He's got this big wide-open grin he greets me with, and the warmth in his eyes grows as his smile spreads across his face. It’s the grown up version of how my nieces react when they see me – as though seeing me is the best thing that’s happened in their lives in a while. I blush and have to resist looking down at my feet as one toe kicks into the other in shyness that such joy is directed at me. He and I can talk for hours about what's happening in the news or how one of his research participants or one of my students raised a whole bunch of questions about gender or class or race or accessibility. That's as sexy to me as the way he folds me into a hug and then offers up his warm, ready lips for a kiss, as though he knows that's just where I want them, lingering on mine. He listens better than any other man I've met, better than I listen, and he catches not just what I'm saying, but what needs I'm talking about, and goes about quietly meeting them. He makes me want to be a better me.
There is so much ease and comfort between us that it feels like we've known each other for years, and the chemistry we share feels deeply connecting -- there's the passion I always seem to crave, but it's not crazy-making like it has been with other men. We've hung out for one short month admittedly, yet no red flags have been raised. Most of the time with him, I feel like what we're doing is all a formality, that we could decide we were a couple now, could move in together in a few months, be married in a year, and it wouldn't change how much fun we're having or the calm knowing we feel when one of us slips up and makes a reference some version of our possible shared future.
I know I've said this before, too many times, that it's so cliched, so unsupported by my own life’s history, and so silly to say after a month, but I think he and I may be onto to something real and lasting here. And if not, there's something rich and meaningful here for us. (Delete this paragraph?)
So what's the catch? For me, there isn't one. But two people I love most in the world, for different reasons, have taken issue with me dating him because he's black.
One, who has championed fairness and equality for all for as long as I’ve known her, has shared with me that she thinks a long-term relationship with a black man, would be a choice of a harder life for me, and any children I may have with him. I don’t disagree that having an interracial relationship or family in a society steeped in racism will bring with it challenges, but I do disagree that this should be the sole reason to end a relationship with someone.
After all, race is not a genetic disorder. Growing up biracial is not a disease I'd pass onto my kids. Barak Obama turned out just fine, despite so many obstacles, including race, any one of which could have led him to a very different life. What matters in a kid's success is that she is loved no matter what, that her family believes in her, and that her family never gives up on her. With that, any social meaning attributed to her identity memberships can be weathered.
For me, this argument, that I'd be making my life harder by choosing a black man as my partner is like saying I shouldn't have children at all because if one of them is a girl, or is born gay, their life will be harder. It's a choice to have kids or not -- so better to not so that their life and my life, isn't hard. It's just silly, so not a compelling argument to me, and it's heartbreaking to hear it from someone I love and respect so much -- someone who would, theoretically, be expected to one day love my (possibly) biracial, female, or gay children. Would she always harbor the wish that they were different?
Last week, while visiting her, I was scanning an article online, and she asked, “What are you reading?” I told her that Norval had been interviewed by a reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle about some union organizing he’s been doing. She barely responded with an “Oh.” I wondered to myself, if he wasn’t black, would she have asked more questions about him? Would she have wanted to read the article herself? Would she brag to her friends at work about knowing someone who’s dating a guy who was interviewed for the Chronicle?
I have more trouble with my other dear one’s concerns. Given 200 plus years of racism in our country, there are fewer educated, successful black men in the dating pool, and more educated, successful black women in the dating pool. Is it fair for me, as a white woman to date one of these men, to get serious with him, and to effectively take him off the market for women of color who, sadly, get pursued much less by all men, including black men? For a fascinating breakdown of race preferences on one dating website – okcupid.com – visit http://blog.okcupid.com/index.php/2009/10/05/your-race-affects-whether-people-write-you-back/.
I don't have a response for this reality that feels great to me.
R&B singer Jill Scott stirred up the interracial love debate last March when she described in an editorial piece in Essence magazine “the wince” she feels when she learns that a seemingly together black man is with a white woman (http://www.essence.com/relationships/commentary_3/commentary_jill_scott_talks_interracial.php?page=4). As someone who's spent a great deal of her life trying to learn enough about my privileges to avoid, as much as possible, making anyone wince from my ignorance, I'm not fond of the idea of being a trigger for any woman of color to wince when she sees me with Norval. I'm not interested in so suddenly bringing into another woman's consciousness the complicated nature of dating within her racial community, or even, as in Scott's instance, the whole history of the black struggle in America. But whether I want this role or not, I do understand that if "this" works out, for some women, I will be this kind of trigger. I know this, and I'm not excited about it. But should this be a reason to stop dating Norval? I’m not so sure.
Scott said in a follow up interview on CNN that she's not against interracial love, but that she shared her experience and opinions to open up debate, to talk about the lasting impacts of racism, and for that, I appreciate her honesty in bringing it up. I know I can never know what it's like to be a black woman, but I do remember my overweight years, before I lost sixty pounds.
I spent most of my adult life watching thinner women being hit on as I went unnoticed or was quickly dismissed. I'd wince every time the guy I thought I'd connected with in some way drifted off and ended up with a thinner, and therefore more desirable, woman. I don't have enough fingers to count the number of men I hoped would ask for my phone number and would end up asking for my friend's number instead. It was tough to feel rejected for who I was. But I would never expect my friends to not go out with or flirt with men I was interested in. If a man didn't find me attractive, I didn't want his number. But it still stung when it happened. So I get that, as much as I can anyway, as a white girl. If I can't know in my bones what Jill Scott's wince is about, I can empathize with it, and it does trouble me.
One reader responded to Scott's Essence commentary: "Jill's comments mirror what a lot of black women feel; sorry if it makes some of you uncomfortable." It does make me uncomfortable, but not because I deny that it's true (I think it is). I don't think being uncomfortable in conversations about race is a bad thing. It makes me think, deeply, about the impact of my choices. (Leave out? Find a more compelling response that captures the white women shouldn’t date black men position.)
Another says:
As an Afro-Latino married to a White Woman, color had no place in my selection. I have dated many women outside my race yet my selection for marriage had nothing to do with that... Although I never intended to marry someone white, we fell in love and it has turned out to be the best loving relationship I have ever been in. Our commonality is our education, beliefs, and the genuine love of each other irrespective of race.
I'd argue that race is never irrelevant in any relationship, and that education, beliefs, and love are all shaped by our racial (and other) identities. But in this man's case, they were compatible with his white partner. This is an important point for me. I did not set out to find a black man. I am under no illusion that his being black somehow makes him more or less desirable than any other man who can talk my socks off around social justice issues. In our first exchanges, he referred to equality and fairness being guiding principles for him, and mentioned other values I hold dear, and I couldn't stop talking with him because of our different ethnic backgrounds.
I do believe that his being black has shaped him in ways that make us compatible -- his experiences with racism pushed him to study and understand the way identity gets played out in the world, and he's spoken with sensitivity about his privileges as a straight man. And my being a woman has shaped me in ways that make us compatible, too, because it was through my experiences as a woman that I became interested in other identity groups that experience oppression, which led me to being interested in finding a way to be in the world that expands the privileges I do have to everyone. But it isn't because he's black, or I'm white, that we have been drawn to one another. And that very real fact is obscured when taking a social justice high road here, and I just can’t take it. Maybe that's shortsighted of me, maybe it is on overreach of my white privilege.
But love has somehow put out a green shoot of clear-eyed hope, and I stand there admiring it with Norval, wonder suspended in the air between us, and we can’t resist but water it with the nearly identical dreams we’ve carried separately, until now. With the almost primal drive to protect such new possibility, it's not cut and dry, it's not so simple.
I don't have a solution to this issue that will please my loved ones; at least for now, ending things with this man is not going to happen. I want them to be excited for me, to ask me about how things are going, to share in my joy. I also know that they may not be able to hold that space for me right now, or maybe ever. I will love them regardless of their support (or lack thereof) of this new relationship, and I know they will love me too, as best they can. I am grateful for that.
Rumi wrote, centuries ago, "Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."
My best hope now is that my loved ones will walk with me the length of this field.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Medicine
Here's my July offering for The Sun's Reader's Write section. (Mom, please send me factual edits -- I'm not sure of exact times, lengths, etc...)
I was awakened at 3:02 in the morning by my mother’s voice as it filtered through my sleep in the room we shared when I was a teenager. I wasn’t sure at first it was hers, it was gravely and hoarse and I could barely make out her words. She was on the phone, trying in vain to remain sitting up, pushing into her bed with her severely compromised right arm, falling onto her side with each attempt. She was insisting to someone that she was having a stroke. I was fifteen years old.
Half an hour later, my brother and I were sitting in the hospital emergency waiting room, not saying a word to one another. Mark, who was seventeen, was tapping his fingers on his knee and staring blankly at the TV. I was curled up on a chair, wishing I was back in bed at home, with my mom in the bed next to mine, sleeping soundly.
I couldn’t get out of my head the completely unremarkable bedtime ritual she and I had shared just five hours ago. She snuggled in her bed, me in mine, as we chatted about the upcoming weekend for a few minutes. She turned off the light and said, “Good night, honey, I love you.” I replied, “Love you, too, mom.” And we fell asleep. It was so like any other night, I couldn’t make sense of how we’d ended up here.
A doctor came in to the waiting room eventually to tell us that our mother had had a stroke, that it appeared to have ended and she was being stabilized. He urged us to go home, get some sleep, and come back in the morning. I asked if we could see my mom before leaving.
I found one of her hands through a maze of tubes and my brother found the other. Her face was puffy and her left eye fluttered open, her right eyelid sagged against her effort. She muttered a hello and smiled with half her lips. She told us that everything would be ok, but she was hardly convincing.
But ultimately, she was right. Her cognitive functioning and personality were largely unaltered, so she was able to approach her physical recovery with tenacity and determination. She was home in six weeks, walking with the aid of a walker and soon, a cane. As a single mom with three kids to support, the prescribed two-year recovery timeline wasn’t an option and she was at work again in nine months.
But, in many respects, she is just ok. Even now, eighteen years later, she experiences daily pain, the result of damaged brain cells misfiring. When I still lived at home, and it got bad, usually at night, I would massage her face where it hurt, her head in my lap. It was the best medicine I could offer her, but like any other treatment she got, it didn’t take away the pain. We’re all grateful for her resolve and will to recover, but the drugs she takes to this day serve to keep her blood thin, to prevent another stroke from happening, and to dull the pain enough so she can function. They have not healed her.
When I was twenty-one years old, six years after my mom’s stroke, one night I was squandering precious studying time during finals week flipping through channels on TV. I caught a few words of a news anchor recounting a story about a sixty-something year old man who had come to an emergency room in the midst of a debilitating stroke. I sat up straight and leaned forward. He was unable to walk or talk when he was admitted. This story was exactly the same as my mom’s. The doctors treated him with a new drug, called tPA, a clot dissolving drug, and within hours, he had recovered most of his body function. Within a week he was, more or less, fully recovered. I slumped back into the couch when the story was over and couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
If only she had had her stroke at fifty-six instead of fifty, I thought, she wouldn’t have pain all the time. She wouldn’t have lost a year of her life and income, she wouldn’t worry about having another stroke, I wouldn’t still sometimes wake at 3:02 in the morning in a panic and resist the urge to call her to make sure she’s still alive.
In medicine, as with so many things in life, I realized timing really is everything.
I was awakened at 3:02 in the morning by my mother’s voice as it filtered through my sleep in the room we shared when I was a teenager. I wasn’t sure at first it was hers, it was gravely and hoarse and I could barely make out her words. She was on the phone, trying in vain to remain sitting up, pushing into her bed with her severely compromised right arm, falling onto her side with each attempt. She was insisting to someone that she was having a stroke. I was fifteen years old.
Half an hour later, my brother and I were sitting in the hospital emergency waiting room, not saying a word to one another. Mark, who was seventeen, was tapping his fingers on his knee and staring blankly at the TV. I was curled up on a chair, wishing I was back in bed at home, with my mom in the bed next to mine, sleeping soundly.
I couldn’t get out of my head the completely unremarkable bedtime ritual she and I had shared just five hours ago. She snuggled in her bed, me in mine, as we chatted about the upcoming weekend for a few minutes. She turned off the light and said, “Good night, honey, I love you.” I replied, “Love you, too, mom.” And we fell asleep. It was so like any other night, I couldn’t make sense of how we’d ended up here.
A doctor came in to the waiting room eventually to tell us that our mother had had a stroke, that it appeared to have ended and she was being stabilized. He urged us to go home, get some sleep, and come back in the morning. I asked if we could see my mom before leaving.
I found one of her hands through a maze of tubes and my brother found the other. Her face was puffy and her left eye fluttered open, her right eyelid sagged against her effort. She muttered a hello and smiled with half her lips. She told us that everything would be ok, but she was hardly convincing.
But ultimately, she was right. Her cognitive functioning and personality were largely unaltered, so she was able to approach her physical recovery with tenacity and determination. She was home in six weeks, walking with the aid of a walker and soon, a cane. As a single mom with three kids to support, the prescribed two-year recovery timeline wasn’t an option and she was at work again in nine months.
But, in many respects, she is just ok. Even now, eighteen years later, she experiences daily pain, the result of damaged brain cells misfiring. When I still lived at home, and it got bad, usually at night, I would massage her face where it hurt, her head in my lap. It was the best medicine I could offer her, but like any other treatment she got, it didn’t take away the pain. We’re all grateful for her resolve and will to recover, but the drugs she takes to this day serve to keep her blood thin, to prevent another stroke from happening, and to dull the pain enough so she can function. They have not healed her.
When I was twenty-one years old, six years after my mom’s stroke, one night I was squandering precious studying time during finals week flipping through channels on TV. I caught a few words of a news anchor recounting a story about a sixty-something year old man who had come to an emergency room in the midst of a debilitating stroke. I sat up straight and leaned forward. He was unable to walk or talk when he was admitted. This story was exactly the same as my mom’s. The doctors treated him with a new drug, called tPA, a clot dissolving drug, and within hours, he had recovered most of his body function. Within a week he was, more or less, fully recovered. I slumped back into the couch when the story was over and couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
If only she had had her stroke at fifty-six instead of fifty, I thought, she wouldn’t have pain all the time. She wouldn’t have lost a year of her life and income, she wouldn’t worry about having another stroke, I wouldn’t still sometimes wake at 3:02 in the morning in a panic and resist the urge to call her to make sure she’s still alive.
In medicine, as with so many things in life, I realized timing really is everything.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Office
I have decided to write one response per month to the the Reader's Write section of the Sun Magazine as a writing practice. The topic for the June 1 deadline (publication in December) is "The Office." As I will be sending this for possible publication, any feedback (typos/weird sentences/unclear passages, etc.) you might have is 100% welcome! Thank you!
The first time I walked into the office I now work in I was 18 years old, nervous, and intensely conscious of my whiteness. I was interviewing for my first work-study job and the assistant who greeted me, a pretty, sweet-faced Latina, regarded me cautiously. I noticed her nameplate, which read Mari Ortiz, and blushed, having written down “Maudy” when my potential supervisor had told me on the phone who to check in with when I arrived. Two other women and a man were in the office when I arrived, all people of color, and though they all acknowledged me, there were no introductions or warm greetings, as I’d experienced at my other interviews, with, predictably, white people. In my head, I refused to draw the conclusions that my racism pointed me to, but their presence in my mind set me on edge, wondering if these people could read the bias in my anxious demeanor.
My University was organized in residential colleges, and I was a student at the predominately white college next to the predominately non-white college where I was seeking a job that could help me pay for my education. When Afia came to lead me back to her office for my interview, I became even more aware of being white. She had sun-lightened, torso-length dreds that were the color of coffee with a touch of cream and her “black” skin was any beautiful word for brown but black. I pleaded my brain to give me the right words to land this gig. I suddenly wanted this job so badly my chest squeezed up in anticipation.
To my surprise, Afia offered me the job on the spot and within an hour I was put to work making posters for some upcoming events in the “production room,” a large open area between the front office and my supervisor’s office. In the coming weeks and months, as I became immersed in the life and culture of that very inclusive, very activist college community, everything I thought I’d be when I came to college fell away. Whatever ill-formed ideas I had about possible career paths -- medicine? psychology? anthropology? -- became laser focused on studying privilege, power, and oppression. I became conscious of my development as a white person and what that meant in the real world. I strove to build bridges across difference, sometimes awkwardly, but with love and connection as inner directives, it seemed to work decently.
To the many people of color (and white allies) who befriended me during these formative years, who shared their lives and experiences with me in that job, I owe millions. People who have been discriminated against by people who look like me took the risky leap of faith that I, as a white person, could be a part of the forward march of equality and justice rather than another blind participant in the system of white supremacy our nation is founded on. I am humbled by such undeserved trust, such faith that compassion will ultimately unite us, and I wouldn’t be who I am today without their willingness to challenge and support me.
In the fifteen years since I first walked into that office, I have attended Mari’s wedding, celebrated the births of her two children, graduated, taught middle school where I somehow helped lots of kids get to grade level in reading and math, lived in Mexico, fostered my friendship with Mari, and grown into a professional dedicated to changing the world, or at least my part of it.
More than anything else, I’ve come to understand that the most important thing to know about work is not about the job at all; it’s about how we interact with others to get good work done, how we include others and make them feel that their lives matter.
The production room has since been divided into three cubical offices, and I work in the middle one. Mari, who is now my supervisor, walks past my office multiple times a day, throwing out a “Good morning” or “Hi, babe” as she passes. I look out the very same window I looked out that first day, making posters, on the very same plum trees, which flower at this time of year. Going to work is like coming home to myself everyday.
The first time I walked into the office I now work in I was 18 years old, nervous, and intensely conscious of my whiteness. I was interviewing for my first work-study job and the assistant who greeted me, a pretty, sweet-faced Latina, regarded me cautiously. I noticed her nameplate, which read Mari Ortiz, and blushed, having written down “Maudy” when my potential supervisor had told me on the phone who to check in with when I arrived. Two other women and a man were in the office when I arrived, all people of color, and though they all acknowledged me, there were no introductions or warm greetings, as I’d experienced at my other interviews, with, predictably, white people. In my head, I refused to draw the conclusions that my racism pointed me to, but their presence in my mind set me on edge, wondering if these people could read the bias in my anxious demeanor.
My University was organized in residential colleges, and I was a student at the predominately white college next to the predominately non-white college where I was seeking a job that could help me pay for my education. When Afia came to lead me back to her office for my interview, I became even more aware of being white. She had sun-lightened, torso-length dreds that were the color of coffee with a touch of cream and her “black” skin was any beautiful word for brown but black. I pleaded my brain to give me the right words to land this gig. I suddenly wanted this job so badly my chest squeezed up in anticipation.
To my surprise, Afia offered me the job on the spot and within an hour I was put to work making posters for some upcoming events in the “production room,” a large open area between the front office and my supervisor’s office. In the coming weeks and months, as I became immersed in the life and culture of that very inclusive, very activist college community, everything I thought I’d be when I came to college fell away. Whatever ill-formed ideas I had about possible career paths -- medicine? psychology? anthropology? -- became laser focused on studying privilege, power, and oppression. I became conscious of my development as a white person and what that meant in the real world. I strove to build bridges across difference, sometimes awkwardly, but with love and connection as inner directives, it seemed to work decently.
To the many people of color (and white allies) who befriended me during these formative years, who shared their lives and experiences with me in that job, I owe millions. People who have been discriminated against by people who look like me took the risky leap of faith that I, as a white person, could be a part of the forward march of equality and justice rather than another blind participant in the system of white supremacy our nation is founded on. I am humbled by such undeserved trust, such faith that compassion will ultimately unite us, and I wouldn’t be who I am today without their willingness to challenge and support me.
In the fifteen years since I first walked into that office, I have attended Mari’s wedding, celebrated the births of her two children, graduated, taught middle school where I somehow helped lots of kids get to grade level in reading and math, lived in Mexico, fostered my friendship with Mari, and grown into a professional dedicated to changing the world, or at least my part of it.
More than anything else, I’ve come to understand that the most important thing to know about work is not about the job at all; it’s about how we interact with others to get good work done, how we include others and make them feel that their lives matter.
The production room has since been divided into three cubical offices, and I work in the middle one. Mari, who is now my supervisor, walks past my office multiple times a day, throwing out a “Good morning” or “Hi, babe” as she passes. I look out the very same window I looked out that first day, making posters, on the very same plum trees, which flower at this time of year. Going to work is like coming home to myself everyday.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Who I've taken myself to be, and who I really am
My life has been so, so full these last four weeks. My body feels on the edge of revolting at the lack of sleep and unrelenting pace of events to be at, events to manage, events to perform at. No matter how much I try to remind myself that I am a human being and not a human doing, I have run myself into exhaustion from doing too much.
And yet, last Saturday afternoon, as soon as I walked into the social hall at Inner Light to begin prep for the night's annual concert, my choir people began stopping when they saw me and telling me how beautiful I looked, how radiant, and full of life. I had bought a fierce new dress for the concert and blown out my hair, but I didn't have make-up on yet and dark circles lay beneath my eyes, betraying my lack of sleep, so I was a little confused. But the compliments didn't stop coming. After I came out of the ladies room with make-up on, one fellow choir member whispered as she hugged me, "I have never seen you look more beautiful than right now." Inwardly I chuckled sarcastically and thought, "I wonder if she'd still say that if she really knew what kind of person I am."
Apparently, I'm the kind of person who accidentally gets drunk two nights before her annual church choir concert and has to miss the Friday night concert part of the musical celebration weekend because her head hurts too much to be around loud noise. I'm the kind of person whose throat was still raw from the overuse of alcohol Thursday night. It seems I'm the kind of person who lacks the most basic integrity and sense not too drink so close to such an important weekend. Clearly, I'm the kind of person who felt like crap about herself when all these choir members were telling her how pretty she looked.
Later, I climbed on the risers with my choir, feeling pissed at myself, a bit nervous that I hadn't studied the songs long enough, or embodied their messages deeply enough, or drank enough throat coat tea to smooth out the notes just right.
And then, I went on to sing my heart out.
From the first notes of the first song (No Other Choice), my raging mind went silent, and like I'd been born with the lyrics running through my veins instead of blood, I nailed every note. I relaxed, remembered that I wasn't only performing, but ministering, music. Despite the previous two days, I was here now and all I could do was surrender to the music and let it have it's way with me.
A few times I got pulled back into my self-consciousness, and I'd glance out at my lovely supporters: my mom, Christina, Juan, I'd look for Megan, my college roommate, and her mom, Robin, though I never found them in the crowd, I felt buoyed by their presence "out there." I wondered how my non-church people were doing with all this God-celebrating music. But for the most part, my only anchor to the moment was my intense focus on Valerie Joi's passionate and inspired directing. She was like Aladdin coaxing the genie out of the lamp, bringing forth through the choir that which was already there with some simple hand movements and an expressive face. It was too big to describe. Prayerful, playful, transformative, fun. All just approximations.
After the concert, when my fingers and toes still tingled from all the musical energy that had exited from them, my friend LeTa embraced me and rocked me and told me that I looked absolutely gorgeous, to keep doing whatever I was doing because it was working. And just like that, my mind started up again, and I wanted to scream: "NO! I'm an imposter! I fucked up and I'm not a pretty person inside and stop telling me that!" But I smiled as genuinely as I could, told myself to accept her compliment graciously, and thanked her.
And she was just the first. Too many people to count told me some variation of "You're so beautiful tonight." Each time, another opportunity to hate on myself seized by some inner traitor bent on my destruction.
Later, over drinks with some of my favorite people, I focused on talking about how much fun I'd had singing, I didn't mention how transformed I felt up there, how entirely un-me it feels when I sing, I didn't dare talk about being filled up by some unnameable presence that does all the work for me. I minimized all those things that had made the concert so perfect for me, nor did I even know then that it had been a little life raft holding me safe above the tigers of my mind. I assumed they wouldn't understand all that, that they'd think I was just some silly New Age chick. So, I shifted the conversation to other, safer topics, and my mind quieted enough for me to really enjoy being with these four wonderful women. I recognized that they were all honoring me, and for a time, I let myself feel like that was an ok thing to do. Thank God for the love of women. That, and singing.
Tonight, the choir gathered in a circle and spent the evening sharing our insights from our concert experience. I listened as one after another choir member remarked on some aspect of a life transformed, or told about friends or family members who'd come and been deeply moved by our ministry. There were tears of gratitude, love, and joy. There was laughter and celebration. As they spoke, my heart sank. Except for singing on pulpit, I'd been pre-occupied and self-absorbed all night and had, apparently, missed out on something they all had access to. My friends and family who came didn't talk about how much love they felt from us or how moved they were. They all basically said it was a great show and fun to see me in it, but nothing life-changing like I was hearing from others. I felt so disappointed in myself.
And then it hit me. Something higher in me stepped on the brakes of my mind-fucking and I heard a voice ask, "Who do you take yourself to be, Mandie? Just who do really think you are?" Then, I saw my experience of the concert in stark, lovely clarity. People were telling me how beautiful I was before the concert, not only after. Each person, an emissary recruited by that something Bigger to jolt me out of hating myself so I could start enjoying the perfection of the weekend. Yes, it had begun without me, but I was still an important and valued part of that weekend, and had a rightful place in it, no matter what my choices had been a couple nights ago. All those people had obeyed some inner directive to reflect to me the nature of who I am. A beautiful human being. No less than that. Saturday, I had denied each one of those angels to myself. But when I sang, I did truly feel radiant, unfettered by all the lies I have taken myself to be.
On Saturday night, I sang out more than my heart. I sang out my self-loathing, I sang out my tiredness, I sang out my anxiety, I sang out my worry, I sang out all the shit that gets in the way of seeing myself as I really am. And even though I just as quickly reclaimed the lies of who I have taken myself to be after I stopped singing that night, THIS night, I got it.
The theme of our concert was "The Choice is Now." I am so grateful that every moment is another "now." And now, this NOW, I choose not to take myself to be the irresponsible, out of alignment, stupid girl I thought I was. If who I really am is what it feels like when I sing, why not dedicate myself to figuring out how to inhabit that gorgeous, stunning, radiant being more regularly?
And yet, last Saturday afternoon, as soon as I walked into the social hall at Inner Light to begin prep for the night's annual concert, my choir people began stopping when they saw me and telling me how beautiful I looked, how radiant, and full of life. I had bought a fierce new dress for the concert and blown out my hair, but I didn't have make-up on yet and dark circles lay beneath my eyes, betraying my lack of sleep, so I was a little confused. But the compliments didn't stop coming. After I came out of the ladies room with make-up on, one fellow choir member whispered as she hugged me, "I have never seen you look more beautiful than right now." Inwardly I chuckled sarcastically and thought, "I wonder if she'd still say that if she really knew what kind of person I am."
Apparently, I'm the kind of person who accidentally gets drunk two nights before her annual church choir concert and has to miss the Friday night concert part of the musical celebration weekend because her head hurts too much to be around loud noise. I'm the kind of person whose throat was still raw from the overuse of alcohol Thursday night. It seems I'm the kind of person who lacks the most basic integrity and sense not too drink so close to such an important weekend. Clearly, I'm the kind of person who felt like crap about herself when all these choir members were telling her how pretty she looked.
Later, I climbed on the risers with my choir, feeling pissed at myself, a bit nervous that I hadn't studied the songs long enough, or embodied their messages deeply enough, or drank enough throat coat tea to smooth out the notes just right.
And then, I went on to sing my heart out.
From the first notes of the first song (No Other Choice), my raging mind went silent, and like I'd been born with the lyrics running through my veins instead of blood, I nailed every note. I relaxed, remembered that I wasn't only performing, but ministering, music. Despite the previous two days, I was here now and all I could do was surrender to the music and let it have it's way with me.
A few times I got pulled back into my self-consciousness, and I'd glance out at my lovely supporters: my mom, Christina, Juan, I'd look for Megan, my college roommate, and her mom, Robin, though I never found them in the crowd, I felt buoyed by their presence "out there." I wondered how my non-church people were doing with all this God-celebrating music. But for the most part, my only anchor to the moment was my intense focus on Valerie Joi's passionate and inspired directing. She was like Aladdin coaxing the genie out of the lamp, bringing forth through the choir that which was already there with some simple hand movements and an expressive face. It was too big to describe. Prayerful, playful, transformative, fun. All just approximations.
After the concert, when my fingers and toes still tingled from all the musical energy that had exited from them, my friend LeTa embraced me and rocked me and told me that I looked absolutely gorgeous, to keep doing whatever I was doing because it was working. And just like that, my mind started up again, and I wanted to scream: "NO! I'm an imposter! I fucked up and I'm not a pretty person inside and stop telling me that!" But I smiled as genuinely as I could, told myself to accept her compliment graciously, and thanked her.
And she was just the first. Too many people to count told me some variation of "You're so beautiful tonight." Each time, another opportunity to hate on myself seized by some inner traitor bent on my destruction.
Later, over drinks with some of my favorite people, I focused on talking about how much fun I'd had singing, I didn't mention how transformed I felt up there, how entirely un-me it feels when I sing, I didn't dare talk about being filled up by some unnameable presence that does all the work for me. I minimized all those things that had made the concert so perfect for me, nor did I even know then that it had been a little life raft holding me safe above the tigers of my mind. I assumed they wouldn't understand all that, that they'd think I was just some silly New Age chick. So, I shifted the conversation to other, safer topics, and my mind quieted enough for me to really enjoy being with these four wonderful women. I recognized that they were all honoring me, and for a time, I let myself feel like that was an ok thing to do. Thank God for the love of women. That, and singing.
Tonight, the choir gathered in a circle and spent the evening sharing our insights from our concert experience. I listened as one after another choir member remarked on some aspect of a life transformed, or told about friends or family members who'd come and been deeply moved by our ministry. There were tears of gratitude, love, and joy. There was laughter and celebration. As they spoke, my heart sank. Except for singing on pulpit, I'd been pre-occupied and self-absorbed all night and had, apparently, missed out on something they all had access to. My friends and family who came didn't talk about how much love they felt from us or how moved they were. They all basically said it was a great show and fun to see me in it, but nothing life-changing like I was hearing from others. I felt so disappointed in myself.
And then it hit me. Something higher in me stepped on the brakes of my mind-fucking and I heard a voice ask, "Who do you take yourself to be, Mandie? Just who do really think you are?" Then, I saw my experience of the concert in stark, lovely clarity. People were telling me how beautiful I was before the concert, not only after. Each person, an emissary recruited by that something Bigger to jolt me out of hating myself so I could start enjoying the perfection of the weekend. Yes, it had begun without me, but I was still an important and valued part of that weekend, and had a rightful place in it, no matter what my choices had been a couple nights ago. All those people had obeyed some inner directive to reflect to me the nature of who I am. A beautiful human being. No less than that. Saturday, I had denied each one of those angels to myself. But when I sang, I did truly feel radiant, unfettered by all the lies I have taken myself to be.
On Saturday night, I sang out more than my heart. I sang out my self-loathing, I sang out my tiredness, I sang out my anxiety, I sang out my worry, I sang out all the shit that gets in the way of seeing myself as I really am. And even though I just as quickly reclaimed the lies of who I have taken myself to be after I stopped singing that night, THIS night, I got it.
The theme of our concert was "The Choice is Now." I am so grateful that every moment is another "now." And now, this NOW, I choose not to take myself to be the irresponsible, out of alignment, stupid girl I thought I was. If who I really am is what it feels like when I sing, why not dedicate myself to figuring out how to inhabit that gorgeous, stunning, radiant being more regularly?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The war
A little girl, maybe five or six years old stands on dirt or concrete, or dirty concrete, a floodlight drawing a faded-edged circle around where she stands. Her black hair is cut short, curling around her earlobes and thick bangs ride above her brows. She wears a stained shift dress, beige, and it's splattered in blood. The blood of her family members, who had been shot and killed only seconds or minutes before the photo was taken. Her face is contorted in fear, pain, and confusion. The tracks of her tears under horrified eyes glimmer in the light. The boots of two or three soldiers stand on either side of her, dust-covered black leather roots that keep them away form her. A tip of one rifle visible, pointed down, away from her. They did not or rather, more hopefully, could not, kill her as well.
This image comes to me, a full year or so after I first saw it in an article, whenever it pleases. I'd say I was haunted by it, but that's maybe too dramatic. She flashes whenever I hear anything about the wars. She comes to me in my dreams, immobile, frozen and devastated. When I'm getting drunk sometimes, and I forget for a minute or an hour or a night what a ridiculous privilege it is to go out drinking and dancing. Once, when I was making love, and she made me cry then, because such bliss is so arbitrary, and there should be no reason I wasn't born as her. But I wasn't.
I wonder about her now. Has she smiled since then? Does she dream happy things ever? Is she with relatives not killed by those soldiers who are reportedly defending my freedom to get drunk and have sex and not think about little girls in Iraq or Afghanistan splattered in their family's blood? Whoever is caring for her, are they mending her, or trying to?
And of those soldiers, who stood there, looking on as her world broke apart: How are they? Are they haunted by that experience yet (yet, because I don't believe one can witness such suffering and not be haunted)? Or have they coped by assuring themselves and each other of her family's insurgency? Did one of them eventually scoop her up and whisper, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again in her ear? Do any of them cry at night when she comes to them? Who cares for them when they can't hold their own daughters without hating themselves for what they did or saw?
And the photographer: How did you achieve such professional detachment? Stand there and snap pictures and not go to her? Did you resist and urge to hurl damning profanities at the soldiers? Or are you a soldier yourself? The one that documents. The one that needs a pictorial record for the superiors, but also yourself, because words cannot express the gravity of these moments. How does she visit you now? I know she must. I know others must as well. So burdened with thousands of images of the war. I have this one and she weighs a ton. How do you manage? Who cares for you when you cannot shake them from your head?
For me, I cannot abide war, for any reason, and though I've felt this way since I remember articulating it first in my sixth grade school speech contest where I argued against the use of nuclear weapons, this little girl, this seconds long snapshot of her life, holds everything I need to know about war's complete futility. Because this terrified girl, totally bereft, covered in blood, visits me and before I can get to compassion, a murky, disgusting desire to kill the people who did it to her flashes through me. And that? That is the cycle of violence that can never be stopped by more violence. If I, a peace-abiding girl, feel murderous for even a second when her face floats in front of me, I can only imagine how the girl's surviving relatives must feel.
I say none of this to sanction terrorism or insurgency; but only to illustrate that all war is terrorism and can only beget more terrorism. I don't have the answers; I don't know how to get the US out of the business of war. I don't know if anything I can do here will make a difference. Sometimes, all I can do is bow my head and pray for her, and all the other children like her, and all the soldiers who have killed, and those who've been charged with documenting it all. Other times I can sign petitions, phone my representatives, donate to aid organizations helping kids in the war zones, or write about images that haunt.
This image comes to me, a full year or so after I first saw it in an article, whenever it pleases. I'd say I was haunted by it, but that's maybe too dramatic. She flashes whenever I hear anything about the wars. She comes to me in my dreams, immobile, frozen and devastated. When I'm getting drunk sometimes, and I forget for a minute or an hour or a night what a ridiculous privilege it is to go out drinking and dancing. Once, when I was making love, and she made me cry then, because such bliss is so arbitrary, and there should be no reason I wasn't born as her. But I wasn't.
I wonder about her now. Has she smiled since then? Does she dream happy things ever? Is she with relatives not killed by those soldiers who are reportedly defending my freedom to get drunk and have sex and not think about little girls in Iraq or Afghanistan splattered in their family's blood? Whoever is caring for her, are they mending her, or trying to?
And of those soldiers, who stood there, looking on as her world broke apart: How are they? Are they haunted by that experience yet (yet, because I don't believe one can witness such suffering and not be haunted)? Or have they coped by assuring themselves and each other of her family's insurgency? Did one of them eventually scoop her up and whisper, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again in her ear? Do any of them cry at night when she comes to them? Who cares for them when they can't hold their own daughters without hating themselves for what they did or saw?
And the photographer: How did you achieve such professional detachment? Stand there and snap pictures and not go to her? Did you resist and urge to hurl damning profanities at the soldiers? Or are you a soldier yourself? The one that documents. The one that needs a pictorial record for the superiors, but also yourself, because words cannot express the gravity of these moments. How does she visit you now? I know she must. I know others must as well. So burdened with thousands of images of the war. I have this one and she weighs a ton. How do you manage? Who cares for you when you cannot shake them from your head?
For me, I cannot abide war, for any reason, and though I've felt this way since I remember articulating it first in my sixth grade school speech contest where I argued against the use of nuclear weapons, this little girl, this seconds long snapshot of her life, holds everything I need to know about war's complete futility. Because this terrified girl, totally bereft, covered in blood, visits me and before I can get to compassion, a murky, disgusting desire to kill the people who did it to her flashes through me. And that? That is the cycle of violence that can never be stopped by more violence. If I, a peace-abiding girl, feel murderous for even a second when her face floats in front of me, I can only imagine how the girl's surviving relatives must feel.
I say none of this to sanction terrorism or insurgency; but only to illustrate that all war is terrorism and can only beget more terrorism. I don't have the answers; I don't know how to get the US out of the business of war. I don't know if anything I can do here will make a difference. Sometimes, all I can do is bow my head and pray for her, and all the other children like her, and all the soldiers who have killed, and those who've been charged with documenting it all. Other times I can sign petitions, phone my representatives, donate to aid organizations helping kids in the war zones, or write about images that haunt.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Jen and I shared the small stretch of Chang’s beach, in Makena, Maui, with just one other person: a young, beautiful man. He was the kind of man I would have seduced had I been traveling solo, but I wasn’t. Instead I stole glances of his lean, tanned body and recalled, with some nostalgia, those simple days of careless love affairs.
But tonight, my last night in Hawaii, I was content to have the warm air and sweet light swirl a cocoon around Jen and I. We sat on sarongs as we ate a finale Hawaiiana dinner of taro green-swaddled pork “lau lau” and kalua pork. We decided it was decent farewell fare, if not uncharacteristic for health-conscious us. then, disregarding the twenty-minute wait rule after eating, and the clothed young man nearby, we stripped off all our clothes and walked into the cool ocean waters.
Waist-deep in, I felt grains of sand in the tidewaters brushing past the skin of my pelvic area and butt, and my pubic hair tussled by the current. These were novel sensations, subtle, but nothing like I'd ever felt before. My first nude ocean swim, I smiled inwardly. As we waded in deeper, and the ocean swallowed more of me, the barrier of skin that defines my body from other matter loosened. The communion of bare skin, water, and sand made me feel, blessedly, a bit less me and a bit more everything else.
I swam out a bit, turned to face Jen and smiling wildly, I’m sure, I told her I’d never been skinny dipping in the ocean before. “How could you live in Santa Cruz and never have gone skinny-dipping in the ocean?” she asked incredulously. "The water's really cold there?" And though that's true, I offered up this reply more as a feeble excuse than a good reason. She smiled, and I could tell she was pleased to be with me for this "first."
After a short while, a large wave broke right on us, and quite literally, through us. When we re-surfaced, we both decided that ass-kicking was enough. We walked back to our sarongs, dried off, and laid down to warm in the dying sun. For the next 20 minutes or so, we giggled as our sinuses drained of their own volition, catapulting us from prone sun bathers to sitting up to either spit out salty water that had flowed into our throats or blowing it out our noses.
The lovely man laying a shout away was now naked, lying propped on one elbow, facing away from us, toward the setting sun. I smiled. He must have taken off his shorts after noticing us walk naked into the water.
“Look, your friend is naked,” Jen indicated, as though I had failed to notice his curving hip bone, the smooth, rolling hill of his backside.
The sun was low in the sky now, but still warm on our skin. Clouds flanked its golden descent, and the sea scattered the sun into glittery chunks on its surface.
“Ok, we’re going to sing a song now," Jen said suddenly. "It’s a total Jewish summer camp song, but it’s sung whenever something happens for the first time. And we’ll sing it for your first nude ocean-swimming experience.”
Jen sings in a completely wonderful, lilting voice. She dotes on notes just long enough to make them shine, and I wondered if my day could get any better.
She patiently tried to teach me the words, but I was a poor student, and so I mostly sang the three bar “Amen” at the end, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be than on that beach, on this island, with this wonderful woman, singing.
As the sun began it’s final dip, Jen and I snapped photos of it and ourselves, laughing for some reason or none, then sat in silence for a few minutes as the vibrant orange orb disappeared on the horizon, pulling an arc of yellows, oranges, and reds down below the cloudline. It was a perfect ten sunset, and a sweet thing to watch in my last hours on Maui.
Finally, I found a reason to disturb the attractive man, who had, to my slight dismay, pulled his shorts on: a picture, please, of my friend and I. Of course, he said with this painfully wonderful smile, and a maddeningly clichéd sexy French accent. Guillome took some good photos of us, and then the three of us talked fellow traveler talk. Again, I felt that twinge of fondness for what could have been, if I were a solo traveler and still sleeping around. But I ended the conversation fairly quickly; these last moments were Jen and me time.
Now, here on this plane chasing dawn, the salt on my skin just a lick away and sand still falling from my hair, I think about redemption. The day had started out with disappointment. Plans to snorkel with sea turtles in West Maui were scrapped due to rain, which muddies the waters, so we spent a few early afternoon hours at a cookie-cutter resort spa. Relaxing? Wonderfully so. Fabulous? Not exactly. As we drove back into Kihei for Jen’s doctor appointment, I felt a twinge of sadness that this, and maybe a good dinner would round out my last hours here. Later, it was Jen’s idea to get food to go and drive on down to Makena. How easily even a not altogether bad day can be transformed into the spectacular by the simple confluence of details: a dazzling sunset, tasty food, a skinny dip, laughter, song, and love shared good and well. A whole entire day, redeemed just like that into perfection!
Imagine that.
I couldn’t have planned a better last day in Maui if I had tried. Goodbye, Island; goodbye, Jen, darling. So, so much love.
But tonight, my last night in Hawaii, I was content to have the warm air and sweet light swirl a cocoon around Jen and I. We sat on sarongs as we ate a finale Hawaiiana dinner of taro green-swaddled pork “lau lau” and kalua pork. We decided it was decent farewell fare, if not uncharacteristic for health-conscious us. then, disregarding the twenty-minute wait rule after eating, and the clothed young man nearby, we stripped off all our clothes and walked into the cool ocean waters.
Waist-deep in, I felt grains of sand in the tidewaters brushing past the skin of my pelvic area and butt, and my pubic hair tussled by the current. These were novel sensations, subtle, but nothing like I'd ever felt before. My first nude ocean swim, I smiled inwardly. As we waded in deeper, and the ocean swallowed more of me, the barrier of skin that defines my body from other matter loosened. The communion of bare skin, water, and sand made me feel, blessedly, a bit less me and a bit more everything else.
I swam out a bit, turned to face Jen and smiling wildly, I’m sure, I told her I’d never been skinny dipping in the ocean before. “How could you live in Santa Cruz and never have gone skinny-dipping in the ocean?” she asked incredulously. "The water's really cold there?" And though that's true, I offered up this reply more as a feeble excuse than a good reason. She smiled, and I could tell she was pleased to be with me for this "first."
After a short while, a large wave broke right on us, and quite literally, through us. When we re-surfaced, we both decided that ass-kicking was enough. We walked back to our sarongs, dried off, and laid down to warm in the dying sun. For the next 20 minutes or so, we giggled as our sinuses drained of their own volition, catapulting us from prone sun bathers to sitting up to either spit out salty water that had flowed into our throats or blowing it out our noses.
The lovely man laying a shout away was now naked, lying propped on one elbow, facing away from us, toward the setting sun. I smiled. He must have taken off his shorts after noticing us walk naked into the water.
“Look, your friend is naked,” Jen indicated, as though I had failed to notice his curving hip bone, the smooth, rolling hill of his backside.
The sun was low in the sky now, but still warm on our skin. Clouds flanked its golden descent, and the sea scattered the sun into glittery chunks on its surface.
“Ok, we’re going to sing a song now," Jen said suddenly. "It’s a total Jewish summer camp song, but it’s sung whenever something happens for the first time. And we’ll sing it for your first nude ocean-swimming experience.”
Jen sings in a completely wonderful, lilting voice. She dotes on notes just long enough to make them shine, and I wondered if my day could get any better.
She patiently tried to teach me the words, but I was a poor student, and so I mostly sang the three bar “Amen” at the end, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be than on that beach, on this island, with this wonderful woman, singing.
As the sun began it’s final dip, Jen and I snapped photos of it and ourselves, laughing for some reason or none, then sat in silence for a few minutes as the vibrant orange orb disappeared on the horizon, pulling an arc of yellows, oranges, and reds down below the cloudline. It was a perfect ten sunset, and a sweet thing to watch in my last hours on Maui.
Finally, I found a reason to disturb the attractive man, who had, to my slight dismay, pulled his shorts on: a picture, please, of my friend and I. Of course, he said with this painfully wonderful smile, and a maddeningly clichéd sexy French accent. Guillome took some good photos of us, and then the three of us talked fellow traveler talk. Again, I felt that twinge of fondness for what could have been, if I were a solo traveler and still sleeping around. But I ended the conversation fairly quickly; these last moments were Jen and me time.
Now, here on this plane chasing dawn, the salt on my skin just a lick away and sand still falling from my hair, I think about redemption. The day had started out with disappointment. Plans to snorkel with sea turtles in West Maui were scrapped due to rain, which muddies the waters, so we spent a few early afternoon hours at a cookie-cutter resort spa. Relaxing? Wonderfully so. Fabulous? Not exactly. As we drove back into Kihei for Jen’s doctor appointment, I felt a twinge of sadness that this, and maybe a good dinner would round out my last hours here. Later, it was Jen’s idea to get food to go and drive on down to Makena. How easily even a not altogether bad day can be transformed into the spectacular by the simple confluence of details: a dazzling sunset, tasty food, a skinny dip, laughter, song, and love shared good and well. A whole entire day, redeemed just like that into perfection!
Imagine that.
I couldn’t have planned a better last day in Maui if I had tried. Goodbye, Island; goodbye, Jen, darling. So, so much love.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
How to live a good life
Be loving. That's it.
I think.
Benjamin Quaye smiles from a screen at the front of the room. Twenty or so snapshots selected from a brief lifetime. Some are of him as a baby, some in college, others as an adolescent, but in everyone he looks wildly happy, as though he'd just been told he won the lottery. Though I don't know him, I can see from the way his eyes and lips seem unable to hold anything but humor and goodwill that he couldn't help but live a passionate life.
As the photos in the slide show begin a new loop, I wonder how many times they will have to repeat before they lose their power to make me cry. I long for desensitization. I've never met this sweet-faced boy who called Oakes home, as I now do, but the grief in the room is a contagion I can't escape, and seeing his beautiful face quite literally hurts my heart and pushes a tennis ball into my throat.
I can't look at his mother, a large presence, though she is quiet and stoic as she sits in the row with bright yellow "reserved" signs hanging from the chair backs. The row set aside for those who loved a boy who has died. Her cropped, curly blond hair, the color of a happiness that seems impossible.
A professor of his talks of his commitment to social justice, and his dedication to his studies. His girlfriend speaks next, and at length. She is unprepared and silly and sweet and loses it at the end and so do I. I find myself without tissues, tears streaming down my face and snot beginning to gather in a drop at the tip of my nose. I motion to my co-worker for tissues, blow my nose and dab with futility at the flood threatening to breech the levees of my lids.
I'd disappointed a friend the morning of Ben's memorial and the conversation ended without resolution. I had been upset all day, sad that I let someone I adore down and hurt that my reasons didn't seem to matter. Sitting there, listening to this young man's friends pay him tribute and chuckling about his faults with affection and forgiveness, I got to thinking about how easy it can be to hurt the ones we love and how easy it is to forgive those who have hurt us, when we are sure of their love. The thought was a fleeting comfort.
I got to thinking about how he died. A fall. A head hit in the wrong place. Then death. It could happen to any of us. It could happen to me tonight, I thought, and my friend's last memory of me would have been of disappointment. I hated that thought not just for it's dramatic sweep, but the way it tore open every insecurity I have about loving and being loved.
I am so attached to loving and being loved that the idea or ideal of non-attachment holds little appeal for me. When I see or hear about people who can accept tragic, or even mildly disappointing, news with grace and ease I disbelieve it or find them cold and unfeeling, inauthentic. Recently, I read an account of a woman who's ten year old son had died ten days prior and she wrote that though she felt some sadness, mostly she felt ecstatic and happy, blessed to have had her son for as long as she had. Liar, I thought, You fucking liar. I cried then. I cried for him since his mother didn't seem to need to.
What bullshit.
I am the liar. The truth is that I didn't cry only for this boy, or his mother. That time, and at Ben's memorial yesterday, I cried also for myself, because crying at a memorial, crying for someone else's loss is acceptable and not self-indulgent. And, having stopped tears thousands of times for a hundred stupid reasons, like not wanting to appear weak or self-indulgent, I seem to need an excuse to feel pain.
Ben's friends and family knew him so well. They knew his faults and like any who love another, they allowed those faults to be redeemed by his true, shining self. There is that, I suppose, that in time or in death, if we are good, and we are loving, those who love us will forgive us for not being everything they hoped we'd be, and love us for who we are.
By the end of the service, I felt like I knew Ben, too, and I watched the slide show repeat the time line of his life once more, as unable to hold it together as when I walked in the room. So, so beautiful, this one. I cried for him, for the life he doesn't get to lead, and for all those he touched, for their lives will never, ever be the same. For them, it will always be before Ben and after, and for most, sadness will always salt the edges of their memories of him. And I cried for me, too.
I did get home before totally unraveling. In bed, I cried for over an hour, soaking through a half a roll of toilet paper. I wept for the life I didn't get to live that day by virtue of choice, for touching a loved one in a way that left her wanting, and for feeling misunderstood, for a life that sometimes feels like it will never be the way I want it to be, exactly, and for the doubt that my loving may not be enough. I thought about how torn I'd felt all morning, wanting to be in two places at once, and I'Asha, who ended our friendship about a year and a half ago, and John, whom I ended a relationship with last December. About how I missed three people that day, and longed for these things to be different. How many times must I release? How long will I cling to my idea about how things should be before accepting what is?
Thomas said I have experienced most of my personal growth and transformation as a result of traumatic events in my life, and though that is certainly fine and good, he wondered if I had ever been (or could allow myself to be) transformed by bliss or joy or love. It's a good question with an answer I don't like. Sure, I've had joyous, transcendent moments, and I don't think I could find anyone who knows me that would not use words like "happy" or "joyful" to describe me, but in the end, still (OH MY GOD, STILL!) I worry any possibility of transformative happiness to death.
I look at pictures of my friends who've recently married or had babies and swat away the thought of me someday being able to post pictures like these on my facebook profile. I knit the booties and make the first-days-at-home stew and I fight desiring a marriage of equals, and precious, soft-skinned infants. I smile and congratulate without entertaining too long my longing for such an elusive thing as my own family. I celebrate my freedom and feel genuine gratitude that I still get to go to late night concerts or get drunk once in a while or make last minute vacation plans. I have stopped standing in front of the mirror, pushing out my stomach and imagining how cute I'd look pregnant, or what it might feel like to have a baby nestling inside the home of my body. Because I haven't figured out how to walk the line of holding a robust vision for my life rather than of choking a vision to death with actionless longing.
I have all these tools. I know that singing makes me feel unconfused, alive, and tapped in. I know that I can call at least five different people who will pray with me, and at least five others who will listen to me and love me through and through. I know how to pray all by myself and make it feel good, too. I know that my life doesn't happen to me, but it does run it's course through my veins and I know that I can fight it or ride the wave with skill and enjoyment. I know that I am not me with spirituality layered on top, thrown on like a silly New Age costume for shits and giggles. I am a spiritual being having human experiences, and at the moment, these human experiences are having an out-of-control party in the temple of my spirit. But I'm willing to believe that this isn't the way it will remain. I know the key to all this is to be loving. To love it all -- the bad, the ugly, the wondrous, the mysterious, myself.
And, that's about it. I need some other folks to hold the rest of the vision for me until I can catch up.
I will catch up; I will be transformed by happiness, by love. I am leading a good life.
Rest in peace, young Ben. Your example of a life well-lived is deeply moving. Thank you for being born and using your time here so wisely and with so much love.
I think.
Benjamin Quaye smiles from a screen at the front of the room. Twenty or so snapshots selected from a brief lifetime. Some are of him as a baby, some in college, others as an adolescent, but in everyone he looks wildly happy, as though he'd just been told he won the lottery. Though I don't know him, I can see from the way his eyes and lips seem unable to hold anything but humor and goodwill that he couldn't help but live a passionate life.
As the photos in the slide show begin a new loop, I wonder how many times they will have to repeat before they lose their power to make me cry. I long for desensitization. I've never met this sweet-faced boy who called Oakes home, as I now do, but the grief in the room is a contagion I can't escape, and seeing his beautiful face quite literally hurts my heart and pushes a tennis ball into my throat.
I can't look at his mother, a large presence, though she is quiet and stoic as she sits in the row with bright yellow "reserved" signs hanging from the chair backs. The row set aside for those who loved a boy who has died. Her cropped, curly blond hair, the color of a happiness that seems impossible.
A professor of his talks of his commitment to social justice, and his dedication to his studies. His girlfriend speaks next, and at length. She is unprepared and silly and sweet and loses it at the end and so do I. I find myself without tissues, tears streaming down my face and snot beginning to gather in a drop at the tip of my nose. I motion to my co-worker for tissues, blow my nose and dab with futility at the flood threatening to breech the levees of my lids.
I'd disappointed a friend the morning of Ben's memorial and the conversation ended without resolution. I had been upset all day, sad that I let someone I adore down and hurt that my reasons didn't seem to matter. Sitting there, listening to this young man's friends pay him tribute and chuckling about his faults with affection and forgiveness, I got to thinking about how easy it can be to hurt the ones we love and how easy it is to forgive those who have hurt us, when we are sure of their love. The thought was a fleeting comfort.
I got to thinking about how he died. A fall. A head hit in the wrong place. Then death. It could happen to any of us. It could happen to me tonight, I thought, and my friend's last memory of me would have been of disappointment. I hated that thought not just for it's dramatic sweep, but the way it tore open every insecurity I have about loving and being loved.
I am so attached to loving and being loved that the idea or ideal of non-attachment holds little appeal for me. When I see or hear about people who can accept tragic, or even mildly disappointing, news with grace and ease I disbelieve it or find them cold and unfeeling, inauthentic. Recently, I read an account of a woman who's ten year old son had died ten days prior and she wrote that though she felt some sadness, mostly she felt ecstatic and happy, blessed to have had her son for as long as she had. Liar, I thought, You fucking liar. I cried then. I cried for him since his mother didn't seem to need to.
What bullshit.
I am the liar. The truth is that I didn't cry only for this boy, or his mother. That time, and at Ben's memorial yesterday, I cried also for myself, because crying at a memorial, crying for someone else's loss is acceptable and not self-indulgent. And, having stopped tears thousands of times for a hundred stupid reasons, like not wanting to appear weak or self-indulgent, I seem to need an excuse to feel pain.
Ben's friends and family knew him so well. They knew his faults and like any who love another, they allowed those faults to be redeemed by his true, shining self. There is that, I suppose, that in time or in death, if we are good, and we are loving, those who love us will forgive us for not being everything they hoped we'd be, and love us for who we are.
By the end of the service, I felt like I knew Ben, too, and I watched the slide show repeat the time line of his life once more, as unable to hold it together as when I walked in the room. So, so beautiful, this one. I cried for him, for the life he doesn't get to lead, and for all those he touched, for their lives will never, ever be the same. For them, it will always be before Ben and after, and for most, sadness will always salt the edges of their memories of him. And I cried for me, too.
I did get home before totally unraveling. In bed, I cried for over an hour, soaking through a half a roll of toilet paper. I wept for the life I didn't get to live that day by virtue of choice, for touching a loved one in a way that left her wanting, and for feeling misunderstood, for a life that sometimes feels like it will never be the way I want it to be, exactly, and for the doubt that my loving may not be enough. I thought about how torn I'd felt all morning, wanting to be in two places at once, and I'Asha, who ended our friendship about a year and a half ago, and John, whom I ended a relationship with last December. About how I missed three people that day, and longed for these things to be different. How many times must I release? How long will I cling to my idea about how things should be before accepting what is?
Thomas said I have experienced most of my personal growth and transformation as a result of traumatic events in my life, and though that is certainly fine and good, he wondered if I had ever been (or could allow myself to be) transformed by bliss or joy or love. It's a good question with an answer I don't like. Sure, I've had joyous, transcendent moments, and I don't think I could find anyone who knows me that would not use words like "happy" or "joyful" to describe me, but in the end, still (OH MY GOD, STILL!) I worry any possibility of transformative happiness to death.
I look at pictures of my friends who've recently married or had babies and swat away the thought of me someday being able to post pictures like these on my facebook profile. I knit the booties and make the first-days-at-home stew and I fight desiring a marriage of equals, and precious, soft-skinned infants. I smile and congratulate without entertaining too long my longing for such an elusive thing as my own family. I celebrate my freedom and feel genuine gratitude that I still get to go to late night concerts or get drunk once in a while or make last minute vacation plans. I have stopped standing in front of the mirror, pushing out my stomach and imagining how cute I'd look pregnant, or what it might feel like to have a baby nestling inside the home of my body. Because I haven't figured out how to walk the line of holding a robust vision for my life rather than of choking a vision to death with actionless longing.
I have all these tools. I know that singing makes me feel unconfused, alive, and tapped in. I know that I can call at least five different people who will pray with me, and at least five others who will listen to me and love me through and through. I know how to pray all by myself and make it feel good, too. I know that my life doesn't happen to me, but it does run it's course through my veins and I know that I can fight it or ride the wave with skill and enjoyment. I know that I am not me with spirituality layered on top, thrown on like a silly New Age costume for shits and giggles. I am a spiritual being having human experiences, and at the moment, these human experiences are having an out-of-control party in the temple of my spirit. But I'm willing to believe that this isn't the way it will remain. I know the key to all this is to be loving. To love it all -- the bad, the ugly, the wondrous, the mysterious, myself.
And, that's about it. I need some other folks to hold the rest of the vision for me until I can catch up.
I will catch up; I will be transformed by happiness, by love. I am leading a good life.
Rest in peace, young Ben. Your example of a life well-lived is deeply moving. Thank you for being born and using your time here so wisely and with so much love.
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