Heidi Beth

…it can be fun…even if it has gone the rounds (has it? I’m new to OS).
12 Random facts about your life. There are no rules.
12 Random Facts About My Life
1 – I was a competitive gymnast from 7 to 15. Until I had kids and nieces, I didn’t know a straight leg cartwheel was unusual.
2 – My dad was in the circus as a trapeze artist. He did a round off, flip flop, back flip at age 34, right after the meet I won 3 first place ribons, including first all around. This high point of my gymnastics career happened before I was 10. My picture was in the newspaper.
3 – One of the first stories I wrote was about 2 friends walking accross the street. One of them gets hit by a car and dies. The rest of the story is about how the friend grieves. In my head they were grown ups. I was 10.
4 – I drove from central Illinis to Raleigh/Durham and back by myself in a blue Ford Escort 2 times in near complete silence over a 6 month period. I listened to the radio for an hour tops on the first trip. On the second trip it was broken. I remember being perfectly content with the conversation in my head. I was 24 and busily setting up “my ideal life” scenarios.
5 – I had a miraculous experince at a Native American healing retreat and didn’t realize anything unusual happened until I told someone else about my experience there and as I got to the amazing part, we both held our breath. He laughed in a loving way as elders sometimes do, giving me permission to be awed by a stunning moment in my own seemingly unimportant life. Then I cried.
6 – I once wrote a list of 100 dreams, things I want to have, do or be during my life time. It took several days to write. 2 days after I wrote #36, “Pass out white roses to residents of a nursing home and take all mobile residents on an outing of their choice,” a guy who wanted to date me gave me 9 white roses. I didn’t see it as a sign I should go out with this man who I wasn’t romantically interested in. I did see it as a sign that the list is good and my dreams are possible.
7 – I tend not to write about what’s currently going on in my life as if writing it will make living it less real.
8 – I quit smoking suddenly in 96, after 9 years at 1 1/2 to 2 packs a day. I had been saying the affirmation, “I am non smoker,” for 2 weeks and was gifted by the mysterious powers that be with a terrifying experience that I might try to put in words one day. Not today.
9 – When I read a good novel, I become one of the characters in real life for a while. I’m careful what I read. Anne of Green Gables and The Little House Series were lots of fun.
10 – I used to be shy and still tend to hide behind a series of funny remarks that reflect how illogical people, myself included, can be. I like to make people laugh.
11 – I was a waitress for 11 years because I like people. I always wondered if people thought I was being nice just to get a good tip. It made me sad to think of human interactions as being phony just for $. I know, wake up and smell reality. No thank you. I like my fantasy world where people tell the truth and are for real. I believe courtesy, sincerity and trustworthiness will be the norm in the future, even if humanity has to wait hundreds of years.
12 – Leo Buscaglia is my hero. He passionately calls people out of their lonely boxes, daring them to connect, give life their best and make loving the people in their life their first, second and third priorities. He will always be known as the crazy Italian guy who loved to hug.

The state wants us to file and pay slaes tax. One of our insurance companies wants us to fill out an audit form. I want chocolate.
I’ll soon enough get back to the official forms that remind me I’m over 18, I started a business and that sometimes it’s not the fun part.
Not now. Instead I’ll listen to George Winston, drink a B Monster smoothie and eat small squares of chocolate carmel crunch one at a time, leaving just enough time between each bite.
I made myself a pizza, crust and all, with fresh basil and mushrooms, at 10:30pm last night. While my family slept, I ate with a fork and knife so I could read “Sabbath,” by Wayne Muller and avoid embarrassing tomato sauce smudges. I was honoring an agreement I made with myself when I woke up yesterday, no internet at home for the rest of the day. Otherwise I would have been on my laptop doing nothing in particular, wondering why I wasn’t engaging with the quiet at midnight.
I slept in this morning and ate leftovers for breakfast while my family played Pokemon. I read the sound of people I have to love, grateful I’d love them anyway and that we get to live together.
Later I went out, mailed the water bill, bought a case of water and laundry detergant, returned what I thought would be a turning point book but wasn’t, to the library. “How Babies are Made,” was read and regarded like every other children’s book in our home.
I sat on the kids bed with a boy in pajamas on either side of me, looking slowly from one to the other. Gradually they stopped wiggling and settled in because they knew I wouldn’t read otherwise. We opened to page 1 and I read. In most children’s books there are illogical representations of the subject on every other page. We found funny things to say and laughed easily, unconcerned with how much time it took to get to the end. Fortunately I didn’t let them hear my nervousness as we bagan. Fortunately I have years of practice so read like they always hear. They did get wide eyed at the part where mom and dad are naked in the bed and words tell them what’s happening under the covers.
But I was cool, keeping up giggles, answering matter of factly. And then we read the next chapter in Super Fudge, the chapter that prompted me to check out the informative plain covered purple book, followed by the next chapter of whatever Magic Tree House book we were up to, just like every other night at bed time.
A couple questions have come up in the days since, and they’ve flipped through the pages on their own. Fortunately neither of them responded like Fudge, of Judy Blume’s imagination, who told everyone he met that he knew how babies are made and proceeded to pour forth his knowledge. I don’t even think my kids have told grandma. They probably figure she knows already.
Now the library can put “How Babies Are Made,” back on the shelf, ready for the next nervous parent to check out when their curious offspring wants to know where little sister came from.
I brought the water and soap home, delivered cake to our new neighbor, then headed out to the grocery store cafe. I did keep my priorities straight. Once situated at my press board table, computer plugged in because it only had 9% battery left, I called the state # given on the form telling us to pay sales tax please. I called our insurance agent for guidance on the audit. When the calls were done, instead of running home to get both matters mail ready, I logged on here to witness my afternoon from the place in my mind where written words form.
And before I go home to tend official matters, I’m going to read a while here on OS. I do have priorities.

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I prefer the grocery store to Starbucks. I’m sitting at a wire table outside of Schnucks, facing the sunset. There’s nothing special or firey about this one, other than how it’s light plays between leaves of a pair of fledgling trees.
I worry about little trees near main roads or in parking lots. Aren’t they choking? Is that why they’re all so small? Or is it that they have such a narrow space to grow in, being neatly surrounded by curb borders or pretty red brick. I know the point is to add beauty, but I feel bad for the little trees.
Not bad enough to look away or stare too long contemplating action, just bad enough to sigh before turning back to my lighted screen, enough to be a bit more reflective than I otherwise might when I look up at a mother wheeling her youngest in a cart, keeping near an older but still young child, taking mother steps. One in front of the other at an inconsistent pace, casually hunched over the cart because one feels more patient and kind that way, making sure the small walker can keep up.
I like the sound of 20 carts neatly smuched together rattling in front of usually a male employee who flips a lock of hair out of his face before shoving the unruly mass toward the store.
Not everyone is willing to pay $4 for a cup of coffee and the privelage of free wifi in an atmosphere of mood inducing melodies. But everyone has to eat. And I like everyone better than just a few.
The golden ball of setting sun was just at the edge of the gray rectnagle that’s Sav-A-Lot accross the street. Now it’s gone, leaving a trail of pink and suggestions of yellow painted on stretched out clouds that hung all afternoon over mild weather.
A few minutes ago I dropped a blop of pesto on my jeans and now I’ve knocked the whole container face over on the cement near my feet (lucky miss). At Starbucks I’d feel self conscious. Here I just flip the container over, set it back on the table and keep on writing.
But since I had a coupon for a free drink, I walked an uncertain path accross the parking lot, past a strip mall with a Radio Shack, past the store gas station and now I’m sitting on an unusually large orange living room chair listening to something new agy, which I like too, just not as much as my perch surrounded by everyday people.

It’s dusk. I’m pleasantly tired. I just woke up from a 30 minute nap. I could probably sleep all night but responsibility calls. We opened Soul Miners Children’s Theater company’s 2nd term today. This term I have a smaller role and was free to leave at 2:15, almost 3 hours before my mom and Bernice, but Soul Miners is magic and I wanted to stay with the group of parents gathered by the couch.
In 2010 my life became so literal I’m having a hard time thinking in soft lines and quiet pauses. I’m getting a taste of the “adult” world and I don’t care for it. Honestly it’s not where I’m supposed to be right now anyway. While the boys are still young, I’m supposed to be primarily caring for and teaching them. That’a how our family chose to arrange matters. It gives us long lazy afternoons with other families. These extra hours help us cultivate friendships. We enjoy slow morning routines, relaxed bed time conversations that often go longer than they reasonably could if we had to rise at 7am every day. This is how our lives have been from the beginning of parenthood.
Then 2010 came along like a speeding train. Before we realized what was going on, all of our routines were upside down. I was tired all the time from tending a successfully budding gluten free baking business and co-producing Soul Miners first term and my husband was exhausted from filling in for me when he wasn’t working his 60-70 hours a week. Our children were hanging on tight for the ride. It wasn’t sustainable.
It was fun arriving at the Farmers Market with boxes of goodies, spreading them out next to price lists, hanging signs and laughing with new customers. It wasn’t fun or realistic or sustainable for me to run 3 extra errands every week, bake 10-12 hours between Thursday and Friday nights, not getting to sleep until 2am then gathering my enthusiasm and my body at 5am to go set up for the fun part at our table down town. It was hard to walk away form people who finally found a good loaf of bread after giving up hope because they didn’t want to eat turkey and mayo on cardboard ever again. I loved the light in their eyes when they tasted the food that was the result of hours of enjoyable experimentation in my home kitchen (before we ever tried large scale production…ugh).
It was fun helping start the theater company (except for the 30 hours in meetings to learn what we needed to do). Being with 11 children, focusing on virtues, watching a musical about an elephant come together while I visited with parents who became like family and keeping time for snack, breaks etc was a dream. Everything about Soul Miners was great, except that it was too much.
Now I’m letting go, trying to ease back into family life as we knew it before. But I have a few things to let go of, like my shattered illusion that I can do everything I want if it’s good and helps people. There’s also a truth that I need to bring back in to my intimate understanding. I can help one hundred people, but if I’m not properly caring for my family, I’ve missed the foundation. I love my boys so much. I missed them in all that creative helpful doing and our 6 year old was beginning to melt.
I’m ready to take my boys to the park again, the museum, indoor playground, to friends homes just to play and return to creating with them. I’m ready to turn my creative energy back into baking experiments, knowing I don’t have to take them any further that my kitchen and gatherings of friends. I’m ready to focus one hour a week on virtues classes for Soul Miners knowing I can leave when my part is done, or I can stay and visit if I choose. I’m ready to do what I can do well and no more.

I started this in an open office document, to be safe. I thought I was saving a partial draft and blip, it disappeared into a mysterious corner of my computer from where it may never emerge. It’s not in documents or the desk top. It had no title.
I wrote that I want to help change the world for the better through love and fellowship over good food. And that I hate messes.
Then I compared the anxious self pity I’ve been stuck in for a few weeks to a squirrel I saw in a trap tonight. Poor thing had no idea what happened after he dove in for an easy snack. He desparately crashed against the walls, shoving his nose through metal wire squares. It’s useless. He has to wait for a human to free him in the morning. He’ll end up far away from the building where he and many of his friends have been having a party and making home in the roof.
I went on to explain that I’ve been passively waiting for wonderful to fling open the doors of my home, put on a grand show and introduce me to fascinating, humorous, lively and friendly.
I told how the reminder fairy nuzzled in close to my rational mind and whispered the obvious. She said I first had to let loving, considerate, generous and happy out to play even though they’re scared of bullies.
Then I shared the good part. I told how I picked myself up from my soft low white chair, walked to the kitchen and made carrot, apple, raisin muffins so I can take some to our new next door neighbor tomorrow afternoon.
That’s as far as I got. That’s enough.

Last night, I sat in my living room, staring at the computer screen, head slightly tilted, as if trying to hear written words speak aloud.
“Our beloved friend and brother Gavin Welch passed away last night. He and his father were in a car accident, and his father is currently in critical condition.
Tonight at 7:30 we will host a prayer service for Gavin and his father Roger in Foundation Hall. Please join us as we remember our dear brother in prayer, sharing stories, and laughter. Prayers for the progress of his soul as well as the healing of his father are welcome.”
Like many others who shared a loving comment in a line of memories, I confirmed my attendance because I would be there in spirit, praying for you and your dad from my home. I set my phone alarm, set the phone back on the end table, turned back to the computer and turned to soft stone.
I barely knew you. I knew you well because you wore your heart in your shining eyes. I miss the chance to get to know you better from your earthly place behind a welcome smile. I cried like everyone else when I heard.
Another bright young star has taken flight.
I didn’t wait for the 7:30pm alarm to remind me to join the assembled group in prayer. Quietly, heavily, I walked to my bedroom and closed the door.
You know that long beautiful prayer for departed souls? I said that one for you while the tears streamed down, while I heard my thoughts like an echo of dominos tumbling on a wood floor. Despite my sadness, I know you are dancing.
For your dad, I continued to weep. For him I said the Long Healing Prayer, intoning name after name for the Divine. Fashioner, Satisfier, Uprooter, Perfecting, Bountiful. Healing for his body but really for what I can only assume to be his broken heart.
I remember meeting you at Bahia and Dan’s wedding reception open house at the Baha’i Center. I felt awkward and clumsy, on the outside of the group assembled on the couch. When you spoke to me from no distance, friendship was a given. All discomfort faded. I can tell this is how you must have been with everyone. Thank you.
I’ve read over what I have written so far and though it’s accurate, there’s too much weight, too much sadness. So I went back and read messages to you from friends. There I was reminded of what I know to be true.
“O SON OF THE SUPREME! I have made death a messenger of joy to thee. Wherefore dost thou grieve? I made the light to shed on thee its splendor. Why dost thou veil thyself therefrom?” – Baha’u’llah
When someone passes, like my Aunt Alma, someone who was sick for years, I don’t linger in grief. I simply smile, close my eyes, pray, then ask them how it’s going in the new digs. I still cry, because separation from a loved one is hard, but I don’t sink like I did last night. But because you were so young and full of delightful energy, because you lived like few do, securely fastened to love and laughter, I forgot.
Peace Gavin, you will be missed.
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Yesterday I was frustrated every time I sat down to write. I went on an afternoon bike ride to see if I could unloose some insight. Here’s what came, “Write what you know.” I thought about this for a while, but I didn’t really get still before I’d position myself in front of my laptop and let my mind race off only to have it come back like a dog sent after an imaginary stick returning confused. Unlike the dog who continues to wag his tail hoping for another chance to retrieve a stick, I just got discouraged and felt like I’d never be able to write clearly again.
Late in the evening I was kicked back on the couch, still so discouraged I was ready to extract myself from another creative endeavor I’m committed to because I was sure I’d mess it up too from lack of real skill. Tears and quiet, simple but desparate prayers and time helped begin to erase some of my anxiety and replace it with calm if not confidence.
My dad used to tell me that the answer to begin getting out of a seemingly permanent state anxiety or sadness was to dig a hole. He’d go on to explain that the act of doing something useful, something that required moving your body, would begin to take you out of your own head and provide perspective. I got up from the couch and washed the few dishes that had accumulated after dinner. While at the sink, I remembered a story I’ve told often. It’s about the day I realized racism was still alive and kicking in our country and not just a few isolated incidents perpetratd by irrational human beings who had their heads put on backwards. Until that day I truly believed racism was mostly a thing of the past, preserved in history books but not a major present concern.
My ignorance stemmed from the fact that I grew up shelterd. Every neighborhood we lived in was an even mix of black, white and hispanic families in similar economic positions. Our neighborhoods were friendly and safe. All the children played together at the park accross from our first apartment in Evanston. In our second place, the alley was our playground, our favorite game piggy bounce out and when the weather didn’t allow us to play outside we’d spend the afternoon at the house that had the best snacks in the cupboard any given day. In our third place, our first house, we were the only white family on the block. All of our neighbors were black except possibly a family accross the street. I think one of the parents was white though I never met them, just their boys who I went to school with. By the time we moved there I was 15, almost 16 and not much for staying close to home so I only have a few memories of babysitting a little girl next door. In all of those places, from age 4 to 20, I never heard mention of racism as a current reality.
There was only one incident where the color of my skin triggered anger in others. It came from of two girls I barely knew. I was in 8th grade. I briefly dated (what does that amount to at 14?) a boy from another school. He was black. One day after we decided not to date, though we were still friends, a white girlfriend and I went by his apartment to see if he wanted to hang out at a nearby park for the afternoon. Two of his cousins came to the door. They told me he wasn’t home and proceeded to yell at my friend and I as we walked away. They followed us accross a busy street, still yelling, calling us names that referred to our being white, throwing tennis balls at our backs. I don’t remember being afraid. These girls were a bit younger than us and I had no context to understand what they were accusing us of to deserve being the target of their agitation. One negative incident directly related to skin color was not enought to open my sheltered eyes.
When I was 15 and my boyfriend, who had very dark skin, proposed, I said yes (I wasn’t the most mature 15 year old and had no concept of marriage so we only lasted another few months). I was neither aware of or alerted to any disapproving looks from strangers when we walked around town. He was part of my family and I was accepted by his. None of the close friends in our group ever mentioned discomfort at our difference in looks because our town, apart form the north side, was racially mixed and so were a good portion of the young couples seen around together.
Our town prided itself on being different (I found out later), so maybe we were in the lucky pockets that really were differnt to some extent, or maybe no one who knew the present reality of racism thought or wanted to talk about it when we were having so much fun. I know I’m spilling my ignorance all over the page here trying to figure out how I missed the elephant in the room for 20 years.
Where I grew up is a direct result of my mothers awareness of racism and the need for concrete helpful action from everyone to heal the wounds it created and build a world where the content of ones character is all we weigh in the balance to decide who we want our friends to be. She chose the neighborhoods for their diversity. She discussed the reality that we are all one human family matter of factly so it was just another easy truth to me, like the sky is blue but I didn’t think about it like, hmmm…, I didn’t think about anyone ever considering that it wasn’t the case except a few extreme people in white hoods on tv, people that never touched the surface of my real day to day life and were (to me at the time) irrelevant in the scheme of things and easily forgotten.
I was also surrounded by a faith community that believes, among it’s main tenets, in the elimination of prejudice and the oneness of mankind. At meetings, Holy day observances, Baha’i children’s classes and casual gatherings,the group was always mixed, racially and ethnically, always full of accents from faraway places (especially Iran) and discussion focused on celebrating our differences and our similarities the way one enjoys a variety of flowers in a garden each with unique colors, shapes and scents.
This is why I was only thinking about the threat of violence in our area as we drove by the recreation center on April 29, 1992 and my mom told me that L.A. and other large cities were going up in flames from rioting and people were dying because of a verdict in a case involving someone named Rodney King. We lived in walking distance from the Chicago border.
Terrified and wide eyed I asked my mom if we should go to her in laws house in the country for a while until things calmed down. My mother can be called testy but she is generally mild in sharing her irritation so I rarely see her get intense or fierce. But at that moment she turned to me angrily, looked into my eyes and said in a cold voice, “Are you going to run away and lose this opportunity to do something to help or are you going to stay and be part of the solution?” I received it in my gut. I was being called a coward and at the same time challenged to put my actions where my beliefs were.
How did the horrible destruction of whole neighborhoods, innocent lives and harmful illusions happen with one verdict? I would soon find out.

In January I wrote 30 blog posts in 30 days with the intention that some of the pieces may end up being rough drafts of possible pieces I could work with later, but I didn’t think about this while I wrote. I had just started reading Natalie Goldberg’s book, “Old Friend From Far Away, The Practice of Writing Memoir” so I followed the exercises day by day, following my writing wherever it went even if it wasn’t the path Natalie seemed to be asking us to take (really I can’t imagine her expecting writing to stay with the teachers suggestion). The suggestion is merely a starting point.
Since I found OS a week and a half ago I’ve been eating, breathing and dreaming in words to write. I have always loved writing. I have always written whenever I have time and mind to. When I was younger this looked like a young girl, later a woman, hunched over a cafe table or curled up on her couch writing as fast as she could get her racing thoughts on paper. Then I got married and had 2 children. Children take time and energy to care for. In the early years my hands were the busiest, holding, nursing, changing a diaper, reading to my sons or singing familiar tunes with hand motions. I told myself, as days, weeks, months and years went by that I was collecting life that would one day fill pages of notebooks. I told myself to stay present because these days were precious and I would miss them if I didn’t pay attention. I told myself to pay attention so I could later recreate on paper some of the insights, mundane and momentous moments and learning that so completely filled my days. So I payed attention to my world, inside and out. Often it was frustrating, more often I was happy, immersed in a sea of innocent love form 2 large eyed boys that had each emerged from my body not so long ago and a family life continually being created with the man I chose to marry.
Now these boys are 6 and 10. My hands are free. So in January, when a fellow artist, a friend who creates/channels watercolors that speak silently so intense are they, announced she’d challenged herself to create 30 watercolors in 30 days and invited others to take on a similar challenge with their art, I was in. First I announced my intention in my other blog, linked all facebook friends to it, then I wrote. I had no idea if it was realistic for me to complete this project or not. Day 1, I opened Natalie’s book on memoirs, read the first exercise, let my mind get quiet, looked at what words and images came into my thoughts and started writing it down. In this way I got most of the way through the 30 in 30. Towards the end I chose a few topics of my own. With each piece, I’d post a status update to facebook. The response was kind but I told myself I had to write even if no one ever commented. I finished the 30 posts in 30 days.
Today, I’ve been frustrated. I can tell my writing is forced, a reflection of the difficulty I have feeling serene in a disordered house. Because I have a family and we home school, I can’t expect the house to be neat, clean and orderly all the time, especially until we really finish this third major purge and get down to just what we need and what helps us to thrive (not much when all is said and done). When I was single, I could only write at home once I’d put everything away, dusted and spent a few minutes sitting in the quiet. This kind of preparation is only rarely available to me at this time, but the desire, the driving need to write right now is not letting up, not waiting for me to be in my fairy land of outer serenity.
I went on a 5 minute bike ride tonight to clear my head and move my blood. Out there in the dusk of late summer I realized what I need to do next. I need to get back to basics. When I got home, I pulled Natalie Goldberg’s Wild Mind off the shelf, opened to the first line and read,

Cool summer night on the north shore, sitting on a curb outside Whole Foods, I was 26 and independent.
Shaun was talking about the moments of awakening participants experienced at a conference he’d recently attended, “The Equality of Men and Women.” He told about honest dialogue between men and women in the main room. He told how grown men cried, apologizing for thier mistake of thoughtlessly thinking women were less important and treating them accordingly. I stopped listening for a second. Next thing were tears, then I knew, for the first time, sexism was real and it had touched my life. Before this I had convinced myself that I’d out maneuvered discrimination. I still held the cell phone to my ears, listening in stunned silence.
At the corner store below our apartment I was the only customer again. The new owner, and Indian man came around from behind the counter into the aisle behind where I stood deciding which soft drink to spend my allowance on. He reached both hands up and started rubbing my shoulders. I shook him off. He smiled, gave a slight grunting laugh and walked away. Any time I was alone in the store he did this, for months, so I gave it no thought. He walked away after all. Until the day he didn’t. That day he bent low and kissed my neck. I am strong and have always been praised for it. He had crossed the line and I knew it, even though I was only 12. I reached back with a sideways fist and hit him where my hand landed, as hard as I could. With injured pride but otherwise intact, he raised his voice angrily asking why did I do that! Did I answer? He walked back behind the counter. I walked to the cash register, paid for my snack and left. He didn’t come around the counter again though I continued to shop there for 3 more years. He never spoke to me again. Was this to punish me or wisdom on his part?
Shaun told me how women were pouring out story after story of discrimination to their haunted but loving audience of men they knew intimately, friends and acquaintances. How had this never come up before? I heard myself telling Shaun that I was unaware of what most women experience because I have so few female friends because most women are…annoying. As the words fell off my lips I trembled in shame and recognition.
Until 5th grade when one boy shot up a head above everyone else and confidently challenged me to a match he knew he could win, I was the arm wrestling champion of my school class and of my neighborhood. Kids lined up on the metal train at the park hoping to beat my record. At camp I rode that long bike trail always coming in ahead of everyone else which wasn’t easy since a pack of threatened though good natured boys were determined to beat me.
Shaun laughed slightly in recognition at my verbal fumble (he’d faced hs own at the conference), at my sad realization that I thought I could be better than most girls, that I had chosen to judge a group of people based on one factor and so avoid most of them.
My best friend Mary was gang raped by two 21 year old men that hung around fountain square hoping to buy young women alcohol (I didn’t realize their intention until years later). We knew them as familiar and weren’t threatened. They came around for months before that disgusting helpless afternoon. Then they disappeared. I get sick in my throat even attempting to bring them to mind enough to write a simple description. They both had strained speech and smoked too much, smiling to one side. I walked to my friends house the way I did most aftenoons and found our mutual friend Rhonda hysterical, pacing in the front yard. She told me what was going on in the north bedroom upstairs. Sadly, neither of us, both latch key children, had been prepared to see this as an emergency, or we might have called the police. Truthfully we were stuck, since our friend was drunk, having stolen the alcohol from her parents and now too drunk to say yes or no for herself. We had no idea how to navigate the next right move without stepping on one land mine or another. My memory of that day goes blank after a desparate expression crosses Rhonda’s face. We were 15.
Shaun continued to paint a beautiful picture of lives renewed, couples grown closer, friendships mended and forged. I listened quietly letting the tears drop one by one off my face. I was still on the curb. People walked by as if they hadn’t noticed the earth shift a few moments ago.
Images of friends I hadn’t talked to or seen in years flooded my mind. Like a terrible dance I witnessed what I had previously missed. Women, girls, making themselves less to catch a man if only for a night, if only so he’d stay in the conversation and not think her intimidating. I replayed the day I decided not to try out for cheerleading. I was at the home of a girl I only knew by sight at school, practicing for tryouts. Every other word out of her mouth insulted a friend who wasn’t there to defend herself. Do men do this?? I have no idea. Our crowd wasn’t perfect, but we did respect each other most of the time and if we did have a problem it was usually laid out somewhat thoughtfully with hope for solutions.
In my early 20’s I waited tables at a diner on State Street. I often went out back to have a cigarette and look at small patches of sky between gray highrises. Occasionally, too often, the night busboy would come up behind me, push my braid over and try to rub my back. Every time I said no and shook him off. Since he’d always stop I never reported it to the owner who was like a father to me. After months of this stubborn failure to be respectful he may have figured he should move faster, that maybe I wouldn’t brush him off if he could get me close enough that I liked it. One evening just outside the back door, he pulled my braid aside, pressed close to my body and kissed my back. I am strong and have always been praised for it. He had crossed the line and I knew it. I was 24. I reached back with a sideways fist and hit him where my hand landed, as hard as I could. With injured pride but otherwise intact, he raised his voice angrily asking why did I do that! Did I answer? We walked back to the dining room. I went back to quietly filling salt shakers. He pulled the white towel from the side of his apron and cleaned the table the night’s last customers had just left. He never spoke to me again. Was this to punish me or wisdom on his part?
Even in a family that focuses on gender equality, sexism can live. How can one stay dry in the ocean? When I was first married, I noticed my dad ask my husband to do things he used to ask me to do, things typically thought of as man’s work. I wish I could remember specific examples. At the time I was amused. David saw it too. We both knew it wasn’t on purpose or because he thought I was weak. I could say my dad was simply pleased to have another man around, interested in helping David feel a part of things. Maybe this is all it was. But I think it was an automatic reaction to years of societal training that taught him a woman should be called on to assist in certain matters only when a man can not be found.
Like that classic song, “I Was Gonna Be an Engineer.”
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What do old women do at 3 in the afternoon when they can not see to sew or read or drive, when they can not stand to watch another minute of tv, when they remember a young friend, call out her name yet decide not to call her, not to be a burden.
What do we do for an old woman who tells us years of her life in broken English peppered with Persian, smiling because she’s not alone on her brown leather sofa, who loves our children like family because our children love her first, who feeds us bean soup with crackers and cuts up banana for our children?
Do we feel life in her photos, the ones on the dusted coffee table next to a glass bowl full of m&m’s, the pictures of her beloved children now grown and scattered and the faces of her dear granchildren? Do we catch the adventure in her shaky retelling of past adventures in other countries, or do we nod politely and miss the gift? Do we let ourselves cry when the richness of her lost years and her frustration at growing old opens our heart?
When we leave her living room in early evening for our books, errands and quiet family time at home, do we hug the old woman, tell her, “I love you?” When she hugs us, do we go through the motions or savor the feel of her soft thin skin on our cheek?