TG Says:

That it is ok sometimes to be contemplative. Introspective. Constructively critical of oneself. Yesterday I wrote a very honest post about not loving the body my soul inhabits. Most comments were encouraging, a few suggested I should stop feeling sorry for myself and some accused me of being attention seeking. So I deleted it. I process events and emotions through words and hope that sometimes what I share may make someone feel a little less alone. So I wasn't trying to fish for compliments or wallow in self-pity, I was trying to turn the frustration and sadness I felt into something I could express and thus let go. And by deleting my words I aborted the healing process, minimized the shame I am feeling. So here I am again...

I talked about struggles I have: to stand for more than 5 minutes, to finish a grocery shopping trip, to do my laundry because the machines are on the lower level. I shared something by which I am mortified. A young boy, about 3, recently announced to me in a mall full of people "WOW! You are huger than fat!" His parents were good parents, they were embarrassed and apologized, made him apologize. I tried to empathize: "It is confusing, isn't it? People tell you all the time to be honest but then sometimes being honest gets you in trouble. Sometimes even when something is true, it can hurt feelings." I think he took something positive away from my words, his parents were graciously relieved I hadn't been mean, but all I could think was that I am SO glad my son didn't have to witness that.

Because even more than the physical pain I feel much of the time, even more than the humiliation of having to
ask for special chairs and being dropped near the door and declining things I know I would really love to do but can't, even more than being asked by strangers how come I not worried about my health or why don't I just park at the end of the lot and walk a little more.... even more than all that, I hate that I embarrass people who love me. My sweet 16 year old son asks for tables (booths can be very, very bad for we corpulent folk!) as soon as we walk into a restaurant. He makes sure I have the cart to lean on while we shop and runs to get the car so I don't have to walk farther than my legs will allow. I have a dear friend who is wonderful when we are out and about or with my friends but we never socialize with his family or friends, it just too hard to explain why he bothers with a fat girl. I know I am gawked at and I overhear people when they whisper to others about me. When I recently had photos taken I was shocked at how big I really am. I got a terrible case of the giggles looking at one because it looked like someone had shrunk my head and balanced it on a pile of rocks and stones. But nope, regular sized head, just larger than life body.

I do like myself... really, I do. I am pretty darn smart and can be rather witty. I love to read and learn new things and while my body is rotund, God gifted me with fabulous hair and a pretty face. I have a sexy voice and a big heart - I am pretty good on the self esteem barometer (too good?). But one time I would like to be included in something, invited to belong, despite all of me that is included.

TG and Memory Lane

I am a mother to two boys: Ben is just 21 and Max is almost 17. Ben was placed for adoption at birth; I received letters and pictures from his parents and we have sporadic contact now. My memories of time with Ben consist of my pregnancy and a few weeks, they are veiled in sadness. It is little wonder then, that I approach memory making with Max with a "joie de vivre" that is nothing if not enthusiastic.

But tonight I was given a surprise by him, a gift of a walk down memory lane courtesy of his sociology class. He really loves this class, gets excited about it and is enthusiastic and can't wait to talk about it and learn more, more, more. He really is enjoying every aspect of it and tonight was no exception. He had to interview me, ask ten questions of his choosing about our relationship. And his questions were thoughtful and made me remember the sweetest, silliest little boy. He asked me if I remembered what songs I sang to him when he was little? What kind of baby and little boy was he? How did I meet his dad? Why did I chose his name? Did I remember how I felt the moment he was born, when I first saw him? He thoughtfully wondered what advice I would give him for his own children and what I might do differently. I rambled my answers, the movie playing in my head was so fast I couldn't grab all the moments. All but one question had me talking non-stop. The ninth questions he asked me was: "Are you proud of me?" My answer was quick and firm "Absolutely." I offered to elaborate on his wisdom and sense of empathy, his work ethic and easy-going attitude. But he said no, absolutely was just perfect.

I struggle with the disparities between my boys. Boys I love equally, for whom I want joy and success. But boys I have such different relationships with, one I know and one I fear I will never know. Tonight was Max's night. A night to reflect on his sweet toddler self, a night he allowed me to share some of my hopes for his future with him. The walk we took together was a great one: even he agreed via text!

The ties that bind

For Christmas I was given a piece of jewelry that has been in my family for generations. It is a ring that belonged to my great-grandmother (Nan), one she wore until after a stroke caused her to fall down the stairs. After she died it was cut off but no one has worn it since (41+ years ago). I was the only great grandchild my Nan knew. My cousin Cristin was born after her stroke but Nan wasn't able to get to know her. She called me "Nan's Doll Baby" and from all accounts, she was one of my favorite people, too. I was two when she died.

The ring is lovely, three diamonds in a white gold, filigree setting. It sparkles and makes my hand look beautiful. But even more than being lovely, it is a tangible symbol of from where I come. It ties me to Nan and to her only child, my Gram, and to my Mom. And hopefully it will tie my granddaughter(s) and great-granddaughter(s) to all of us one day. The idea of ties that bind are important to me, family is important to me. Knowing I carry family names with me is an honor. Catching a glimpse of my Gram's smile when I look into a mirror is magic. I am but a square in a huge quilt made up of Katherines and Elizabeths, Virginias and Elsies and Anns. I fit here, I belong. My "button nose" is only borrowed, my fierce loyalty was taught to me by the women who raised me. My passions and intellect, my big heart and silly wit are all gifts that are not mine alone but a compilation of the amazing and strong women who blessed me even before I was born.

I hope the magic in this ring will continue to bind, that it might be strong enough to help heal some of the places where the twine is stretched too thin. For all the wonder I feel about many in my family, I truly miss my sister with whom I have little contact. But that is another blog for another day. Today, I am thankful for all the history I have of my family and for the many Englishes and Maces and Brews who have made me who I am. Thank you!

TG is a bit stuck on equality

Recently I wrote about our changed vacation plans because of the "Stand Your Ground" law in Florida. And then this week I read a very moving blog post by Tikeetha Thomas titled My black son has a name. I was reminded of the writing my dear friend Patrice English did in trying to process the Trayvon Martin verdict titled My Sons In Repose. I am sad that there is such a large group of our society that has to live this way. And even more sad that there are people in our society who still judge others based on their race (or sexual orientation or their gender or their religion!). So here is my processing piece, written just after the Trayvon Martin verdict was announced. How I wish more recent events taught me I was wrong.

Unanswered

I am a person of privilege. Not of wealth or endless opportunity, not a person without struggles or obstacles or frustrations. But I am privileged. I grew up attending schools that didn't minimize the impact I could make on the world because I was female. I grew up being told that everyone was the same, regardless of their socio-economic class, race or sexual orientation. EVERYONE was welcome in my parents’ home, everyone. Our door was literally always open and we had people visit who didn't have two nickels to rub together and people who were ambassadors and royalty. Catholics, Jews, Muslims, and Protestants - all were welcome. Black, brown, beige, mulatto, all were welcome. Love men? Love women? Love both? Love neither? Come on in, you, too, are welcome. 

Rudeness, hatred, bias, prejudice - those were not welcome. Not only in my home but in my liberal hometown. Everywhere my siblings, my friends, I turned there was acceptance. And not only acceptance but appreciation of what made us different. Teach me your language, your customs, your history. We were practically kumbaya singing, daisies in our hair, hippies.

The first time I encountered any rigidity in this idea was when I was placing my older son for adoption. He was a wanted and adored baby who came too soon in my young life. But his father is Black and that made him "special needs." His Apgar scores were good, 8 and 10 and he had all his fingers and toes. How else can you judge a newborn baby (never mind why a newborn baby needs judging!). And, four years later, when his younger brother was born with a Dominican father and Latino sounding name, apologies were made to me for the assumption that he was a "clinic" baby, "I didn't know you had insurance, the test will be done immediately." The world I had grown up knowing wasn't actually real. There would be no more renditions of kumbaya.

And now, over a decade later and many decades after civil rights were fought for and supposedly won, it is clear that the world in which I grew up doesn't exist at all. Instead, we live in a world where a young man with all the hope and promise and potential of any other young man, can be killed. And if he had been a young man like my brothers, blond and blue eyed, the outrage would have been swift and definitive. But he was a young man more like my sons, like the sons and nephews and brothers of so many of my friends, so the outrage was somehow muted. And the demand for justice went unanswered. And Trayvon Benjamin Martin has died in vain. And that is an unacceptable travesty that wouldn't have happened in the world in which I thought I lived.

That Girl Has Wacky Priorities

Relationships are not my forte, I manage to stumble through them with lots of love and silliness, varying amounts of insecurity, a dash of cockiness and a lot of help from my friends (despite my poor track record with men, my girlfriends are golden!). And to prove that point to me, life recently reminded me that my priorities may be just a little out of whack.

I had dated a man for over 6 months. A smart, sweet, funny man. A man I grew to love. For the first time in years, I was dating someone about whom I could get excited and with whom I could maybe envision a future. And then I stumbled across his wife and was completely blown away. I learned rather quickly that everything about him - his name, family of origin, birthday, education, EVERYTHING - was a lie. I wasn't quite sure what to make of all this deceit nor could I fathom how anyone had the energy to live such separate lives. Never mind that his wife and I had unwittingly crossed paths and he was not just playing with fire but juggling it. With a blindfold on. With his hands behind his back.

I was angry. And oh so sad. I wasn't ready to let go; I felt like the man I knew had died when he actually never even existed. But I moved onward and upward. I asked a lot of questions. I managed to find snippets of humor in the idiocy of it all. I even began to feel sorry for him, offered him my friendship. I remembered why it had taken me so long to find love. I was reminded of why my truest love is my truest love and decided he just isn't replaceable. I was even able to be cordial to this manipulative person who continues to lie to women and live his fake life and I dubbed him "Frankthony," a nickname which perfectly blends his fake persona with his real name.

But I didn't really dislike him until a week ago. He never seemed truly wrong for me or truly "bad" until he called my beliefs "radical thinking." He read my blog about not visiting Florida and not eating food from businesses that support conservative thinking and politics. He was not going to deny himself something he enjoyed (Chick-fil-A) because of my crazed ideas of fairness. And that dear folks, made me realize he was all wrong. Infidelity? While I don't condone it, I can see that emotional pain may cause some to make that poor choice. Not standing up to prejudice? That is unacceptable in That Girl's book.