Thursday, October 29, 2009

Valentine's Day is Over

He was 21, what seemed so much older, wiser.  I was 19 and insecure.

I was at Miami University, a transplanted sophomore.  I met Mark Little at the first party I attended.  I had not even intended to meet anyone.  I wanted to moon into my beer and bemoan the distance between me and my high school sweetheart.  Mark was a senior; I thought him a man.  He asked for my number.  I insisted that he give me his instead.  I think I really believed that I would throw it away.  As it turned out, I didn't need it.  I remembered that he was an architecture major and walking home from the library late one evening, I ducked into the hall where the architecture students were making their presentations.  I shyly asked around if Mark Little was there, half hoping he wasn't.  Yet there he was.  Beautiful.  Far too beautiful for me.  He seemed ethereal.  His blonde hair fell over his face and he pushed it back in consternation.  He looked up and caught me staring.  I stammered.  He smiled.  It was effortless.

His intensity bore through me.  Mark was direct and thorough.  I quickly became a priority.  I had never felt desired before.  Loved.  Respected.  Not desired.  Mark was fervent and impassioned.  Even his skin seemed hot to the touch.  He stood close to me when I was speaking.  He walked with my step.  He found me witty.  I found his wanting me intoxicating.  I drank him in.   I craved him.  It was a rapturous semester albeit an abstinent one as well.  I lied to myself.  I lied to my boyfriend.  And when Mark declared he loved me, I lied to him too.  I told him to find someone else.  I told him I didn't want him.  I believed that I had taken the moral path to true love, standing by old boyfriend.  Really, though, really I was terrified.  I couldn't see what Mark wanted in me.

And now almost twenty years later, I can recall with clarity conversations we had almost verbatim.  I remember the moonlight trek to a Quarry pond, the silver ripples below us as he reached for my hand.  I remember tracing the planes of his face, marveling at his perfect bone structure.  I can recall the crush of him, the urgency behind his first kiss.  Twenty years later and though I rejected HIM I bet Mark Little does not remember my name.  For all of his professed love and romantic notions, he never could have imagined the impact he had upon me.  Mark chose me and for that I am eternally grateful.  Of course, it would be years still before I even knew what to do with the knowledge he had bestowed upon me... too late for him, far too late for us.

He made me a tape which I tragically lost only but a few years ago.  The love songs were poignant and bittersweet and I imagined him laboring to choose the right ones.  He introduced me to Billy Bragg to whom I cannot listen without weeping.  I can see his long delicate fingers, nails bitten to the quick, carefully writing the songs on the tape cover.  His handwriting was beautiful, lacy yet you could run your fingertip over the words and feel how he had ground the pen into the paper as if he was forcing his soul into it.

I wrote him once.  Selfishly, I told him I had made a mistake.  Brazenly, foolishly, I told him I would take him back.  I wonder if he laughed when he read that.  Humbly, yet distantly he wrote a short missive back wishing me well with the rest of my life.

Of course, I am happy with my life.  I feel loved and fulfilled.  Still, Must I paint you a picture  evokes a longing in my depths.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

An accurate picture

It was like biting into the most tempting fruit, bracing for the delicious flavor, only to discover that it is sour, not sweet.  Not entirely disappointing, but not what you were expecting.  High School.

I've been thinking a lot about high school.  Autumn usually turns my thoughts to the past, especially those school age years.  However, I have also dredged up old mementos recently as my Happy Hour gang is gathering for a Haunted Halloween 1980s Prom.  Scary.

I have written quite a bit about the depths of my depression and the toll it took during my adolescent years, however, I have not extolled on the wonderful highs I experienced during that time.  Bi Polar is as the name implies, radical swings between mania and depression.  Although tinged, I did have great times in high school.

The bittersweet pain of an unrequited crush, the thrill of a great grade,  the sticky anticipation surrounding Prom, the rush from performing on stage,... I was not immune to these.

He sat behind me in Earth Science freshman year.  Raleigh Mason.  He was taller than the other boys, strapping even, while the rest stumbled over gangly limbs.  The other boys were brash and rowdy, vacillating between critiquing the feminine figure and arguing over last night's game.  Raleigh was reticent, reflective.  In truth, I did not know him well enough to accurately describe his personality but I imagined him moody and sensitive.  I romanticized him.  He ignored me.  My imagination flamed.

Medicated and educated about my depression now, I reflect quite a bit on what could have been had I simply known my ailment.  I was never a stellar student but I think perhaps I could have been.  Intermittently, I found my footing and excelled in certain courses.  Sophomore year, my english teacher, Mrs. Drake, allowed me to participate in an independent study.  I wrote reams of poetry, expurgating my  soiled soul.  Mrs. Drake encouraged me, plying me with authors our little library didn't even stock.  I earned a perfect score and more importantly validation.

My junior year found me still mooning over Raleigh Mason and fretting about the impending prom.  Rumors swirled that Raleigh might ask me, however I also caught wind that he might go with Rebecca Worth.  Adamant that I would not be relegated a castoff, I took the initiative and asked.... Alex Reithmiller, a boy who attended a private school.  I was brave enough to ask a boy, just not brave enough to ask THAT boy.  A large group of friends decided to gather pre-prom at Fran Downey's house.  I have a snapshot to commemorate the evening; a gathering of sparkling, smiling girls and puffed, proud boys and front and center I stand, sullen, casting a sidelong look into nowhere while everyone looks at the camera.

By senior year, I hit a high in my mania.  My grades radically improved.  I played soccer, danced ballet, made Homecoming Court, and auditioned for the lead female role in the school play.  I hardly recognized myself.  In truth I didn't stand still long enough to look in a mirror, afraid that the old me would step out from the reflection.  I got the part.  It was as if the cage around my heart had opened and a thousand song birds flew into the sun.  At such a dizzying height, you would think I would've walked slowly, carefully planting each footfall but instead I seemed a performer, racing across the tightrope, blindfolded even.  Our play won regionals and went on the State competition, where we were disqualified for unsuitable material... my character projected too much sexuality!  Although disappointed that we could not compete for the state championship, I was thrilled that I had performed so convincingly.  Heady, emboldened, I harnessed the energy from my character, and pursued my latest crush.  He rejected me, though a month later HE asked ME out.  The rejection barely stung, so impressed was I with myself.

Along the way, at each of this pivotal points, I was surrounded by my incredible friends...Cary Ward, Drewry Atkins, Aaron Hickman, David Phemister, Brice Rose, Joshua Elrod, Susan Groves, Missy Philipps, Jack DeCourcy, David Harbach, Jenny Darragh, Angie Jackson, Gloria Fennel, Sarah Williams, Ian Wallace, Cochran Lyle, Shawn Grimmer, Carla Smothers, Stewart Worrell... the names too many to enumerate.

In short, it was the American High School experience... friendship, failure, love, lust, rejection, triumph.  I am recognizing now that your past is what you choose to remember.  Too often I have felt doomed by my previous failings, rather than lifted by my accomplishments.  As I have pulled out my old yearbooks and tried on the old prom dresses, I can recall clearly that there was also sweetness in that fickle fruit.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

A night to somewhat remember

I was thirteen.  Adolescence was not kind to me.  My face was inflamed with acne and my hair hung lank and oily.  I was thin and gawky.  Ashamed of the breasts I had recently developed, I curved my shoulders improbably forward, concaving my chest.

My parents had separated when I was 11 and had reconciled.  I did not rejoice.  My father and I were constantly at odds.  I thought him cruel and insensitive.  He thought me insipid and irresponsible.

That year in school was the first my grades began to slip.  My crippling disease, though yet infantile, had begun to worm its way through my psyche.  I fantasized about death while my friends dreamed of sock hops and honor roll.  Unaware of my crumbling mental state, my parents decided that I was lazy and shiftless and those were the reasons for my less than stellar academic performance.

They started with punishment.  T.V., phone calls, weekend outings... all curtailed.  Yet as I slipped further from reality, they realized their efforts were futile.  Next came the cajoling, the promises, the possible rewards.  As I had no social activities to distract me, I did focus slightly more on my studies.  My father dangled his best carrot; if I could make honor roll, he would take me to The Homestead for dinner.  The irony is that such a proposal left me terrified, yet my grades improved.  Dramatically so.  I made Honor Roll.  My father crowed and picked a night to drive an hour and thirty minutes to dinner with his sullen, forlorn teenage daughter.

I don't remember the drive, aside from the fact that we stopped at East Lexington and picked up a six pack for the trip.  I want to say that it was a startlingly cold, cloudless night, but I am unsure.  I do remember that I was served sorbet in between courses and that I wore a handed down Gunne Sax dress, loaned by my cousin.

I wish that I could recall a magical evening, a turning point, a realization or a reckoning at least.  I imagine now that we drove home in silence.  Perhaps I fell asleep.

As my depression deepened, my grades inevitably sunk lower and lower.  All promises and punishments were rendered idle.  My parents were too absorbed in their own tangled web to notice that possibly something stronger than vapid teenage despair was at hand.

Obviously, I survived.  And now, on an annual pilgrimage, I take my own family to The Homestead for President's Day weekend.  The dining room, though remodeled since  20 odd years, is still the same and sorbet is still served between courses.  I don't think of him much; like Leonard Cohen once beautifully warbled, "That's all.  I don't think of you that often", I recall Sandy every time I set foot in The Homestead.  Never mind that I will never remember a word we said to each other that night; at one time, maybe only even once in my lifetime, Sandy focused on me.  For an entire night.  I wish I could say I felt special.  I wish I could say that one night was enough, that I had a deeper understanding, a connection.  "That's all.  I don't think of you that often".  I always weep when I listen to Leonard Cohen.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Civility

So I was driving in my car, in Northern Virginia traffic, with a two year old in the backseat.  When the woman from Maryland cut me off I snapped, "Nice!  Thanks a lot!" to which the two year old responded "You're welcome, Mommy.".

Can we still function while practicing good manners?  Is it possible to ignore the woman with 50 items in the Express Lane at Safeway?  Are you capable of smiling when someone you have met 100 times introduces you by the wrong first name?  Is it beyond us to bless a stranger who has sneezed?

My paternal grandmother was a stickler for manners.  She stressed how to hold a soup spoon, how to answer the phone, in which direction the toilet paper should unroll.  It did not endear me to her.  I bristled under her tutelage.

Yet, today I find myself constantly questioning, "Was that appropriate?".  Much has been written about the death of civility in this country.  Pundits have expounded on how base the population has become.

I couldn't disagree more.

A short study of history should provide anyone with the clear prejudiced, misogynistic racist society which has flourished since the dawn of man.  The cruel workings of humanity rendered the great works of Dickens, Jouvenal, Harriet Tubman.  Reams have been written about the diabolical deeds of the Romans, Visigoths, Mongols, and Nazis.

It is not that we have denigrated.  It is that there is no longer a tolerance for these heinous behaviors; the media has routed evil and shown it to us ad nauseum.  We are no worse a species than a hundred years before; we simply know more... more about the twisted strings of the human heart and the soaring heights of compassion.

I believe in humanity.  Don't ever let anyone tell you that the world is going to Hell in a handbasket... the world has seen plenty of hell and it still manages to give rise to Mother Teresas and Dali Lamas and the hundreds of nameless souls who toil every day to leave the it a better place.  We are not worse; we simply know more and sometimes knowledge is damning.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Seeking solace

My mother asked me to stop writing my blog, although, to my knowledge, she has never read it.  I'm not sure if she was speaking for herself or for the family, but apparently the idea that I am "airing dirty laundry" is frowned upon.

My mother read The Help.  She loved it, even though she was raised in Mississippi in the privileged class.  I thought perhaps she would be interested in my post about the book.  She read about half before she stopped and yawned.  She patted my shoulder absentmindedly and said "fun" when I asked for her reaction.

When do we stop looking to our parents for approval?  When will I wake up and say to myself, "Ah, today I feel like a grown-up"?  When does your own approval become enough?

I remember my senior year at Mary Washington I was taking an English course with a professor who encouraged us to write and to do so frequently.  I took this encouragement seriously and brought my work to class to share.  Evidently, I shared too much because I remember being rebuked for asking to read a newly written poem.  I was stung.  If that class wasn't the appropriate forum, if I couldn't find support there, where was I supposed to go?

I've always appreciated tangible results; I miss the grading system from school.  I am rudderless in the open world, trying to navigate what I need to share and with whom I share it.  I still crave approval.

In truth, I never should have expected more from my mother.  She has loved me but she understands me about as well as I understand Quantum Physics.  She has never asked to read my work and when I have foisted something upon her, I am always disappointed by her reaction.

Will I be able to appreciate my children's unique gifts?  Will I read what is handed to me; will I watch what is performed; will I support that which I perhaps may not understand?  I hope so.

As my mom left the room and continued to clean and organize my shabby life, I stood there crestfallen.  I couldn't keep the baseboards clean or iron the clothes properly, but I bare myself with every post and strive to write honestly, persuasively.  Will I recognize what is right and pure about Teddy?  Will I be able to acknowledge Annelise's talents?

When will writing what is on my mind be its own reward?

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

The Landslide

I have suppressed this post for quite a while now... I didn't know quite how to broach it.  Women never fondly discuss aging.

I never believed that I would struggle with getting older.  I have never been a great beauty, like my mother, so I was sure that I wouldn't mourn a loss.  However, I recall quite clearly now something my Gran said years ago and it is so apt; youth is its own beauty.

I lived in my mother's shadow.  She was tall and willowy.  I was short with powerful thighs.  She had thick auburn hair while mine was baby fine and dishwater blonde.  She was curvy and vivacious.  I was petite and reticent.  She grew up in the deep south, where beauty was touted as a woman's ultimate gift.  I grew up in Virginia with professors families who encouraged me to get a PhD.  She spoke with a drawl.  I spoke Latin.

I kept things simple.  Minimal makeup, maybe lip gloss, and short hair.  I embraced fashion but kept a safe distance from trends.  In short, I tried not to compete.

Now I stand poised at the cusp of 40.  Suddenly, I have almost been rendered invisible.  As a young woman, I could walk into a room and acknowledge a few heads would turn... because of my youth.  Now I am relegated to Mother status.   The situation is not assisted by the fact that I am growing out my hair which now hovers just below my earlobes, thus clinching my Soccer Mom title.

And I am shocked.  I miss the attention.  I miss the position, the slight power a single young woman can wield.  I have to buy my own drinks now, damn it.  I don't have to fend off untoward conversation from leering young men.  I don't command attention.  And I am further shocked by who does... yes, youth is its own beauty.  I watched this past weekend as my beautiful late 30 something friends sauntered around the bar and stared in amazement at how the men there were fixated by women who were only under 30, even though my friends were clearly more attractive.

So what is beauty?  Can only the young hope to be considered beautiful?  What about knowledge and kindness and understanding... all of those things that frequently accompany crow's feet.

Maybe it doesn't help that I am reading the Twilight series; all those eternally young attractive vampires and a heroine lamenting her impending age.  I don't know.

Can you miss something you never had?  I was never a beauty but yes, I was young...

Monday, October 5, 2009

The Conditions of Love

We picked up a new puppy on Sunday; a seven week old Boston terrier.  He is instant family.

I had two noteworthy pets growing up.  Each taught me invaluable lessons about love, commitment and tolerance.

Major was a German Shepherd.  He was a beautiful animal... sleek and muscled.  During our time in the country, before Sandy left us, Major and I spent spent better parts of entire days roaming the woods.  We lost ourselves numerous times and stumbled our way home.  We encountered snakes and spiders and most horrific, my own imagination.  Major was a constant companion; a fierce protector and a loving friend.  However, he was better suited to country life than city and when we had to sell our house in the country, because we could not afford it after the divorce, Major also needed to find a new home.  I was devastated.

Shortly after we acquired Major, we got a couple of barn cats.  I instantly took a strong liking to the gray tom cat.  He grew up solid and being a cat, when we made the transition to town, he acclimated fairly well.  Mr. Gray.  Short, soft pearl gray fur and golden eyes.  He was probably 15 pounds but light on those 4 feet.  He was stealthy and low key, loving and gentle.

When the world ceased to turn and the sun refused to shine for me, Mr. Gray was never far.  Times when I could not bear my own reflection and the din of others voices could drive me mad, the caressing purr of Mr. Gray would soothe me to sleep.  His loyal affection never wavered.  The cat had an uncanny sense of need and was readily there when crisis struck.

I went to college, graduated, lived life and moved on.  Still, whenever I visited home, Mr. Gray provided both primary and undying adulation.  I relied upon his warm acceptance and unbridled affection.

I was in my thirties when Mr. Gray was either hit by a car or struck by some predator.  My mother found him curled upon our front step, his injuries innumerable.  I have never mourned a death more than that of Mr. Gray.  I weep as I write.  Mr. Gray solaced me.  When I could no longer communicate with people, that gentle gray cat would climb into my lap and give me purpose.

It has been said that animals provide unconditional love.  I think that statement belittles animals.  I think they recognize us, the good, the bad, the entire package.  Theirs is not a blind love.   They have the capacity, the enormous power to forgive... it is not unconditional; I have known animals that have recognized undeserving people and have demonstrated their disgust.  The love of an animal, if you are worthy of it, is total.  Total acceptance.  An animal can look at a misshapen face and find beauty.  An animal can forgive your neglect.  An animal can sense your pain.  However, an animal looks deeper than we are capable... they are better judges of purity.  Animals love conditionally.... upon the condition that you are worthy of love.  An animal's love can redeem you, but you must be deserving.

I have given my children this tiny expectant little bundle... it waits, for love, for learning, for life.  And I wait for the precious lessons it will bestow upon my children.  God bless the animals, great and small.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Mississippi, learning

You want to do yourself a favor?  Go pick up a copy of  The Help.  It is the most jolting read I have had since The Bluest Eye.  The author transports you to Mississippi in the 1960s and gives you the most startling, revealing account of race relations I have read.

For some inane reason, I have always been proud of being a  Mississippian.  I have always revered the genteel culture and the fabulous cuisine.  I grew up, in Virginia,  in what was strangely both a homogenous and integrated atmosphere; most of my immediate friends were caucasian, protestants but everyone got along with everyone else.  At Reunion, I was particularly happy to see my African-American friends.  Yet, I idolized the most wretched state in the union.

Mississippi to me is sweltering heat, sweet tea, cicadas, pecan tarts, tennis and cocktail hour.  It's saying Yes Ma'm and dressing up for football games.  It's caramel cake and Tabasco and cotton fields.  And though I have read numerous books by many a great African -American author about the woes and abominations of Mississippi, I could never ignore the fact that Gran was Mississippian and therefore, it must be good.

The Help is a fantastically accurate book about the close and tremulous relationship between black maids and their white employers.  I ache, reading those poignant words about loving little innocent babies and tolerating their racist mommas.  The author nails the inflection, the accent and vividly describes the social strata.  I should say here that it is written by a white woman.

My Mississippi has nothing to do with silver being polished, and country clubs, and monogrammed clothing cast off to the maid.  I don't reflect upon separate bathrooms for different races or the tribulation between choosing between your white mother and your black momma.

Should I?

Yes.  I have been wooed and silenced by the nostalgia.  I have embraced the romanticism and ignored the ugly truth.

I have never asked Gran how she feels about African-Americans.  I know that prior to the last Presidential race, she told me she thought Obama was a man of integrity, an intelligent man and that of all the potential candidates she supported him the most.  Now my Gran is catholic, so I have a hard time believing that she would for a democrat, but I hope.

I cannot picture my Gran spitting on another human being or belittling someone because of the color of their skin; she is a lady.  But is she open-minded?  I don't want to know if she is tolerant; I want to think she is supportive.  I want.

Can I love someone unconditionally if they are bigoted?  Do I want to know if SHE is? I have never heard a prejudiced word from my grandmother; never seen an act that would make me ashamed.  Is that enough?

Black people have been running the state of Mississippi since its inception... raising white babies, chauffeuring white men, picking white peoples' cotton.  However, now Mississippi is being run into the ground.  It is the poorest, least educated state in the nation and yet more Fulbright scholars come from Ole Miss than any other school.

The Help.  I close my eyes and picture Hilda, my grandmother's maid for so many years until she had to go on dialysis.  I picture the beautiful" high yellow" woman who made the best biscuits and sweet tea at my best friend Brooke's plantation.  I know the Help.  Now I know the suffering they went through to make my Mississippi possible.

Would I write this if I had spent all my years in Mississippi?  Would I have the courage, or more importantly, would I have the insight?

I am like an embarrassed teenager shying away from her parents... I love being Southern and yet I am ashamed of what that connotes.