True Stories and Essays

Calvin Graychase: One Year Later

2008-06-06T17:28:00.011-04:00

One year ago today, I lost my sweet Calvin, my Little Bug, my guy. It still hurts too much to spend time dwelling on it today, but I do want to share a couple of things.

First, I want to say publicly that without my friend Dan, I wouldn't have made it through all the assorted and sundry traumas of last spring and summer, most especially Calvin's death.

Second, while I ache every day for Calvin and I still miss him so profoundly, it hurts less now than it did a year ago. Time heals, if you let it.

I have learned that grief is best when not contained. As horrible as it is, holding it back is like forcing poison to stay in your gut when really, the best thing to do is to get through the awful vomiting part so you can begin to recover. Grief isn't meant to stay still or to stay inside. When the floods of grief came, I let them take me. I sobbed until I drooled and coughed and collapsed on the floor. My body was literally wracked with grief, contorted and thrashing. I cramped, I caved, I cried.

But, by doing this, the torrent of grief passed through. I did not fight it.

Each time it comes--now in smaller waves, rather than full out floods--I let it wash through. I feel it, open to its flow, and then it passes. I don't fight it, dam it, try to surf on top of it, or pretend it isn't there. I open my arms and close my eyes and let it splash me in the face and take me wherever it will go. It is awful and it is necessary. It makes things better in the end.

The big flood came just after he died, and it did its work. Just as flood plains are the most fertile soil for growing, so became my heart after the worst of grief had passed.

Since Calvin left, I have found love, both in my work life and in my romantic life--and also in my internal life. I can see now that I was loved in a constant, unbreakable fashion since the moment I became me--in other words, always. I saw one day in yoga that there is a thin, immutable thread connecting me from the moment I was created to this moment today, and that it will continue on, as long as I am being. This is true for all of us. And it does not come from our parents or our friends or other humans--or even cats. It is a fact of our existence that we are infinitely loved, that we are all entitled to this love and given it freely, constantly, no matter what. It is permanent, irrevocable, and unconditional. It is Love, the love that is Ever, the love that is Life, the Love that connects all living things.

I have this comfort now, always. It was something that my mother tried to tell me once, but I wasn't ready yet to understand. But, since losing Calvin, I have found this: I used to suffer greatly because I believed I wasn't loved and couldn't ever be lovable. There was so much evidence to support this fact--it was overwhelming. But now I know that no matter what the other humans do, no matter who can see me and who can't, no matter who comes and who goes, no matter who hurts me or abandons me or leaves me alone, I am still loved and worth loving.

And, just as the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, my love begets love. Since learning that I am infinitely loved and lovable, I have found work that sustains me. Work that I look forward to doing every day. Work that enables me to reap the rewards that come with prosperity--peace of mind, enjoyment, safety, the ability to give to the causes and people I care for, power and agency, and more.

I have found a partner, a loving companion (who, by the way does not like being called a "partner,") who does so many of the things I always wished someone would do. He gives me a place to return to, a chest to rest my weary head upon. We laugh. We do crosswords. We love.

We have spent nearly 24 hours a day together for six months and only grown happier and more interested and content. We struggle and we learn and we grow and we keep getting better. I bring to this relationship a more honest me, a more compassionate me, because when we know we are loved we can be more generous, both with ourselves and with others. And he loves me for my authenticity. He comes with me as I flow and grow and I love him for this.

It is, for me, a dream come true. I have good company, affection, and laughter. When I have a migraine, he sees it on my face before I think to tell him, and he brings me an ice pack and a glass of water and some Tylenol. He says, "What do you need?" and he means it. When I am hungry and sick, he cooks. I like taking care of him, too. We are partners, whether he likes the word or not. :-)

As for the more literal garden in my life, Calvin's memorial garden is flourishing. The tulips I planted for him in the fall came up this spring--the first ones to bloom in the whole Valley, I think, and they were gorgeous and long-lasting and tall. And today, just as the anniversary of his passing arrives, the first roses are blooming on the bush I planted for him, a gift from my friend Becky.

There are dozens of violets with heart-shaped leaves and very special lilies, which I splurged on in his memory. They all survived the winter and they will bloom later this summer and fill the air with the sweetest scent I know. His lilac tree is in its infancy, but growing up nice and strong. The lupine--my favorite wild flower--are thriving. I planted them from seed just after Calvin died and they have sprung up tiny, but everywhere. The one I planted from a starter has grown tremendously and flowered out in ten giant stems. The peonies, the mums, the lillies of the valley, the daisies, the day lilies--all of it, everything made it. Everything is living and growing. I am fighting back the invasive weeds and relishing every single green and lovely day with these flowers planted in his name.

I even stuck some lettuce in his garden this spring. If it does well, I'll have a little Calvin Memorial Salad later on this summer. It seems the soil here is just as fertile as the metaphorical plains I found inside myself after the floods had come on through.

Eventually, we will have to leave here--this place does not make us happy and I cannot manage a life here for much longer. I'm struggling with the idea of leaving Calvin's garden behind. But, for now, at least, I am committed to making it as beautiful and perpetual as possible, just like my love for little Cal.

On the day that I had to take him in and let him go, I prayed for the strength to fulfill the promise I made to him, to end the seizures and the suffering that day and let him pass out of his sick body and go on. It felt an impossible task as he lay curled up and resting, purring. I needed to be more brave and more strong than I ever thought possible.

When I prayed, I got an instant response. It was the word, "Beauty." It hovered in the air above me all the while that I was gathering up my courage. It enabled me to change my clothes and gather up my beautiful Calvin in my arms. I focused on that word, that feeling during the ride to the vet...and it was what I saw and felt while I held him as they stopped his heart. It was Beauty that enabled me to carry his body home, which felt so different without him in it, and lay him to rest.

His garden is about preserving and honoring and continuing to see and feel Beauty. Last year I was too injured to maintain it, but this year, despite my continually aching knee, I can bend and walk and stand enough to be there a little bit every day. And that's kind of what life is about, I suppose. We are all hobbled and limited by various injuries to our bodies and our souls, we have all suffered losses so great they threatened to shut us down, but if we can find a way to tend to our gardens, to find a few moments to really care for and nourish or at least take a moment to recognize Beauty in our days, then perhaps we are doing okay.

Because I have to leave Calvin and his garden behind eventually, I love it as much as I can while I have it. I love it consistently, ferociously, fully; I love it even when I can't lay hands on it; I love it even though it's work; I love it even though it is flawed. I spend as much time as I can looking at it, so that when it is gone, I will always remember how it looked and felt and smelled, how it grew and changed and became more and more beautiful each day. In other words, I love it just like I loved Calvin.

I am making a memorial donation in Calvin's name to the Helping Paws fund at Northampton Veterinary Clinic. If you would like to join me--or offer something in the name of a companion animal that you have loved--you can send them a check made out to the clinic. Write Helping Paws fund in the memo field, and Calvin's (or another animal's) name.

With love and roses,

Naomi

Count the Votes in Michigan and Florida

2008-05-16T13:21:00.003-04:00

I wrote this letter today to the DNC. On May 31st, they will meet to decide about Michigan and Florida. If you want those votes to be counted and those delegates to be seated, please take the time to contact the DNC today. Feel free to use any or all of the text below from my correspondence.

One way to contact them is through this form at Hillary Clinton's Web site. You do not have to be a Hillary supporter to use this form to tell the DNC what you think.

Yours in support of democracy,

Naomi

>>Dear Mr. Dean:

While I understand that the DNC intended to take a hard line with Florida and Michigan when it set the punishment for moving up their primaries/caucuses, and that the democratic leadership in those states undertook the decision to move elections knowing full well what the punishment was, it is clear that some action must now be taken to include the voters in those states.

It was too harsh a punishment, devised naively and unfairly, in my opinion, and a remedy must be sought--something fair and reasonable.

What is paramount is this: the voters in Michigan and Florida must be heard. It was not their decision to move the primaries, but rather that of their party leaders. We must not penalize the citizens for the mistakes of their party.

Further, because the race for the Democratic nominee is so close, so hard-fought, it is vital that every state be counted. The entire country should be allowed to choose its nominee.

I know that both candidates consented to run knowing that Florida and Michigan would not be counted, but what choice did they have?

And, of course, we cannot ignore the vital importance of considering two states, which can swing the final outcome in the general election in November. Democratic Floridians, in particular, have been injured profoundly by elections-based mistakes and misdeeds in the past. It is vitally important that we make right by them this time around.

Please, count the votes and seat the delegates from Florida and Michigan at the convention.

Sincerely yours,

Naomi Graychase
Easthampton, MA>>

Postcards from the Edge (of Easthampton)

2008-04-25T09:17:00.007-04:00

When I left my old apartment in Northampton, it was largely because of the noise that came from living below another tenant. I could even hear when he peed.

Being a light sleeper, working from home, and being prone to migraines, etc. a quiet environment is an essential quality-of-life ingredient for me, and was "top-of-mind" when I searched for a new place. Sadly, the first place I took was such a noise-riddled disaster that I spent most days in tears, clutching my head and rocking. Ultimately, after five long months, my landlords who lived above me, let me out of my lease and hired someone to soundproof the ceiling so that the next tenant wouldn't have to listen to every footstep, every word of every conversation, every microwave beep, and every radio show or guitar lesson that happened above her.

I was so relieved when I left that place and found this strange, but large, apartment in what seemed like a dead quiet neighborhood on the edge of Easthampton. For starters, there would be no one above me, which had been the largest issue at the last two places. And my landlords lived next door in our side-by-side duplex instead of right above me. I was a little nervous about being side-by-side. I thought perhaps I'd wind up succumbing to all of the same sorts of noise that had traveled down at the other places--doesn't noise also travel sideways? But I had such a good feeling about the place, I took it on faith and negotiated a month-to-month lease so that if the noise was awful, I could break free and look all over again. (Ugh.)

I've been here a year now, and I'm happy to report that my landlords are quiet neighbors. Every now and again I hear the husband practicing his drums, a sound that dominates every inch of the house when it happens, but which thankfully rarely happens, or a dog running up and down the stairs, or guests talking too loudly in the kitchen, or the vaccuum cleaner running. Once I heard the eery sounds of what sounded like a recorder floating down from the attic. But, these are the normal sounds of life, they come and go, and on the whole, it's been lovely to have that side of the house be a quiet sanctuary.

Unfortunately, the other three sides are subjected to an almost non-stop onslaught of noise.

Which brings me to this blog. Because the noise is so constant, so unbelievable, I decided it might help me to cope if I cataloged some of it here.

I can't possibly sum up the entire last year of noises in one blog post, but just to give you a sampling, I'll tell you that I woke up on my first Saturday morning here at 9am to the sounds of a chainsaw that ran for the next six hours straight. There were several more days like it as the neighbor to my right worked to cut down and then dismember a very large and healthy tree in his front yard. He then rented some heavy equipment to dig up and then pave over his front yard. My neighbors behind me and next door also enjoy playing music. It ranges from afro-pop to "gangsta" rap to hip hop to--I swear to God--adult contemporary. (Who blasts this?) I have also endured four straight hours of rototilling, many hours of yappy dog barking, snow throwers, especially in the pre-dawn hours, a wide assortment of power tools, the excavation and construction of a house that burned down and was rebuilt one street over, and an ongoing basketball tournament virtually in my backyard. The irregular thwap of a basketball has now landed itself on my list of Most Reviled Noises of All Time.

My neighbors to the right also have children and a large extended family. In summer, there is not a day that passes when a child is not slamming a soccer ball against the house and/or screaming. The neighbors just past them also have a remote control car that they whiz up and down the street. This noise could best be described as a high-pitched Weed Whacker that increases and decreases the intensity of its whine as it approaches and then passes my apartment. Over. And over. And over. It sounds very much like a dentist's drill and is one of the most unbearable sounds ever created. (I have extended fantasies about running down this remote controlled vehicle and crushing it under the wheels of my car--and then backing up over it just to make sure it's entirely crushed. My next door neighbors on the far left have the very same fantasy. Perhaps one day our dream will come true...)

The children next door will, occasionally, stop slamming their ball against the house and go inside, open all the windows, and blast cartoons louder than one would think possible.

The saddest part of all of this for me is that I live for spring and summer. During all the long, cold, dark months of being shut up here in New England, the thing that keeps me going is the anticipation of the moment when I can throw open my windows and bask in the warm breezes that kiss my skin and satisfy my nostrils. I love the feeling of warm, fresh air through windows. I love hearing the birds and feeling the sunshine. I love looking out over my tulips.

But here, I have to choose: fresh air or quiet. I've invested almost $200 in white noise machines and ear plugs. I've tried running fans and air conditioners, but these burn through electricity and with the A/C on, I can't also open the window.

This morning, for instance, I sat down at my desk for work at 8:45 a.m. and already the next door neighbors were making noise. It really is comical the diverse potpourri of noises they create. This morning, for instance, it was an industrial-sounding vacuum. It's a gorgeous spring day. Sunny and fresh. But even through the windows, the whizzing whine of the vacuum made it seem as though I'd pulled up to a car wash rather than sat down in my sunny little office. When I opened the windows, the noise was just too much to take. So, as I usually do, I chose the quiet over the fresh air and closed the windows. The vacuuming went on for what seemed like forever.

We also seem to be in the flight path of what I think is an air force base in Westover or Westfield? After the vacuuming stopped, I opened my window and a massive aircraft, the kind that looks like it could open its cargo hold and swallow half a dozen tractor trailers whole, rumbled by overhead. When these planes fly over, the noise is so powerful it fills up your whole chest as they slowly pass over. I always feel a little bit afraid when I hear them, as though I weren't on the edge of Easthampton, but instead, on the edge of Gaza or Tikrit where such noises often herald doom.

After the vacuum and the airplane noises were done, the children came out to play. They are on April vacation. And so the bouncing and slamming began. And the shouting. The littlest one has a shriek that could shatter glass. Oh, yes. And the Big Wheel. I am deeply nostalgic for my own Big Wheel, but this one, last summer, was the bane of my existence.

After the vacuum ended, I opened my windows again. But what quickly came through them, carried in on the sweet spring breeze, was an argument between children, close in age, fighting over toys and territory. The little one will win because she is cuter and holds greater sway with the adults, which her older brother knows all too well. And because she can scream louder and for longer. And because she is a little girl and therefore is, to a certain extent, untouchable.

"No, I get it! Don't go here! Stay here!" she screams. Her voice getting higher and sharper.

Frustrated beyond words, "Waahahahhhhhhrrghh!" is his response.

An adult intervenes in some melodic West African language, and now the Big Wheel rumbles forth. I don't think it's possible to describe exactly how loud, how miserable a noise that Big Wheel makes. The wheels squeak and I resume another of my fantasies: dousing the thing in WD-40 while the children sleep. But the worst is the rumble. The plastic wheels grind into the pavement in such a way as to create a noise so profound it cannot be stopped by walls or windows or ear plugs or white noise machines. It is relentless. And the children never tire of it.

So, this is how my days go. Bella and Buddy will scream, screech, wail. Bang things, throw things, and ride that cursed Big Wheel back and forth all day. The tractor trailers will rumble by every few minutes. The helicopters and warcrafts will pass over head just often enough to be noticeable. Adults will talk loudly in a lovely language I can't understand. And, at some point, someone, somewhere, will blast their music, most likely with a sub woofer-enhanced bass line so strong it feels as though it is trying to impede the beating of my heart inside my chest. There will also be the extended grinding buzz of motorcycles speeding by on the main road at the end of my street and, inevitably, some sort of machinery or power tool buzzing and whizzing nearby. A few times a week, the pair of little dogs two houses down will add their yappy voices to the mix.

You may ask why I have stayed...I started looking for a new place to live almost immediately after moving in, but then my truck died. And Calvin died. And then my knee got ripped to shreds. And then, eight months later, just as I could walk again and imagine carrying boxes up and down stairs, I had an accident in yoga class and got a pretty bad case of whiplash. (I know, it's funny, right?) That was three weeks ago. In three more weeks, I'll be medically cleared for something like a move. So, we'll see how things go then.

Silver lining
If there can be a bright side to all of this, it's that I've somehow come to a place of greater peace and acceptance with my powerlessness against the noise. Sometimes I even laugh when a new, obscure noise invades what little silence I may have achieved. The sheer volume--both in level of noise and variety--is something one really has to have at least a grudging appreciation for.

Just the other day someone on the street behind ours was running some sort of machinery and Peter and I both looked at each other with quizzical expressions and said, What is that?

And then, in the way that some connoisseurs might try to determine which particular type of pear or mushroom has been baked into a dish, we cocked our heads and ran the sound across the palates of our ears, scanning our internal database for similar sounds.

I thought it was someone trying to saw through a sapling with an electric carving knife. Peter thought it might be some kind of saw. Whatever it is, it's being overworked, I said.

Every weekend, sometimes on both Saturday and on Sunday, the Ghanaian family next door has a bash, a multi-generational gathering, which lasts all day and involves a lot of talking both in English and in a melodic African language I cannot understand. There is laughter, shouting, and music--and this year, burning meat with lots of lighter fluid. (Something smells wrong about that barbeque, said Peter as we fled the house in search of quiet places last weekend.)

Perhaps it is that I am getting older. Perhaps it is my yoga. Perhaps it is because I have Peter, or because I am no longer injured, broke, and stuck in one place. Whatever has caused it, now, when the noises come, I do not get angry. I examine my choices and I pick one. Instead of hating that I have to close the windows to block out the noise enough to sleep/work/watch a movie/think, I take a very deep, cleansing breath, let it out, and make my choice.

This weekend, for instance, the weather was incredibly beautiful for the first time (on a weekend) since the fall. The noise started as soon as we got up. But, instead of closing the doors and windows and gritting my teeth, putting on the fans or putting in the ear plugs, or calling the police, Peter and I just left. We packed a picnic and went to the lake. We saw a movie. We went out to dinner. And by the time we got home, things had quieted down almost to the point that we could hear our own television when we turned it on to watch a DVD of LOST.

Having Peter here means that I am not alone with the noise, except when I'm working, and this helps. Having a stable job means I can afford to escape by doing things like seeing movies or eating out. Being able-bodied means I can walk or drive away; for the first eight months, this wasn't true. And my yoga practice has helped me to achieve a greater sense of perspective, a more fluid sense of myself within the great flow of the universe. Somehow, it allows me to laugh the way the Dalai Lama laughs. I can't stop the noise, but I have some freedom and some agency and these things help to relieve my resentment. I have perspective, and this helps me to laugh, even in the face of chainsaws.

While I still long for a place of my own that is quiet and lovely, I have come to a place inside myself where the noise I experience here doesn't make me feel desperate and crazy. Right now, for instance, the yappy dogs are barking again and a woman is yelling very angrily at them, to no avail. (Quite honestly listening to her is almost worse than listening to the sharp yelps of the dogs, which has been going on for about an hour.) She has been joined by a child, who is also now yelling at the dogs. Who are still barking. And, all of this happens above the constant soundtrack of a conversation between men, in the African language, which has been going on outside my window for some time now. And, for percussion, a tractor trailer grumbles loudly, followed by another, and another. The engines rev as they accelerate, or the brakes squeak and the engines grind as they down shift and prepare to dock.

But, I am okay. I wish very much that it was quiet here, but, it isn't and this is where I am. I take a deep, cleansing breath, fill my lungs with nourishing fresh air, exhale...and then close the windows. I can still hear the dogs, but, as my friend Dan says, "Noise happens."

And, continuing to look on the bright side: at least I don't have to listen to anyone pee.

Think...and Vote

2008-02-04T22:45:00.000-05:00

My dearest friends,

Tomorrow is Super Tuesday, aka, "Super Duper Tuesday," "Giga Tuesday," and "The Tuesday of Destiny."

If you are in one of the 22 states holding primaries and/or caucuses tomorrow, I'm hoping you'll go vote.

If you are in Massachusetts or California, you can vote (I believe) in the primary even if you are registered as an Independent.

If you haven't registered yet, what a great time to do it!

I think you can get a voter registration form at your local post office, or you can visit an online site, such as Rock the Vote to register online or learn how to register in your state. If you get registered, you'll be able to vote in the election this fall--and that's very important.

In general, I don't like to urge people to vote one way or another. I am pro-choice, and this includes politics. I think you should make your own informed choice and act on it--and that it's a private choice that is basically none of my business.

This year, however, I am breaking my mind-your-own-business rule, and I'm sending out this e-mail asking you to give Hillary Clinton your vote tomorrow.

I will keep my plea simple. If you are not currently planning to vote for her, I will only ask you to take a few deep breaths and then give *real* thought to the reasons you have felt resistant to voting for her. Among the reasons I have heard from my (independent or democratic, progressive, intelligent) friends of late:

--"I'm too much of a feminist to vote for her just because she's a woman."
--"I don't like the way she handled her husband's infidelity."
--"She can't win."
--"I won't be able to stand watching FOX news go after her for four
years, if she wins the Presidency."
--"The conservatives hate her too much. I'm sick of divisive politics."
---"It's too much, this Bush-Bush-Clinton-Clinton, thing. It's like Pakistan. It's not healthy."
--"She's not personable."
--"I don't like her."

If any of these are your reasons, I implore you to consider the following:

--We live in a society, which has seen 43 consecutive male Presidents; where the Senate is not even 10% female; where, in essence, our world is governed by men for men. We are not done--not even nearly done--with the fight for equal rights. We barely have one generation
of women who were born after Roe v. Wade and Title IX, and each of those things are in dire jeopardy even as I write this. Our work is not done. It still matters a great deal that women get a seat at the table, that little girls--and especially little boys!--learn that women can be powerful, women can be leaders, women can be EQUAL. Try this, if you don't believe me: find a little girl--or an adolescent--and ask her to name five famous women. If she names anyone
who isn't either fictional or in the entertainment industry, then go ahead and vote for a male candidate.

--How much do you know about the other candidate's marriages? Is the way a candidate chooses to handle his or her spouse's infidelity really and truly the standard of measure you want to use when electing a PRESIDENT? Hillary Clinton is not running for President of the PTA or your senior class. This is much bigger than her marriage. How she handled that painful, embarrassing situation is her own business--and, honestly, if what she's done is honor her vow, even when it felt impossible, isn't that a good quality in a President? If what she's done is found forgiveness instead of hostility, isn't that the kind of leader we want?

--Almost everyone said the NY Giants couldn't win yesterday, and look how that turned out. We thought Bush couldn't win, and he did. Twice. Don't rule Hillary out because you believe she's not electable. Focus on your own ideas about what's important and vote based on that. You
simply cannot know what the American electorate will do in November, so don't give up on anyone based on a fear that they can't win. Give her a chance. She may surprise you.

--If the idea of FOX news coverage of her Presidency bothers you so much, how about you just stop watching FOX news? :-)

--We are a divisive nation. It's time to stick up for what you believe in. Besides, if the people who believe in everything you stand against hate your candidate, then that candidate is doing something right. The small-minded hate-mongers won't love any democrat or progressive,
ever. They hate Obama, too, it's just less politically correct to come out and say so. In short, you can't not vote for the right person just because you fear the ire of the bad guys. They hated Bill Clinton, too, but his Presidency is widely regarded as a whopping success.
Don't let hate win by being afraid of it.

--As for the Bush-Bush-Clinton-Clinton thing...the bad guys stole at least one election--and a lot of people have suffered and died as a result. Voting against Hillary Clinton because sixteen years ago her husband won an election and then another, and then somebody stole one?
It's just bad logic--and unfair, if you ask me. (Which, you didn't, I do realize.) :-) The system is flawed, but the way to fix it is not to reject Hillary Clinton.

--As for the last two complaints, if you've met her and still believe she's not personable, or you still don't like her, then go ahead, vote for someone else. But, if you are basing this on FOX news, or most any other media, just give her the benefit of the doubt and take a moment
to investigate further. Watch this video, for instance. Or listen to her daughter. Or, at the very least, consider the actual value of having a personable President. The idiot running the show right now is known for his folksy, personable nature and he's the worst thing since taxation
without representation. Maybe we'd be better off with someone who comes off as a little more...Presidential.

The last thing I'll say is this: my e-mail is not an anti-Obama message. I gave money to the Obama campaign. He's a great candidate and the implications of having the first African-American President are monumental. I do not wish to get into a debate about which is more important--a woman or a person of color.

This e-mail is an attempt to counteract some of the small-minded foolishness that has seeped like a conservative fog into the minds of even some of the brightest and most progressive among us. If you have said or thought any of the above, I am trying to wake you up, splash
some cold water on your face, and invite you out into the fresh air and sunshine, so that you can make your choice with a clear head. If, after you give it some honest thought, you really and truly believe that someone else deserves your vote, then by all means, vote for another candidate.

In short, I want you to THINK. And I want you to VOTE.

Thank you so much for tolerating my e-mail invasion of perspective. It makes me really uncomfortable to pontificate, but it just feels so important to speak up...

This concludes our broadcast. :-)

Feel free to forward.

With love, both for you and democracy,

Naomi

Shopping for a Candidate

2007-11-28T18:29:00.000-05:00

I should begin by saying that in the last election, I voted for Dennis Kucinich. Not only did I vote for him, I relinquished my status as an Independent and registered as a Democrat for the first time in my life so that I could vote for him in the primary. I discovered later that in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts one can vote in a party’s primary even if one is not registered in that party, so the gesture wasn’t necessary, but the point is, I was committed enough to do it.

This time around, despite my fondness for Congressman Kucinich, which was intensified after meeting him last time, but then somewhat dampened by his decision to marry someone other than me, I was feeling like maybe I ought to get in with the cool kids. I mean, this time around, it’s not a choice between dull and duller, or lame and lamer, there are actually some exciting candidates in the running.

After much internal struggle—do you support the guy whose faith and politics you really love, but who has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting elected, the woman, or the black guy?--I decided to go for the woman.

So, I went online to buy some Hillary gear.

I haven’t paid awfully close attention to the Presidential campaigns yet, although I’m horrified that Mitt Romney is running (having endured him as governor here) and I did watch one of the debates, the one co-branded with YouTube and hosted by Anderson Cooper. (He sure has come a long way since hosting The Mole, hasn’t he?)

I thought that Obama gave the best, most Presidential performance, with Hillary a close second. Sadly, my favorite candidate was the butt of a (really funny) joke that he didn’t quite get. But, that’s okay. We still love you, Dennis.

I started my Presidential schwag shopping with Hillary because, after some unsettling conversations with some of my favorite female (and feminist, I think) friends, I realized that, despite her fantastic fundraising abilities and her performance in the polls, there seems to be a real lack of support among the people I think should be automatically supporting her: white, progressive, liberal and/or Democrat women. I mean, she’s a woman. Don’t you understand what this means? How important it is for your daughters? For us? For the world? 43 consecutive white, male Presidents and you want to quibble over her haircut or her ability to alienate the right wing? Come ON.

So, I decided it was time to put my money—and possibly my fashion—where my mouth is and gear up. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything I really wanted to buy at Hillary’s site, with the possible exception of an “Asian American [sic] & Pacific Islanders for Hillary” button, which I thought would be funny on me.

Other groups singled out were African Americans [sic], Jews, gays, nurses, veterans, women, children, and educators. The only one I fit into is "women," but, honestly, while I am supporting Hillary primarily because she is a woman, I don’t think I want to wear a Women for Hillary button. I was looking for something really stylish or really clever. Something that made a great statement. I still display on the wall of my office the "Vote for Hillary's Husband," buttons I got when I volunteered for the Clinton/Gore campaign in '92. I guess I was hoping there might be a "Vote for Bill's Wife," button to complete the set, or something...but there wasn't anything like that.

I was on the brink of buying her somewhat stylish and kind of clever slim-fitting signature tee shirt (for $20.08 plus shipping and handling), but then my best friend reminded me that I never wear tee shirts. Oh, Hillary. Why don’t you sell tank tops? Why?

I wasn’t getting quite what I wanted from this candidate, who, on the face of it seems to be my ideal match. So, I decided to just, you know, take a peek at Barak Obama’s site. Now, this guy, he knows how to give the people what they want. If you want to back Obama, you can do it with a cozy fleece blanket, a wide selection of gorgeous buttons, or—yes, that’s right—ladies tank tops. Unfortunately, most of the attractive, affordable, made-in-the-USA tank tops sport the “Women for Obama” slogan, which I find alienating. However, Barak did not stop there. There are a plethora of shirts and tanks for women, including several color schemes with cap sleeves and cute little hot pink baby doll number with Obama’s face between the boobs—for only ten bucks! I was nearly sold…but then I thought…perhaps I should just look at Kucinich’s merchandise, just to see what’s out there. I mean, before I write him off completely, why don't I see what he can do for me?

And that’s when he got me. As soon as I landed at his web site, my heart (and my wallet) was won.

My favorite candidate; the guy who tells the truth and soldiers on and genuinely cares about America; the guy with the hot wife and the UFO sighting: he was offering a signed, pocket-sized Constitution, just like the one he carries around. He carries around a Constitution! How could you NOT love this guy.

So, Hillary can keep her “Let’s Make History” shirts and Obama can keep his sexy tank. I gave my $50 to the Kucinich campaign, in exchange for my very own signed pocket-sized copy of the Constitution. I put my money where my heart is.

Tonight, I watched a YouTube video of Dennis speaking before an ani difranco concert, and with tears in my eyes, I went back to the site. His campaign is trying to raise $1 million by tomorrow. They have, to date, $277,000 toward this goal. Money given before the end of tomorrow (November 29) is eligible for matching funds. So, tonight, I gave another $40, in exchange for a collection of buttons, stickers, and signs. I’m going to give some to my mother, who introduced me to the candidate in the first place, and use the rest to spread the word.

You may think that Dennis Kucinich is unelectable, but this is only true if you don’t vote for him. One of the great things about America is that if enough people believe, anyone is electable. And the more money he has, the longer he can stay in the race, and the longer he stays in the race, the more he can influence the debate. This is a different sort of victory than winning the White House, but a victory nonetheless.

I’m hoping you’ll give to the Kucinich campaign, and that you’ll give him your vote in your state’s primary or caucus. And if his message of peace and prosperity doesn’t sway you, if honesty, courage, and compassion aren’t enough to get you to open your wallet or your mouth, then you might at least swing by the Kucinich campaign store. They have a coffee mug that’s very tempting, and a kerchief for your dog that’s practically irresistible.

Naomi Graychase first registered to vote in 1990. The first election in which she was old enough to vote was 1992. At that time, she was living in Washington, DC doing an internship at the Smithsonian. She spent her free time touring the museums and monuments of her nation's capitol, and volunteering for the Clinton/Gore campaign. She shook Governor Clinton's hand once, as he was arriving at the Washington Hilton (which she recognized as the site of the Reagan assassination attempt, an event which she watched on TV at the age of nine while sitting in a bar with her father. )

Naomi took the results of the last two elections very hard, but she has tried to do her part to combat the darkness at work in American society and politics by forming Sister Spit Northampton, registering voters, and encouraging others through her writing, performances, and speaking engagements to do what is necessary in times of darkness: make more light.

After voting in four Presidential elections, she's batting .500, which would be good if she were a slugger, but which feels pretty crummy, given how many people have died as a result of President Bush remaining in office.

Despite having nearly lost her faith in the Supreme Court, the democratic process, and the American electorate, she is still moved to tears every time she enters a polling place. She loves to vote. I mean, she LOVES to vote.

If you have abandoned your town's voting booth, if you've given up on the democratic process or the American electorate, she hopes that you will see that this is what the bad guys are counting on. She hopes that you will re-emerge, stronger, determined, more optimistic, and that you will re-discover the beautiful privilege of voting for yourself. People died so that you could do this. Don't let them down.

Staying In: Thanksgiving (or Alohomora?)

2007-11-23T11:25:00.000-05:00

I hate Thanksgiving. Don’t make me explain why.

Other people are with people today. I am alone. It shouldn’t bother me, not any more than any other Thursday, especially since I’ve had so much practice, but it does.

My big plan was to watch every episode of Californication in my Showtime On Demand, but the On Demand isn’t working. I called my cable company to get it fixed, but it didn't work.

I said, “I’m sorry you have to work on Thanksgiving,” to the tech support woman.

In the silence that followed, I could hear the keys of her keyboard clicking through the phone.

I could have gone somewhere. I got invited to my neighbor Kelly’s family’s Thanksgiving in Connecticut. But…you know how it is. I can’t…go out. I can’t go in a car to a strange place and be with people I don’t know. Not on Thanksgiving. It’s too much. I might unravel. I might start to cry, to sob. I just can’t go.

It makes me sad that I can’t go.

My biggest fear right now is that something will happen to Peter before he gets here. I’m afraid that after all this work and time, when I finally have a good life within reach, someone who loves me and wants to stay with me; just when I could have things like Thanksgiving—or any other Thursday—with someone who knows my name (and loves me), I’m convinced on some level that he will be killed before he can get here. In a car crash. I’ll get a phone call and…it’ll be terrible. And I’ll barely, just barely live through it. More pain. More alone. More agony. How much more life can I live like this, day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute? How much more can be asked of me? (This is a dangerous question to ask.)

I told this fear to Peter last night. He is sure that he is not going to die in a car crash before he gets here.

It snowed in Colorado yesterday. Peter thought he had his JEEP in four-wheel-drive, but he didn’t. He hit a slippery patch and slid into oncoming traffic. He didn’t die, though. He righted himself and got out of the way before disaster struck.

I need to right myself and get out of the way before disaster strikes.

I am struggling with a terrible depression. It came, and it will not release me. In my journal on Tuesday I wrote:

I’m so sad.
It’s…pervasive.
Like I am permeable
and this thing, it’s like
humidity
it comes and occupies
my space, my body, my head

In my grief on Monday, I lay down in my bed, and I cracked open. I cried. When it comes like that, I strain against it. It’s like cramping, seizing, only it’s my spiritual heart, my emotional heart, not my muscles. Although, they ache, too.

And then, from inside the darkness, a flash of light, and I remembered that I can ask for help. I sat up. And said, fiercely, aloud, “Help me.” It was an order, not a request. Not begging. It was a command. “Help me.”

I thought of Dumbledore saying that there will always be help at Hogwarts for those who ask. I thought of Pru and the work we’ve done. And I thought about God. And I said, “Help me. Help me, God, and the universe. Help me love and light. Help me every part of myself that knows how to help me: help me. Now.”

And before I knew it, I was rising. And the pain had passed for a bit. And I finished my work day.

I am worried that my worrying will destroy my thing with Peter. It’s magical thinking, I know, but I’m worried that my conviction that he will die rather than reach me will bring it about, influence him, change the course of events. I am reminded of my healer friend Craig. He says I get in my own way.

I need to get out of my own way.

I told Peter about my concerns last night, and about my depression. It was a confession of sorts. He had some idea already of course, but I wanted to make sure he wasn’t being tricked into coming here, tricked into thinking I’m always alright, when I’m not.

“It gets pretty bad sometimes,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “What you have to remember is that now, there are two of us.”

Don’t you just love him? For someone whose greatest agony is that she is always alone, could there be any better balm than hearing these words, now, there are two of us.

He likes that I’m interesting. He says that my sadness and depression are part of what makes me special. He doesn’t want me to be depressed; he admits that it’s a nuisance. But it’s not a deal breaker. Not even close. He says my intense ability to give, to feel, to open, to share—these things mean I also feel sadness profoundly. He understands and appreciates this. He said it’s like being in a village where everyone eats the same amount of food, and you can eat ten times that amount, but no one else understands. Then you meet someone with the same appetite.

He also says he will never stop trying to cheer me up. And that I’m a trooper who is strong. I love that he sees this.

As for my worry about his premature death meaning the end of our relationship before it has really even begun, he has faith that he will live a long and healthy life. When he decided to quit smoking, it was, he said, because if it means the difference between getting to be with me until he’s 82 instead of 80, it’s worth it.

I told Peter I feel like I’ve been asked to run a thousand thousand marathons in this lifetime, and even though I’m so close to the final finish line, my legs and lungs are giving out. Sometimes after a journey that long, you just can’t take one more step, even if you’re within sight of the finish line. You can’t believe you got so close, but no matter how much willpower you have, if your legs have turned to jelly you simply cannot make them move.

Peter says he is coming. He says he is trying to get here before anything happens. He says, very kindly, that if I doubt that, then he hasn’t been clear. So, he will continue to tell me, and to act accordingly, until I have more faith in that than I do in my own predilection for doom.

I was very upset last weekend about the prospect of losing Norman, who I found out on Saturday is beginning the final stages of his life. I talked to Peter about it, and he said it was interesting that he and Norman entered my life at the same time (1989). Peter went on his own journey and Norman stayed with me. Now, as Norman is about to pass on, Peter returns. This cheered me up. In my journal, I wrote:

I love that Peter saw through the mess and the dismay to the heart of the problem. Yes, I love Calvin and Norman so much, and the idea of losing them is so profoundly grief-inducing.

But what really, really hurts is the feeling that I will then be totally alone. I’ll have no reason to live.

I’m not able to say this or even know this in a way I can communicate in my conversation with Peter. But I’m feeling it intensely.

And he knows it.

He knows.

He is steady. And there is a softness to his speech. It’s like when you fall asleep on the couch, and you get cold, but you’re too tired to get up, and then someone puts a blanket over you, and you warm up and relax and fall back to sleep. Peter gave me a blanket last night. An uncomplicated gesture that made all the difference. For him, the answer to the problem was as obvious as the answer to the problem of a cold person on a couch. He could see what I needed. And he gave it.

Peter didn’t die in a car crash yesterday. I should be rejoicing in that good news, instead of worrying about what bad thing will happen next. It just seems inevitable that my dreams will collapse…again.

“But, I thought you were ‘entering a time of transition, a new phase, a new chapter, a new era,’” said Peter, quoting me back to me, reminding me what I used to feel was true, before I sank beneath the surface and forgot that I can float, that I can swim, that I even own a boat. I remembered this, fondly, vaguely, from afar.

“Oh, yeah…” I said.

When I told Jon Reed that I thought I should be happy because Peter didn’t die in a car crash and Norman survived the pit bull attack (what a fucking day!), Jon Reed laughed and said, “Well, if we’re going to count the absence of terrible things as ‘good,’ then that’s true. You should be happy. But we’re--”

“—we’re not those kind of people!”

We both said it together. And we laughed. We laughed hard.

I talked to my friend Tom yesterday. He called from the road. He was on the way to a ribbon-cutting ceremony in Nevada. He’s formed a nonprofit group that is giving away millions of dollars in electricity via solar power to schools and hospitals in Nevada. He lives in California. He just had a baby. And he has a job. But he does this, because he can. Because it’s right and powerful and feels good. I love this about him.

I told Tom about Peter.

“I can tell this guy is right for you,” he said, “because I know you would rather suffer than settle.”

And he’s right. I hate suffering. But I hate settling more.

A friend of mine from my hometown, who is also friends with my sister-in-law, Cindy, said in an e-mail this week, “I really hope things work out for you. I know Cindy gets a bit worried about you. Says you put your whole heart into things and afraid you will get hurt. I say go for it!!!”

And I wrote back, “Thank you. I'm with you on that. Cindy doesn't need to worry. Peter is so good to me, and very committed. It's beautiful. She's right that I put my whole heart into things, and yes, I get hurt a lot, but I think it's the only way to get anything truly wonderful. So, hard as it's been, everything I've gone through was worth it to get me to Peter. And, even if we don't work out, we won't have been wrong to have given it everything we had when we tried.”

Peter and I agree on this wholeheartedly. That even if it doesn’t work out, we won’t have been wrong to have tried. We do not believe that at the end of our lives we will only wish we had been more cautious in life or given less to the things we believed in.

I feel I have run a thousand, thousand marathons, when I only signed up to run one. Maybe two. Three at the most. I am jelly-legged and wheezing, cramped and straining, leaking salt from my pores and seeing double. I feel the ground rising up and slamming into my cheekbone. And then I’m confused to be lying on the ground, pondering a vertical horizon.

I am alone on Thanksgiving. But I am not homeless or broke or hungry or even technically single. And I still have Norman. And comfortable shoes. But the absence of terrible things does not equal “good,” (even though I still suspect that it should).

I asked God for help this week. I asked light and love and the universe for help. I asked myself for help. And what came was Peter, on the other end of the phone, not having died in a car wreck. And Norman, fighting off a pitbull like he was a teenager, instead of an aged old man entering his final days.

I asked God to help me and this morning, I woke up after a night filled with dreams I can no longer remember, and one phrase kept repeating--you know the tune--over and over. It’s been there all day:

Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door to your heart
Let my love open the door, ooh
Let my love open the door,
Let my love open the door, ooh
Let my love open the door
to your heart.

I hate Thanksgiving. And, I am alone today. But I do have someplace I could go, if I were able, and wanted to.

Instead, I woke up to a mild day and the sunlight in my room felt gentle. I said good morning to Norman and I washed my face. Let my love open the door, oooh, let my love open the door.

I got dressed in warm comfy clothes. I put my hair in a ponytail. I gave Norman his medication and his treat. Let my love open the door, oooh, let my love open the door.

I made some coffee. I tried to make my On Demand work. I called the cable company for help, but they told me to wait an hour. Let my love open the door. Let my love open the door. Oooh.

I went next door, to take care of my neighbors’ dog. I fed her. Gave her hugs and loving words. I let her out to pee. And then I sat down on the couch. Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door.

I turned on the cable, and their On Demand was working. The dog curled up under the blankets at my feet. The kitten who has never let me hold her came and climbed onto my chest. Let my love open the door, ooh. Let my love open the door.

I turned on the show I had so badly wanted and I watched it, three whole episodes, and I drank my coffee, with the dog snuggled up against my legs and the kitty on my chest. Let my love open the door. Let my love open the door.

After a while, the kitten began to suckle my hand, fiercely. She suckled and suckled, and kneaded my hand with her paws. Her razor sharp kitten claws cut puncture wounds and gashes into the back of my hand, but I didn’t pull away. Let my love open the door, oooh.

There was something so tender, so raw about her need. She survived an abusive beginning and was rescued by my neighbors. She’s several months old now, but snuggled up there with me, she returned to her infancy and suckled and suckled away. Fruitless and desperate and instinctual, her suckling was primal. And I did not turn her away. It was something I could give. I maneuvered my hand to avoid to brunt of her claws, and I held her and let her suckle my hand through two whole episodes. Let my love open the door.

I told Tom that the biggest problem in my life is my desire to have one person I can count on. I want one reliable source of strength and sustenance, of love and stability and affection. But this is not how it goes for me. I have not been able to count on anyone to always be there, to come if I call, to help. But what is also true, the hard, hard lesson for me to grasp, is that life always provides me with what I need, I just never know where from. My life has been visited by a cavalcade of angels, who arrive, unbidden—or so I think—and offer me just what I need, like a hand to suckle on Thanksgiving.

Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door.

On this day, I needed company and affection. I needed to be needed. I needed to not be alone. I woke up with a song in my head and sunlight in my room. Let my love open the door. I woke up thinking I would watch some cable at my house, but instead, I was forced to go next door. Let my love open the door. Where I sat on my neighbors’ couch, with a dog who loves me and a kitten who still needs a mom. Let my love open the door, ooh. Let my love open the door. I gave those animals a place to be taken care of, and they in turn, allowed me to channel the love I couldn’t seem to access for myself. It felt good.

When I came back home, I reached for the door, and as my hand closed around the doorknob, the volume turned up on the song that had been playing over and over in my head since I woke: Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door, Let my love open the door, to your heart!

And I remembered again what my healer friend Craig said, all those months ago, about how I need to get out of my own way.

I feel stuck, blocked, trapped beneath the surface and I can’t figure the way out. (Is it possible that I’m lying on top of myself?)

I came inside and Googled the “Let My Love Open the Door” lyrics:

When tragedy befalls you
(Let my love open the door, ooh)
Don't let it drag you down
Love can cure your problems
(Let my love open the door, ooh)
You're so lucky I'm around
Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door
Let my love open the door to your heart

Wow. Okay...but…how? Ever since I read the lyrics I’ve been trying to figure out…how do I let your love open the door? Maybe I should be meditating? Or singing? Maybe I should learn the words to the song and sing it in public? Is this meant to be grace through karaoke?

While doing dishes tonight, it occurred to me that maybe I just need to offer the right invitation. So, I stopped washing and said, out loud, “Um…I let your love open the door. To my heart.” It sounded really odd.

And I don’t think it worked because now it's Friday and I woke up with the song still playing in my head. Let my love open the door, oooh.

I’m trying…I really am. Let my love open the door, let my love open the door.

It follows me everywhere, this song. I tried listening to it through Rhapsody. And I sang the whole thing through, twice. But, it's still with me. I'm not sure what should I try next. Perhaps... "Alohomora?"

"The Long-awaited Time of Joy," Chapter 1: The Lightbulb in the Basement

2007-10-25T18:52:00.000-04:00

You know, it's a mad mission
But, I got the ambition
Not everybody makes it
to the loving cup
It's a mad mission, but I got the ambition
Mad, mad mission
Sign me up.--Patty Griffin

Aside from the fact that the sun was shining in my perpetually foggy neighborhood, it was a perfectly ordinary day in San Francisco, a Thursday in mid-April. I stepped out of my office, which was situated at the back of an old, yellow Edwardian-style apartment building, and I walked down the outdoor staircase and then into the basement. I carried with me a box of the paper residue of my life, headed for the recycling bin. My body was performing this task--balancing cargo, moving me along--but my mind was elsewhere. It was that serene state of being, when a body is engaged in something rote, like dishes or driving, and the mind can wander off on its own to explore.

As I switched on the basement light and walked down the musty corridor toward the trashcans and recycling bins, I was thinking what a mess my life had become. I’d recently been kicked out of my apartment, but I hadn’t yet found a new place to live. My formerly live-in girlfriend had left me a few months earlier and moved back east. I’d quit my job as an editor at a successful magazine and was attempting to support myself by freelancing full-time; I was getting work, but not enough. And I was coping with some medical issues. Ever since I’d moved to San Francisco, nearly three years before, I’d been battling upper respiratory problems ranging from colds that would last for weeks, to several bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia.

Being sick had morphed my former-college-athlete body into something I barely recognized. Thirty pounds overweight, I was finding it nearly impossible to get back to a healthy size. Walking up stairs left me breathless. I had developed sciatica and carpel tunnel syndrome at my former magazine job, which were so severe that even after six months of physical therapy, acupuncture and ergonomic adjustments to my work station, I couldn’t sit or stand comfortably, and even chopping vegetables was a painful task. To top it all off, I’d just been diagnosed with depression and a panic disorder with associated phobias, including agoraphobia--which explained why I would sometimes circle my apartment for days before being able to step outside to mail a letter. The good news, of course, was that a diagnosis meant I could begin a course of treatment for these things, which had namelessly plagued me for a decade. But at the time, the news didn’t feel so good. I felt like a mental patient, one step away from straightjackets, and Jell-O eaten in confinement off plastic spoons.

My ex-girlfriend and I were having a bubble gum break-up—no matter how far we stretched, we remained stuck together. Even though she was on the other side of the country, we were having trouble letting go. Meanwhile, I had begun a passionate but frightening new relationship with a woman I’d known for just a short time. I wound up straddling the two things like an insane person, thinking I could make land with one foot in a rowboat and one foot on a raft. The sea was growing stormy and it looked as though I would soon lose my grip on both things and go crashing beneath the waves. All my worst fears about being alone, being unloved, and disappointing others, were rearing their vicious heads like a battalion of Hydra. And, like the icing on the squished cake of my life--or really, like the cracked plate underneath it--there was my deep conflict over where I should live. I was so torn between San Francisco and Northampton that I was never completely happy in either place. I spent all of my free time and energy either planning or taking trips back and forth. I couldn’t choose to live without what one place offered, in order to be fully present in the other, so I remained forever in between, always longing for San Francisco when I was in Northampton, and for Northampton when I was in San Francisco. It was an exhausting way to live.

As I strode down the basement corridor that day, toward the bald and dusty light bulb hanging above the sticky trash bins, I mulled over these things, turning them around as though they were puzzle-toys I could somehow find my way into--or out of--if only I could understand how. While my body walked and my rational mind tried to solve the puzzle, the deeper, more creative part of my self saw her moment to act. She went off exploring in the fields of my experience, rooting through the trash piles of my memory to see what she could find. She had only a few moments; when I was done in the basement, I would sequester her again while I worked. So, she went quickly, with delight and purpose, like a child set loose for recess. I hadn’t even realized that she was gone until she returned, flushed and smiling, to her seat in my mental classroom. It was what Oprah would call a “light bulb moment” when she held up for me her discovery.

When she showed it to me, I felt the way I would if I found the one remaining Popsicle--perfectly preserved--amongst the stale ice cubes and freezer-burnt peas in my freezer on a hot, summer night. It was such a simple thing, but it felt so rare and delivered so much pleasure that I was filled with joy when she held up for me this notion: Life is trying to teach you that you’re strong. As I’d entered the basement, I’d been wondering idly--without even realizing that I was wondering it--Why me? Why has it all been so hard? And she went and found the answer: life is trying to teach me that I’m strong.

I’ve suffered from the why-me’s before--everyone probably has--but, I’ve never actually gotten an answer before. Of course, my self-pity wasn’t entirely without reason; it wasn’t just about career changes or romantic entanglements or bronchial infections. It was about my life, my whole life, right from the beginning. The list of things I’ve lived through would have startled my peers and made them treat me differently, so I kept it secret through high school (as much as I could), through college (because no one knew me from before), and then in my adult life in the “real” world (where I could completely re-invent myself, if I chose to). But, no matter what I projected to others or let them assume, the truth is, I was often hungry and homeless as a child. Growing up in Maine, that meant things like harsh winters with no boots, and sad Christmases worthy of a Lifetime Original Movie, complete with recently laid-off, drunk, construction-worker father and a refrigerator, which offered not much more than a light bulb when it was opened.

As a child, I lived in tents, slept in cars and took baths standing in large pots other families would have cooked their dinners in. There were years without electricity, running water or plumbing. And during the hardest years, the youngest years, I didn’t have the sense to ask why me. For little kids, there is only one life, their own, and they have no way of knowing it could (or should) be different--especially if they don’t have TV. Later, though, during adolescence, I started to understand that other kids had it easier, had it better. I grew tired of shame and struggle, tired of cold and hunger, tired of my divorced and angry parents, and I started to ask, Why me?

When I got to high school and my mother was finally able to buy a home, I thought life would get easier. I thought I had paid my dues. But, of course, I hadn’t. There is no cap on human suffering. You may feel you’ve filled your quota by the age of fourteen, but there’s nothing to say the hardest parts aren’t still to come. For teenagers, melodrama fits like a second skin. So, in my teenaged years the why-me’s really kicked in. I engaged in them in vain, selfish, tragic moments when I wanted something unattainable like a pair of Jordache jeans (or a college education) so badly it felt the world would end if I didn’t get it. The world felt so unfair--and honestly, that’s because it was.

But, despite my fears about not getting a college education, I did manage to get one. Eleven years later I’m still paying it off. But the fact remains, despite my fears and hardships, I did put myself through an expensive, highly ranked, and rigorous school. My college years were a time when buying postage stamps was a luxury and getting a haircut was out of the question. The years before and after college weren’t exactly a picnic, either. But when I think back on it now, I’m reminded of a time when I went cross-country skiing alone on unfamiliar trails. I got lost, it got dark, and I had no idea how or even if I’d make it through the night alive. But, despite the fear, cold, exhaustion, and the stamina required, I did eventually find my way back out of the woods.

I was too embarrassed until I was well into my twenties to speak to anyone of the badges of my shame, what I considered to be the evidence of my weakness--the things which make me who I am, but which I have sought to deny and to escape from since I was old enough to know what they were. I kept these things (poverty, rape, homelessness, anxiety, depression) and others to myself because they seemed like such clear symbols of my fallibility, my less-than/other-than status.

For most of my life, I have been afraid, occasionally hopeless, and almost always tired and confused. And yet, when I graduated from college, nearly every card I received praised my strength. It made me feel like a liar, like a disgusting actress, like I had somehow tricked my closest friends. They knew not how weak, in fact, I was. That day in the basement in San Francisco, when I first began to understand that life was not persecuting me, but instead trying to prove to me what the others had seen all along, a door was formed before me. I wasn’t yet ready to walk through it, but the knowledge that it was there was the first step in my eventual liberation.

Six years later, my closest friend loaned me a book called Struggle for Intimacy by Janet Woititz. I had never met its author and yet somehow she knew exactly what I thought about myself. I rejoiced at the discovery that this sense I have of not being seen for the truly flawed human being that I am--of secretly being a weak and ugly person, not worthy of love, success or devotion, while everyone buys the girl-who’s-got-it-together act I put on--is absolutely normal and terribly common among adult children of alcoholics (ACOAs). It’s even on a list of common ACOA self-myths. Between this book, and the self-knowledge I found unexpectedly that day in the basement, I am beginning to accept a beautiful truth: that I am strong; that I deserve to be happy. Acceptance of this truth allows me to walk through the door between self-loathing and self-love.

Our minds work in strange ways. We expect things from ourselves we’d never expect from others. We ACOAs tend to believe that the people around us don’t know how much we’re faking it. For some reason, for some of us, it’s difficult to focus on what is good in us, to forgive ourselves--or anyone else--for being human. So many of us can’t see the forest of strength we possess, because we can’t see past the trees of our faults. We beat ourselves up and we ask ourselves questions like, Why me? Without ever really expecting an answer.

But after years of asking the question silently to myself, I finally got my answer on an ordinary day in a grimy basement in San Francisco. Life doesn’t bring me challenges to punish me or to keep me from getting ahead. Life is trying to teach me that I’m strong. It’s an important lesson to learn. It will come in handy if life ever gets really hard. I’ve been stubborn, blind and insistent in my belief in my weakness and my unworthiness. But I’m beginning to understand now that we all have faults and burdens. It’s human nature. It’s a package deal. No one is perfect. Sometimes we get lost in the woods. But the truth is, if I’ve made it this far, I really am strong.

[The original version of this essay was written in 1998 or 1999, I think, and was distributed as part of a monthly e-mail column I used to write and send to friends and a few subscribers. This version is part of manuscript entitled, "The Long-awaited Time of Joy, and Other True Stories," which I completed a few years ago, but never really tried very hard to publish. You can read more chapters and excerpts from TLATJ at this blog.]

The Truth About Love: "I'm Too Old For This"

2007-08-05T00:51:00.000-04:00

Last night I got the news that a member of my class at Smith had passed away. She was my age, I think—35—and she had a husband and two small children. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago, she was pregnant. She started chemo while she was still pregnant and had her daughter a little early so she could start her second round.

My classmate worked at her job as director of development at a nonprofit right up until the day before her daughter was born, very small, but in perfect health. She fought her cancer with chemo. Then radiation. And a mastectomy. In January, she wrote to our class secretary to report that she still had six weeks of daily radiation and then, if that went well, reconstructive surgery. "It hasn't been so bad," she said. "Radiation should be a piece of cake compared to chemo."

"The kids are great," she wrote. "So much fun and getting bigger every day. I just took [my daughter] to the doctors for her second flu shot and she is now 90% for height! She's catching up to her brother and it looks like we'll have two tall kids. So relieved that she's perfectly healthy."

It did not sound as if she had any idea that in just over six months, two months after her daughter's first birthday, she'd be gone. As I understand it, she received the news that her cancer had metastasized to her liver and bones just over one week before she passed away. Until that news came, I think she and her family believed she was getting better.

I didn't know this woman as an undergrad, but as President of the class, I was among the first to be informed, thanks to a friend of my classmate who reached out to our class Secretary. It fell to me to make decisions, and after consulting our class Secretary, I felt it was best to immediately inform the class via e-mail, so that anyone who might want to attend the wake and/or funeral today or tomorrow could do so.

I spent my morning phoning funeral homes and churches and cemeteries to confirm the dates and times I'd been given. When I called the Alumnae House to find out if they had any recommendations or restrictions about protocol, I was told they would have to call me back; no one had ever done such a thing. In the end, the person in charge agreed that this was a special exception and gave me a green light to notify my class via e-mail.

While I didn't know this woman personally, her death has nudged open the door to a cellar full of sadness in my heart. It piles up in there, like the garbage when sanitation workers are on strike. When the door is wedged open, the thick swampy air clogs my lungs and stings my eyes. It makes me irritable. I feel upset, swimming in leachate and dizzy; my chest and my head throb with grief. I wanted to scream today, but I had no place to do so. I wanted to punch and kick and break things, but I had no place to do so. Today was the first time since I left there last fall that I missed the heavy bag that used to hang in the dingy basement of my old apartment.

I know that death happens to everyone; I have always known this. I know that one in four American women will get breast cancer. I know that I am lucky it wasn't me. But my good fortune at having cancer-free breasts is an erstwhile friend; it may have cheered me on some bygone days, but today, I just keep thinking about her children, and her husband, and her friends--and my friends. I keep thinking about her and what it must have been like to realize she would have to say goodbye and leave her children motherless. I think of this and I ache. I feel a sharp pain in my heart, like a nail driven into the flesh between my ribs. My jaw and my brow are sore from holding back tears. I can't let them come or they will drown me. I still wish I could scream.

Everyone dies. I know that I am never too young or too old to be next. I have already lost two friends from college and one from high school (ALS, brain cancer, suicide). At 35, I often feel old. I feel how quickly my reproductive years are slipping down the drain. I know how rapidly my earning years are dying on the vine. I see how quickly my skin is aging in certain spots where I've gotten too much sun. Even my little breasts are beginning to sag. And yet, despite how old I usually feel, when I thought of my classmate getting sick and dying, I felt an awareness of my youth that came on so quickly it made me lose my breath, like the moment you realize how close you came to going over the edge of something or getting hit by a car—snatch! Suck in your breath. That was close. I'm still here. We're so young. So terrifyingly young.

And yet, I've been dating someone who is more than ten years my junior. I was a lesbian in my twenties, so I missed out on this phase—men in their twenties—almost entirely. He's hot. I don't mind saying it. He has an ass more scrumptious than a cupcake. And muscles that make me melt. And yet…he conducts most of our relationship (if you could call it that) via text message or, occasionally, via e-mail. And this makes me feel old. And cranky. Like an old lady fussing about how fast the cars move nowadays. (But seriously--text messages?? YGBKM!)

I probably should have known from the beginning that we weren't a good match. We met in a bar, which is, I'm guessing, not how most love stories with happy endings begin. At the end of the night, he apologized for asking for my number. "I'm sorry to even ask you this…" he said. I found it an odd but endearing approach, so I gave him my card.

It took him a week to get in touch. And instead of calling, he e-mailed and said that he had just realized he'd forgotten to e-mail me. "I just remembered I forgot you," is not exactly romance on caliber with Lloyd Dobler. But I e-mailed back. And gave him my number. And over the course of the next few months, he filled up my cell phone's inbox with flirtatious text messages sent just before closing at whatever bar he was at—a behavior I never rewarded.

Eventually, we made it out for an actual date. He took me for drinks and then karaoke. Unfortunately, I drank too much and couldn't drive home. He drove me home in my car and once we got there, I started vomiting almost immediately. My roommate drove him home. It took three days to recover. It was like I had the flu or food poisoning.

On our second date, I tore my ACL. He invited me to play volleyball with him and some friends. I tried to get out of it. I was just feeling really sad about Calvin. But he convinced me to go. On the last point of the last game, I slipped in the acrylic house paint his friends had used to create lines for the court in their backyard. It'll be at least a year before I'm walking normally, a year of painful, tedious physical therapy and, it seems, reconstructive surgery.

On our third date, a moth flew into my ear and a skunk moved into my basement. On our fourth date, I thought we were going out alone, and then at the last minute, he invited everyone he knew via an Evite to join him as he celebrated his new job. I thought we were having a date; he thought he was having a party.

I've been practicing being more direct and honest in my communication, so I let him know that I had thought we'd be going out alone—on a date--and that I was disappointed by the Evite because I thought he and I had plans. We worked it out—via e-mail—and I joined him and his friends late in the night and had an okay time. It was the last day of the Year of Healing. He stayed over.

The next night he took me to a movie and we spent almost all of that weekend together. It was fun for me to have affection, someone to go to brunch with, a date. I told my friend Megan afterwards that it was such a nice change to date someone who was emotionally and physically available. It's been more than a decade since that happened for me. (In retrospect, this is, of course, an hysterically funny observation because of how wrong I was--LOL!—but, when I said it, I thought it was true; it's how he seemed.)

After our weekend together, though, he disappeared. He didn't call or e-mail. I got proactive and invited him to do something, but he didn't answer my e-mail.

After almost a week, I sent him an e-mail and asked if he had gotten my e-mail inviting him to get together. He said he had. I pointed out that an honorable person would not sleep with a girl and then ignore her for a week. He responded, via e-mail, to say "Acknowledged." But he didn't apologize. Eventually, he sent me a text message, saying he was "sorry, if it seemed like he was blowing me off." I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but I'm practicing reigning in my disappointment and not walloping people over the head with it, especially people who are trying to be nice to me. So, I texted him back and said, "Thanks." And I told him where I was. But, I never heard from him. (He claimed later he never got my text, but honestly, even if he didn't, shouldn't he have followed up?)

After nearly two weeks without seeing him, talking to him, or planning another date, I decided the only thing I really wanted was to know why. I asked him to meet me and he agreed. We sat on a bench overlooking a pond and I asked him to tell me why he disappeared. I told him he could be honest with me. The answer didn't really matter, I just really wanted to know what had happened so I could stop wondering.

He denied that he had disappeared. His defense: "But I texted you!"

I think for anyone my age—perhaps anyone at all—if the phrase "but I texted you" works its way into an important conversation about the future (or past) of your relationship, you can generally assume it's a bad sign. Of course, you might also assume that vomiting, severed ligaments, ambulance rides, insects in your ear, and/or vermin in your basement are bad signs, too. I, on the other hand, soldiered on.

"A text message, in response to my e-mail asking why you'd ignored my first e-mail does not really count as not disappearing," I said, feeling like I was (totally) stating the obvious. "You just seem to have lost interest. And that's fine. That's your choice. But I'd just really like to know why, because you seemed really interested. And you stuck around through all of that crap, all the injuries and debacles, and you gave me the impression you were a good guy, but then, once you'd slept with me, you disappeared. I mean, is this just some sort of clever shtick? You act like a nice guy—totally convincing--you don't make a move until the fifth date, then spend the whole weekend with the girl, before disappearing into the ether?"

"No," he said. "It was not a shtick. I'm an honest person."

"Yeah," I said. "But your saying that isn't helpful. A liar could sit here and say the same thing. It's what you do that really matters. And what you did was disappear."

Eventually, he admitted that he had, in fact, disappeared. He said he had done so because he was easily distracted, his life was busy and (this I had to pull out of him)…he was afraid of my expectations.

"And how do you know what my expectations are, exactly?"

"I don't know…I just assumed that you wanted…"

My left eyebrow shot up toward my brow and I looked at him like he was an abominable idiot. He had never asked what I wanted. I watched as it dawned on him that he could have simply asked me, instead of running away. It was clear that this thought had not occurred to him. He just assumed that I wanted him, really wanted him for some serious relationship. (Is there a text message symbol for "asshole?")

"For the record," I said, "I just wanted to have some fun."

Eventually, he began to realize that I wasn't just complaining about his behavior, I was telling him he'd blown it—completely. He let me know that he wasn't quite ready to lose me yet. And, since I am practicing being reasonable, I made room for the possibility that he could change.

"I'm getting the sense that if I called you, you wouldn't go out with me again," he said.

"Well, that's right," I said. "I don't want to spend my time with people who are indifferent to me. I don't want to sleep with someone who is so easily distracted and forgetful. I want to be around people who say to themselves, 'yaaayyy!' when they're with me. I want to have fun and being neglected isn't fun."

"Well," he said. "I think I'll leave the ball in your court. I'll say that I want to see you again, and if you want to see me, you can call."

"You can do that," I said. "But if you want to see me, you'll have to do better. I don't want you to leave the ball in my court. I want you to do some work. I want you to show me that you value my company. If you want to see me, you'll have to give me something more than a ball in my court."

In the end, we warmed up to one another. We laughed. We moved from the bench to a tree swing further up the hill and gazed out at the moonlight dancing on the water. We swung gently back and forth and as I shifted in my seat to swat at a mosquito, my arm pressed against his and I remembered how delicious his muscles feel, how surprisingly soft his skin is, and how warm I feel when he kisses me.

"I have a good time with you," he said. "Even this conversation has been fun."

I was proud of myself for sticking up for myself, for being direct and honest in my communication, for knowing what I needed and saying so, and for letting him off the hook, rather than masticating him with my self-righteous, indignant, rage. He had remembered why he liked me.

"What would you say if I said I wanted to come home with you tonight," he asked.

"I would say, 'let's go to your house instead,'" I said.

And, so, we did. And he drank wine and I sipped vodka and we laughed, and kissed, and spent a delectable hour breaking my celibacy streak even further and sweating in the heat. It was what I wanted, and at 2am, I kissed him goodbye and went home to my bed.

The next day, he was good to me. "Fuck the two day rule," he said in an e-mail. And he asked me if I was free the next day. I wasn't. I was going away for part of the weekend. He checked in again, while I was gone, via text, to see when I'd be back. I came back a day late and expected that he'd be eager to see me. When I returned, he invited me to a movie via text message, but I was too tired to go—it was something I'd already seen, anyway. I told him I'd meet him for drinks after and he said he'd get back to me after the movie if he was interested. I wanted to sleep with him again. I wanted him to want to sleep with me that night…but I never heard back.

A few days later, we made plans to watch a movie at my place. He slept over. It was okay. I didn't hear from him the next day, the day, it turns out, that my classmate died.

And that brings us to today, with the blazing heat and intolerable humidity and my heart grown so heavy it felt like the only thing keeping it from slipping out of its cage and into my belly was the nail someone drove in through my ribs. I left my best friend three long voice mails. I left a message for my friend and former lover, the one who can always make me laugh, the one who came when Calvin died and when I hurt my knee and couldn't drive to the interview in Connecticut; the one who can make me feel better, the one whose hugs feel more like home than anything I've felt in a very, very long time (a mixed blessing), but he didn't have time to call me back. He sent me some well-intentioned, but not helpful e-mails instead. There was no one else to call and nowhere else to go. I was on my own with this.

I spent the morning taking care of the details around my classmate's death—could we send flowers, can we send an e-mail, what should it say, when should it go, how will it get there, are the dates and times and places for the wake and funeral, reception and interment correct--and then sent an e-mail out to the class. I went to physical therapy. I worked hard. I ran unpleasant errands. I arrived home hungry, angry, and wishing I had someplace to scream. Or someone to hold me.

Instead, I did what I could for myself. I lugged in the groceries, put them away, checked my e-mails, and then took off all my sweaty clothes and settled in with a DVD, a cold drink, an ice pack on my knee, and the A/C in my bedroom on high. Just then, my 24-year old text messaged me, asking me to go see a movie. I said yes, but the late show.

He said okay.

A few minutes later, he called (he actually called!) and said that he wanted to invite some other friends, get a bunch of people to go. He had learned from past experience that it was better to check with me first. I appreciated that he learned, but was disappointed that this was what he wanted.

I told him about my day. About my classmate dying…about my roommate not paying his rent…about my knee being sore and just my general feeling of exhaustion and upset. I started to cry a little—my voice caught--and I told him I felt too tired and vulnerable to deal with getting a group of strangers (to me) coordinated to find seats at what would definitely be a sold out Friday night premiere of "The Bourne Ultimatum." I haven't met his friends and I just wasn't in a space where I felt I could interact socially with strangers. I hesitated…then lied and said I would understand if he wanted to go with a group instead of with me. He said he'd check in with his friends and get back to me.

I got in the shower feeling hot and dirty and sad and sore and heavy and tired. I took a deep breath and then let the cool water wash over me. As I washed my hair, a thought came to me as clean and simple as the milky white suds running down my shoulders. It was more than a thought, it was a knowing: what I want is a person who, upon hearing that I knew someone who died and was heartbroken and tired and vulnerable, would not say, "I'll call my friends and get back to you." What I want is a person who hears that and says, "Do you want me to come over?" I wanted someone to bring me food and maybe a movie or just any kind of good-natured care. I don't need much, but I need that. Or, I want it anyway.

Today, I wanted a chest to rest my head on and the knowledge that the owner of that chest really cared. "I can't sleep with someone who would be that disinterested in what I need," I thought.

As I stepped out of the shower, I sighed. It was a happy relief to know my own bottom line, to understand what I need and want. Knowing is the first step toward getting it. But, it also meant that this young man would not turn out to be the fun summer fling I had hoped he would be. (Bummer.) Being neglected really isn't any fun; I'd have to give up my hope that he could be the source of affection and companionship and laughter I'd been wishing for.

It took him two hours to get back to me. He didn't call me, as he said he would. He canceled our date via text message. "Hey," he wrote. "I'm too tired to do the movie. I'm going to finish Harry Potter and then crash."

My immediate thought: "Asshole." My next thought: "I'm too old for this."

I'm too old to have people break dates via text message. I'm too old to date someone who doesn't even really think of dates as dates, which is why he doesn't need to cancel them with an apology—or a phone call—and why he invites other people to come on them. It was just an idea he had, I think, to see the movie, and when it passed he felt no obligation to factor in my feelings about it at all.

I was angry so I wanted to do something clever, like write back and say, "Don't bother to call me any more," except he never really calls me anyway. Or, better yet, I thought I might use some text message lingo like "U R N ASS" to communicate that I had reached the end of my rope. But I couldn't think what to say in 80 characters or less. I even checked out an online dictionary of text messaging abbreviations. I read through every single one, but aside from BBN (Bye Bye Now) and YGBKM (You've Gotta Be Kidding Me), nothing, apart from the overly cheerful L8RG8R, really even came close to capturing the spirit of what I wanted to say.

Maybe it's because I was born in an era when phones still had cords, but nothing I could think to say via SMS was going to be quite good enough for this. Regardless of my age, my inclination is to communicate. And no matter how fast you type, text messaging just isn't meant for that. It's been five hours and I haven't texted him back. At this point, I guess I probably won't even bother. It turns out that I may not be too young to die of breast cancer—but I am definitely too old for this.