My dinner routine was the same most evenings. Down the street from my office was an upscale bar and restaurant. They featured a fabulous happy hour, which featured a complete spread of delicious appetizers. I would order water with lime with a straw; so no one ever suspected I was eating for free. I realized that looking well dressed and coifed offered me many advantages that other homeless people did not have. And I took advantage of it whenever I could. <br />
<br />
But that wasn’t the only way I got food. I remember one painful night when I spotted a group of patrons leaving a pizza parlor with nearly a half of a pie left on the table. I watched them through the open door of the restaurant, still certain that they would end up packing up the pie and taking it home, but they all got up from the table and just left it there. I wanted that pizza so badly; I think I could have done nearly anything to have a slice of it. I was literally salivating at the thought of a hot meal. It was a moment of truth; I knew I wouldn’t have long to take it before the waitress cleared the table; but doing what I was contemplating doing was mortifying. At the last possible moment I dashed in and scooped up as much pizza as I could in a napkin, and skulked out the door like a thief in the night. I disappeared into an alleyway to eat my score; and it was so hot and delicious I couldn’t eat it fast enough. At that moment I didn’t feel that different from the homeless that search the dumpsters. The only difference is that I had a camouflage, and could sneak into an establishment without raising an eyebrow. I think that was my first real lesson in compassion.<br />
<br />
Although most of my family and friends had washed their hands of me and my choices during that period, I had a few friends that stepped up whenever they could. My best friend at the time was planning on going to Europe for a month and offered me her room in her flat in San Francisco. She lived with two roommates I had never met; both gay psychiatrists. It was a difficult decision for me, because she didn’t offer me her room for free; I would have to pay her share of the rent for that month, which would delay my saving up money for own apartment, which was a priority. But I was so desperate to have a bed, shower, and a kitchen, that I took her up on her offer. <br />
<br />
The first night that I arrived, I was shown to my room by my new roommates. Being that they were both psychiatrists, I was excited to meet them; and I also felt it might be soothing to be in the bosom of trained professionals who would understand my stress, and maybe even help me. But I was wrong. “We know what is happening in your life, and frankly we don’t approve. So we know Sheila is your friend, and you’ll be here a month, but we want to see the least of you as possible. Tonight we’re having a party, and we don’t want you to come out of your room. So if you need to buy something for dinner, we suggest you buy it now. There’s a market across the street.” Their words stung me to my core.<br />
<br />
“Is there a television I could borrow for the evening then?” I asked. I thought a television might make it somewhat tolerable. I felt on the verge of tears.<br />
<br />
“No,” was all they said, and with that they turned a very effeminate heel toward the door. That evening was painful, as I sat on the bed trying to read some silly magazine I found in her room, with the sounds of frivolity right outside my door. I was starving and didn’t have fifty cents in my pocket. I wondered what delicious appetizers might be displayed in the next room. I would have loved nothing more than to have a cocktail and mingle with people and laugh and forget. But it wasn’t to be.<br />
<br />
The first two weeks in that house were a nightmare. But it all changed the day my biological father called me there. He asked me what my address was, and after I gave it to him, he informed he was coming over to kill me.<br />
<br />
I suppose on most levels, I knew he wasn’t going to kill me. He was a passionate Sicilian after all, and he was angry with me. But I still didn’t know him very well at that point, and there was a modicum of doubt that crept in my psyche. I burst into tears.<br />
<br />
The two doctors overheard me, and for some unknown reason, they were suddenly gushing with empathy. They sat on either side of me on my temporary bed, and flung their arms around me; and they told me it would be okay. They urged me to open up about my side of the story; why I had left my husband, and the controversial relationship I was now involved with. Because my new relationship was unusual and rather taboo, they related their own experience of being chastised for being homosexual to mine; and we talked long about prejudice. And by the time the three of us heard a hard angry knock on the front door, we had become the best of friends. “We won’t let your father kill you!” they announced, and ran down the stairs to confront my father. They protected me like fierce kittens; and wouldn’t let my father inside the house until he agreed to behave himself.<br />
<br />
I had two weeks more in that house, but after that, I was back on the street for several months in a row. I remember I had one delicious respite in all of that time, and that was the evening that my friend Linda offered me her beach house for one moonlit night. She and all of her roommates were leaving on an overnight trip; and she gave me the key to her house. It was a lovely sprawling home; sitting right on the cliff, with the ocean crashing against the enormous picture windows that lined the living room. She had left me a series of notes all over the house, leading me on a virtual treasure hunt of delights. My first note was on the dining room table next to a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and a glass. It read, “It’s time to kick off your shoes and transport yourself to a world of tranquility. Begin by enjoying this wine.” Next I was sent toward a group of candles and a box of matches. “Light these candles, sip on your wine, and listen to the ocean.” Following that, I was instructed to turn on the stereo, where my favorite artist was playing. My hunt then led me back to the kitchen where a gourmet meal was waiting for me. “Pop this in the oven at 350 degrees, and enjoy. There’s a salad in the fridge.” The last note led to my bed. I laughed when I entered the bedroom; I encountered an enormous bright pink velvet bed; something you might find in Cinderella’s castle. It was piled high with pink silk pillows. I felt like a fairy princess, and I didn’t much care where I’d left my glass slipper. The crashing of the waves sounded very different that night than they did when I slept on the beach, and I learned a lesson that night about gratitude. But when I awoke the next morning, my carriage had turned back into a pumpkin, and the only bed I had was the back seat of my car.<br />
<br />
My last reprieve came after about five and a half months. Another friend had a room that had become vacant, and she said I could move in for awhile. For free.<br />
<br />
I was thrilled with this opportunity. I was so close to saving up enough money for my own place, and this would give me the last push I needed. I decided I was going to be the best house guest ever; I would leave my room every day as if no one lived in it, with the bed made and my suitcase hidden in the closet. I would arise before my friend, have my coffee and leave no trace, and allow her the morning to herself. On weekends, I would disappear entirely, to spend time with my new lover. I behaved the way I would want a roommate to behave. As if they weren’t there.<br />
<br />
But interestingly, she wasn’t pleased with me at all. She had wanted me to move in with her to be her girlfriend. She wanted a gal pal to drink coffee in the morning with, and to share our trials and tribulations. She wanted a friend with whom she could spend evenings cooking dinner and weekends hitting the bars. <br />
<br />
I sensed that she was unhappy with me. But at this point, I had possibly saved enough money for first and last month rent for a place of my own. I knew I wanted to live in Mill Valley, about an hour away, and I scoured the Marin newspaper as often as I could.<br />
<br />
That week, I came down with an illness; I was sick and dizzy and had a terrible sore throat. I was lying on her couch covered by a blanket, making phone call after phone call, answering want ads for apartments. At last I found something I could afford. It was a one-room “tree house,” or at least that is how the ad billed it. I was intrigued. Coughing and gasping, I talked to the landlord that evening. I told her I was very sick; could I come and see the apartment the following evening. She agreed.<br />
<br />
But I never would wait until the following evening. My friend came home that night and said that her mother had been helping with her mortgage, and she had said that unless I left that evening, that she would cut her off. She apologized vehemently, and she felt even worse that I was sick, but I had to pack my bags immediately. I called the landlord up again and said I had to leave my current residence that evening, and would it be possible that I see the room that night, and hopefully rent it immediately. I think she took pity on me and agreed.<br />
<br />
That night I packed up my suitcase for the last time, and armed only with a roll of toilet paper for my leaking nose, I thanked my friend and stumbled into the darkness, for a long hour drive toward my new home.<br />
<br />
I’ll never forget climbing the stairs to my tree house that first night. It was difficult to see, and it looked like the stairs led straight up into a tree. She flung open the front door, and switched on a light. And there it was.<br />
<br />
It was tiny. Much smaller than a hotel room. It had enough room for one double bed, but not much else. The kitchen went against one wall; and there was a separate bathroom and shower. But it was charming; all wooden and nestled in the trees; the kitchen cabinets were beveled decorated glass; and I found it to be very sweet. “I’ll take it.”<br />
<br />
“The phone works,” she told me. “But it will be cut off this week, so get it transferred into your name immediately, okay?” I nodded.<br />
<br />
When she left, I called my half sister. I told her I had found a place, and I was located only about a mile away from her. I was deathly sick; and I needed some comfort. “Could you bring me a blanket and a pillow?” I asked her. She agreed.<br />
<br />
When she arrived, she was also carrying a bottle of wine. I had no glasses, so I remember us both guzzling it straight out of the bottle. That would be the start of many gatherings in the tree house, which we later dubbed the cubicle. I had a sign near the front door that read, “Cubicle sweet cubicle,” and I eventually got a free couch that folded out into a bed. When I was alone, I would leave the bed out; I could make a cup of tea in the kitchen while sitting on my bed. And when people came over, I’d turn the bed back into a couch, and we’d all sit on the floor, drinking wine and being perfectly happy in this little square that we could call our own. Being homeless had taught me that I would never need much in this world. And I’ve always been grateful for what I have.<br />
<br />
I lived in my cubicle for three years, as I once again saved money for first and last on a larger home. I was grateful every day; for the warm bed, and the heater. My boyfriend stayed with me on the weekends, and I always felt like we had our own private haven, a sanctuary far from the noise of judgmental friends and family. I was happy.<br />
<br />
I saved my money in a little box that was on the shelving that was built in on one wall of the tree house.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, I realize it was very foolish to save money that way; I had a bank account; but I didn’t want to know exactly how much money I had saved. It was a little game I’d play with myself; shoving every spare dollar I had into that box; but never really knowing how much I’d saved. After a few months I’d count it and would be delighted with the results.<br />
<br />
One night I came home and there was a note on my door from the landlord. “Your toilet broke and I had to let myself and the plumbers into your house today.”<br />
<br />
My toilet wasn’t broken.<br />
<br />
I immediately sensed that something wasn’t right. I walked into the cubicle and went directly to the bathroom. I kept a dizzying array of decorations on the back of my toilet, and I knew at first glance that my toilet hadn’t been touched. It would be impossible to work on it, and not disturb everything I had surrounding it. I felt something else in that room; something smelled of a lie. I immediately ran to my box on the shelf. I opened it. It was empty. The money was gone.<br />
<br />
I took a deep breath. Every instinct I had told me that my landlord had stolen it. She had decided to snoop in my house when I was gone, came across the money and had created the plumbers as a diversion, and as the possible thieves.<br />
<br />
I marched down to the main house and told her that my money was gone. She feigned sympathy; she was beside herself telling me what a terrible thing it was; and that it must have been the plumbers that stole it.<br />
<br />
“May I have the name of the plumbers you called?”<br />
<br />
She gave me every excuse under the sun as to why she couldn’t give me their number, but I wasn’t listening. Because I already knew there were no plumbers. I went back to the tree house and called the police.<br />
<br />
I never did recover my money. But the police gave her an exceptionally rough time; I could hear her screaming and crying below. “Do not call me a thief in front of my kids!” I heard her cry, and I felt glad. The police told me that they believed it was her, but nothing could be done. I had been kicked back down to square one, with nothing to show for myself but an empty box.<br />
<br />
The next chapter in my life wasn’t much easier than this one. But I embraced my hardships gladly, as I was living truthfully and following my passion. I no longer felt like a fraud. I was wildly in love, and that relationship would endure happily for sixteen years. And as I had always known, the difficulties made me more and more prolific; I was inspired to create poetry nearly daily. I had absolutely nothing. But I was still living my dream.<br />
<br />
I had always known that suffering opens our minds. When things come easily, we only learn a fraction of what we learn when they don’t. I know that the more possessions we want, the less freedom we will have. I know that the more we can bear, the more fearless we become. And I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to be a bald eagle surveying the countryside from the highest peak, and then I wanted to spread my wings, and to dive into freedom. I still feel that way.<br />
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<span style="color: magenta;">Feel free to leave comments below. And if you enjoyed your experience, please follow me by pressing the "follow" button on the left side of the blog.</span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-88660842259566206912009-11-03T15:54:00.000-08:002009-11-06T17:56:17.496-08:00Instant KarmaWhen I was 13 years old, I decided to become a Buddhist. <br />
<br />
That decision lasted about three months.<br />
<br />
I was raised in a household that didn’t believe in organized religion. My mother was a staunch atheist, and while my father was a spiritual agnostic, he made no secret of his disdain for most holy convictions. Of course, with regards to my religion, it was always my decision. My parents took me to at least a dozen different churches, to expose me to them, and encouraged me to follow one if any took my fancy.<br />
<br />
I found these sojourns into various churches utterly fascinating. Each was unique; from the baroque seriousness of the Catholics, to the festive exuberance of Gospel; from the glazed serene looks of the Born Again Holy Rollers, to the dancing and chanting of the Hare Krishna’s. I still remember one hippy church that used the 60’s “God’s Eye,” a weaving of colorful yarn over branches laid in a diamond shape, as their focal point. It was odd to “pray” to something I had hanging all over my bedroom at home. Flower children danced up and down the church aisle to folk music. And part of the church was making art. I enjoyed it. But I had no idea why I was praying, or to whom.<br />
<br />
I was baptized Catholic when I was 11 years old, but this was only because I was embarrassed to be the only child in school without a faith. Most people I knew were Catholic, so I just blindly chose it. But what they said seemed illogical, and shortsighted. When they told us that on judgment day that everyone who hadn’t accepted Jesus Christ into their hearts would go to hell, I knew their outlook made no sense. Surely, I thought, the entire country of China couldn’t be sentenced to eternal damnation, because they didn’t worship Jesus Christ. I decided a genius such as God must be would never commit an entire population to burn for eternity.<br />
<br />
I loved the church field trips with my parents, but I never felt the need to embrace any of them. I did, however, listen to all view points, and the subject of religion fascinated me.<br />
<br />
My friend Linda told me about a Buddhist Group that had just started in our neighborhood. She had already attended one meeting, and had found it intriguing. She urged me to join her, and I quickly agreed. I have always been hungry for new experiences.<br />
<br />
I immediately went to the library to study this creed, and could find none of their teachings to be contrary to what I believed. Buddhism seemed to be more of a philosophy than a religion; and a viewpoint that I could support. It seemed to avoid the usual dogma and theology of other religions, and instead centered on the discipline of continual awareness. I could find nothing wrong with teaching myself to be more aware; especially when no one dictated what I should be aware of. I enjoyed the teachings of Karma and Dharma; of non-attachment and humility. Even better, Albert Einstein, someone I idolized and had pictures of in my bedroom, thought Buddhism had the “characteristics of what would be expected in a cosmic religion for the future.” It sounded like a religion that transcended the undeveloped ideas of sin, shame, guilt, and the rest. I was prepared to go.<br />
<br />
That evening I told my parents about the Buddhist Group, and asked permission to stay out past my bedtime. It was also a school night, so I had to discuss this with them first. I thought for certain that they would support my decision to go; but it was quite the opposite. “This sounds like some sort of a CULT,” they told me, their eyes large with fear. “We don’t want you to go. They’re going to try and brainwash you.”<br />
<br />
I did everything I could do to argue with their decision. I told them how I had been studying Buddhist doctrine, and that it intrigued me. I told them the location of the meeting, and that I wouldn’t be going alone. But most importantly, I assured them that I could never be brainwashed. I was a thoughtful, curious child, and not easily coerced. I just wanted to go and listen, I told them, with an open mind. And at last they agreed.<br />
<br />
Linda was friends with an older boy; he must have been at least 19 years old at the time. It was he who had told her about these meetings initially, and it was he who agreed to pick us up and drive us to the meeting. My mother had assumed a parent would be picking me up, and when she learned it was just a teenager, she followed me out to the driveway to have a word with this boy. It was one of the most animated times I can ever recall my mother behaving; she grilled him on everything, from the Buddhists to the mechanical safety of his car. She was clearly concerned about my welfare, which made me begin to rethink my decision. Exasperated and embarrassed, I begged her to return to the house, and soon enough we were on our way.<br />
<br />
The meeting was held at the home of a slight fragile woman, who was introduced as the Leader. When we arrived, we were asked to remove our shoes and take a seat on the floor. There was a strange shrine in the front of the room; I noticed a piece of parchment paper covered in Japanese lettering which sat center stage, surrounded by a variety of offerings; fruit, evergreens, incense, and candles.<br />
<br />
The room was filled with guests. Our Leader picked up a stick and hit a large metal disc that was beside the shrine, and the sound echoed through the room and carried for a long time. When the endless note withered away, finally into silence, she spoke. She uttered words I had never heard before, and she said them slowly. “Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo.” I heard a collective sigh from the group, and soon they all joined in with this strange chant, and the room filled with sound; low tones from the males, high notes from the females, all blending together in a mesmerizing harmony. Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo, Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo, Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo. The incantation that filled the room was beautiful, and soon enough I found myself joining in. It was akin to singing, which I enjoyed, but this mantra went on forever. Eventually I began praying it would stop. The incessant hymn must have gone on for forty-five minutes.<br />
<br />
I was thrilled when the leader eventually rang the bell again. The followers said one more round of the chant, but very slowly, holding out the final “kyo” until they had no more breath. It was over, thankfully. The Leader looked around the room beaming; I believed she was trying to appear serene and at peace, but it didn’t ring true for me. I pinched Linda’s knee so that we could share a giggle, but she looked stoically forward.<br />
<br />
“Good evening,” the Leader said at last. “I welcome you all here tonight, and I especially welcome the two young girls that have joined our fold,” she said, giving a nod to Linda and me. “You will need to see me after the meeting so that you can purchase your prayer book, beads and other items you will need, okay?” I hadn’t realized this enterprise was going to cost me money, and I was immediately put off, but I only nodded. I had no desire to be singled out.<br />
<br />
“At this time, I would like to hear from the group about all the benefits you received this week from chanting. As we all know, as we recite the precious words Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo, we are to focus on a wish that we have for ourselves, our loved ones, and our lives. And those of you who practice this discipline religiously know that your requests are always answered. Who would like to start?”<br />
<br />
A woman behind me was flailing her arms excitedly, beseeching the Leader to choose her. Her exhilaration was a tad over the top; so I was assured that I was about to hear philosophical musings about how this discipline had led to something important; a new awareness, or inner peace. Perhaps she had wished for something to benefit her fellow man; or had learned how selflessness leads to the greater good. I spun around so I could see her as she spoke. “I chanted for a new pair of shoes!” she squealed, “and I got them. We really couldn’t afford them, but after I spent a day chanting, my husband came to me and told me to go ahead and buy them. Thanks Buddha!”<br />
<br />
I raised an eyebrow in disgust. And I fully expected that her trivial selfishness would be rebuffed by the group, and looked around, expecting to see narrowed eyebrows of distaste. But on the contrary, the room was beaming; just as our Leader had been when she began the meeting. And to my horror, the crowd began to applaud, and a few yelled out “way to go,” and that sort of nonsense. It was all so painfully ridiculous to me that I wondered if I was on Candid Camera.<br />
<br />
The room filled with cigarette smoke, which was perfectly normal at that time. Even at that tender age, I too, smoked—and I asked a young man beside me if he had an extra. Unfortunately for me, however, my quiet request was overheard by the throngs, and as the man handed me a cigarette, the Leader broke into applause. “Our new friend just received a benefit! She wanted a cigarette, and after chanting this evening, her request was met immediately. You will see that chanting effects big change in your life; it will create miracles!” Her speech was met with a round of applause, and several congratulatory rubbings of my shoulder. I wondered if my parents were right; that this was some sort of a cult. I began to think they were all a bunch of dolts.<br />
<br />
But I didn’t quit.<br />
<br />
Most of us, when we are young, haven’t yet learned to set appropriate boundaries for ourselves. And following the meeting, when Linda and I were brought to a back room and given a list of items we needed to purchase; some mandatory, and others optional, I agreed to make the purchases. I only had enough money with me for one item; a small blue Buddhist chanting book. Inside was one long chant that went on for pages. “Please begin memorizing this immediately,” I was told. “And next week, bring enough money to buy the rest of the mandatory requirements.” I only nodded, but I felt I had gotten myself involved with something that was a bit more than I could handle. Strangely enough, I can still recite that entire prayer, syllable for syllable, to this day.<br />
<br />
I did return the following week, and I brought enough money to buy the items required. And I returned the week after that, and the week after that. And although I was highly skeptical about all that went on, I tried to keep an open mind; I was willing to wait and see what transpired.<br />
<br />
The Leader informed me that to have full effect from the chanting, that I would need to be baptized into the religion; and once the ceremony was performed, I would be given my own Gohonzon.<br />
<br />
I had learned all about the Gohonzon; which was a scroll of rice paper, covered in Japanese symbols. This was what sat in the middle of everyone’s personal shrine; and it what the followers hung on their walls at home and sat in front of to chant.<br />
<br />
When you looked at the front of Gohonzon you would see the characters of Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo. But if you turned the Gohonzon on it’s backside it was blank. “Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo is the written law,” we were told. “But you can't see it. You can't point to it, or identify it. It is a power that exists. Gohonzon is the mirror of your life. When you look at a mirror you think you are looking at yourself, but it is only an image of your physical self that you are looking at. You can't see inside yourself -- your thoughts, your spiritual aspect. Gohonzon is the mirror of your heart--the mirror of your life. You need a mirror so that you know what you look like in your heart.” I grasped the concept of the Gohonzon. But what I didn’t understand was why my fellow Buddhists didn’t seem to mirror or grasp what Buddhism was all about. They were like children, begging Santa Claus for a plethora of unneeded toys.<br />
<br />
But apparently this piece of paper was very important. “You can not receive full benefits until you receive the Gohonzon,” the Leader told me. “And you cannot receive the Gohonzon until you are blessed officially into the church.” And with that, I was taken in the back room, and I was scheduled for a baptism.<br />
<br />
The following Saturday, I was driven in a van with other worshipers to a church somewhere far away. I was thrilled when we finally arrived, and stared out the window at the huge modern building that rose from the parking lot. The temple was called “The Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” named after a popular novella written the year prior; a fable about a seagull learning about life and flight, possibly reincarnation; and a homily about self-perfection. The book was extremely popular, but I giggled to myself over the name. It struck me as trite.<br />
<br />
The church was large, and to my surprise, filled to the rafters with parishioners. And as I tried to find my seat, many of them seemed to barrage me; beaming that familiar smile at me, offering me everything from candy to illegal drugs. I didn’t want to judge anyone, but many of them seemed a bit off-kilter to me, and there were multitudes of homeless, addicts, and the like.<br />
<br />
The service quickly got under way. It began just as the smaller meetings did, with the familiar strike on a metal disc, but at this church the disc was enormous; it was a large gong, and it was hit with something the size of a baseball bat. Immediately the congregation broke into the familiar, “Nam myo ho ren-ge kyo,” but this time the chant was sung by a group of hundreds; and the effect of so many voices together was stirring.<br />
<br />
The chanting always went on for too long, for me, a child of 13. But on this night, I didn’t mind, because I had been instructed that immediately following the opening ceremony, that the baptisms were next on the agenda. I dreaded it.<br />
<br />
Soon enough the chanting ceased, and the Leader asked that all people who were being baptized into the church that day to line up in the back. I obediently made my way there, and was pleased to see I wouldn’t be alone; I joined a half a dozen other people who were to receive their Gohonzon that day. Suddenly, music filled the large hall; strange, eerie music. “Get down on your knees!” I was instructed.<br />
<br />
“Huh?”<br />
<br />
“GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES. You must crawl in humility to receive your Gohonzon.”<br />
<br />
Well, I didn’t much want to crawl on my knees for anything. But with a hall filled with people watching, I did just that. I crawled. I crawled all the way down the aisle on my hands and knees, and rather than feel humble, I felt humiliated. At the end of the aisle, a man in robes spoke a chant over my head, and then lastly, handed me my Gohonzon. It was rolled up in a scroll, and tied with a narrow red ribbon.<br />
<br />
But the humiliation I suffered that day was nothing compared to what happened a week later.<br />
<br />
After receiving my Gohonzon, I was instructed to leave it in scroll form until members of the temple could come to my house and help me to set up my shrine. There were many regulations regarding this altar; it had to be housed on a Southern wall, it had to be encased in wood, and it had to have a way to close shut. I was told a wooden fruit cart would even do until I could find something better, and a makeshift cloth could be fashioned to serve as a curtain that could be closed. But regardless, this process had to be supervised, and it had to take place only in conjunction with a ceremony.<br />
<br />
The last thing I wanted was for these people to come to my house. But they were so persuasive I felt I had to relent, so I agreed to the following Saturday. I have never regretted anything more.<br />
<br />
My family were all at home; my parents, my sister and her boyfriend. Imagine my horror when suddenly we all heard the chanting of a dozen or so people coming down the street toward our house. They were loud, and everyone in the neighborhood could hear and see them walking toward our house. My sister’s boyfriend found the whole thing utterly hilarious; he opened the front door to our home and laughed in their direction, pointing to the group and snickering. I looked out the window and saw them; they were coming to my house; they were chanting loudly and with earnestness; I could see my neighbors across the street peek out of their windows to see who had created such a ruckus; and I had never felt such embarrassment as I did as this troupe walked right up my own driveway. I wanted to disappear.<br />
<br />
They knocked on the door, but the chanting never stopped. My mother opened the door, and without an intelligible word, the worshipers swept right by her, pushing her aside, then found me and encircled me. My mother was mouthing to me over their heads, “I want these people out of my house,” and I could only give her a look as if to say, “What can I do?” They stood around me in a circle, chanting louder and louder; and at this point my sister’s boyfriend was on the floor, giggling and pounding the carpet. Then the Leader whispered to me that I should lead them to my bedroom.<br />
<br />
I began to walk and the group followed me; their chanting getting ever louder. My sister’s boyfriend was in hysterics, yelling out slurs and calling them names, making fun of everything about them. The Leader whispered that I needed to chant as well, but I was too embarrassed. Instead, I pretended to have a coughing fit until all of the church goers were safe in my bedroom. But I wasn’t safe in the slightest; the laughter never stopped.<br />
<br />
My Gohonzon was enshrined in a wooden box and nailed to the proper wall of my bedroom. The church people brought fruit, incense, candles, flowers, and everything I needed for a proper alter. I continued to feign a coughing fit throughout; if only to block out the laughter right outside the door. My face was hot with mortification. I wanted them to leave.<br />
<br />
But the final nail in my Buddhist coffin came about a week later.<br />
<br />
While at our weekly meeting, we were told that we were going to go knock door to door that evening in an effort to coerce more sheep into their flock. We were also supposed to ask for money.<br />
<br />
I walked several blocks with the church goers as we knocked on door after door. I let the others give their speech; I usually hid behind the nearest stick of shrubbery. All I could think of was the countless times we’d encountered the Jehovah Witnesses on the other side of our own door, dressed in their black suits and white shirts, carrying stacks of the “Watchtower” and preaching about their version of God. If we saw them walking toward our door we’d hide; and if we accidentally opened the door, it often took at least twenty minutes to get rid of them. I always thought what an imposition it was; I’ve never enjoyed solicitation in any form. And now, here I was with my brethren imposing the same brand of nuisance.<br />
<br />
When they knocked on the next door, I hid behind the garage. And then I walked away. I walked until I couldn’t walk anymore, until I found a phone booth and called my mother to pick me up. “I’m done,” I told her on the phone.<br />
<br />
“Thank God,” was her answer. And the irony of her reply was not lost on me.<br />
<br />
As my mother chastised me in the car ride home, telling me that I was gullible, I hardly listened. Because I hadn’t been gullible; I had been open-minded; something that she wasn’t. But I decided on that car ride home that while I would always seek spirituality, it would never again be in an organized way. I would form my own church called the Church of One, and I would be the only member. <br />
<br />
The concept of Karma followed me to my Church of One. I find that when I smile, people often smile back; it seems true that what you put out is what you receive. I know that I choose to live this life with love. And in turn, I am loved.<br />
<br />
I don’t know what God is. But if there was an artist who designed the Universe, I stand humbled before him, and thank him for the purple mountains, the sunsets like scoops of sherbet, and the gushing green muscles of the ocean. It is nothing short of magnificent.<br />
<br />
I don’t what God is. But I do see repetitions in nature; such as the marijuana leaf that is repeated on the shell of a sand dollar; the branches of trees which resemble our own veins, or the atoms and molecules which are replicas of the solar system. When I notice these patterns, there seems to be order in the chaos. Sometimes I think God is order in the chaos. Sometimes I think he might be a mathematical equation.<br />
<br />
I don’t know what God is. But I know there isn’t a place with pearly white gates, and angels with harps sitting on fluffy white clouds. And I know there isn’t a spot where men are tortured with fire and brimstone; a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth for eternity. These concepts are too rudimentary for an artist creative enough to fashion something as inspired as the cosmos. But I do know there is heaven and hell on earth; in every single moment of our lives and in every single choice. Everything is a compilation of Yin and Yang, half black and half white. And the notion of heaven and hell can only be a metaphor and fable, for the dichotomy of being alive. Along with everything positive, comes an equally powerful negative.<br />
<br />
I know that science explains much of the mystery of our world. But I also know we don’t know everything. To believe that we do is arrogant and supercilious; it is hubris. We only have a piece of the puzzle, of that I am sure.<br />
<br />
I know that the only perfection is in imperfection.<br />
<br />
I don’t know what faith is. I don’t trust much of what I see around me. But I have faith that I will never know. I have faith that I will die.<br />
<br />
I don’t know what miracles are. But my body is a miracle. My heart pounding in my chest is a miracle. I marvel to be awake every day, and I honor that gift with being as aware as I can.<br />
<br />
I know that whether or not there is an afterlife, or some sort of eternal existence, is not the point. Because I am certain that we have to live this one as if it’s all we have, regardless of the truth. To forfeit what is right before you for some blind faith as to what might be in front of you, seems irrational. We need to live as if there are no second chances; as if there are no rewards or retributions. Heaven and Hell are right here, right now. We have our gifts and we have our punishments, right this very moment.<br />
<br />
I know that Judgment Day is today. You be the Judge.<br />
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<strong><span style="background-color: magenta;">Please feel free to leave comments below, and if you enjoy the blog become a fan by pushing the "following button." Y'all come back now, ya hear?</span></strong>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-21422733465928322952009-10-26T16:19:00.000-07:002009-10-27T07:41:34.727-07:00Secrets, Lies, and Family TiesI didn’t know I had a brother until I was thirteen years old.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t like my brother was some alien kin who had been shipped off to adoptive parents for financial or other reasons; some stranger that I never knew. I grew up with my brother. I had lived with him in the same house until I was 6, which, at the age of 13, was about half of my life. And when my mother remarried and we no longer shared a home with him, he was still my constant companion.<br />
<br />
They just lied about his identity.<br />
<br />
As a child, it never occurred to me that my parents would ever lie to me. I knew they had their surreptitious adult whispers; I knew they did things in the bedroom that they didn’t want me to know about, and they spoke in French sometimes, when they needed a private conversation. But it never crossed my mind that what they DID tell me wasn’t the absolute truth.<br />
<br />
I remember the first time that the thought of parents ever being deceptive even entered my mind. I was about 10 years old, and it was all over the news that two children had died after eating their Halloween candy. A posse of interrogators canvassed the surrounding neighborhood, confiscating uneaten confections from people’s homes, and cross examining anyone who might have come into contact with the deceased children. But as it turned out, it was the children’s own parents who had slipped the arsenic lased chocolates in their children’s plastic Jack-o’-Lantern that Halloween night. Now, that’s spooky.<br />
<br />
This news story horrified me, as it was long before the Susan Smiths of our world. Today we are used to hearing stories of parents drowning, stabbing and slashing their own children with alarming regularity; but the thought parents hurting their own children back then was almost unthinkable. I couldn’t stop thinking about these parents, who intentionally poisoned their children’s bag of candy. I stared at my own candy and down the hall to my parents closed bedroom door, with my first suspicious thought. For the first time, I wondered if my parents were really who they said they were.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, they weren’t. I was poisoned just like those children that fateful Halloween; the only difference was the poison they fed me wasn’t arsenic, it was a toxic lie. They told me my entire life that my brother was my Uncle. They told me that he was my mother’s half brother, and the biological son of my grandmother and the young Polish stud she had married, 20 years her junior.<br />
<br />
George was only three years older than me, so as children we played together constantly, and as we grew older became friends. He would often tease my sister and me by slamming our Italian heritage, as our biological father was Sicilian. And we would slam his Polish heritage in return; all in good fun, of course. We teased each other relentlessly; we were all very much alike. George and I could pull funny faces that looked identical.<br />
<br />
I had never met my biological father, Tony. He had left my mother while I was still in the uterus. I didn’t really know why he had abandoned our family, and I had only seen one grainy black and white picture of him, which my step-father glued at the end of a very long tube; so the only way I could see it was in the distance.<br />
<br />
In my mind, Tony was almost a mythical figure; a swarthy romantic, living somewhere in Italy; perhaps on a boat. When I was a child, I was told my father was a sailor. Although I later found out that he just owned a motorboat which he enjoyed taking out on the lake, in my mind he was always a salty mariner, sailing alone somewhere in the Mediterranean; his vessel creaking from the muscle of the Atlantic, his hands and face weathered from the elements, his eye keen on the horizon. It wasn’t so much that he had abandoned me, I decided, but rather it was his intense wander lust which led him away from me. His heart was set on a perpetual adventure; he had a passion for solitude, exploration, and living with the fury of nature. <br />
<br />
Although I had never met my father, I had always longed for him. My feisty Italian behavior was pleading for a kindred spirit; and even more so, it begged for the source. I could feel him inside every cell in my body; I always knew he was a part of me; and I ached to gaze into his eyes where I knew I would see my own eyes staring back at me. There was always a hole where I knew he should be.<br />
<br />
I was determined that one day I would find him.<br />
<br />
When I would ask my mother of his possible whereabouts, I would get cautious or flippant replies; or sometimes a vague answer. “I’m sure he’s somewhere in Italy, darling,” she would say. But somehow I didn’t believe he was. It wasn’t that I thought my mother was lying; I thought she just didn’t know.<br />
<br />
But I was like a little detective, and I was intent on figuring it out.<br />
<br />
I was born in Chicago, and I had heard all of my life how it came to be we lived in California. They would recount endless stories of how we got here, and everything which led up to us eventually making the trek west permanently. My grandmother would tell me stories how she wouldn’t do anything back then unless it was a step toward going west. “Will buying these shoes get me to California? This is what I would ask myself. And if they didn’t, then I wouldn’t buy them,” she’d tell me. My father, Tony, had also apparently waxed poetic about the Golden State; and he had planned on moving out with us, before he left our family forever. So it occurred to me that he might have moved to California, after all.<br />
<br />
I had always searched for him. There was no Internet back then of course, nor had I any money to hire a Private Detective. So instead, wherever we’d travel in California, I would find a phone book and scan the contents for my Italian surname. When my parents took us to Disneyland, I scurried away with the hotel phone book, wondering if Los Angeles might have been my father’s ultimate destination. If we were in Monterey County, or Mendocino County, I would always find a way to sneak to a phone booth, where the telephone books hung on chains, waiting for my perusal. But book after book after book, I never found my surname in any of them. At some point, I had almost given up on ever finding my father; and looking in phone books became more of a compulsion than anything else.<br />
<br />
One afternoon my parents took me to Mill Valley, to their friend Fritz’ house.<br />
<br />
My parents were drinking and playing music downstairs, and I was amusing myself, wandering around the house and gardens. I came across a phone book in the hallway, and half heartedly opened it. I had never looked in a Marin County phone book before, so I knew I couldn’t pass it by. I flipped to the “S’s” as I always did, and scanned the contents for my surname. But this time, I had to blink twice to believe what I was actually seeing. There it was. The sight I had dreamed of my entire life; a half a page listing of nothing but my somewhat rare Italian last name.<br />
<br />
<br />
I skimmed through the first names quickly, looking for the name Tony, but I couldn’t find it. I almost gave up; after all, it wasn’t inconceivable that this list of people were not my relatives, even if we had the same name. But suddenly I spotted the name Mike, and then the name Renato. I swallowed hard, as I knew that those were the names of my uncles; my father’s brothers. That couldn’t be a coincidence, I thought. I felt dizzy.<br />
<br />
I looked down the hallway to make certain that Fritz and my parents were occupied and I could still hear them laughing downstairs. The coast was clear. I picked up the receiver from the phone and slowly dialed the number that was next to the name Mike. I will never forget how loud the ringing was in my ear; it was as if time was standing still. “Hello?” Someone had answered. It was the voice of an adult male, and he had a thick Italian accent.<br />
<br />
“Mike?”<br />
"Si’?”<br />
“Hello. My name is Cathy. And I believe I might be your niece. My father is Tony?”<br />
<br />
I heard a “click” on the other end of the line. I could hardly believe my ears. I yelled out “Hello? Hello?” several more times, but the phone had gone dead. He had hung up on me.<br />
<br />
Undeterred but angry, I scanned the names again. Maybe my father wanted the fact that he had a family to remain a secret; maybe his brother knew he never wanted to be found. But as I pondered this, I saw it, under the “A’s.” Antonio. Of course. My father was listed as Antonio.<br />
<br />
My heart began to thump loudly, and I felt a strange tingling sensation go up my neck and toward my face like slowly burning lava. I knew it was him. But I was frozen. I couldn’t make the call; I was too scared, especially after the way my Uncle had just treated me. So instead, I found a pencil and paper, and jotted the number down. It was a long drive home from Mill Valley that evening; as I never revealed to my mother or my step-father that I had found my biological father at last. But I held a very special secret, on a little scrap of paper in my pocket, and I checked to make certain it was still there at least a dozen times.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t until the next day that I revved up enough courage to make the phone call. I sat for at least an hour on the floor, the phone between my legs, and that little scrap of paper sitting on the floor just above the phone. I must have picked up the receiver at least a half a dozen times preparing to call him, but I would always hang it up at the last second. Then suddenly, with a burst of adrenalin, I found my fingers dialing the number. I didn’t hang up, but my throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow. The phone was ringing. And someone was picking it up. I held my hand over my chest to try and quiet the thumping that was that was so intense it was scaring me. <br />
<br />
“Hello?” It was the voice of a little girl, about 10 years old. I couldn’t fathom who it might be.<br />
"Hello. Is Tony there, please?”<br />
There was a pause on the other end. “Yeah, who is this?”<br />
Then it was my turn to pause. I was trembling all over. “I’m his daughter.”<br />
The little girl laughed into the phone, and it startled me. “No, you’re not,” she said. “I AM.” And then I heard the familiar “click” and the phone went dead. These people certainly knew how to hang up a phone, I thought.<br />
<br />
His daughter? This was impossible. My father was a lonely skipper, navigating his vessel toward distant lands. His only daughters were my sister and I, whom he left behind long ago in order to pursue his dreams.<br />
<br />
I felt irate that I had been hung up on a second time; so without hesitation I called right back. I was prepared to have a fight with this little girl, who was pretending to be my sister. But this time, an older gentleman answered the phone. He sounded exactly the way Mike did, with a thick Italian accent. I knew it was him. And the way he said hello was so full with grief that my soul darkened like a gray cloud. It felt as though the whole world was crying. There was a lifetime of regret and grief in that hello.<br />
<br />
“Hello?” I said back, almost inaudibly. I felt tears rising in my nasal passages and in my throat. For a minute there was only breathing. I could hear my father’s breath. And he could hear mine. We both knew we were connected.<br />
“Why do you say you’re my daughter?” he finally asked.<br />
“My name is Cathy, and....” but I didn’t have a chance to finish my sentence.<br />
“Catherine Anne, yes? Hello Caterina. This is your Papa’. I’ve been expecting this call for many years. But this has to be a private conversation, do you understand? My son and daughter do not know I had a family previously. Capish?”<br />
“Yes.” I hardly knew what I was saying. I had just learned I had a half brother and sister. That he had remarried and had a family.<br />
“I cannot believe this is you,” he said, his voice filled with pain. “I cannot believe I am talking to my daughter. Do you know I love you? I have always loved you.”<br />
“You have?”<br />
“Si’ Bella. I must ask you, are you robust?”<br />
I thought it was an odd question, and I began to giggle. I wasn’t even sure I knew what the word meant.<br />
“What do you mean, am I robust?”<br />
“I saw a girl on a bus one day. She would be about your age. She looked like my daughter. Very robust. I mean healthy, you understand? Vigorous.”<br />
I laughed at this. “I guess so, but the only bus I take is the school bus,” I told him.<br />
“Oh,” he said sadly, seemingly disappointed. “How is your sister?”<br />
“She’s here but she’s not sure she wants to talk to you. Maybe later.”<br />
“Oh,” he said sadly again. “And how is your brother?”<br />
His last comment echoed like a menacing statement in the back of my subconscious. “Brother?” I said. I had no idea what brother he was talking about, but a part of me knew that he must be telling the truth. He is my father, and he would certainly know if I had a brother. But surely he must be mistaken, I thought to myself. “I don’t have a brother,” I finally answered.<br />
“Oh,” he said sadly again. “Hmmmm. They still haven’t told you, eh? I always worried they might never tell you. That’s why I had to leave, do you understand? Capish?”<br />
<br />
I can’t remember what happened after that moment, or how the phone eventually got hung up. I know my sister eventually came to the phone and spoke with him as well. But the only thing I could think about was this strange confession he made. It was a concept I could hardly wrap my brain around, this idea that I had a brother, and if I did, I wondered where he was.<br />
<br />
When my sister got off the phone, I asked her if he had mentioned a brother. When she said that he hadn’t, I excitedly repeated everything that Tony had told me, and asked her what on earth he might be talking about. She looked as stunned as I, and in moments we were practically screaming, shouting back and forth dozens of theories and possibilities. Suddenly my sister said, “I KNOW WHO IT IS!”<br />
<br />
She ran back to her room, and a moment later emerged carrying a picture of our Uncle George, the boy I had lived with half of my life. She held his picture up next to her face. We had always known they looked exactly alike, my sister and my brother; in fact people often mistook them for twins when they were very little. And throughout our lives we’d all remarked how our noses were the same, or our curly hair. “GEORGE IS OUR BROTHER.”<br />
<br />
When the truth is presented to you in black and white, which it literally was, there are no longer any questions. This revelation was like a giant puzzle piece which had always been missing, which suddenly snapped into place with a tremendous thud. All of the questions we raised about George’s origins all of our lives came sharply into focus.<br />
<br />
I remembered the time George came into my bedroom, looking as though he were about to burst into tears. “I found adoption papers,” he told me. “I’m adopted. I’m not related to any of you.”<br />
<br />
“That’s impossible,” I told him. “We look exactly alike. We have to be related. You must have misunderstood what you saw.”<br />
<br />
I also remembered the time George and I were reading the Guinness Book of World Records, and we came across the oldest woman to have ever given birth at that time. George said, “This is strange. My mother was only a few years younger than the oldest woman to have ever given birth. Is that right?” We both narrowed our eyebrows in disbelief, and we started trying to figure out exactly how old my grandmother was when she gave birth to George. And it seemed a bit remarkable. <br />
<br />
I also remembered a lifetime of funny looks, every time a stranger would think we were all siblings. When we’d argue back and tell them he was our Uncle, a strange look would come over their faces; a look of disbelief. Now I know what those looks meant. They were thinking, “He is your brother but they’ve lied to you about it for some reason. What a pity.”<br />
<br />
All of these thoughts filled my brain and I knew my sister was correct. “Let’s go wake up Mom and ask her,” my sister suggested. And that is exactly what we did.<br />
<br />
In a moment we had dragged my mother out of bed and sat her down in front of us. There was no mistaking our exuberance and our horror; I believe she knew what was coming. Her face was greatly pained, as if this was a moment she had expected for a long time. She weakly lit a cigarette and her hand was shaking. We had something important to say. And we had no time to waste in explaining how we knew what we knew; there was no mention of the fact that I had found Tony or that I had called him. Or that Tony told us we had a brother. We just came straight out with it. “Is George our brother?” we asked her.<br />
<br />
My sister and I have often recounted the way my mother took a long drag off her cigarette and let the smoke out in the slowest steady stream we had ever seen. Then she took the deepest breath, and said only one word. “Yes.” She whispered it.<br />
<br />
My sister and I were verging on hysteria. The questions tumbled out of our mouths faster than we could ask them; but we were filled with anger and regret and suspicion. My bubble of innocence popped so loud it was almost audible. I was certain I would never trust anyone, ever again.<br />
<br />
“Let me explain,” she said. I looked at my mother and she seemed strangely peaceful; almost relieved that the secret had been revealed at long last. “My mother, your grandmother, married a much younger man than she. You both know that Beba is 20 years younger, don’t you?” Beba was like our grandfather, even though he was only a couple of years older than my mother.<br />
<br />
We nodded. “My mother was too old to have children, but her husband wanted a child very badly. And my mother didn’t want to lose him. She first asked if she could adopt you,” my Mom said, looking at my sister. “But I wouldn’t hear of it. And then she began to beg us; Tony and me. My mother begged us to have a child for her that she could raise as her own. I became a surrogate for her. We gave George away the moment he was born; I wasn’t even allowed to hold him. Tony was never happy after that. He managed to impregnate me with you, Cathy, and then he left. My mother swore me to secrecy, and I agreed never to tell her secret. And now I have to ask you girls to never reveal this secret. You cannot tell your brother what you know, EVER. And you can not tell your grandmother that you know either. Do you both promise me? Swear to me.”<br />
<br />
This moment became another crossroads of my life; an instant where, in retrospect, I know I had sold my soul. I had agreed to lie.<br />
<br />
<br />
My sister and I both nodded. My mother stood up. “I haven’t even told my husband this. I’m going to tell him now.” Even my step-father didn’t know. I was in such shock, I could hardly comprehend it all.<br />
<br />
It took me four years after this incident to go looking for my father in person, which I eventually did. The reason it took me so long was that I needed to process the news I’d been given in that first exchange with him; I didn’t have the room in my psyche to handle any more. I had been asked to keep a secret; a secret that was much too big to keep; and I wrestled daily with it; from the morality aspect, to the shame and the guilt. There was a dark shadow in the back of my mind that constantly mocked me and every day that I kept mum a little more toxic poison was released into my blood stream.<br />
<br />
I actually wrote to “Dear Abbey” at the time, to ask what I should do, but Abbey never responded or published my letter. Every time I saw George, I felt as though the secret would literally rip my skin apart, as if I was sewn together with seams. I was going to burst. His continued jokes about our Italian heritage suddenly struck me as painful; and he would cock his head and wonder why I had stopped laughing.<br />
<br />
To this day, I abhor secrets. And I abhor lies. Secrets will eat you alive. When you keep a secret, your soul becomes a dungeon where you bury the truth; and it begins to fill with spider webs and dust. One lie causes you to tell another lie, and soon they begin to pile on top of each other, and there’s no room for anything else. And every day your psyche feels a little bit filthier, yet you know there is no way to clean yourself. Your innocence has been shot like a hapless victim in the back; your gullibility has been fatally injured and it’s stumbling away from you, running and bleeding. Your soul begins to smell like toxic fumes and its stench begins to leak into your nostrils and onto your taste buds. Yet you have no choice but to keep on dancing; you must dance in a world of pretend, you must dance to the beat of deceit, and you must plaster a disingenuous smile across your lips, so that no one will ever know.<br />
<br />
This secret changed my life irrevocably; because I have never really trusted the world ever again. People lie constantly; and they are just as constant about justifying why they do so. Perhaps it is to protect another, or to spare someone else pain. People lie to get a job; they lie about where they’ve been; they lie about what they’ve done. And if you question them, they always recite some vague reason as to why it’s acceptable. But I don’t think there is ever a reason, and ultimately there is never a purpose. And the irony is, the truth will always come out. And it isn’t until it does, that you will ever be free. <br />
<br />
The only thing that kept me sane was writing. Writing, to me, seems to be the antithesis of keeping secrets. I needed to express everything; I needed to reveal what the world was trying to hide.<br />
<br />
We never told our grandmother or George that we knew, but we told everyone else. Even his girlfriend knew. Soon, everyone in George’s life was forced to keep this toxic secret. He was the only person who didn’t know who he was; a birthright, I should think.<br />
<br />
It was Tony who eventually told George, many years later. My brother walked into his father’s house that evening as one man, and he walked out as quite another. He had just met Tony for the first time; years after my sister and I were in constant contact with him. Eventually Tony would tell his own children about us, and we became one big family. I constantly urged my brother to pay him a visit, but he had little interest. “He’s not MY father,” he would tell me, “why should I go?” But Tony begged us to keep on trying.<br />
<br />
The night George finally agreed to go, the door opened, and Tony stood there, staring. “Georgio,” he said. “Let’s go take a walk.” We all knew what was coming. I shook my head in Tony’s direction, pleading with him not to reveal the secret. But Tony ignored me. I knew George was confused as to why they needed to leave the minute we had all arrived at his house for dinner, but George left with him. And when he came back, he looked like a different person.<br />
<br />
My brother used to laugh easily; his eyes crinkling in an adorable way that always made me smile. But after he learned the truth, I never saw him laugh as easily again. Certainly he still teases, and still makes jokes. But I can always see the shadow in his eyes; a darkness and melancholy that first appeared the evening he learned the truth.<br />
<br />
Some days, I think that they should have just put arsenic in our Halloween candy. It might have been easier than what they did do; and that was to release deadly venom into the bloodstreams of our souls, a toxic poison that still kills us all a little bit every day. <br />
<br />
Yes, maybe the arsenic would have been better. At least it’s a little more honest. Capish?<br />
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<strong><span style="color: blue;">Please feel free to leave your comments below by clicking the comment button. Thanks for stopping by!</span></strong>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-571444145407545472009-10-19T14:51:00.000-07:002009-10-20T15:09:37.077-07:00The Stepford WifeWhen I was a child, I assumed that when a man eventually proposed marriage to me, it would be the old fashioned way. He would have one knee on the ground, and the black velvet box outstretched in his trembling hand. He would have a speech prepared of course; and I would swoon with his declarations of ever lasting love. This scenario wasn’t my fantasy, really; I had just been conditioned to believe that this was the way things happened.<br />
<br />
But when my marriage proposal came, it was me who was on my knees.<br />
<br />
I was scrubbing the kitchen floor with a bucket of hot soapy water, a dab of sweat at each temple. The fact that the sight of me bent over, being a domesticated goddess, or a soapy slave, inspired this man to propose marriage might have been a red flag. Because I always knew that I could never be a traditional woman.<br />
<br />
As early as I can remember, I didn’t want to have children. I remember boasting about this to my mother, to which she replied, “Oh, you’ll change your mind one day.” But I never did. I also thought it highly unlikely that I would ever be married.<br />
<br />
But that day, as I rubbed a filthy washcloth over the linoleum, I agreed to be married.<br />
<br />
I was only 19 years old. <br />
<br />
My life changed overnight.<br />
<br />
The life I imagined that I would lead would be one of a hedonistic writer. I wanted to live passionately; I wanted to live like the Beatniks did in the 1950’s. I dreamed of another literary movement, so I, too, could be a part of a sub-culture. I wanted to live in the bowels of an underground America, serenaded by jazz, sex, and poetry. I wanted the purple dawns and drugs that Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty knew in Kerouac’s “On the Road,” and just like Jack I wanted my own cross-country bohemian odyssey. I wanted to drive a vehicle like an unguided missile, my one arm waving free toward the sunset, over prairies and desserts and cities; my mind ripe with lusty descriptions of all of it. I wanted to frequent coffee houses with my writer friends, and smoke cigarettes until the ashtray overflowed. I wanted to drink one too many cappuccinos, and have zealous debates while delving into intellectual conversations about William Burroughs. I wanted to be free.<br />
<br />
But the day I accepted marriage, my life took an awkward turn.<br />
<br />
Suddenly I was elbow-deep in china patterns and choosing invitations and flowers. I was thrust into the role of a pink fairy princess; something I never wanted to be. I knew that most little girls dreamed about that time in their lives, but it wasn’t my dream. And I felt I had to pretend that it was.<br />
<br />
This idea of being someone’s wife perplexed me. I didn’t understand how it was possible to leave my soul intact, without metamorphosing into somebody else’s idea of what I should be. I was too young; I hadn’t even become fully what I was going to be, and already I had to bend my will to another.<br />
<br />
The first order of business was to buy me an engagement ring. My husband-to-be didn’t want to pick it out; he wanted me to choose my own so that I would really love it.<br />
<br />
I was glad he did. I had no use for diamonds; I felt they were bourgeoisie. I wanted a blue sapphire in an antique setting; a ring with history, a ring which fed my soul. So my fiancé’ took me shopping for just that. It took us all day, but finally I found a ring that I loved. The jeweler agreed to clean it and send it. I was excited about that ring, and could imagine wearing it for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
Two days later, my husband-to-be followed tradition, and did it “right.” After a wonderful dinner, he plopped down on one knee and brought out a little velvet box, and asked me to become his wife. But when I opened it, the ring I had chosen was not there. Instead I found a traditional engagement ring; white gold, with an enormous diamond that protruded so far from the setting that I was certain I’d put out someone’s eye with it. But worse, I had this dreaded feeling that there was a conspiracy going on, and someone was trying to drive me insane. After all, where was the ring I had chosen? And what was my expected response, was I to pretend I was happy and not mention that the ring had morphed into something hideous? It felt a little like the Twilight Zone.<br />
<br />
“What happened to the ring I chose?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“My mother thought it was improper,” he said. “She insisted you should have this instead. She said it was BETTER.”<br />
<br />
Oh dear God. The MOTHER-IN-LAW.<br />
<br />
The mother-in-law, as it turned out, didn’t like any of my choices. <br />
<br />
The day I was sent out to register for gifts, a horrifying little ritual, I spent the day choosing practical arty pieces that I found aesthetically pleasing. I didn’t like the idea of telling people to buy me gifts, let alone dictating precisely what they should buy me. But this is what I was told to do, so I chose items I loved. My mother-in-law went back the next day, and changed every single choice I’d made; registering me for conservative china; something that might be found at a Presidential dinner. Ornate silver and ridiculously expensive crystal replaced my more moderate choices. And I didn’t know she’d gone behind my back until the gifts began to arrive.<br />
<br />
I chose a rock and roll band for the reception that was to be held at a very hip location; the Bach Dynamite Society in Half Moon Bay. Unbeknownst to me, she canceled the rock band and ordered a sedate quartet. By then I was learning; and without her knowing or finding out, I rehired the rock band. The look on her face when the band came to set up at my reception was priceless. She told me the music I’d chosen would ruin an otherwise perfect day.<br />
<br />
But the most frightening thing was the MOTHER-IN-LAW insisted that we marry in a Catholic Church. I had been baptized Catholic, that much is true. But it was only because in the 5th grade, when we all had to announce what church we belonged to, I didn’t have an answer. So I went home and insisted that my parents baptize me. Most of the children were Catholics, so that is what I chose. My baptism was almost humorous; I was an 11 year old girl, all dressed up in a white frock, standing in line with a dozen infants. <br />
<br />
But other than not wanting to be embarrassed at school, my baptism served no other purpose; I did not want to be affiliated with any organized religion. The prospect of being married in a Catholic church frightened me. Even more frightening, was that I was sent away to live in a nunnery with nuns for a week, a time I supposed they hoped to brainwash me. I remember lying in my bed that first morning; a little cot in a chilly little room, and being awakened by a nun in a black habit. She told me the first order of business was to meet with the Father, where I would promise to have children and raise them Catholic. I didn’t plan on having children, and I sure as hell didn’t want to promise I’d raise them in a faith I didn’t believe in. But I was brought to a dark room and I was forced to agree to a falsehood; and to sign away my soul. I was being buried by a dark blanket of deceit.<br />
<br />
My life had turned into a lie. I was a fraud. I couldn’t fight the establishment. I was a mechanical wind-up toy. Like a Stepford wife, I was being sent down an endless corridor of conformity.<br />
<br />
I did end up getting my way on some things. I rejected the idea of a receiving line; after all, I wasn’t royalty, and I found the ritual pretentious. I refused to wear a veil; the roots of this tradition meant submission to the man, and I wasn’t having that. I wouldn’t let the priest say, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” but rather “husband and wife.” And my bridesmaid dresses were hand sewn from five different materials and lace; and my bridesmaids wore strawflower wreaths with long colorful ribbons in their hair. They looked like flower-children of the 60’s. I tried to hang onto who I was, but those victories were few and far between.<br />
<br />
My first bridal shower was like an episode from a horror film.<br />
<br />
A half hour before the event was to begin, I was ushered into a back bedroom at my mother-in-law’s house. There on the bed was an outfit for me to wear. It was a gruesome little ensemble; a white pleated skirt, white blouse, white hose, and white high heels. I argued vehemently; saying I was fine in the new dress I had bought for the occasion; but she wouldn’t hear of it. I dutifully changed, and then was led into a living room that was all white; white carpet and white couches; fake flowers and horrific paintings, like you might see in a hotel; and a far cry from the colorful artsy interiors of my childhood. We drank punch that contained no alcohol. We played inane dreadful little games. But worse than any of that, was that I did not know a single person there. Other than my mother and sister-in-law to be, the room was full of strangers; older women dressed tightly in provincial suits, wearing corsages.<br />
<br />
I almost choked. “Where are MY friends?” I whispered.<br />
<br />
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll have another party for you. But these are MY friends. And they’re WEALTHY.”<br />
<br />
It was a nightmare I feared I’d never awake from. I sat there with a plastered smile on my face, as I opened present after present; silver tea sets and crystal candy dishes, monogrammed towels and napkin holders from Tiffany’s. “And this is from....Mrs. Baker?” I’d call out weakly, scanning the crowd for a woman to identify herself. And when she did, “Thank you Mrs. Baker, it’s very lovely.” But it wasn’t lovely at all; I wanted to smash it all against the wall, rip off my white pleated skirt, and go screaming into the suburban streets half naked.<br />
<br />
But it was the stationary I received from my mother-in-law which nearly sent me into a tailspin. It read, “Mrs. HIS NAME.” It was his name. It read Mrs. His first name, His middle name, and His last name. I was Mrs. Him.<br />
<br />
“You know, I hadn’t really decided to take his name,” I offered in a feeble small voice. “I was thinking of hyphenating it, maybe, so I could keep my name as well.”<br />
<br />
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother-in-law spat back. “OF COURSE you will take our name.” <br />
<br />
My entire identity, at last had been stripped.<br />
<br />
After the marriage, it only grew worse. I remember coming home from work one evening, and when I opened my front door, all of our antique and funky furniture were gone, and had been replaced with a hideous living room “set” of matching everything. “Your mother-in-law is certainly generous,” my friends would offer, as a way to console me. But to me, these weren’t gifts at all; they were manipulations and controls disguised as presents. She was trying to slowly alter who I was.<br />
<br />
My evenings were spent having dinner at the In-laws, or at Lyon’s Club functions. My father-in-law was the Governor of the Lyon’s Club, and I was forced to endure meetings, conventions, and banquets; and I was paraded around in conservative suits and corsages, just like the women wore at my Bridal Shower. It was utterly void of color, of intellect, and of art. I was a smiling mannequin, and the person I knew myself to be was dying. I was dying a little every day.<br />
<br />
I believed, for a time, that pretending to be something I wasn’t was the right choice. I thought maturity was about putting my own desires aside, and opting what is best for the greater whole. And for a time, I vowed to sacrifice my own lusty perspective in favor of what was expected of me.<br />
<br />
My husband and I separated seven years later. I found a special peace in telling my mother-in-law that the primary problem in our marriage was her incessant interference. And once those words were finally uttered, I danced into the unknown; following an eccentric beat that I recognized as my own. I left my husband and took nothing; I left the china and the crystal and the property and the bank accounts. In fact, I was homeless for six months. <br />
<br />
I had a post office box, and my mother-in-law sent me checks in the mail for a full year. I never knew why she sent me money, and I was so impoverished at the time, I didn’t care why. At the end of that year, she called me on the phone and asked me if I was done being a silly little girl, and when I was returning to my husband. I told her “never,” and I felt I had sprouted wings. The checks stopped. And I was free. I started to remember that purple dawn I had dreamed of long ago; the one that served as a backdrop to my life of poetry and non-conformity.<br />
<br />
I often muse about children and young adults who give up their hopes and dreams in order to fit in. They are socialized before they are even aware of it; and they are conditioned from a young age to live someone else’s truth. Sadly, this often continues throughout their lives until they stand up for themselves, and actively seek to reignite the spark that society has extinguished. I believe the dreams we have about our lives are signposts to our authentic selves, and happiness is found in pursuing them.<br />
<br />
I never wanted to be a fairy princess, draped in pink, forced to endure coffee klatches and idle chitchat. I wanted to be wicked. I wanted to be drunk with profligacy. I wanted my soul to burst with everything that it longed to express.<br />
<br />
And although I am constantly tested, I make a vow and a promise to myself every day; and this is a vow, unlike my marriage vows, I try to honor. And that is to never be a fraud again. If I can stay true to that, I know my life will find the right course.<br />
---------------------------------------------<br />
"Let the beauty you love be what you do." --RumiCathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-32787563994250211212009-10-13T08:29:00.000-07:002009-10-13T08:29:57.649-07:00The Math GeekThe day I discovered that I was good at math, I was horrified. I felt as though Lucifer himself had risen from his fiery pit, and had stolen my soul. I was devastated. And I would never be the same again.<br />
<br />
I had always hated math, and all math related topics. I especially hated my math teachers. Their personalities were so dry, I swore that if I blew on them they’d disintegrate like a pyramid of crumbs, and then scatter like dust in the wind. They were like desiccated fruit.<br />
<br />
My algebra teacher, Mr. Connors, was the classic example of a geek, before geeks became popular. Black slacks, white crisp shirt, butch cut, pen protector in the pocket, horned rimmed glasses. I decided that he must be a virgin; I couldn’t imagine him getting passionate and sweaty. I would squirm when I thought what his kisses might be like; tight arid pecks, void of moisture.<br />
<br />
Mr. Connors’ lessons were given in a steady monotone; an annoying drone about constants, variables, and Quadratic Equations that made me want to stand up and scream. There was the constant squeak and clatter of chalk against chalkboard, and what would spill forth were rows upon rows of nonsensical twaddle; parentheses and X’s where numbers should be; an annoying array of plus, minus and equal signs, spelled out as if they were actual sentences.<br />
<br />
How dare this mumbo jumbo parade around as if they were sentences! The sentences I loved were made out of words. Beautiful strings of words, held together by stanzas and paragraphs; descriptive snippets which oozed with love, death, agony, and the mysteries of life. Poetry and literature; that is where the sentences I understood were nestled, safe in their beds of wisdom and communication.<br />
<br />
These math sentences were unsightly, meaningless gibberish.<br />
<br />
Because Mr. Connors was always writing his ugly sentences on the board, I had plenty of time to stare at the back of his head and his very red neck. I found this far more interesting than the rubbish he filled the chalkboard with. His neck bulged slightly at the collar; I decided this was his only physical imperfection. He was strangely flawless; I was certain he’d never dropped a spoonful of pea soup down his tie. He was a robot; an unfeeling android. It was Square Root this, and Square Root that, and I often felt tempted to sneak up behind him and bonk him on the head with a heavy metal object. Not to kill him, but rather to shut him up. “Bang, bang, Maxwell’s Silver Hammer came down upon his head,” I would sing under my breath, trying to block his mind numbing prattle.<br />
<br />
I cut my Algebra class as often as I could, and only attended just enough to pass the course. In those days, they didn’t care too much about delinquencies from class; truants were rarely punished, and because we had few restrictions, graduating from High School really became our choice. No one was really going to force you to put in the necessary time; you were either going to work hard enough to pass, or you weren’t.<br />
<br />
I was going to pass. I was going onto college, and I had planned on getting the highest degree I could earn; a PhD in Literature. I had dreams as big as a Harvest Moon; I was going to be a novelist; a journalist; a columnist, and a War Correspondent. I was going to work at the San Francisco Chronicle, and I was going to share the occasional giggle with Herb Caen, whose office would be just down the hall from mine. I was going to rub shoulders with leather elbowed novelists, who would puff on a pipe as they’d quip about their latest narrative. I would be a member of the elite Literati, and I would spend the rest of my life dedicated to perfecting prose.<br />
<br />
Sadly, this was never to be.<br />
<br />
When I was a senior in High School, my parents sat me down one day, and explained to me that they were moving to Hopland, to the country home my Dad had been building for a decade. They would give me a month; I had to get my driver’s license, which I had been putting off; buy a car, find a job, and find an apartment. I got my first credit card, and was in debt for $20,000 right out of the gate. I had no car, let alone anything to start a home.<br />
<br />
Their announcement was one of the lowest moments of my life. I sat there dumbfounded; and I saw every dream I’d ever had for my future fly out the window, flapping merrily away, with little black wings. The depression was beyond tears; I was mute for a long time. “I’m still in High School,” I finally said, as low and soft as my voice would go. But nothing I said would have mattered. I had to become an adult seemingly overnight, and I knew that college would have to be put on hold. I needed a job. And I could no longer take on menial jobs as I’d done in my past; I had to earn a living. I had to pay rent.<br />
<br />
I went to work full time at Insurance Company in San Mateo. I honestly couldn’t tell you what my job even was; not only don’t I remember, but it was so inane I hardly knew what I was doing then. But I do remember that part of my job was mailing out hundreds and hundreds of policy statements to clients. So I typed up a small note which said something like: “I’m a frustrated writer held captive in Corporate America; in a tedious repetitive job that will surely suck the life out of me. If you can help me realize my dreams, and be a working writer, please call me at this number. 726-4854. Thank you.” I then took this note and made hundreds of copies of it, carefully cut each one out, and piled them on my desk next to the stack of policies. Before I would enclose the policy in the envelope and seal it, I would tape one of these little notes to the bottom of the page.<br />
<br />
No job offers came from this. But it did earn me a trip to the boss’ office, when a client called and complained. And this led to another meaningless job and to another. I decided that if this was going to be my life, I would rather be dead.<br />
<br />
But the nightmare only worsened in intensity. It was a beautiful autumn day, and my boyfriend was sitting on the patio in my front yard, doing his Algebra homework. He was whining and groaning; making sounds that were familiar to me, as they were similar to the noises I made when forced to listen to the incessant drivel from Mr. Connors. I ignored his feeble attempts to gain my pity; and while I had great empathy for his plight, I was determined to go nowhere near his math book. “Heeelllllllllllllppppppp Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” he would bleat, as he would bang his head against his book. <br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t understand what pleasure could be found in math. The whole idea of math was that it was a solvable puzzle; it was only a mystery until it was unraveled. It was a concrete science; and answers were either wrong or right. But there was always an answer; there was always a finite conclusion. Even if that answer was infinity.<br />
<br />
Words intrigued me, because in my mind they were the reverse. The beauty of words was that there was no answer; literature and poetry are just beautiful chains of ambiguity and questions, strung together delicately, with the most invisible of filaments. There is no wrong or right; there is no black or white. It was an imperfect science without any conclusion.<br />
<br />
“Help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” he pleaded again.<br />
<br />
“You know I hate math. Stop bugging me. I wouldn’t be of any help anyway. Do you know I barely passed Algebra in High School?”<br />
<br />
“I know, I know, but just read this ONE problem with me, please. Maybe you can give me some perspective; something I cannot see. PLEASE. I can’t figure out what it MEANS.”<br />
<br />
Rolling my eyes, I walked toward him, and toward the dreaded math book. I took a disinterested glance downward, and saw those strings of math sentences; just like the ones Mr. Connors would write on the board; the same ones that filled me with dread, confusion and loathing.<br />
<br />
Imagine my horror, when I stared down at the page, and I could suddenly read them.<br />
It was like staring at a page of words written in a foreign tongue that suddenly make sense. We’ve all seen pages of Chinese or Farsi; strange symbols that appear like nonsense on the page; and while we know that others can read the words written there, we also know that no matter how hard we try, we’ll never be able to decipher their code.<br />
<br />
That was the way Algebra always felt to me, and in this one moment, when I stared at the page, it felt like I looked at a Chinese book and could suddenly, miraculously, read Chinese. But I didn’t feel joy; as if a magic wand had just given me a special gift of seeing; rather I was utterly sickened.<br />
<br />
In short, this led me to becoming an accountant. Without any training, the double entry system made sense to me upon first glance. My mind wrapped around the entire accounting concept; as if I’d always known it. And unfortunately, I was very good at it.<br />
<br />
When I would come in for interviews, I would often get similar remarks. “Wow, you’re not what we usually expect when we interview for an accountant!” They always said it in a jolly but judgmental way, which caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. With my wild hair, and robust personality, they couldn’t quite imagine me sitting quietly in a corner office, seriously clattering away on an adding machine.<br />
<br />
But I tried to fit in. I tried to look like an accountant. I tried to look like Mr. Connors. <br />
<br />
In the early days, I would don panty hose, heels, and business suits; I talked in a monotone business-like way. I was efficient and calculated. Strangely, somehow, someway I could never truly hide who I was. I don’t know if it was my wild hair or wild eyes, or that I wore too many rings on my fingers. Perhaps it was my hearty laugh, which I couldn’t suppress from bursting forth when something struck me as ironic. But somehow they always figured out that beneath my business demeanor lived an untamed poet, aching to write.<br />
<br />
I did beg for a job at the San Francisco Chronicle once. And I mean, I really begged. I decided to write a letter that would scream my true passion to such an extent that someone would feel my crazed enthusiasm, and like a freak accident, would offer me an interview. They sent back a personalized letter which was quite kind considering, saying they enjoyed my writing samples, but I needed more experience to become a columnist.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, I did find that there was actually a great deal of creativity in accounting. It was much more fluid than I had previously thought; I discovered that the Balance Sheet was actually something that could be manipulated. Not in a dishonest way, but a good accountant can book things one way or another to make the financials appear to the owner’s liking, depending on the scenario at hand. And on some level, I enjoyed making sense out of chaos, which is really what the job of the accountant is. Not to mention, it paid well.<br />
<br />
But one year turned to a decade, and a decade turned to two. And as the years slipped by, I had built a resume of my life, which could scarcely be changed. The longer I worked as an accountant, the farther away I got from being a writer. When I would apply for writing jobs, I could really only offer 25 years as an accountant for my history. And every day I just slipped farther and farther away from my dream.<br />
Over the years the ache has faded. Or perhaps I’m just in denial. <br />
<br />
Because it still aches. <br />
<br />
A lot.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-43640846714346954392009-10-07T09:28:00.000-07:002009-10-07T12:33:39.328-07:00Christmas in the TenderloinThey say that if you remember the 60’s that you weren’t really there. This motto, of course, argues that anyone who actually was there spent the majority of the decade high on drugs. But the adage forgets a faction of people who were there and didn’t take drugs; and that would be the children. <br />
<br />
The hippie, in his tie-dyed t-shirt and long flowing hair has become an enduring archetype that rivals any archetype before it, and although only a child, I have always been grateful that I had a front row seat to this revolutionary time. The world was in flux; and that unrest had even reached my front door.<br />
<br />
My father told me he was too old to be a hippie. He was in his early 40’s, after all, and the majority of the hippie movement involved optimistic kids in their 20’s. But being an artist, and an always forward-thinking individual, he embraced the movement. <br />
<br />
At least at first. <br />
<br />
“You can trust anyone with a beard,” he once told me. And as short-sighted as that sounds now, it was true for a time. I still remember when he eventually retracted that statement, saying a beard was no longer a guarantee of benevolence.<br />
<br />
My father railed against the Viet Nam war, and raking Lyndon Johnson over the coals was a nightly ritual which I came to enjoy. The images of war haunted the poet inside of me, and I had taken to carefully cutting out various war pictures from magazines and gluing them in scrapbooks. Later some of these images became famous; such as the Vietnamese child running screaming and naked after she'd been burned with napalm toward a bashful camera. I had cut that picture out in a circular shape, and I can still see it stuck on the manila pages where I’d put it; it was an image that I referred to often when I needed to cry.<br />
<br />
When Wallace was running for President, my father called a family meeting, and told us that if he were elected, we’d be moving to Europe. This was a frightening thought for a nine year old; and I became engrossed with the Presidential race that year; praying every night that Wallace would lose and we could stay in Moss Beach, only footsteps from the ocean.<br />
<br />
During those years, my father uncharacteristically took my sister and me out on many excursions; he told us that a lot was happening in the world, and he wanted us to be a part of it. I remember several Peace Rallies and Protest Marches; all of which I took very seriously. We would sing Joe McDonald’s song religiously, “And it’s one, two, three what are we fighting for? Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn; next stop is Viet Nam.” I loved the line about being the first people on the block to have your son sent home in a box. Even then, its sarcasm fed me.<br />
<br />
During the Summer of Love he took us on a special outing to the Haight Ashbury district. He spent an inordinate amount of time explaining the “scene” as he put it, as we drove to San Francisco that day. I had no idea what to expect; but I will never forget it; and I am grateful that I had a glimpse of that historic display from the back of my father’s white Volkswagen bug. He wouldn’t let us out of the car to roam about; but he did take us up and down the street several times at a snail’s pace. My face was pressed against the glass as I stared out into a cacophony of color, sound and motion that I could hardly comprehend. Young people were everywhere; we could really only inch through the crowd slowly anyway, and we were glad. The street was awash with every color under the rainbow; and the scent of patchouli oil and marijuana drifted through my Dad’s open window. I couldn’t take the sights in fast enough; I spotted a group of young men wearing dreadlocks and playing bongos; then a circle of girls painting hearts on each other’s cheeks. It was a kaleidoscope of long hair, beads, psychedelic signs, top hats, and peace signs. I remember a group of girls all sitting in a circle, creating daisy chains. I had never seen anything like it, and I excitedly pointed, “Look, Look!” as we paused beside them. The chain they were working on was long; perhaps six feet or more; and they each wore smaller chains as wreaths upon their long straight hair. I couldn’t wait to get home and make my own daisy chain.<br />
<br />
To be sure, that was a memorable excursion. But there was an excursion that my father took us on that I remember far better than those. It was on Christmas Eve, after a holiday party.<br />
<br />
In those days, children hardly ever accompanied the adults to a grown-up party. They were appropriately left home with babysitters, so that the adults could enjoy themselves unfettered. They didn’t want children around trying to eat the pot brownies, for instance, which I tried to do once. I was so incensed when they told me I wasn’t allowed this treat, without any explanation whatsoever.<br />
<br />
If my parents had their own party, we were escorted to our bedrooms after a quick hello to the guests, armed with a T.V. dinner and television to entertain us. If my parents couldn’t find a babysitter, we were brought along, but we’d be ushered immediately to the children’s room, where we’d spend the evening with the children of the host and hostesses. This particular Christmas Eve was exactly that scenario.<br />
<br />
My parents certainly partied. They loved their martinis; they smoked a little pot; and one day I even walked in on them smoking banana peels. There was a fleeting urban myth that banana peels could get you high; but these myths were followed by many more. But regardless of any of this, my father was far from an alcoholic, and in fact I’d never seen him really drunk in my life; not until that Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
When it was time to go home, my sister and I were retrieved from the back bedroom. We had been sound asleep, and as my mother steered us toward the car, I noticed something was wrong with Dad. He was slightly slurring his speech and behaving erratically. And he was ranting and raving, standing proud atop his very own soap box, spilling diatribes to anyone who might listen.<br />
<br />
Of course my father got behind the wheel. In those days, driving drunk was nothing like it is today; it was done with great regularity by plenty of revelers. But on this night, my mother offered to drive; something I had never heard her do. My father wouldn’t hear of it.<br />
<br />
The memory is dull, but I remember a frantic yelp from my mother, and as I looked up I read the sign in front of me. It was red, and it said “Go Back. You are going the wrong way.” The car lurched into a panic, my sister and my mother pleading with my father to pull over. At the time, I didn’t really realize that we were going the wrong way down the freeway.<br />
<br />
My father spun quickly in a hasty U-turn, driving right over a bumpy median, and soon we were facing in the appropriate direction, speeding down the highway at a fast clip. I remember my mother saying in a strained voice hardly above a whisper, “This isn’t the way home, Dear. Please let me drive.”<br />
<br />
“I know where I’m going,” my father snapped back. “I want to show the children something before we go home.”<br />
<br />
I remember those words, because I found them far more terrifying than driving down the highway in the wrong direction. It was Christmas Eve, and it felt very, very late. Santa Claus had left the North Pole hours ago, and he would surely arrive at our house very shortly. I hadn’t even hung my stocking on the fireplace yet, let alone put out a glass of milk and cookies, which I always did. It was a tiring night for Santa, and anything I could offer in the way of sustenance and refreshment, I was happy to oblige.<br />
<br />
“We have to be home before Santa gets there,” I yelled out. “Please can we just go home right now?”<br />
<br />
“No,” my father said. “You won’t want to miss this.”<br />
<br />
His answer filled me with dread. Because sometimes he would say these words right before he did something horrible, that only he thought was funny. I thought back to earlier that spring, when I lovingly carried around a chocolate chicken that I had received in my Easter Basket. I loved that chicken, and called it “Chick Chick,” and I took it everywhere; it would even sit with me at the dinner table. One night my father insisted I put Chick Chick in the middle of the table and close my eyes. I resisted because I feared the worst; then he told me I wouldn’t want to miss what he was about to do. I did as I was told, and when I opened my eyes upon his command, Chick Chick was in the middle of the table, but missing its head. And my father was licking chocolate from his lips and laughing.<br />
<br />
“I don’t care if I miss it,” I pleaded with my father. “If Santa comes and we’re not home, he will just leave. Mom told us that if children aren’t in bed and sleeping when he comes, he won’t leave the presents! Please!”<br />
<br />
My father ignored me. We were hurdling down the streets, and soon I recognized the group of tall buildings on the horizon; we were headed toward San Francisco. For a moment I imagined that we might be going to see the gigantic tree in Union Square; I loved going there, with the giant ice rink on the roof and the buildings swathed in Christmas decoration.<br />
<br />
But we didn’t head toward any glittering lights. In fact with every block we drove, the streets looked darker and more sinister. I stared out my window from the back of the Volkswagen bug, and I could see the wet streets; they were muddy with rain and littered with garbage. Everywhere I looked, I saw indigents camped; squatting under newspaper, or sleeping under garbage bags. “Why are all of those people sleeping on the street?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“They’re homeless,” my father answered, and I noticed he was looking for a parking place. It all felt very ominous.<br />
<br />
“Dear, please tell me you’re not parking the car here,” my Mom spoke, her voice rising ever so slightly. “It’s dangerous. For Christ sakes, dear, this has gone too far. We would like to go home. Now please.” My mother spoke with a British accent.<br />
<br />
My father found a parking place and pulled in. “Okay, I want everyone out,” he said.<br />
<br />
My mother cupped her hands over his, which were poised over the ignition. “This is the tenderloin district and it’s the middle of the night,” she said. “Don’t be daft. We’re not taking the children here.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t want to get out,” I said fearfully. An old decrepit man began tapping on our window, begging for spare change.<br />
<br />
My father jumped out of the car and handed the old man a few dollars from his wallet. He sent him away, and then opened the car doors for the rest of us. “We’re going for a walk,” he told us.<br />
And we did.<br />
<br />
We went on a long walk. My mother grabbed my hand, and I clung to her with everything that I had. I was fighting back tears as we traveled up one block and down another, stepping over sleeping bodies which littered the pavement. It was sprinkling lightly, and I was shivering; both from cold and apprehension. People who appeared crazy came to us and tried to begin conversations. Empty beer and liquor bottles rolled noisily into the gutters. The streets were silent, except strangled nonsensical screams from its many inhabitants.<br />
<br />
Suddenly my father stopped us all. He said, “Merry Christmas” to a sad neglected lady standing near by, and then he turned to us. “Tomorrow is Christmas,” he told us. “And I brought you here because I want you to reflect on a few things. Christmas is a time when we come together to celebrate the brotherhood of man. A time when we reach out to our neighbor, who might not be doing as well as we are, and offer them a helping hand. Good Will Toward Men. But no one has reached out a hand to any of the people here. They don’t have a warm bed to go home to,” he said as he looked sternly at me.<br />
<br />
The neglected lady asked my father for spare change. He gave her a few dollars. “So I took you here tonight,” he went on, “to remind you all how lucky you are. When you wake up tomorrow on Christmas morning and you tear into your packages, maybe you won’t receive everything you had hoped to receive. But I want you to be grateful for what you have, and think about these people you see here tonight, who won’t wake up to anything tomorrow morning. That’s why I took you here tonight. Do you understand?”<br />
<br />
We nodded. And with that, he agreed to take us home.<br />
<br />
But the torture wasn’t over yet. When we were only minutes from home, my father pulled to the side of the cliff on a road called “Devil’s Slide,” a mountain road which snakes around sheer cliffs, and connects the coast to the rest of the world. The road always terrified me; I was certain we would drive over the steep cliffs and plummet to our deaths. But worse yet, only a week before we’d read in the newspaper about a father who asked his family to step out of the car on this same stretch of road under the rouse of his wanting to take their picture. Once they did, he pushed them unceremoniously off the cliff.<br />
<br />
“Get out of the car please!” my father demanded.<br />
<br />
I was shaking with fear; I was certain I was about to be murdered. But I did as I was told. I was careful not to stand too closely to him. “I just wanted to show you the Moon,” he said beaming. “Isn’t that a beautiful sight? It is hanging so low in the sky and is so full. I would love to paint it.” I could hardly even listen to what he was saying. The only thing on my mind was fear, Santa Claus, and bed. In that order.<br />
<br />
I resented my father as we finally drove home that Christmas Eve. I was shaking as I hung my stocking above the fireplace; certain that Santa had already come and gone. I couldn’t get warm; and it didn’t feel like Christmas Eve; a night I was usually filled with so much joy I could hardly stand it. It felt cold and lonely, and I could still smell the stench of the homeless; like stale beer and bacteria; like urine, decay and death. I crawled into bed shaking, and cried myself to sleep.<br />
<br />
But something happened to my psyche as I slept.<br />
<br />
When I awoke, the world seemed much clearer. I had gleaned some sort of understanding that I previously couldn’t grasp. And I felt the true spirit of the holiday, the way I had never experienced it before. The crisp paper crackling in my stocking filled me with a joy; it no longer mattered what was inside the package. It was the delicious smells and the laughter and the tree and the love. It was being grateful just to be alive; grateful to have a warm meal and safe haven. And I couldn’t stop thinking about that glorious full moon; so ripe above the dark crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean; just tinged with purple. That image was a holiday card in my mind; I started understanding what Peace on Earth really meant.<br />
That morning I realized that “good” and “bad” and “right” and “wrong” are merely perceptions. Because it is often the situations we perceive as “bad” that provide us with the greatest growth and insight. And as we careen down the highway of our lives, perhaps the best we can hope for is to spot that imaginary sign that warns us to go back; that tells us we are going the wrong way. In fact, you'll never even see that sign unless you take the wrong road. And perhaps the only way to find the right way is by going in the wrong direction first.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t Santa Claus that inspired me to scribble reams of poetry that winter. It was the frightening car ride, the homeless, and that giant tinted moon.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-31126427935006895422009-10-03T12:15:00.000-07:002009-10-03T14:01:12.398-07:00Brownie Concentration CampIt was amazing that they allowed me to go to Brownie Camp that year at all.<br /><br />Only two months earlier, I had been thrown out of my Brownie troop for pretending to poison all of my fellow Brownies with L.S.D. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had wandered into the lunch room and encountered a full box of sugar cubes on the table. Children, of course, love sugar; so I went around offering sugar cubes to all of the other little Brownies. Once they had chewed on it sufficiently, I told them that they had just dropped Acid, and would begin to hallucinate in about twenty minutes.<br /><br />It was the 60’s.<br />I was nine years old.<br /><br />I didn’t make a very good Brownie. I detested the costume; it was the color of baby excrement; and I didn’t like the “uniform;” it reminded me of being a soldier. It was the same feeling I had later when I dropped out of the Marching Band in 8th grade; I loved the flute, but I detested the marching. Uniforms reminded me of the images I saw daily of the Viet Nam War. My father had made us wear black arm bands to school, and had told us not to pledge allegiance to the flag until the war was over. I didn’t like uniforms.<br /><br />The sash I wore over my brown issued dress was empty of Merit Badges, save one. And that was the Badge I had earned for Creative Writing. It was the only badge I tried to earn, or that interested me. I loved it; it depicted a little old fashioned ink pen with a pool of spilled ink pouring from its tip.<br /><br />I didn’t enjoy the Brownies. I hated their rituals and their songs. And the cookies; I hated those damn cookies; especially being forced to peddle them door to door like the Jehovah Witnesses which my parents always hid from. So pretending to drug an entire troop of little girls sounded like a marvelous way to entertain myself at the time; and it was my favorite day of Brownie’s ever.<br /><br />When I was tossed out of the Troop, my mother didn’t like it even one little bit. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind,” she told me, as she picked up the phone. I offered protest, citing the many reasons I was actually glad to be thrown out, but she wouldn’t hear of it.<br /><br />I remember her pleading on the phone with the Troop Leader, reiterating over and over that it was simply a childish prank, and I shouldn’t be excluded this way. But the Troop Leader fought back; saying that the sugar cube incident wasn’t the only reason I was expelled. She told my mother that it was also because I was “swearing.”<br /><br />“Swearing? What did she say?” I heard my mother ask. Then, to my horror, she began to rattle off a litany of the worst expletives in the book; words I would never dream of saying.<br /><br />“No, none of those,” I learned later was the Troop Leader’s response. “She used the Lord’s name in vain.” My mother loved telling this part of the story, and used this gushy pious voice when she mimicked the Troop Leader.<br /><br />“OH GOD, PLEASE,” was my mother’s annoyed response. It was apparent where I learned that one.<br /><br />Needless to say, I was immediately reinstated into Brownie Troop 566. In part, this was important to my parents who had planned a month long trip to Europe that summer; just the two of them. The two weeks I would spend at Brownie Camp would cut down their babysitting needs in half; the other two weeks I would spend with my grandmother.<br /><br />I didn’t mind the idea, initially, of going to Brownie Camp. I read the pamphlet over and over, making certain that I was utterly prepared for this grand adventure. “Camp Misty Lake offers 2-week programs for girls. Campers can enjoy canoeing, swimming, fishing, hiking, nature study, outdoor cooking, crafts, adventure and more!” I read every word of the literature. I liked the idea of on-site Naturalists, who would teach us “nature lore.” I was especially intrigued by the “midnight kidnapping adventures” to which they alluded. But far better than the promised activities, I would be attending camp with my very best friend in the entire world, Sheila.<br /><br />I read carefully the insert which listed “items your child should pack.” It was an extremely long list, and I wanted to make sure I followed the recommendations exactly. Rain Slicker (1) Pairs of socks (10) Tennis Shoes (2) Flashlight (1) Sleeping Bag (1) Bathing Suit (2) Brownie Issue shorts (2) Brownie Issue t-shirts (5) It also stated that every article of clothing must have the child’s name sewn into the item.<br /><br />“Mom, I have to have my name sewn into EVERYTHING,” I told her.<br /><br />“Even the socks?” she asked, as she started up the sewing machine with a loud whir.<br /><br />“Yes, even the socks. Look, it says it right here.”<br /><br />I wouldn’t leave any stone unturned. This was to be the first time I would go away without my parents, and I had to be prepared.<br /><br />When the day to leave for camp finally came, I’d been staying with my grandmother for a week. My parents were off in Europe, and I was standing nervously at my grandmother’s door, surrounded by an enormous pile of camping gear and luggage. “We’re going to be late!” I screamed at my grandmother who took forever getting ready that morning, carefully applying her lipstick and adding lotion to her legs.<br /><br />Finally I was driven to the Bus Stop. I couldn’t jump out of the car fast enough; there was at least fifty children already lined up against the backdrop of the huge Greyhound Bus. I saw my friend Sheila in line, and frantically waved. “I’m holding your place!” she shouted back, and when I reached her we fell into each other’s arms breathlessly. The excitement was palpable.<br /><br />I’d never been on a real bus before; only school busses. With its plush grey interior; reclining seats and a bathroom in the rear, it seemed to me to be the epitome of luxury. It was a long ride; I had no idea where we were going; but I felt that we were going far, far away. The ride was great fun; we sang song after song, and Sheila and I giggled until we would fall into the aisle in hysterics. I felt very grown up.<br /><br />When we arrived at Camp Misty Lake, my eyes grew as wide as saucers. There were at least a thousand other children there, all arriving in a long line of busses which wound like snakes toward the reception area. I had never seen so many children in one place in all of my life. There were suitcases and sleeping bags and screaming little girls as far as my eyes could see.<br /><br />Eventually we all gathered in the reception area, and a friendly man dressed entirely in brown khaki greeted us with a Megaphone. “Greetings BROWNIES!” he called out. The children cheered in response, which made the man smile. “Behind me is a large table containing the names of every child here, in alphabetical order. Your job is to find your name on that table, and when you do you will find that they are all color coded, and that will tell you which camp you’ve been assigned to. There are 40 Brownies in each camp.”<br /><br />Sheila and I ran off to find our name tags, and to find out the name of our individual camp. We knew we’d be in the same one, as my mother called before going to Europe and pre-arranged it. But when we found our name tags, to our extreme chagrin, they were different colors.<br /><br />Sheila and I marched up to the nice man in the brown clothes, and told him that there had been a horrible mistake. “We were supposed to be put together in the same camp,” I explained patiently. “Yet we have different colored name tags.”<br /><br />“Yes, I see that,” the man said beaming. “Well, what is our Brownie Motto? Girls? Let’s say it together. Make new friends. But keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.” Neither Sheila nor I chanted the motto with him. “So Brownie Camp is an excellent opportunity for you girls to make NEW friends. Wouldn’t that be nice?”<br /><br />I wanted to slap the smug look off his face. “My Mom called ahead,” I explained. “And she wrote a request that we put together.”<br /><br />“I’m sure she did, Sweetie. But that isn’t Brownie Policy. Now run along and stand with your individual groups. You can visit with each other during meal time, at the Grand Mess Hall.”<br /><br />I was crushed. Two weeks of camp without Sheila seemed like an eternity. But as instructed, I gathered my gear and followed my group to our individual camp. I was somewhat intrigued by the smattering of white canvas tents I found there; peeking out from behind trees and bushes, encircling a large campfire in the middle. I liked the campfire; it was surrounded by rows of logs that had been carved into benches.<br /><br />I was assigned a tent, and one of my new roommates asked if she could lay her sleeping bag down next to mine. I nodded sadly. That’s where Sheila should have been, I thought to myself. “Hi,” said the girl breathlessly. “See this ring I’m wearing? It’s a poison ring. And it’s filled with poison. The little needle in the middle is how I can stab people. If I stab you with it in the middle of the night, you’ll die right away and no one will ever know it was me who killed you.”<br /><br />Charming.<br /><br />I ignored the strange girl and set up my sleeping area. I began to feel scared, and terribly homesick. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it; we were being called to the campfire for our first meeting.<br /><br />The girls all gathered, and the Naturalists assigned to our camp introduced themselves. They were explaining that our first activity was called, “Tippy Too Canoe,” and we were all going on a race in the river; and the team that tipped their canoe the least times would win a special prize. They began handing out large orange life vests to each girl.<br /><br />When they reached me, I held out my hand expectantly, but the Naturalist stared a little too long at my name tag. “Cathy, I’m afraid you won’t be canoeing today,” he told me. I was utterly perplexed and asked why. “Your grandmother didn’t give you permission, that’s why,” he said.<br /><br />“My grandmother signed all the permission slips. I made sure she did. I know she did,” I said, my voice rising in a panic.<br /><br />“Yes, she signed the permission slips. But she specifically denied permission for what she called dangerous activities. You are not allowed to canoe, swim, or hike. But you are allowed to do crafts, and that sort of thing.”<br /><br />What? It was like I was having a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up. How could my grandmother do this to me? “Can we call her? I’ll explain it to her. She didn’t understand. I’ll make sure she gives me permission.”<br /><br />“I’m afraid not, we have already spoken with her, and she was quite adamant. She said you like to write poetry, is that true? I see you only have one badge on your sash, and that’s for Creative Writing. We’ll find you a nice quiet place where you can make poems today?” I considered for a moment becoming a Guerilla Terrorist Brownie; a midnight marauder who would overturn tents, frighten other children, and wreak havoc on their spurious little organization. But instead I was led dutifully to the Crafts Room.<br /><br />My days at camp were mostly spent alone, or locked into a room with children who had physical disabilities. I wrote long anguished prose about my incarceration in this saccharine drenched penitentiary; I wrote of my suffering, my syrupy imprisonment, and my phony captors. I denounced the Brownies; I used words that I had heard my father utter during one of his political rants; words and phrases like “Fascist” and “Police State.” My captors were Pigs.<br /><br />My only happiness was the three meals a day in the Grand Mess Hall in the middle of camp. There I would meet Sheila, and we’d laugh so hard we often forgot to eat our meal. Sheila was enduring her own brand of torture; her camp mate, for instance, had urinated on her pillow purposely. Our situation had turned dire. We had found ourselves in a Concentration Camp, and our only hope was to escape. We had decided to make a plan; and we agreed we would sneak out of our individual camps at midnight and meet deep in the woods to devise our strategy.<br /><br />But we didn’t get that far. We were suddenly surrounded by two Nazi Guards who asked us sternly to follow them. The Third Reich had arrived. We were both led outside of the Grand Mess Hall, with the two SS men behind us. I imagined a machine gun aimed at the small of my back; and I knew the drill well. They would lull us into some false sense of security, and then put a bullet through our heads. I could smell the stench of death and hopelessness everywhere. I could hardly swallow.<br /><br />Once outside, the sentinel informed us that Sheila and I would no longer be able to sit together at meal time; adding that our meal-time laughter and secret conversations had begun to disturb the other Brownies. It was Genocide.<br /><br />They reminded us that the idea of Brownie Camp was to make new friends; and they uttered these words with their Stepford Wife smiles as they threw me back into permanent isolation. I was an inmate with new found hatred in my heart.<br /><br />On my last day of camp I marched myself into the office of the Camp Leader, and threw a poem I had penned on her desk. It was entitled, “Brownies are Fascist Pigs.” The Leader read over my poem, and promptly expelled me permanently from the Brownie Organization on the spot. It was D-Day at last. And I was free.<br /><br />My mother never argued to have me re-instated.<br />I never became a Girl Scout.<br /><br />I learned that day that the Pen was indeed mightier than the Sword. And I vowed that day to make writing work for me, forevermore. I know that if I don’t, I’ll never really be free.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-65800966632480016752009-09-29T11:55:00.000-07:002009-09-30T07:18:05.648-07:00Diagnosed As CrazyWhen I was 12 years old, my elementary school contacted my parents and told them I might be crazy.<br /><br />Truthfully, I still don’t know, nor remember, exactly how the events unfolded. But I do remember a frantic call from the school to my house, and a subsequent parent/teacher/child conference. I also remember being exposed to dozens of tests, including one where I had to identify what I saw in a series of inkblots. Did you think the inkblot test is only on television? I can assure you, it is not.<br /><br />“They think you might be a little nuts,” my mother explained to me one day, after I hounded her about what was going on. I didn’t take offense to my mother’s comment in the least; she said those words to me sarcastically, even angrily. The way she spoke was more in the vain of “how dare they,” blanketed by utter disbelief.<br /><br />The school insisted that I begin to attend regular “conferences” with the school psychologist. Besides the many tests I was given, additionally I was grilled on my home life; they wanted to know if my parents abused me. I was a good student; an obedient girl; and I remained utterly confused about my predicament, or why I was being targeted.<br /><br />After many of these conferences, my parents were finally called to the school, and we all sat in the Principals’ office together. The psychologist was there as well.<br /><br />A yellow lined piece of paper was pushed across the desk toward me. I immediately recognized my own writing; it was an essay of some sort; a writing assignment. I pulled it closer to me so that I could identify which one it was; I always enjoyed writing exercises. I remembered it immediately; it was the assignment where we had to describe our bedrooms at home.<br /><br />I looked up with a “yeah, so?” and I shrugged.<br /><br />“Did you write this yourself? Or did you copy it from a book?” asked the psychologist.<br /><br />“I wrote it myself,” I said, feeling insulted.<br /><br />“Do you remember what the assignment was?” I was asked. I did, of course, and I told them that we were supposed to describe our bedrooms at home, and what it was like to go to sleep in the evenings.<br /><br />All the eyes of the adults were upon me. The Principal looked frustrated; the psychologist looked impatient. My parents looked angry. “Is this what your bedroom really looks like?” they asked me.<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Did you make this up?”<br /><br />“Well, sorta,” I answered vaguely. To me at that moment, they seemed clueless. They didn’t seem to comprehend the meaning of “fiction,” and if I had been more articulate at the time, I would have explained the genre to them. But it was more complicated than that; while my descriptions of my bedroom were blatantly untrue, they were based on a very real feeling. I was using my bedroom as a personification of how I felt inside. Did I really need to explain this to my educators?<br /><br />But the primary thing I remember about that day is feeling sad. Somehow expressing myself often led to my being in trouble. I wondered if they were right; if something was wrong with me; and if I was wrong to write what I had written. I felt shamed.<br /><br />They asked me to read the essay out loud. I was immediately lulled back into time, when I wrote those images that so inspired me. The bedroom I described existed in a house of destitution. My room was nearly empty, save for one urine stained mattress in the middle of the floor. I was hungry and cold; I had one blanket which was thread-bare; and I had stuffed old clothes into a pillowcase to serve as a pillow. The only light I had was one naked bulb which hung on a long tattered string in the middle of the room. It had a little chain that I could reach from my place in the mattress, and I would turn off my light each night alone after completing my homework on the floor. There were no fairy-tales or good-night kisses. There was just stains and filth.<br /><br />“Is that the way your room really is?” they asked me again, more sternly.<br /><br />“No,” I answered sheepishly.<br /><br />“Do your parents send you to bed without your supper?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Then why did you write this?”<br /><br />I had no answer. Well, actually I did. But I was hit with the awful realization that they wouldn’t understand. I explained it to my parents on our way home, and they understood. In fact, I remember them laughing quite a bit about it all. But the school treated me as though I’d done something bad. It was a pivotal moment in my life.<br /><br />For weeks they ran a series of psychological tests on me. What I loved most was trying to outsmart the test, and tell them that I knew what the test was designed to find out. I asked about the origins of these tests, and if I could borrow the books they had so I could study them. I was fascinated by what they decided was crazy. They ended up lending me the books, and I began to study psychology on my own. But all of my reactions only seemed to provide further evidence to the psychologist that I was a little bit insane. She would often react to my comments and questions with a sad, almost imperceptible shake of the head.<br /><br />My real life was undeniably austere. My father taught me the word “monastic” when I was very young, and he used to love to use that word; he believed in a monastic life where your artistic self isn’t cluttered by possessions. Not that our house was physically empty; the walls were bursting with original art; the bookshelves overflowed with books and sculptures; there was great attention to the aesthetics; but very little attention paid to needs.<br /><br />My father built all of our childhood homes, and they were uniformly rustic; often without many more amenities or luxuries than a cabin. We had no heat; just a stove in the living room, and we were sent to bed with a jar of hot water covered in a sock to help keep us warm. In the mornings, my mother would heat up towels in front of the fire, then run to our rooms and wrap us inside them, and escort us to the breakfast table.<br /><br />We weren’t allowed real milk; only the powdered stuff, which I detested. We were only allowed to use a half of a toothpick; more than that was wasteful. Paper towels were reused; in fact there was a little drying line above the sink where we were expected to hang the paper towels to dry after rinsing them out. Food was often free; our table was often full of mussels that we would scrape off the rocks at the Marine Reserve only footsteps away; or fruit from a neighbor’s tree. My father would pick dandelion leaves from fields near our house for salads. Nothing would go to waste; he even cooked up a rattlesnake once that he killed for our dinner. We were forced to eat beef tongue, and other innards, which led to my dislike of meat ever since. We never had a birthday party; in fact my sister and I only had one each. The only thing special which happened on our birthday was that we were served Sarah Lee Cheesecake for dessert, and we’d receive, for a gift, something we already needed. Our birthday presents weren’t exciting treats; they were something that should be provided by ones parents.<br /><br />The year I was diagnosed as being crazy, I was given a pillow for a birthday present.<br /><br />For months I had complained about my lumpy flat pillow, and begged my parents to replace it. Eventually in a fit of anger, I ripped out the pillow from its pillow case, and filled it with my own clothes; at least it was plumper that way. And when I ripped open my birthday present that night, hoping for a toy or for one of a multitude of things I dreamed about, I was given a pillow. And I resented it.<br /><br />While my room really didn’t resemble the room I had described in my essay, it did describe my feelings about my room at that time. I felt lonely, cold and poor. And I used images to evoke that; and to express that.<br /><br />Still, I couldn’t help wonder, if I really might be crazy. I knew I had many obsessive thoughts. I was terrified of black cars, and I believed people who drove black cars were most likely kidnappers. I believed if I didn’t fully read any sign that caught my eye, I would die. Later, I believed I had to read them backwards as well. And there was that pesky belief that my neck wasn’t strong enough to hold up my head.<br /><br />I had read a quote that “lunatics, lovers, and poets” were really all the same. I never forgot that, and I had always been fascinated by lunacy. I recognized the idea of a sort of exalted poetic frenzy, and I could identify that as being similar to the intense passion of romantic love. And both states, in my mind, were really a sort of madness.<br /><br />The psychologist that counseled me seemed to believe that lunacy was an escape from reality; a desire to disappear into fantasy; and she felt my need to write that particular essay was proof that I didn’t have a grasp on reality.<br /><br />But I believed exactly the opposite. I believed that I was unable to escape reality; because I couldn’t live the pretend existence that so many people seemed to live. I was interested in truth, and I was surrounded by a world of denial and fantasy. Writing fiction was the only way I really could escape.<br /><br />But still, it was just one more lesson that drove me away from my dreams. It seems when I muse on my life, I can find countless examples of why I was taught that expression was bad; and why I became an accountant instead.<br /><br />Today I don’t mind being called a lunatic. I think lunacy, in some cases, is a prophetic insight; one that is perhaps triggered by an acknowledgement of life’s meaninglessness. I realize it’s trite and common to ponder the meaning of life. But I’ve decided that if life is truly meaningless-- then that in itself-- is really very meaningful indeed. And better yet, we can ascribe and create our own meaning. Today I believe in my dreams again, and I’m going to dream them.<br />I know. I sound a little crazy, don’t I?Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-29559328710670098152009-09-26T10:05:00.000-07:002009-09-26T11:00:05.853-07:00Ah, RomaWe had been driving a long way, hugging the coast and passing little beach towns like Rapallo and Rimini, and the green gray of the Adriatic had been our constant companion and guide. I loved staring at the rows and rows of brown bodies lounging in the sun, especially the women, who were mostly topless. They looked so beautiful to me, because no matter what their size or shape, they were utterly comfortable with their bodies. It was such a refreshing change from the body obsessed America I had grown up in.<br /><br />The ocean had been our companion, but soon it was replaced with mountains of marble, and now the landscape had changed again. I spotted rows and rows of the oddest looking trees; both grand and majestic but nothing like I had ever seen before. “What kind of tree is that?” I asked. My friend explained that these trees were emblematic of the city of Rome, and were simply common pine trees which had been shaped through time by judicious pruning. I marveled at a culture which would take the time to shape thousands of trees for no purpose other than aesthetics.<br /><br />“Are we almost to Rome?” I asked, but I didn’t need an answer. At that moment, we passed a road sign which told us that the great city was only five kilometers away. I had been so sleepy, but suddenly I was awake and excited. “Let me drive,” I offered.<br /><br />This was only the third time I had volunteered to drive in all of the weeks we had been touring through Europe. I was traveling with three men, which old-fashioned or not, I decided gave me somewhat of a pass on the driving duties. But most importantly, every time I took the wheel I found myself scared out of my mind. I seemed to have a knack at choosing the absolutely worst times to volunteer my driving skills.<br /><br />The first was when I agreed to drive the Audubon immediately after we disembarked from our plane in Germany. I was expected to go speeds of 130 mph, which I found terrifying, as did I find the long line of cars honking and passing me in a frenzy. I finally pulled over to the shoulder, my heart beating fast, and had one of my gentleman friends take the wheel. The second time was when I agreed to drive the twisting winding road to Monaco; a narrow corridor which snaked around steep sheer cliffs; the same stint of roadside where Princess Grace plummeted to her death. I kept imagining that if I made the slightest mistake, the car would slide quickly to the edge of the precipice, and in a moment we’d become airborne, and then lurch to our deaths.<br /><br />And now I had agreed to take the wheel five kilometers before the edge of Rome. Unbeknownst to me, I had just bought myself an E ticket on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.<br /><br />Roma. Ah Roma.<br />As we crossed the city border, I was greeted with a sort of maniacal lunacy that was utterly unexpected. The first thing I noticed was the city streets had no lanes, and cars were packed in every which way, darting in and out of traffic like a world that had gone mad. There was a cacophony of horns; never ending horns; which made the din in Manhattan seem almost peaceful. I drove where I could, as Vespas and bicycles wove in front of me and whizzed behind me and encircled me like a hornet of wasps. Within the first five minutes I almost careened into one of those Vespas, and screeched to a halt. He shouted at me, “What’s the matter for you, can’t you see?” I guessed that he knew I was American. Moments later, out of utter frustration, I purposely turned my wheel sharply to the right, and careened off the road, nearly hitting a flower stand. The florist threw up his hands and began yelling at me, and since I didn’t understand, I just smiled sheepishly. I stopped the car, jumped out the door, and breathlessly begged for someone else to take the wheel.<br /><br />A half hour later, we had booked ourselves into the “Pensione Florida,” two rooms in a dirt cheap hotel, with a shared bathroom down the hall. We dragged our suitcases up a flight of stairs covered in dog feces, then moved into our rooms. The heat was so oppressive, I took an ice cold shower, and before taking off to explore the city, we all had espressos Italian style, which means to swallow it all in one gulp.<br /><br />The Eternal City; a maddening concentration of history and legend swelling magnificently over a phenomenal concentration of people, all of them running everywhere in their busy lives. Rome; a city where the ancient world is neatly integrated with the modern; where the Pantheon rubs shoulders with Baroque palazzos and modern buildings are sandwiched in the middle of Renaissance Villas.<br /><br />We walked toward the Coliseum, and I saw it rising like a mirage in the foreground; a piece of olden civilization tucked in the middle of a contemporary city. We walked from monument to monument, from fountain to fountain, stopping occasionally at cafes for an Aqua Minerale when our parched throats begged for mercy. We walked to the Vatican and I heard a collective sigh from my friends as we all stared dumbfounded at the Sistine Chapel. We walked until our feet were covered in blisters, until sweat dripped in rivulets down our backs. We reached the youth covered Spanish Steps just at twilight; the smell of marijuana wafting in the windless evening. And at nightfall we came upon a tiny Trattoria in the center of Rome. We were hungry and exhausted.<br /><br />Our host was all smiles, and he took us to the strangest table; it was outside, and actually sat in the middle of a cobblestone road, where cars and Polizie roared by us while we dined. It was perfect.<br /><br />We indulged in the best meal of our lives. Gnocci Gorgonzola. Fettuccini Porcini. Eggplant Parmiagiana. Spaghetti Pomodoro. Saltimbocca. Spinach salad. Vino Rosso. For dessert, we were served a luscious chocolate torte surrounded by fresh fruit.<br /><br />The Vino flowed freely. By the time we polished off our third bottle, we were engaged in a lively gregarious debate that grew louder and louder with every sip from our glasses. It was friendly but spirited, and since we were sitting in the middle of the road, it seemed perfectly appropriate to yell and cuss and jump up and down in our seats. But on this day, our argument had risen to a crescendo that was even surprising to us.<br /><br />Suddenly I saw our waiter rushing out of the door toward us.<br /><br />His look was stern, and I imagined him to be angry about our thunderous contest. Certainly in America, if we had displayed such behavior, we would have surely been asked to either hush, or vacate our seats. In fact, it had happened to us many times.<br /><br />The waiter continued toward us with a purpose; he was almost running. We all tensed up, waiting for our inevitable admonishment. As he approached, I noticed that he was holding something behind his back.<br /><br />“BRAVO,” the waiter announced loudly, as he reached our table. “I have brought you a fourth bottle of wine,” he told us in Italian, “because we are overjoyed that your time here is such a happy one. And we hope another bottle of wine might encourage you to have an even happier time here tonight. This wine is our gift to you.”<br /><br />We were all stunned.<br /><br />Born of an Italian father and raised by an English mother, I had always felt as though I were trapped in the middle of two very distinct cultures. My father was born in Sicily, and left my mother and my family while I was still safe in her uterus. I didn’t meet him until I was 17, but from the earliest time, I could remember feeling this wealth of passion that bubbled right below the surface of my emotions. My mother was British, sedate, mannered and excruciatingly polite. But I was born loud and gregarious, and I always knew it was the Italian genes inside of me that made me this way; it certainly wasn’t the way I was raised.<br /><br />And from the earliest time, I remember my mother always shushing me. It got to the point that when I saw her lifting her finger to her lips, the gesture which preceded the dreaded, “Shhhh,” I would fight an anger inside of me that was rare. Very little made me angry. But being quieted always did. I would feel a seething rage that I could scarcely control.<br /><br />I need to express myself. And it’s much more of a need than it is a want. It’s a drive that fuels me; it’s an enthusiasm so great that it must be quenched; it’s a force so robust that to hush me is to slowly kill me.<br /><br />It seems like all of my life, someone has tried to shut me up. I’m too loud, too forthright, and I have no privacy boundaries. I’ve been rebuked by that awful phrase which I detest countless times, “Too much information.”<br /><br />I don’t keep secrets. I don’t hide. And my worst fault seems to be that I don’t lie.<br /><br />I always wanted to write, because I could express myself in that way. But the key to being a good writer is being honest, and people don’t appreciate honesty; it scares them. People want to hide.<br /><br />Writers have been referred to as “assassins” because they are murderers of falsehoods. “Writers are universally hated, often because they tell the truth,” I read yesterday in an article. “Telling the truth is the greatest crime an author can commit,” said a book reviewer. Writers are observers, and because they tell the truth about what they see, the people they observe become offended. People don’t want their family secrets revealed. They don’t want others to know they’ve had a face lift, or that their father molested them. People want to hide behind false facades of who and what they really are, and believe they’re fooling people. People project an image, and a writer smashes it.<br /><br />My intent has never been to offend. I only want to acknowledge reality; and I cannot live my life pretending that I don’t see what I do. I can smell people’s insecurities; I can see their fears like a visible aura. I can always hear their lies. I see it, and I want to report it. I don’t know why, but I’m compelled to do so. But I do this as I reveal myself. I want to talk about what is real, so we know what we’re dealing with on this strange journey we’re all taking together.<br /><br />I’ll never forget that sultry night in Rome when the waiter brought us a bottle of wine on the house to encourage our passionate exchange. I found myself, at last, in a culture which understood me. But more than that, I’ll never forget how it felt when someone actually solicited my expression. All of my life, I have felt censored. And this one evening, I was finally applauded for what I did best, and what I enjoyed the most, and that was to express myself. That waiter didn’t see me as a Villain. He saw something far more positive.<br /><br />When I close my eyes, I can still remember that evening, and later when we limped the long way back to our Pensione, still engaged in a furious debate. I was exhausted, my feet ached, and I was so hot that I got into a cold shower wearing a shirt, so that I could wear the soaking wet cloth to bed. But I remember how happy I felt. Because at last, I was home.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-61626366706681000862009-09-21T13:12:00.001-07:002009-09-22T05:42:09.447-07:00The Red FedoraWhen I was a little girl, antique stores were like time travel. I would enter through the often dusty and dank doors, and I would immediately be hastened to another era; to a period in our history that I could only imagine, but never fully comprehend. An antique store was like a ticket to a ride on a time machine; by touching the things that graced the parlors of yesteryear, I was able to taste the essence of what once was.<br /><br />I loved those crowded rooms, brimming with chipped teacups and silver cigarette cases; with gilded birdcages and parasols. I would stare at each object, trying to imagine it sitting somewhere, long ago. I would trace the surface with my fingertips; I would smell the fabric; I would try to use every sense available to glean a more pragmatic picture. History teaches us, and I have always been eager to learn.<br /><br />I loved the romance of the Victorian era. I would encounter a blushing pink fringed lampshade, and I would imagine it casting a light over a young girl’s bed. I would stumble on a red velvet Fainting Couch, and I could imagine a young lady swooning; whining weakly for her can of snuff. I would see a tiny fabric pair of shoes; and I would try and fathom the foot which could fit in such diminutive encasements. I would stumble upon an ornate Armoire which held the sepia toned secrets of a family history; I would stare at the portraits, trying to discern the emotions and personality. A stain on a French chintz chair told a story. As did a faded bottle of Castor Oil. Their surroundings were far more elaborate and flamboyant than our modern times, but in other ways so much more simple; their cooking recipes had no more than three ingredients; and in every way, they had less choices.<br /><br />These tattered objects seemed to hold the footprint and memories of the families that owned them. Like holding a conch shell to your ear and hearing the ocean, when I touched a wooden child’s toy, I could hear the reminiscences of days gone by.<br /><br />The antiquated Christmas decorations would hold my attention the longest. I would embrace a vintage glass ornament of an angel, and would gasp at the old fashioned lead tinsel still caught in its hook. I would stare at an archaic ceramic Santa, perhaps with only one eye, and I would imagine it on someone’s mantle. I could hear the Victrola playing Christmas music; I could hear the laughter, and imagine the mugs of wassail. I could smell the pungent smell of Christmas pudding wafting from the beaten rafters. And this old Santa Claus with only one eye observed it all. And now it would give me a portal to see it too.<br /><br />As a child I loved antique stores. It was a visit to a time before MY time. And suddenly, this past Saturday afternoon, that entire concept shifted, as if overnight.<br /><br />This past weekend, I explored several antique stores. And I certainly encountered all of those objects of yore; of a time I’ve only read about in History Books. But things had changed. I encountered a John F. Kennedy commemorative plate. An antique Star Trek toy in a yellowed box. An Elvis Presley liquor bottle. An “I Love Lucy” lunch box. Advertisements touting the health benefit of smoking cigarettes. Something was different.<br /><br />I encountered a row of milk bottles, and remembered when they were delivered to our front door, ice cold with the cream on top. I encountered a troll doll, and thought back to my collection; dozens of flesh colored plastic gnomes, with a shock of blue, yellow or purple hair, which I would tie into hairstyles. I came across an old phone, and I remarked to my boyfriend, “this is exactly like the phone we used to have.” Suddenly, an older woman approached me; she overheard my comment and was intrigued.<br /><br />“Pick it up!” she said, enthusiastically. “Remember how HEAVY phones used to be?”<br /><br />She directed this comment to me. This old woman was asking me to remember; and it was apparent that she thought me old enough to have such a memory. An old woman was asking me to reminisce with her, about the “old days.” And as I stood there stunned, trying to grasp this remark--because, after all, I’m really still a girl-- a strange realization enveloped me. I DID remember. I remembered the antiques that surrounded me. The store was no longer a place that housed things before my time; it now housed things IN my time.<br /><br />My boyfriend pointed out an ancient meat grinder, remarking that he had one identical to this when he was a little boy. I said, “do you remember the old COFFEE grinders? I still remember the one we had. It was a little wooden box, and you poured the coffee in at the top, and after you ground it, it came out in a little drawer.” Even talking about it out loud seemed foreign, because the object in question SOUNDED like an antique. And moments later, when we rounded the corner and I saw three of those exact coffee grinders on a high shelf, I felt almost blindsided.<br /><br />I turned to my boyfriend, and said, “We’ve become antiques.”<br />He laughed.<br />I wasn’t amused.<br />The shift happened so slowly, that it was almost imperceptible. I spent an inordinate amount of time being a young girl, standing at the doorway to the rest of my life; all of it ahead of me; my dreams still possible. Then, on my 50th birthday, blowing out those many candles, I realized that I was middle-aged.<br /><br />The term “middle aged” gets twisted up on my tongue, as if I had just tasted a teaspoon of poison. I think to myself, it can’t possibly apply to ME. I certainly do not feel any of the things that middle-age seems to imply. But in actuality, the term is more than fair; in fact, judging by the average life span, I was middle-aged a decade ago.<br /><br />The image of being middle-aged doesn’t conjure up a withered rose to me. I am not completely in denial; I am definitely past the crisp tight bud of a flower I once was. But I still envision I am a fully blossomed rose; utterly bursting, and still vibrant; with perhaps a few yellowed petals near the stem. I cannot think of myself as still blooming; but a bloom nevertheless, fully opened, begging for the last vestiges of summer. I know those roses, and how big and lush they appear, covering my bushes. But I also know how the flower appears shortly thereafter. I am writing this on the last day of summer, and my roses look brown and crispy, like bits of brown paper bags that were caught up by a breeze and got stuck in the branches.<br /><br />When I was a child, I wrote a poem entitled “Mortality Mocks Me.” In some conscious way, I always knew that time was the great destroyer. It devoured youth, despoiled beauty, depleted vigor and diminished health. Eventually it would emerge as the Grim Reaper, swinging its scythe, cutting down dreams like thick underbrush. Then ultimately, it would snuff out your very existence. To me, understanding time is to appreciate that everything will eventually disappear; and while the first half of life is ripe with hellos, they lessen, and later life becomes more and more a long series of good-byes.<br /><br />I have never believed in regret, as I truly believe we make the best decisions we can with what we know at the time. But looking over a half century of choices, I can see each wrong took I turn with glaring accuracy. If only I had known then, that with every selection one makes, that we begin to write a resume’ of our life; a history that we can never change; and the longer that resume’ grows, the more difficult it becomes to change courses, I might have done everything differently. We are given this one life, but ironically are not handed the tools to live it well until it is nearly over.<br /><br />Youth is filled with embarrassment, ego, selfishness, and a preoccupation of self that is agonizing. And once you become middle-aged, you don’t care what others think; you are primarily interested in what you think. You are freed from naïveté; from self-image; from society’s expectations. It is the time you can truly create; it is the time when you can make a difference; it is the time you might be able to shift this world for the better.<br /><br />At this crossroads in my life, my existence has suddenly taken on a poignancy and urgency that I have never known before. Now that I have walked to the summit of the mountain, and I can peer down the other side and see an end, it has never been clearer that the choices I make today have never been more important. I am 50 years old, I am unemployed, and I am at a threshold of something else.<br /><br />In a sense, death is a safety net. One day it will catch all of our wishes and turn them magically into unwishes. It will pity our poor flesh and will free us from this churning torture; from this excruciating gift. So there is nothing more important, there is nothing we have to do with more urgency, then simply to live. To smell fermenting strawberries. To allow another to see love in your eyes. To cry instead of hide. To indentify beauty. To hold hands with the crazy person. To acknowledge the moon. To sing and paint and laugh. I can not alter my past, but I can have an effect on my future, and I want something better. I have spent too many years doing what I thought I was supposed to do, and finding it miserable. It is time to follow my passions. I am no longer your slave. But most important, it is time to embrace what none of us can change; that ageing is inevitable, and so is our final waltz.<br /><br />When I left the store, I remembered why I so appreciated those antiques in the first place. Because the longer you live, and the more history you have knowledge of, the wider the world seems, the more sense it all makes. I am proud to remember history; the way my parents and grandparents used to remember. Because they knew how things had changed, they could now anticipate how things will change again. And now I’ve been given that gift.<br /><br />We purchased a bright red Fedora from the antique store. It is in fine shape, and is as stylish today as it must have been once, perched on the head of a fancy gentleman. I smell the brim and try to imagine the heads that have worn it. The inside is white silk, imprinted with a picture of a top hat, white gloves and a cane--an image of an elegant time; when Dickens roamed the world and wrote about mistletoe and pudding. When I put the fedora on my head, I remembered that I, too, am in fine shape, and I’m as stylish as ever. And this Christmas, I’m going to decorate this red hat with green holly leaves, and it’s going to remind me how ripe my life is today. It is going to be a symbol that represents my acceptance of what I can not change, and my renewed vigor to change what I can.<br /><br />I am ripe with possibilities. And we all know that it is only through experience, and the process of ripening--which in some cases is great suffering-- that growth takes place. Time brings seed to fruition and ripening. And as King Lear declared in Shakespeare’s play of the same title, "Ripeness Is All."<br />Isn’t it?Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-59447450973518110182009-09-16T10:48:00.000-07:002009-09-16T11:22:06.583-07:00Blood in the QuadWhen the bell rang above my head, it startled me. I looked behind me at the large black and white face of the school clock, and it confirmed what the bell had already told me. Class was over.<br /><br />At the time, I was the editor of our High School poetry magazine, and I had spent my free period going over the many submissions for the next issue. I had winced through the countless sappy entries, wondering if I could stomach one more ditty glorifying sunshine and flowers, when I came across a handwritten submission scrawled nearly illegibly on yellow lined paper. And when I began to read it, time froze.<br /><br />This particular entry had an urgency and an anguish that I knew intuitively was not contrived. The words shouted at me from the page; I could feel the poet’s anger and desperation, and as I read it a second time, I felt queasy. It was at that moment when the school bell rang, startling me back to reality. I watched the clock for a moment; it always seemed that the minute hand lumbered, its electronic hand shaking, until it finally clicked into place with a loud clattering sound. Two minutes had already passed, but I knew I couldn’t go to class. I needed to speak to my advisor.<br /><br />Scooping up the strange poem, I went directly to her office and tapped lightly on her door. When she saw me, she smiled and waved me inside. “Don’t you have a class?” she asked me.<br /><br />“I do, but I really need to talk to you,” I said as I sat down. “I need your advice on whether or not I should print this poem,” I continued as I waved the yellow slip of paper, and then laid it on the desk in front of her. “It’s one of the best submissions I’ve had all year. The kid obviously has talent. But....” my voice trailed off.<br /><br />My advisor put on her reading glasses and took the poem in her hands. “But?” she asked, although as she began to read, her question was answered. Her eyes began to furrow, and she grunted. “Who wrote this?” she asked, scanning the sheet for a name. “John Brown. Do you know this student?”<br /><br />“He’s a freshman. Yes, I know who he is,” I answered. And sadly, I knew exactly who he was. A loner, my friends and I had noticed him in the quad one day. He walked from one side to the other, as if in a great hurry; he was clumsily holding a huge pile of books, and he nearly ran as if he was late for a class. Then he hid behind a tree, and when he thought no one was looking, he turned around and walked back to where he started, in the same hurried manner. I remembered we all laughed, wondering aloud what on earth he was doing. Then it occurred to me that he had nothing to do, and was trying to appear busy. It was so painful to me at the time. I remember feeling a sharp pang of sorrow as I watched him; I imagined that it was his lunch hour, and he didn’t want to be seen sitting all alone.<br /><br />My advisor removed her glasses and stared at me. “Well, this is VERY disturbing,” she told me. “VERY disturbing. His desire to commit suicide is somewhat inappropriate in itself, but to allude to the fact that he wants to take others with him really crosses the line, don’t you think?” I nodded. She went on. “You know I’ve never censored anything you’ve printed to date, and I agree with you that the writing is solid.<br />And although I’ll leave the decision up to you, my advice is not to publish this poem. Furthermore, I’m considering showing it to the Principal. But you have to learn what being a responsible editor is all about. It’s your choice.”<br /><br />I thought long and hard about whether or not to publish that poem. These were the days long before the Columbine shootings and other massacres at public schools. It was an innocent time, and I think none of us could even fathom a student acting out any of the atrocities that we are now too familiar with. But still, I decided not to publish it.<br /><br />The day that the magazine came out, I was standing by my locker, when I felt a strange piercing tap on my shoulder. It was too hard, and more of a poke, or even a jab- than a tap. I turned around quickly, feeling a bit put off, when I saw John Brown standing in front of me. He was nervous; he was stuttering, and he was looking at everything but me. “I need to know why you didn’t publish my poem,” he muttered.<br /><br />“John,” I said, hardly above a whisper. “I loved your poem. It was excellent. I think it was the best submission I’ve had all year. But the content, you know, is a bit troubling for a High School publication; do you know what I mean? Maybe you could publish it elsewhere?”<br /><br />His face grew beet red, and I could see sweat forming above his eyebrows. But still, he never looked at me. “But I don’t WANT to publish it anywhere else, I want to publish at the High School,” he told me. “Will you put it in the NEXT edition?” His voice cracked, and I feared he might cry.<br /><br />“Sorry John, I’m not going to publish it. I hope you’ll submit again.” I was already using language that I’ve seen on countless rejection slips in my literary life. And I’ve since learned how heartless it can feel to the writer. But I didn’t have the experience or empathy in those days, that I might today. Instead, I turned on my heel and flounced off. To be honest, I found him creepy, and wanted to be far away from him.<br /><br />That afternoon I saw him in the quad again, doing that same busy dance that I had seen him do before. Walking with a purpose, when he had no purpose. The image haunts me to this day.<br /><br />It was about a week after the magazine came out, and I was sitting on the floor of Hallway C, right outside the door of my next class. I always got to English class early, as it was my favorite subject, and I was getting in a little extra studying before class began.<br /><br />As I read over my notes, I suddenly heard a loud pop.<br /><br />I looked toward the closed door of my English class, and tried to discern what I had just heard. It sounded like a firecracker. Had some hoodlum just set off a firecracker in class? I struggled to my feet with the intention of peering through the small window that was in every classroom door. But I didn’t get far.<br /><br />The door swung open, and students started spilling out. But it wasn’t something I’d seen before; the jubilant rush when students are excused from class a few minutes early. This was more of a panic. They pushed past me; one even knocking me into the wall as though I wasn’t there. They were running.<br /><br />I was still standing there, stunned, when my English teacher ran out of the class as well. Her face reflected absolute terror, and she rushed past me and through the double doors into the quad. Without knowing why, I ran after her.<br /><br />My English teacher tripped and fell, and suddenly she was sprawled unceremoniously at the edge of the quad. Her skirt was hiked up nearly to her waist, and her legs revealed nude support hose, which had fallen loosely around her ankles. The sight was so undignified, that I could only stare down at her with horror.<br /><br />I heard loud screams coming from Hallway C. I turned my head just in time to see John Brown emerge from the double doors; he was running and stumbling as if drunk, and he was covered in blood. I am still ashamed to admit what the image reminded me of that auspicious day; I thought he looked like a chicken with its head cut off.<br /><br />Sadly, the image wasn’t far from the truth. John Brown suddenly collapsed, and hit the pavement hard. I, and many others, ran to his side. I remember how the students encircled him; but no one moved to help him.<br /><br />At first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Because half of his head was gone. I saw only one eye, staring still at the sky, and only half a mouth. The other half was simply gone. And an enormous pool of blood began to form around him.<br /><br />Amazingly, he was alive. He was twitching and kicking; his hands were reaching toward the sky. “Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance!” I heard someone scream, and a few students scurried off. I stood there, staring down at his convulsions and spasms, as though I was rooted to the spot.<br /><br />I heard several girls break into sobs behind me. I turned around and asked them, “What happened?”<br /><br />“Oh God,” the girl sputtered back, her voice growing hysterical. “John did this. It was John. In the middle of class he turned to Carol who was sitting right next to him. And he said he was going to kill himself. And that he was going to take Carol with him. And then he pulled out a gun. And he pointed it at his head in the same direction as she was sitting. Then he pulled the trigger. He wanted to get them both with the same bullet. Her face is covered with his blood and skin. But I think she’s okay. Oh my God. Oh my God.”<br /><br />I looked back at John, and noticed his one remaining eye had developed a severe tic. I felt immediately guilty, and mused about whether or not my rejection of his poem could have triggered this. What if publishing his poem was his way of expressing his torment, so that he wouldn’t need to act on his yearnings? And did my rejection contribute to the erosion of his self-esteem? Could I be partially responsible?<br /><br />A moment later, emergency vehicles pulled into the school parking lot, with sirens blaring. Several paramedics ran toward us, pulling behind them a gurney. The students opened the ring that encircled John Brown’s shuddering body, and let the paramedics by. John was hoisted onto the gurney, and they ran his body out as quickly as they appeared.<br /><br />Suddenly a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention Students. Attention Students. School is officially closed for the day. I repeat, school is officially closed for the day. In an orderly fashion, please leave campus immediately. I repeat, please leave the campus immediately. The busses that normally run at 3 o’clock are lining up in the parking lot now. Please exit the campus immediately. ” I heard more sirens pull into the parking lot, and suddenly the quad was swarming with police.<br /><br />I was in shock. And I think so many others were as well. But no one hung back to discuss the events that had just taken place. Some students ran for their cars in the parking lot. Others made a hasty exit on foot. And I took my place in the long lines for the bus. I was due at work immediately after school, and even though I’d be early, I figured I’d head straight there regardless. I was so shaken, and had so much to process, that I was relieved I’d have a little time to myself before my shift began.<br /><br />At the time, I worked at a hospital.<br /><br />Primarily, it was a convalescent hospital, and that is the section where I worked. But the hospital also served as an emergency room, as it was the only hospital on the coast.<br /><br />I hated that place. A lot of my friends worked there as well. But while they worked as Candy Stripers and with the patients themselves, I found the idea of that all together too distasteful. Instead, I applied for a position in the kitchen. I aided the nutritionist in preparation of the patient’s meals, as well as did the dishes. Each patient had a meal card, and I had to carefully check to see what was restricted on their diets before preparing them a tray. There were a handful of patients which were on “Mechanical Soft” diets, as they called it, a name which always gave me the creeps. But basically they meant they couldn’t chew, and whatever I made for dinner that night for the other patients, I would simply throw into the blender and make into a savory milkshake. A turkey, mashed potato and peas shake, for instance.<br /><br />The bus ride that afternoon was strangely quiet. I expected the students to be crying, and talking excitedly about what had just happened at our school. But no one spoke.<br />At the stop nearest to the hospital, I exited the bus, and walked directly to the beach. I sat on a cliff, staring sadly into the ocean, wondering if he could possibly survive the injury I saw with my own eyes. I decided it was impossible.<br /><br />I walked up the long hill to the hospital to begin my shift. I was used to seeing ambulances in the hospital parking lot, as the old folks died off on a regular basis. My friends were sometimes asked to wash their bodies before pick up; something I never envied. One time my best friend begged me to join her in the room with her as she did it, just for moral support. She was terrified. Reluctantly I agreed. I remember that the deceased had a bowl of chocolates next to her bedside, which I guiltily ate as my friend screamed and squirmed holding a damp washcloth and dabbing at the corpse. These days, I doubt if they’d have Candy Stripers do such an enormously difficult job.<br /><br />But on this day, the parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles. At first I didn’t make the connection, but it dawned on me, finally, that they had taken John Brown to the hospital where I worked.<br /><br />I had barely gotten through the door, when my Supervisor accosted me in the hallway. She began talking breathlessly about the shooting at the High School, asking if I had been there. When I told her that I had, she went on to explain that John’s parents were in the Waiting Room, utterly distraught. “I think it would mean the world to them to have one of their son’s friends sit with them right now,” she told me.<br /><br />I didn’t want to go. “I’m not exactly his friend, I’m a classmate is all,” I stuttered.<br /><br />“PLEASE,” she almost shouted. “We kept the boy alive for over an hour, but he has just expired. It would be a kindness if you could sit with them when we deliver the news. The nurses are much too busy. And the boy’s parents keep asking why his friends aren’t here at the hospital.”<br /><br />Because John didn’t have any friends, is what I thought to myself.<br /><br />My Supervisor gave me a gentle shove toward the ominous double doors of the Waiting Room. I pushed the doors open slowly, and I saw a sweet gentle couple sitting there, holding hands, and crying. I smiled shyly, and sat down beside them. “You must be John’s parents?” I asked.<br /><br />“Yes,” they muttered. Then they looked upon me as if I were an Angel of Mercy. “And you must be one of John’s friends?! We have so wanted to speak to one of his friends! We want to know what happened, and WHY this happened. Did you talk to him today? Did he seem different? He is such a good boy. A wonderful boy. Didn’t you think he is a wonderful boy?”<br /><br />I nodded. Then offered the only truth I really knew. “He is very smart. And talented.” When I spoke those words, his mother’s eyes filled with tears and she grabbed my hand and held it tight. “Oh yes. I can tell you must have been very close,” she said.<br /><br />A moment later, a surgeon appeared. He was dressed in green surgical wear that had been stained with red blood, yet the spots appeared dark brown. He was wiping a sweaty brow with a gloved hand, and looked tired. “I’m sorry,” is all he said. The doctor only hesitated for a moment, looking down at the floor, and then marched away. His announcement was met with a long howl from John’s mother. A strangled cry, like a wolf with his paw caught in a trap.<br /><br />I held onto her hand for a moment longer, and let her cry. She gripped my hand as though she would never let go. “If there’s anything I can do,” I stammered.<br /><br />“Could you just sit and talk with us for awhile?” John’s mother asked me. “I know you were close, and I want you to tell me everything. Everything you knew about him.”<br />But I knew nothing.<br />“Was he popular? He must have been very popular at school, right?”<br />I just nodded.<br /><br />I’ve often wondered why I was called upon to bear witness to these series of events. It always seemed like much more than a coincidence that this complete stranger would entwine with my life so many times, and in such a strong way. From my rejection of his poem, to my being outside of the classroom when he shot himself, to going to the hospital where he died, to holding his mother’s hand when she learned of his death. One day, out of the blue, his life and mine began weaving together inexplicably into a tapestry that begged for explanation. I’ve never figured out what the message was in all of that, but I will tell you, that it began my hatred of the marketing and publishing world, in the literary arena. It began an abhorrence which has lasted all of my life, and has led me in directions that caused me to give up on my dreams.<br /><br />It was as though we both gave up our dreams that day.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048140020977743259.post-86961691221472029282009-09-13T13:20:00.000-07:002009-09-13T16:09:57.211-07:00A Journey InwardWhen I was 13 years old, I decided I hadn’t suffered enough yet to be a writer.<br /><br />This idea-- that the most compelling art springs from anguish-- was nothing new. And I had convinced myself that in order to progress, I had to experience suffering; and since suffering hadn’t found me yet, that I would need to pursue some form of self-imposed affliction. I decided that deprivation would be the key; sleep deprivation and food deprivation. As well as deprivation from the outside world.<br /><br />At the time, my stepfather was building a house in Hopland. He, and many of his friends, had all purchased acres of adjoining land in the California countryside. A group of artists, painters and the like, they had decided that the Half Moon Bay coast side had lost some of its previous charm, and it was time to start anew in the country, away from any perceived hustle and bustle, with only friends as neighbors.<br /><br />He had been building the house for years by this time, and would continue to build it into the future, spending more and more time there, until he and my mother would move there permanently when I was a senior in High School.<br /><br />The adjoining property next to my Dad’s house was owned by Bob Sherman. Bob had been the ringleader; the man who had sold off parcels of land to all of his friends to create a sort of artist’s community. He was eccentric and rich; a dangerous combination; and would later move into Bill Graham’s house after Graham died in the helicopter crash of1991. I still remember Bob’s house; especially his bathroom, where a naked mannequin had taken permanent residence in his bathtub, which was filled with some sort of wax paraffin to look like bathwater.<br /><br />On Bob’s property were several abandoned farm houses. They sat there empty, year after year, and I’d explored them all on my visits there. There was one large house that I particularly liked, with dozens of large windows and a wrap around porch. And when I was 13 years old, I begged my parents to allow me to live in that house for two full weeks, by myself.<br /><br />It took a lot of convincing. My argument that I needed to suffer in order to write fell on deaf ears. I was convinced that suffering would lead to enlightenment; and I was so impassioned about this visionary quest, that my parents at last relented to let me go.<br /><br />I had decided that part of my journey was to include semi-starvation. For the two weeks I would be staying, I would only bring fourteen heads of cauliflower, one head for each day. And tea. I would live on cauliflower and tea. I chose tea because while there was running water, it wasn’t potable; so any water I drank would have to be boiled. The simplest solution, in my mind, was to choose a hot beverage. Then, armed only with a suitcase, sleeping bag, typewriter, novel, candles, and my vegetables and tea, I moved into that farmhouse one summer.<br /><br />I remember feeling overwhelmed when I first stepped inside the door; it was filthy, covered in cobwebs, and had no electricity. And I felt a fear so pervasive that I immediately burst into tears. What had I done? With few supplies, I did my best to do a cursory clean up, and finished by picking a bouquet of wild flowers for the dining room table.<br /><br />The table was large, and carved from wood, and in the middle of it was a four foot tall sculpture of an erect Penis. It became a haunting image, especially as I laid my head down for the night and saw it looming above me.<br /><br />Although there was no electricity, I lined up my cauliflower in the old fridge, and left the door open. It seemed cooler there than in the house.<br />I placed my sleeping bag in a corner, as far as I could get from the huge windows that wrapped around the house. The windows contained several active beehives, and the glass was amassed with buzzing insects.<br /><br />I remember preparing my dinner that first night. I boiled one pot of water to steam the cauliflower, and a second pot of water for my tea. But when I unpacked my tea, I found to my horror that I had brought “loose” tea by accident, and I had nothing to strain it with.<br /><br />I had a brilliant idea. I would use one of my socks.<br />I took off a sock and filled it with loose tea, and lowered it into the pot of water. But to my horror, as the tea began to steep, it also began turning bright blue. The color of my sock. Repulsed, I threw the entire mess down the sink, and only drank hot water thereafter.<br /><br />My days were spent with my typewriter. Sometimes I’d write inside the house, and other times I’d find a spot outside to write. I would spend hours and hours, creating page after page of words, and then shuffling the big stack of paper back to the house<br /><br />The bees became my alarm clock. They were the loudest just as dawn was breaking and would invariably wake me up. My nighttime lullaby became the sounds that bats make, diving and swooping through the rafters of the house, every night at dusk. When the bats began their nocturnal dance, I would light candles and settle into my sleeping bag with my book. I had carefully chosen my novel for the experience; "Papillon," a memoir about a convicted felon and fugitive and his horrid experiences in a Columbian Prison. I knew that reading his prison experiences would comfort me somehow; his nights spent sleeping in two inches of water with rats made my experience seem a little less dire.<br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Papillon_(autobiography)" target="_blank"></a><br /><br />When I first arrived at the house, I felt nothing but fear. I was afraid of being alone, I was afraid of the bees and the bats. I hadn’t let go yet; I had one leg still firmly planted in civilization. But slowly that all changed, and I began to transform.<br /><br />At the beginning, I couldn’t fathom that I might lose track of days. But that is what began to happen. So each day I would bring back a rock and place it at the base of the Penis. I knew when I had placed fourteen rocks there, that my sojourn was over.<br /><br />But the days weren’t the only things I began to forget. I began to forget my fear; and I slipped into an entirely different consciousness. And then I slipped slowly into a sort of lunacy. My constant hunger pangs became a trusted friend. My famine and lack of sleep were giving me hallucinations. I would hear voices that weren’t there; spot images that didn’t exist. I thought I could understand the song of the bees; I began to interpret their different noises and I was convinced I knew what they were saying. “I can speak Bee,” I’d whisper to myself in the mornings.<br /><br />I also began to forget who I was. I kept having flashes of myself at the 8th grade basketball game, and my outburst of tears when my boyfriend didn’t make his shot. It all seemed so ridiculous and far away. My childish concerns. My giddy girlfriend gossip. My former distress over my wardrobe. My anxiety over my hair style. I felt as though I had become a Mountain Girl and I had no connection to society any more. It was civilization that seemed scary then. It all seemed puny and trivial.<br /><br />I began to feel that I existed separate and apart from my body. I began to experience the sublime. And one day, sitting alone in the center of a large meadow, I had a Transcendental Moment.<br /><br />Of course I didn’t know what a Transcendental Moment when I was 13; I didn’t learn about that until I studied the Transcendentalists and their movement later in College. I had always been familiar with Walt Whitman, but later I would learn of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau and their mystical movement, which believes that at one defining moment, you can transcend the empirical and the scientific and understand everything that is knowable through intuition. They described it as a moment so acute that the aesthetic pleasure derived from it was more pleasurable than any other moment before or after.<br /><br />And one day as I sat in a meadow, I thought of my cauliflower as the food of angels, and I was suddenly transcended into a moment of euphoria of an intensity that I would never experience again.<br /><br />Following that moment, the rest of my stay is somewhat of a blur. But I clearly remember sitting at the table in front of the Penis and counting rocks, and was shocked that I had already collected fourteen. It was time to leave.<br /><br />I’ll never forget how I felt stumbling out of that house on that final day and creeping slowly down the gravel road toward my parent’s house. I felt like a wild animal; I was alert to every sound in the brush; I was fully alive and aware; I was one with nature. I imagined my eyes looking untamed and feral; I could feel them darting all over the landscape, assessing my surroundings like a frightened animal. I was filthy and starving, and I skulked up my parent’s driveway then collapsed on the front porch. As soon as I reentered society, I began to feel ill.<br /><br />My father saw me and joined me on the porch with a robust, “HELLO THERE.” He was grinning from ear to ear, and I thought he might want to tease me about it all. But he also looked at me as though I may have gone mad.<br /><br />“Could you make me some pasta?” I said weakly. And I must say, I’ve never enjoyed a meal more. And as I gobbled up his tomato sauce made from his garden tomatoes, I felt a joy like I’d ever known. I had broken through something. I was reborn. I was living the dream. And I wanted to write.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17741905761159593241noreply@blogger.com8