{by Mary of Giving Up on Perfect}

We sat shoulder to shoulder in a tiny dorm room around a tiny TV, watching one of our favorite movies. Just as Johnny marched over to Baby and pulled her out of the corner, our friend Jared walked in the room.

As he took in the room, looking from one girl to the next . . . to the next . . . to the next, he said, “What is wrong with you guys?”

Blinking, we looked up at him and realization dawned. Every single one of us was staring at the screen with a [ridiculous] dreamy look in our eyes. It was like we were in a trance.

The same kind of romance trance I slip into when I read romance novels.

{Originally posted on Goody Bastos}

Juliet: I thought you were going to take out the trash.

Romeo: It’s your turn for the trash, my week to bag the recyclables. Look at the chore wheel on the fridge, for Chrissakes.

Little Tybalt (looking up from his Legos): Mommy, Daddy swore!

Romeo: A greater power than we can contradict hath thwarted our intents to be the best husband and father, I’m sorry, Little Tybalt. It’s just that Mommy and Daddy have been through a lot.

Juliet: I’ll say. There was a plague on both our houses.

Little Tybalt: Hunh? What’s Mom talking about?

Juliet: Never mind. Why don’t you go play Wii?
(Little Tybalt takes his Legos and sulks off)

Juliet (reminiscing while drying the Ikea china): Remember how in love we were?

Romeo: Do I! It seemed to me you were a rich jewel upon the cheek of night.

Juliet: It seemed to me that parting was such sweet sorrow, and now I can’t wait for girl’s night out.

Romeo (slapping his palm to his forehead): O woe!

Juliet: What is it, honey?

Romeo: I forgot to take out the clothes from the washer. They’ll be all mildewy.

Juliet: Again? Didn’t I tell you not to forget to take them out of the washer? Little Tybalt’s gym clothes were in there and he needs them for gymnastics tomorrow. O woeful, woeful, woeful day! Most lamentable day. Most woeful day that ever, ever I did yet behold O day, O day, O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful day! O woeful day!

(by Emily from In The Hush Of The Moon)

there’s nothing colder than a turned back and he shivers

we don’t fight often, and this isn’t a fight, more of a bruised heart and confused language and tripped-up-tired and finally, the back-turn

but it feels like a fight and it rips me because i wonder if he’ll remember this one when it’s over: just like the others

“what others?” husband asks, eyeing my burger as i bite, barbecued offering, and his salad which he says is fancy because of the shredded carrot and he hates shredding carrots and i’m already melting but i hate to tell him this

i remind him of years ago, when i wasn’t eating nor sleeping and the mascara-streaked pillows and the punched walls and the days he’d sit in the car for fear of coming into the house and he says

“i don’t remember that. i remember watching tv with you until you fell asleep. i remember the meals you did eat with me, the pizza we’d share, the popcorn, and i remember never waking angry.”

the carrots taste fancy in my mouth…

{by Lindsey from I Digress: Tales from a Baby-Starved Wingnut}

We are in a house of windows. In a glass house, which is ironic if you’ve been with me for the past 72 hours. Storms are rolling in back to back, rain is coming down in hard sheets. The wedding is outside. Or was supposed to be. Our host has an 80′s love music compilation CD playing in a house-wide stereo system. The bride stands at the window just outside of the yellow lamp light and watches the rain while REO Speedwagon plays in the background. I am oddly reminded of the movie Forces of Nature, where the bride waits in the hurricane for her groom.

It has been a long road to this day. The family is held together by gossamer threads of duty. The grandmother might not come, people are not speaking.

I don’t fit in with these girls. Of all the bridesmaids I am the only one that only knows the bride through the groom. I gravitate to the mother of the bride. Something about the entire day makes me need a mother.

****

I am getting my makeup done. The artist asks if I have babies. I say no, and don’t offer any explanation. When she asks me what I want my eyes to look like, I say dark and heavy.

****

I am getting my hair done. The hairdresser asks me if I have babies. I offer a slightly more hopeful answer than I gave the makeup artist and say, not yet! She does big, loopy curls in my hair while she eats a sandwich and I try not to worry about her dripping mayo on my back. She says her GPS brought her here, she has never been so far out in the country. I laugh. She says, seriously . . . where are we? I tell her the honest answer, that I don’t know. I am just as lost as she is.

****

Every hour the tension increases. The bride is screechy and stressed, her sisters hate her behind her back. Our host, her aunt, gives us a talk about Jesus Christ and His Plan. If His Plan is for rain on your wedding day, you accept it. She says: You have to bend to his will. Submit. What he wants is what you get. I think: Jesus sounds like an angry toddler. She says that one year her husband and her decided to celebrate their anniversary with Jesus. Her husband got her a card that said: Happy Anniversary to you, me and JC! The bride sets her plate down and walks out of the room.

****

The Aunt’s job is to be the time enforcer. In the last 15 minutes she yells the time left before we have to leave every minute. TEN MINUTES, she screams. Peter Cetera sings in the background. NINE MINUTES. My bag is packed by the front door, I stand there with my dress over my arm, it’s making sweaty creases in my skin. EIGHT MINUTES. When it gets down to the last two minutes the bride begins the epic meltdown. She is screaming at everyone except me, because I haven’t even gone near her in the last 2 hours.

*****

I am in the backseat of the car on the way to the ceremony. I hate the backseat, I get carsick. The maid of honor is driving. The bride is rocking back and forth with her veil neatly tucked in her stiff hair, chanting something about hating everyone. Her little sister is in the back with me. We are both texting people about how badly we want to be somewhere (anywhere) else. Her sister says: I swear, she is normally a nice person.

*****

We use umbrellas to shield her on the way in, because the groom is in the parking lot. When it’s time to put on her dress and its not fitting she screams and tells everyone to get away from her. The rain stops long enough to get our pictures taken outside. All of our heels sink into the mud. We forget that we are supposed to have bouquets. We are unhappy and tired but we smile radiantly any time someone raises a camera. I see B across the way, in his tux, and my eyes water. It’s the first thing that’s moved me all day.

{by Jennie from She Likes Purple}

I can’t remember if my relationship with my dad has ever been really easy, has ever been really good. I think so, I hope so, but still I can’t remember. I remember plenty of good times, sure — the way he used to swerve the car to the beat of the music on the radio, how he’s always up for a donut, when he drove so far out of his way last summer to see me another time before my plane left California. He appreciates good music and art and movies. He is whip smart and funny, too. When he’s on, he’s one of the most enjoyable people to be around. He’s not always on.

He can tell you who won the World Series 10 years ago and by how many games and who the winning pitcher was, but he’s forgotten my birthday more than once. I laugh because that’s funny, right? I laugh because what else am I going to do? “Remember when you forgot my birt….” I try to joke. “Don’t go there,” he warns. He means it.

I remember being so proud to be his daughter when I was much, much younger, but that feeling faded into something else entirely when I caught on to all the cheating and then it was smashed to smithereens once he walked out for good.

It’s the biggest conflict of my entire life, how to reconcile the very, very good with the very, very bad. There have been plenty of both.

I don’t blame him anymore for what he did all those years ago. What good would that do? But I have held out hope he would change, that he would stop doing it over and over again, year after year. I hoped he would get it, would see that his temper and jealousy has polluted every good relationship he has ever had. His temper has knocked so much over, left it broken on the floor. There was always so much wreckage left in the wake of his fury, wreckage I spent years sifting through. I’m done sifting now, and I’ve forgiven him, but, my god, I can’t fight anymore. I’m too tired.

I’m struggling, fumbling, tripping over myself to figure out how to have a relationship with a parent as a parent. “We’re both adults,” he said to me recently. Yes, we are, I thought. But I’m still your daughter.

I write here knowing anyone could read, imagining everyone I know is, just to be sure I don’t say anything to end friendships or make dinner parties especially awkward. He could find this space with one quick Google search. He could already be reading it. I’m fine if he is, if he has. I’ve said all this to him and then some. This is my therapy, this is how I heal, how I figure shit out, how I rise up out of the wreckage of all the broken dreams left shattered below. It’s not what you’d do, I’m sure, but write through it is all I can do. Those who love me will allow me that.

There’s been another fight, another long string of heartfelt, wounded emails, sleepless nights of thinking about what’s best, what I need, what I want. I wonder if it’ll ever end. I hope less these days.

One thing I used to say to Kyle when I was pregnant, when I’d be lounging, beached-whale-like, on the couch, was You don’t have to give back, you never have to give back. I’m not having you for me. I’m having you for the world. I’m not made of steel, but I mean it. I don’t have to be his first choice or his last call. He can prefer people over me and live a life apart from me. People have already gasped at how easily I hand my kid to anyone who wants him, how little it bothers me when someone else sees him roll over for the first time. God, I could never do that. I could never leave my kid! I don’t know how you do it! I’m not heartless. I just love him enough not to pin my happiness on him. That’s a heavy burden for him to carry, don’t I know.

I’ve often felt my dad has done things for me in order to have something to sling at me when we’re arguing. He wants to give, give, give, so he can remind, remind, remind. So I overcompensate. I tell Kyle as I rock him to sleep, Loving you is enough for me. You owe me nothing.

I try so hard to be different that I forget how much there is to love. My dad will hand money to any stranger in need, he’ll take me to In N Out Burger whenever I visit, he raised me to accept all people for exactly who they are, regardless of their race or who they choose to have sex with. He’s a good man with a good heart, and, yet, I can’t remember if we’ve ever really had a good relationship.

I’m afraid we never will.

by Elizabeth of Boy Crazy [Clarity-Chaos]

For reasons unknown or unanalyzed, an old friend popped into my mind today.

My friend J was a quiet guy. He was an artist and a musician. In high school, these attributes do not necessarily make you the coolest of kids. But he was smart and sweet and funny and shy, and when I took his arm and played his date at stage right in a musical with a name I can’t recall, I crushed hard for J. I always liked the uncool kids. (They were always the coolest.)

I, a boy crazy sophomore, was the first kiss for this shy senior boy. He, all kindness and blue eyes, was the nicest, sweetest boy I had ever kissed.

But this was highschool, where fickleness and frivolity reign. And after he ended one of our dates with a run through Taco Bell drivethru, sending me shrinking to the far side of his parent’s giant blue station wagon in angst over how bad his breath would be when he walked me to my front door, it was over.

And the next week when I introduced my dad to G, who sat on our livingroom couch, arm slung around my shoulders, my father summed it up just right when he humiliated me in his befuddlement, “G? What happened to J? What is this – boyfriend of the week??!”

And it was. It was how I rolled, nothing personal, J.

But I always felt badly about how abruptly I ended things. The poor guy had no clue it was just about the Taco Bell, no idea about the fickleness, the frivolity of teenage girls. He let it end without drama, and he stepped quietly aside as I finished out the school year as G’s girl.

He was such a nice guy and I was the only girl he ever kissed.

A couple of years later I bumped into J at a summer concert in our hometown. He was home from college, and I was genuinely excited to see him. We laughed that War was headlining the show, twenty years past their peak; and we chatted for a while. After rocking out to Low Rider, I gave him another big hug and told him that it was really, really good to see him again and that I was so glad he was doing well. He stayed at the stage and I ran off with my friends. I turned back and waved goodbye one more time. He was smiling.

One week later J died of an asthma attack. He was 21 years old.

At his funeral, a college friend brought along a letter J had mailed him just that week. In it, J had written how he had bumped into a girl he used to date…

{Originally posted on Bitch Ph.D.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 5, 2008

So here is the biggest, most annoying problem with having a feminist marriage:

No matter what you and your partner have agreed on, other people will cling to their antiquated notions.

It’s the biggest evidence to me that marriage is not just a contract between two people; it’s also a kind of social contact (for better or for worse). Like, if you and your partner decide to reverse conventional gender roles–you work the day job, he stays home with kids and kitchen–and you are perfectly happy with this arrangement (ok, reasonably happy). Lovely! You win! You and your partner have done all the hard work necessary in arriving at this decision, you have had principled discussions about division of labor, you have made sure that neither one of you is feeling coerced, that this is how you both want it to be, blah blah blah and now you can sit back and enjoy your domestic life. WRONG. Because now you have to deal with constantly explaining to everyone around you that, “no, this really is what we both want, no, I am not an emasculating bitch, actually this was his idea, no really you can ask him, no, he isn’t doing it “for” me, no, we’re not doing this to “prove” something, really, we are doing this because it works for both of us, individually and as a couple.”

Of course, you could refuse to explain all this, and then you have the fun of hearing the whispered comments, the second-hand hints from, oh, say, your sisters-in-law: “well, of course it’s none of our business, but we do wonder. . .”or “oh, I think it’s fine,” (gee, how big of you) “but you know, mother-in-law thinks you’re emasculating Mr. B.” And I like my mother in law, but jesus. Or things like snide comments about how little housework you do which make you want to scream about how you did the lion’s share of the housework for TEN YEARS, goddamnit, including while you were writing your dissertation and all that time you were teaching but of course that was always invisible.

It starts when you decide not to change your name, of course. You explain it to everyone, and then they get it wrong on the letters anyway. Which, you know, fine; I realize that people kind of default to the “normal” pattern without thinking. But my own father?!? Dude. It’s the same name I always had. It’s YOUR name. Get it right. And stop acting hurt when I get irritated by it. And then there are the casual acquaintances or new friends who, at some point, you have to tell–“well, actually Mr. B.’s last name is not B.,” and instead of just saying, “oh, okay” (I mean really. It’s unusual but not unheard of.) they say “really? Why did you do that? Did he mind? What did your parents think? What did his parents think? What about the kid? Don’t you think he’ll be confused? Why did you give him the last name you gave him? Isn’t that weird? Isn’t this kind of a weak feminist statement since you just have your dad’s name anyway?” and so on. Most of the time I really don’t mind this stuff. There’s a reason why I teach, and it’s because I love to explain shit. But occasionally I’ll step back and think, lord. Do I really have to explain all of this to every single person who asks? Do they really have the right to ask? Do they have the right to be irked if I’m feeling tired of it that day and just say something snotty like, “why the hell should I change my name?” and try to leave it at that?

{Originally published at Mommy Pie.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on June 26, 2008

I own three bridesmaid dresses. I’ve been to countless wedding ceremonies. I’ve happily purchased hundreds of dollars worth of gifts for my friends’ celebratory passages into traditional family life.

Most of those unions have lasted. Some have not.

With my 40th coming up in just a few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about about time, and fate, and the very different, and sometimes unexpected, paths our lives all take.

However I got here, this is my life. I embrace it wholeheartedly. And I wonder, where’s the ceremony for singles who have found in themselves the one they’ve been looking for all along? What about the ones who, for better or worse, never do marry another?

I’d like to think that someday I will find someone to have and to hold. I do hope so. (Especially after getting to know so many of you married mamas through your blogs.) But, what if I don’t? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Because I’m happy. I actually want what I have. And although occasionally, I do pine for little things here and there, in reality, I know all I need is family. No matter what shape it takes.

Hell, I may just wind up marrying myself.

I’d certainly never be accused of marrying for money. And there’s no one who’d love MP more. I’d never cheat on myself, and I’d never have to worry about divorce. I wouldn’t have a choice but to work through the hard times.

Not only would it symbolically celebrate my love affair with my daughter, it would serve as a reminder of my commitment to giving myself what I would give to a spouse. Love, time and respect.

I’ve got it all worked out.

1. THE PROPOSAL
Executed flawlessly. Because I’m a mind reader, I’d know exactly how I’d always imagined it. Definitely a story worth telling over and over.

And over.

{Originally Published on Classy Chaos}

Naturally as a mother, my ultimate goal is to raise happy, confident and loving children. However as an immigrant in this country, I desire more.

This desire. This hungry for more is a common thread between many immigrant experiences. Library shelves are full of fascinating written words ranging from Japanese-Americans assimilating into the vineyards of California to the Mexican migrant workers surviving droughts in Texas to the Jewish people building an empire with their hands in the early years of NYC. The mothers in these carefully crafted histories did more for their children then just basic mothering.

They came to America for a better life. Leaving behind all the hardships in their homelands for a chance to conquer all the opportunities in a free world. They witnessed living in countries where success was measured by the entree served for dinner instead of by experience and education. Immigrant mothers grew hungry for more, taking nothing for granted.

There’s a valid reason why I can not really identify with any references made to Saturday morning cartoons from the 80′s. I remember the scent of my mother’s hair as she knelt down before me and repeated in a heavy Polish accent, “I did not come to this country for you to sit and watch TV.” Minutes in front of the TV innocently robbed us from essential backyard free play, from extravagant vacations to Machu Picchu, from endless summer fun at the community pool and from rhythmic gymnastics competitions. TV and video games deferred us from my mother’s desire for a better life. “We are different. You are different.” She repeated my entire life each time I begged to go to the mall or asked to watch The Wonder Years, yearning to become more American like my peers.

Richard Rodriguez’s acclaimed autobiography Hunger for Memory set a nationwide debate some years ago by addressing, “If Richard Rodriguez could succeed given his obstacles, why can’t everyone else?”

His success came from his desire for more. His hunger. That motivated him. I do believe that those factors are a result from his immigrant experience as he witnessed the hardships of the community first hand. Of course you don’t need to be an immigrant to experience hardships and to have desire/motivation for more. Although. Had Rodriguez been born into third generation Latinos his life might have been different on a more stable and paved journey through life. It’s difficult for educated immigrants to watch life in America pass them by; instead, they leap at every available opportunity within their sight.

{Originally Published on The Black Snob}

Are you angry? Would we not like you when you’re angry?

I got into a discussion with a friend about male/female relationships while I was in Washington, D.C. and we were discussing the Obamas. He saw Michelle Obama, the First Lady, as the dominating figure in the relationship due to the fact that the president sometimes defers to her in his speeches or references her, saying he discussed things with her or so on. After listening to him for a bit, I pointed out that often the Obamas are more of a marital Rorschach test that says more about us than them, that no one can actually know another person’s marriage but the two people in it and that often we are taking our own experiences, wants, desires and fears and projecting them upon the First Family. But while he said he “liked” Michelle, he did see her as the quintessential “Angry Black Woman.”

Oh. That heifer again.

All my life I’ve heard many things about this woman. The finger snapping, neck cracking, fussin’ feuding and fighting, pissed off, scary as all get out, crazy, angry black woman. And while I’ve known a few black women who may qualify as angry or may have a chip on their shoulder a lot of this is much more complicated than a simple “she’s a crazy ABW.”

When you’ve been robbed of your femininity (which is sometimes the case with black women) due to a society that historically didn’t view you as a woman or, let’s say, a woman worth being chivalrous to (see Truth, Sojourner) you get a real limited amount of things you can do to get attention. I’ve known countless black women and men who grew up in households were parents and other adults honestly could have cared less if you had a bad day and frowned upon any crying, fussing, moaning or complaining. Suck it up, is practically the national pastime. But the one emotion that is almost always acceptable is anger. Your parents get mad. Your friends get mad. You get mad. Everyone is allowed to get mad. For some people crying is perceived as a weakness, but if you’re one “not to take no shit off of nobody” well, that will get you accolades and props and pats on the back. We reward strength in our community, in our society. Often anger is confused with strength.