This morning my two single employees were freaking out about how much married rent is. Then one of them goes, "yeah, sometimes I just think I should find a girl that like just graduated but has a job. Then she'll be like, 'eight hundred dollars for rent? No big deal! I make $84,000 a year' and write a check!" I'm just going to let that sink in. $84,000 a year.
Another time a girl that was working for me was always saying how she just couldn't wait to graduate and be a therapist and make $70,000 a year and she was serious. I'm not really sure where they get this idea from, like are people out there making $70,000 a year 2 years after gradating from this college?? Maybe some. But is everyone? Hell no.
My other employee started saying how married rent is expensive but it's doable on two student incomes. And the $84,000 a year guy goes, "I guess...... And be poor........?.....?"
sometimes people in my life (usually men) do this thing where if they don't like something i do (98% of the time it doesn't even affect them), they will question me about it until they know all my reasons. i hate it because pretty much they are doing it because they don't think i'm capable of making a sound decision (otherwise how could it be something they don't like??) or they think they deserve an explanation and they won't stop turning their nose up at me unless they think my reasons are good enough.
this happens in response to all kinds of things i do--from putting a door stop in a door to going to law school.
my favorite is when they ask me again if i'm sure about it. hmm let me think.... oh wait, yes, i definitely meant to do that as evidenced by my doing it and my explanation and defensiveness at your request.
i don't care if you understand and i don't owe you an explanation. i don't care who you are. that's not me being a bitch, that's me being a person.
this happens in response to all kinds of things i do--from putting a door stop in a door to going to law school.
my favorite is when they ask me again if i'm sure about it. hmm let me think.... oh wait, yes, i definitely meant to do that as evidenced by my doing it and my explanation and defensiveness at your request.
i don't care if you understand and i don't owe you an explanation. i don't care who you are. that's not me being a bitch, that's me being a person.
remember that one time my roommate never talked to me or said anything and then one day she exploded and told me i gave her depression by not being her good friend and she had to meet with the bishop on regular basis to deal with it and that the whole ward was talking about me behind my back and everyone was mad i wouldn't be friends with them? also remember how she would NEVER lock the front door and when we confronted her about it (and really asked her nicely to lock it) she had a break down and was crying and said that she hates locked doors?
or remember that other roommate who was my best friend who one day she stopped talking to me and wouldn't tell me what was wrong and then one day i came home and she was moving out that day without telling me? and also how she loved twilight and i accidentally found her expensive vampire veneers in a bathroom cupboard one time?
or remember when my roommate would buy bags and bags of stuff from the dollar store and COVER our entire living room in the most awkward home made dollar store crafts? and put a sticker on her missionary calendar every single day until her missionary came home and dumped her?
or remember that one time my roommate's parents convinced her over christmas break that when a guy friend had been in our dorm room and made a joke about a homemade bomb like two months before it was actually a serious bomb threat and she told the police, the bishop, the relief society president, and then asked me not to allow him in our room anymore but when i said no, requested to move rooms immediately? and would also rather die than eat strawberries because she read that they sometimes dye them?
or remember that time i had another roommate who would cough until she threw up? and who also cracked our toilet seat somehow?
or remember when i had a suite mate who refused to lock the shared bathroom door and--semi-unrelated--also saw me naked?
or remember that one time my roommate asked me to keep her credit card so she couldn't buy any more pizza? or that time she had been watching law and order svu for like six days straight (i think she left it on while she slept) and then randomly when i was walking through the living room told me really dramatically that she thought she just remembered being sexually abused? and how she told us she had a porn addiction and would leave her lds recovery booklets around and got way awkward about it when our home teachers came over? and was always in and slept in and kept her stuff in the living room even though she had the only private room? and would throw parties that no one would come to so she would wallow for a week and post mean stuff on our ward's facebook wall?
damn, it's good to be married.
or remember that other roommate who was my best friend who one day she stopped talking to me and wouldn't tell me what was wrong and then one day i came home and she was moving out that day without telling me? and also how she loved twilight and i accidentally found her expensive vampire veneers in a bathroom cupboard one time?
or remember when my roommate would buy bags and bags of stuff from the dollar store and COVER our entire living room in the most awkward home made dollar store crafts? and put a sticker on her missionary calendar every single day until her missionary came home and dumped her?
or remember that one time my roommate's parents convinced her over christmas break that when a guy friend had been in our dorm room and made a joke about a homemade bomb like two months before it was actually a serious bomb threat and she told the police, the bishop, the relief society president, and then asked me not to allow him in our room anymore but when i said no, requested to move rooms immediately? and would also rather die than eat strawberries because she read that they sometimes dye them?
or remember that time i had another roommate who would cough until she threw up? and who also cracked our toilet seat somehow?
or remember when i had a suite mate who refused to lock the shared bathroom door and--semi-unrelated--also saw me naked?
or remember that one time my roommate asked me to keep her credit card so she couldn't buy any more pizza? or that time she had been watching law and order svu for like six days straight (i think she left it on while she slept) and then randomly when i was walking through the living room told me really dramatically that she thought she just remembered being sexually abused? and how she told us she had a porn addiction and would leave her lds recovery booklets around and got way awkward about it when our home teachers came over? and was always in and slept in and kept her stuff in the living room even though she had the only private room? and would throw parties that no one would come to so she would wallow for a week and post mean stuff on our ward's facebook wall?
damn, it's good to be married.
my mom and dad had their very first family reunion this summer with us, their kids (i am the oldest and only married one). we did so many things and had so much fun. on the last day or so, we stopped by buffalo wild wings because my dad had called in an order of boneless wings. a lot of things make him sick these days, but buffalo wild wings is one of the things he can usually eat. we'd been out all day and were in fact coming home from one of our activities, so we all stopped while he ran inside. i don't remember if for some reason i was already irritated--i think someone had been squabbling--but we sat there and the minutes began to drag on. ten minutes. twenty minutes. it was getting to be half an hour and i just wanted to go the f back to the house because it was hot and for whatever reason we were all kind of pissy, mostly from the sun.
we commandeered my brothers, moving them from my mom's car to our car, and right as we were pulling out my dad came out with his little bag of wings, and away we went.
later my mom tells us that my dad was waiting in line for his order when he suddenly had to get to the bathroom. he rushed in there in a panic but the stalls were full, and he lost control of his bowels. it had happened to him before at work in the middle of the morning, and my mom had to pick him up.
she will tell us how he'll go to work and realize his shirt's on backwards or inside out or both and how humiliating it is for him. how once they got an insurance check for my brother's braces and he went out and bought shoes, pants, some books--things he had been needing and wanting--$500 of it. when she asked him why in the world he did it, he said he just thought they had an extra big pay check, that they didn't have any bills that week or something.
my dad is sick and when it hits me, like tonight, from something so silly as a movie, it's obliterating. it's like if he is fading away, i shouldn't exist. not like i can't go on without him or anything like that, but just that this shouldn't happen to anyone's dad, so it's impossible for this to be real. and the burden of that is crushing.
the only thing i could think tonight before the sorrow took over is that i have to make this all worth it. i have to make something of myself.
recently in a get to know you meeting at work one of the questions was, "what was your biggest childhood struggle?" i told the group honestly that i think my parents struggled quite a bit but that i never felt like i was missing a thing, and couldn't think of an answer. i always knew my mom was a fighter from the way she lived her life, but you grow up and learn things you maybe don't want to learn but need to. like that she won against clinical depression. and the battle against suicide. and she's winning in this battle with my dad's cancer--i mean, she's fucking killing it. no human should be able to handle it half as well. and i always under-appreciated my dad. the day they found out about the tumor he was furled up in a wheelchair--why was he in a wheelchair?--and, my mom told us, a tear rolled down his cheek. he asked my mom quietly, "was i enough?" he is a quiet person--i get it all from him--and he is going just like he came--so quietly and imperceptibly that if you didn't know what was actually going on you wouldn't even know it. and then one day he will just be gone.
i am scared that one day i will wake up or be woken up to a call that he just passed away in his sleep. that it could be literally any day. that maybe the tumor won't even come back first. and that i won't have done shit for him, in return for all he did for me.
i have to keep going, on to law school or--the only suitable replacement being--something of equal weight and work and challenge. for all that has happened they gave us so quietly the best life they could, and even if i am not as selfless or opposed or strong as them, i have to give at least one thing in life all that i've fucking got.
we commandeered my brothers, moving them from my mom's car to our car, and right as we were pulling out my dad came out with his little bag of wings, and away we went.
later my mom tells us that my dad was waiting in line for his order when he suddenly had to get to the bathroom. he rushed in there in a panic but the stalls were full, and he lost control of his bowels. it had happened to him before at work in the middle of the morning, and my mom had to pick him up.
she will tell us how he'll go to work and realize his shirt's on backwards or inside out or both and how humiliating it is for him. how once they got an insurance check for my brother's braces and he went out and bought shoes, pants, some books--things he had been needing and wanting--$500 of it. when she asked him why in the world he did it, he said he just thought they had an extra big pay check, that they didn't have any bills that week or something.
my dad is sick and when it hits me, like tonight, from something so silly as a movie, it's obliterating. it's like if he is fading away, i shouldn't exist. not like i can't go on without him or anything like that, but just that this shouldn't happen to anyone's dad, so it's impossible for this to be real. and the burden of that is crushing.
the only thing i could think tonight before the sorrow took over is that i have to make this all worth it. i have to make something of myself.
recently in a get to know you meeting at work one of the questions was, "what was your biggest childhood struggle?" i told the group honestly that i think my parents struggled quite a bit but that i never felt like i was missing a thing, and couldn't think of an answer. i always knew my mom was a fighter from the way she lived her life, but you grow up and learn things you maybe don't want to learn but need to. like that she won against clinical depression. and the battle against suicide. and she's winning in this battle with my dad's cancer--i mean, she's fucking killing it. no human should be able to handle it half as well. and i always under-appreciated my dad. the day they found out about the tumor he was furled up in a wheelchair--why was he in a wheelchair?--and, my mom told us, a tear rolled down his cheek. he asked my mom quietly, "was i enough?" he is a quiet person--i get it all from him--and he is going just like he came--so quietly and imperceptibly that if you didn't know what was actually going on you wouldn't even know it. and then one day he will just be gone.
i am scared that one day i will wake up or be woken up to a call that he just passed away in his sleep. that it could be literally any day. that maybe the tumor won't even come back first. and that i won't have done shit for him, in return for all he did for me.
i have to keep going, on to law school or--the only suitable replacement being--something of equal weight and work and challenge. for all that has happened they gave us so quietly the best life they could, and even if i am not as selfless or opposed or strong as them, i have to give at least one thing in life all that i've fucking got.
on friday dh was offered and hired or a full time job--his boss's job. so, pretty much our eyes are dollar signs right now.
except, it's so much more than that. we are doing well. we are both tooting along. after we got married, it was a year of just being in a dark place. then the next year genuinely dark things were happening in our lives. and now we are coming out of it a little bit and it feels so good. like, maybe this is just what feeling okay and being normal adult humans feels like. but we are so much happier. (at least, i am.)
it wasn't until a few months ago that i realized that what was missing in my life was time alone, time spent actually looking at myself and being like "okay who the f is there?" my senior year of college i was doing amazingly well. i lost a ton of weight and had finally come into my own as an english student and was excelling at work and freak i got a job before i even graduated. and then graduating, getting married, and starting work full time sent me to this twisty place.
i have always been kind of dysfunctional in romantic relationships and i was possessive and i let my life revolve around my marriage. and marriage is important but like dude if you're not doing anything else in life then you're not worth being married to, and i just didn't get that. i just hadn't really made plans to be a person after graduating. (not like i knew what to expect.) maybe waiting those two years f'ed me up (tho i don't regret waiting for him). maybe it's just that i never learned in my 4-year high school relationship to grow the f up and be an adult about things, because i just didn't have to. all i know i that whatever good thing i was coming into when i graduated college quickly left me.
but right now, this moment is delicious. the holidays are coming. some of my evenings will be free for me to spend at the gym, at the movies, in a good book, or wherever i please. we are going to get out of debt. we are doing everything our own way. some people don't get that but we are both doing things that are so right for us.
i am so happy. thank you to my friends who stuck with me when i was so lost.
except, it's so much more than that. we are doing well. we are both tooting along. after we got married, it was a year of just being in a dark place. then the next year genuinely dark things were happening in our lives. and now we are coming out of it a little bit and it feels so good. like, maybe this is just what feeling okay and being normal adult humans feels like. but we are so much happier. (at least, i am.)
it wasn't until a few months ago that i realized that what was missing in my life was time alone, time spent actually looking at myself and being like "okay who the f is there?" my senior year of college i was doing amazingly well. i lost a ton of weight and had finally come into my own as an english student and was excelling at work and freak i got a job before i even graduated. and then graduating, getting married, and starting work full time sent me to this twisty place.
i have always been kind of dysfunctional in romantic relationships and i was possessive and i let my life revolve around my marriage. and marriage is important but like dude if you're not doing anything else in life then you're not worth being married to, and i just didn't get that. i just hadn't really made plans to be a person after graduating. (not like i knew what to expect.) maybe waiting those two years f'ed me up (tho i don't regret waiting for him). maybe it's just that i never learned in my 4-year high school relationship to grow the f up and be an adult about things, because i just didn't have to. all i know i that whatever good thing i was coming into when i graduated college quickly left me.
but right now, this moment is delicious. the holidays are coming. some of my evenings will be free for me to spend at the gym, at the movies, in a good book, or wherever i please. we are going to get out of debt. we are doing everything our own way. some people don't get that but we are both doing things that are so right for us.
i am so happy. thank you to my friends who stuck with me when i was so lost.
for the record, i really like my employees right now and life is pretty quiet and good.
but when my brand new 25 year old employee tells me he is taking two weeks off for christmas and he needs to just make it official so his mommy can buy his plane ticket, i can't tell you how much sympathy i don't have for him.
and ok, he didn't say "mommy", but that's pretty much how it came off.
but when my brand new 25 year old employee tells me he is taking two weeks off for christmas and he needs to just make it official so his mommy can buy his plane ticket, i can't tell you how much sympathy i don't have for him.
and ok, he didn't say "mommy", but that's pretty much how it came off.
Some Thoughts on Mercy - Ross Gay
today's essay is "some thoughts on mercy" by ross gay. i want to preface this entire blurb by saying that i will never know what racism feels like and i understand this privilege is incomprehensible to me. the closest i've ever been to someone denigrating me for the color of my skin was in high school when i was looking for a place to sit. the bus was crowded and i tried to take this empty seat but the kids around it looked me square in the eye and said, 'we don't like white people.' they were asian. still, i'm pretty sure he was joking and that they were laughing at the reserved and terrified look on my face when i left.
i grew up in a pacific northwest town where the hispanic demographic was around 40% of the population but climbing to 50%. there were also many arabic and asian families in town, brought in by the large corporation in town. we were a mostly white but pretty mixed group. it's one of the most liberal areas in the country and, at least as a white (albeit white and mormon) person, it felt extremely accepting.
still, i remember my parents complaining loudly on several occasions that the schools printed everything double sided, with english on one side and spanish on the other. "if they're living here they need to learn english" i heard them say so many times and have heard other people say and have come to loathe with a disgusting pit in my stomach. gangs were also one of the administration's biggest problems (with a relatively calm sea of students), but i don't ever remember anyone, including the administration, defining them racially. mostly i've heard as racist comments as any come out of my parents' and grandparents' mouths and the others that are close to their age. i've always told myself this was an insular mormon and a generational thing, but maybe racism was always more prevalent, even in the northwest, than i understood.
gay's arresting essay focuses on two things: racism as a self-fulfilling prophecy and the unbearable disproportionate responsibility of having skin that's not white. rather than using the term "stereotype" he describes the idea as a "phantom". he describes the way these imagined phantoms affect the white people around him as well as everyone else, and that even a potentially dangerous situation that wasn't dangerous at all had a physical effect on him: "this nonevent took up residence in my body and wrung me out like a rag." i'm very familiar with this feeling of dread and stress from my toxic work relationships--like the other person might as well be threatening or actually attacking you because your physical response--based on an imaginary or unspoken phantom--was that strong.
i also empathize with the blatant disregard and stupidity of the ones denigrating you. "the white kids, some of whom were my close friends, told nigger jokes to my face," gay says, a feeling i'm familiar with as people make sexist jokes and comments to me day in and day out in the office. he recalls how his white friends would explain to him ""the difference between a 'black person' and a 'nigger.'" as a woman, men and other women feel free at any time and at their discretion to determine the type of character a woman has, based most generally on her overall sexual activity and even appearance. i think one difference between the constant subjugation in racism and sexism is that many happily and passively and unknowingly (or disbelievingly) participate in sexism, not believing the power structure to exist, while the existence of racial differences are plainly spelled out on the skin and in history. racism is such an unashamed, unapologetic phantom that wears everything on its sleeves. one story gay shared was particularly poignant:
again, i don't know what it feels like to be a victim of racism. gay's words brought these feelings and memories rushing back, but in the end, i know nothing of his plight. i love his words: "We all think the worst of each other and ourselves, and become our worst selves." he describes the creation of this essay a a way to see "how I’ve been made by this. To have, perhaps, mercy on myself. When we have mercy, deep and abiding change might happen."
i think the reason some people kick their spurs against the word "privilege" is because it's disarming. if you recognize that you have privilege, you are recognizing that you are in some way (probably) not of your own choice given an inability to help solve a problem without potentially being condescending, diminishing, dismissive, or even violent. everyone wants to believe they are a good person and everyone has to believe their intentions are good and pure so their life can go on, but racial privilege is like a built-in hubris, an irremovable mote, a characteristic you had no say in having. and this essay leaves me no choice but to say that, as a white person, i am compelled to "help" but that compulsion is also part of the problem, for me to think that it's my problem to fix. i'm grateful to have read gay's essay to have to face my own privilege, not really having to have faced it growing up, and contemplate that i could be part of the problem.
i'm reminded again of the powerful idea of the other, and that in my day to day walk, and when i have opportunities to serve people at large, i need to give away compassion, allowances, trust and the kind of mercy gay talks about, which is the benefit of the doubt and the willingness to let people articulate, negotiate, and fully scale and own where it is that they come from.
i grew up in a pacific northwest town where the hispanic demographic was around 40% of the population but climbing to 50%. there were also many arabic and asian families in town, brought in by the large corporation in town. we were a mostly white but pretty mixed group. it's one of the most liberal areas in the country and, at least as a white (albeit white and mormon) person, it felt extremely accepting.
still, i remember my parents complaining loudly on several occasions that the schools printed everything double sided, with english on one side and spanish on the other. "if they're living here they need to learn english" i heard them say so many times and have heard other people say and have come to loathe with a disgusting pit in my stomach. gangs were also one of the administration's biggest problems (with a relatively calm sea of students), but i don't ever remember anyone, including the administration, defining them racially. mostly i've heard as racist comments as any come out of my parents' and grandparents' mouths and the others that are close to their age. i've always told myself this was an insular mormon and a generational thing, but maybe racism was always more prevalent, even in the northwest, than i understood.
gay's arresting essay focuses on two things: racism as a self-fulfilling prophecy and the unbearable disproportionate responsibility of having skin that's not white. rather than using the term "stereotype" he describes the idea as a "phantom". he describes the way these imagined phantoms affect the white people around him as well as everyone else, and that even a potentially dangerous situation that wasn't dangerous at all had a physical effect on him: "this nonevent took up residence in my body and wrung me out like a rag." i'm very familiar with this feeling of dread and stress from my toxic work relationships--like the other person might as well be threatening or actually attacking you because your physical response--based on an imaginary or unspoken phantom--was that strong.
i also empathize with the blatant disregard and stupidity of the ones denigrating you. "the white kids, some of whom were my close friends, told nigger jokes to my face," gay says, a feeling i'm familiar with as people make sexist jokes and comments to me day in and day out in the office. he recalls how his white friends would explain to him ""the difference between a 'black person' and a 'nigger.'" as a woman, men and other women feel free at any time and at their discretion to determine the type of character a woman has, based most generally on her overall sexual activity and even appearance. i think one difference between the constant subjugation in racism and sexism is that many happily and passively and unknowingly (or disbelievingly) participate in sexism, not believing the power structure to exist, while the existence of racial differences are plainly spelled out on the skin and in history. racism is such an unashamed, unapologetic phantom that wears everything on its sleeves. one story gay shared was particularly poignant:
Don told me he had been at the bookstore, where a young white woman had asked if he needed any help, and he’d snapped, “Do I look like I need help?” I’m sure this behavior didn’t make sense to the poor woman trying to assist him. Don thought he was being perceived as a criminal. “Can I help you?” twisted in his ear into “Are you stealing something?” I tried to tell him that I’d seen the clerks at that store ask everyone who walked in the same question. Don held his head in his hands. “I’m just so tired,” he said.after a feminist awakening in an inherently skeptical community, i know something of that tiredness. i think that's the same tiredness (which begets impatience and a level of bitterness) that many feminists feel, especially in mormon circles where the community is inherently and at its roots skeptical.
again, i don't know what it feels like to be a victim of racism. gay's words brought these feelings and memories rushing back, but in the end, i know nothing of his plight. i love his words: "We all think the worst of each other and ourselves, and become our worst selves." he describes the creation of this essay a a way to see "how I’ve been made by this. To have, perhaps, mercy on myself. When we have mercy, deep and abiding change might happen."
i think the reason some people kick their spurs against the word "privilege" is because it's disarming. if you recognize that you have privilege, you are recognizing that you are in some way (probably) not of your own choice given an inability to help solve a problem without potentially being condescending, diminishing, dismissive, or even violent. everyone wants to believe they are a good person and everyone has to believe their intentions are good and pure so their life can go on, but racial privilege is like a built-in hubris, an irremovable mote, a characteristic you had no say in having. and this essay leaves me no choice but to say that, as a white person, i am compelled to "help" but that compulsion is also part of the problem, for me to think that it's my problem to fix. i'm grateful to have read gay's essay to have to face my own privilege, not really having to have faced it growing up, and contemplate that i could be part of the problem.
i'm reminded again of the powerful idea of the other, and that in my day to day walk, and when i have opportunities to serve people at large, i need to give away compassion, allowances, trust and the kind of mercy gay talks about, which is the benefit of the doubt and the willingness to let people articulate, negotiate, and fully scale and own where it is that they come from.
Documents - Charles D'Ambrosio
today's 50 essay is "documents" by charles d'ambrosio, who teaches at psu. while d'ambrosio uses three difference documents--a try-hard poem by his dad, who's a professor of finance; a casual letter from his schizophrenic brother; and the suicide note of his other brother--the theme focuses around the latter and the loss of his brother.
i think what makes me nervous about the imagine of these three documents sitting in the boots his brother died in on d'ambrosio's desk all the time (which brings to mind the word, "weight", and not because the boots are filled with rocks), is that these types of artifacts are kind of missing from my life. that diary that i talked about that i kept around the time my dad got sick is in my safety box with my social security card, birth certificate, and our marriage certificate--i consider it just as important as any of those documents.
but my dad's not really big on the written--or spoken--word. i can't even imagine my dad writing something, and he doesn't say much either. what will be left when he's gone? memories, of course, and the life he gave me and the lessons he gave me. but, i won't have anything to literally hold on to. but is that important? not that i'm asking that rhetorically. i really want to know.
my mom is an avid journal writer. she has written in her journal nearly every day since she was a young teenager. i think it has especially helped her fight and see through her depression. the older i get the more i realize that my mom is someone who should have spectacularly and completely imploded years and years ago, but somehow she has kept it together. through severe depression. through isolation. through trials with her kids. through unemployment for our family. and now through cancer. i know her heart and soul are in those journals. they are all in boxes somewhere. once, when i was about fifteen, i found myself in her room alone. i don't remember if i snuck in there or if i was grabbing something. but her journal was on her bedside table. i was so overcome with insane curiosity that i froze, because i am not a spontaneous-deep-diving person. even back then i knew that those journals were special. like in slow motion, i touched it, i pulled it out, i cracked it open. i remember seeing the date of the page i opened to but being too scared to even skim it so i carefully, carefully replaced it on the shelf. despite all of this, somehow she knew that someone had been looking at her journal, or at least that they had touched it, and she knew i had been in her room. she tearfully and angrily confronted me. she asked me if i read her journal and i told her no but she thought i was lying because i had, in fact, pulled it off the shelf. she was so angry because she was so hurt and felt so betrayed, and i think that single thing that i did-didn't do hurt her more than anything else i've ever done as her daughter. those journals are beyond sacred--they are where she works out all the ugly, selfish, messy, dark things i know she hides from us so we can know her as our comforting, unwavering, diligent and (seemingly) thoughtlessly selfless mom.
my grandma, her mom, asked her once what she was going to do with all her journals one day. without skipping a beat, she said, "burn them."
so probably, i will never know what they say. but in a way there's something really dignified about that. i once wrote about this exact thing for one of my women in literature papers, saying that it was kind of a beautiful thing how much they were a part of her and that it was completely her choice how they lived and died, how they were such an important part of who she was and of her identity but that they belonged to her and to no one else. by writing her narrative i think she was often rewriting it.
in his essay, d'ambrosio also recalls when his father shows him his bed where he is constantly eating, showing him all the food stains and how embarrassing and weird it was that a father needed to tell his son that, for no reason except to show it. to me, this only reinforces the need each of us has to tell our story, and shows the kind of twisty but inexplicably healing and solidifying effect the telling of our story can have.
one of the main themes of the essay is that communication isn't always perfect. d'ambrosio talks about how he started writing letters to his father as a grown man because he "believed we might have something to talk about," and that writing it down made it seem significant and almost like a ritual. that kind of blew my mind--that he started writing the letters because he thought he might have something to talk about with his own father, when the two of them had been through so much together. i think communication often falls apart with grief, which is maybe why so many married couples who lose children end up divorcing at a higher rate. there is just something paralyzing about it, something that can't be said, or that you don't want to say because then something dreaded or hurtful or foreboding comes into reality.
in these letters to each other, the author's dad breaks down into pedantic fact-telling, mistaking it for truth-telling, as he explains to his son all the reasons he's wrong about their shared experiences, especially, i presume, the death of their son and brother. plurality and the way two people can experience something different--and then defend that with solid although rarely unopposed facts and definitions and testimonies--is astounding. i think defending our side of the story can sometimes be a way of denying or foregoing complexity or ultimately conclusion, because if you admit that something is complex or that conclusions depend on circumstances, at best, or that there is no one great Truth, then i think you often discover at the same time that you have nothing to say. it's like in the moment you admit there's not a right answer, you also have nothing to say because if there's no right answer there's no point in even taking about it. but i think this is one reason why writing, and especially corresponding, is so important--we work on and eventually dissolve "Truth" with a big "T" for our individual "truths" with a little "t", becoming a compassionate person who is at peace and understanding with their own individual truth (and, often, their inability to change the truths of others). the works of c.s. lewis come to mind, with their reflection and extensive writing on the most important topics and themes and experiences in his life. i think c.s. lewis was a man at peace because as a writer he did the work to write his peace. much like my mom writing in her journals day after day to remember the good and the bad and form not only her story but herself.
i like how d'ambrosio says that one reason he keeps these documents is because as long as he has them, he and that person are "still in a dialogue." there's something really compounding about what we say to others, especially our family. like once something has been said, it's real. i'm grateful to have read d'ambrosio's essay so i can think more carefully about how to write my own story and also how to tell and show my family that i love and need them.
i think what makes me nervous about the imagine of these three documents sitting in the boots his brother died in on d'ambrosio's desk all the time (which brings to mind the word, "weight", and not because the boots are filled with rocks), is that these types of artifacts are kind of missing from my life. that diary that i talked about that i kept around the time my dad got sick is in my safety box with my social security card, birth certificate, and our marriage certificate--i consider it just as important as any of those documents.
but my dad's not really big on the written--or spoken--word. i can't even imagine my dad writing something, and he doesn't say much either. what will be left when he's gone? memories, of course, and the life he gave me and the lessons he gave me. but, i won't have anything to literally hold on to. but is that important? not that i'm asking that rhetorically. i really want to know.
my mom is an avid journal writer. she has written in her journal nearly every day since she was a young teenager. i think it has especially helped her fight and see through her depression. the older i get the more i realize that my mom is someone who should have spectacularly and completely imploded years and years ago, but somehow she has kept it together. through severe depression. through isolation. through trials with her kids. through unemployment for our family. and now through cancer. i know her heart and soul are in those journals. they are all in boxes somewhere. once, when i was about fifteen, i found myself in her room alone. i don't remember if i snuck in there or if i was grabbing something. but her journal was on her bedside table. i was so overcome with insane curiosity that i froze, because i am not a spontaneous-deep-diving person. even back then i knew that those journals were special. like in slow motion, i touched it, i pulled it out, i cracked it open. i remember seeing the date of the page i opened to but being too scared to even skim it so i carefully, carefully replaced it on the shelf. despite all of this, somehow she knew that someone had been looking at her journal, or at least that they had touched it, and she knew i had been in her room. she tearfully and angrily confronted me. she asked me if i read her journal and i told her no but she thought i was lying because i had, in fact, pulled it off the shelf. she was so angry because she was so hurt and felt so betrayed, and i think that single thing that i did-didn't do hurt her more than anything else i've ever done as her daughter. those journals are beyond sacred--they are where she works out all the ugly, selfish, messy, dark things i know she hides from us so we can know her as our comforting, unwavering, diligent and (seemingly) thoughtlessly selfless mom.
my grandma, her mom, asked her once what she was going to do with all her journals one day. without skipping a beat, she said, "burn them."
so probably, i will never know what they say. but in a way there's something really dignified about that. i once wrote about this exact thing for one of my women in literature papers, saying that it was kind of a beautiful thing how much they were a part of her and that it was completely her choice how they lived and died, how they were such an important part of who she was and of her identity but that they belonged to her and to no one else. by writing her narrative i think she was often rewriting it.
in his essay, d'ambrosio also recalls when his father shows him his bed where he is constantly eating, showing him all the food stains and how embarrassing and weird it was that a father needed to tell his son that, for no reason except to show it. to me, this only reinforces the need each of us has to tell our story, and shows the kind of twisty but inexplicably healing and solidifying effect the telling of our story can have.
one of the main themes of the essay is that communication isn't always perfect. d'ambrosio talks about how he started writing letters to his father as a grown man because he "believed we might have something to talk about," and that writing it down made it seem significant and almost like a ritual. that kind of blew my mind--that he started writing the letters because he thought he might have something to talk about with his own father, when the two of them had been through so much together. i think communication often falls apart with grief, which is maybe why so many married couples who lose children end up divorcing at a higher rate. there is just something paralyzing about it, something that can't be said, or that you don't want to say because then something dreaded or hurtful or foreboding comes into reality.
in these letters to each other, the author's dad breaks down into pedantic fact-telling, mistaking it for truth-telling, as he explains to his son all the reasons he's wrong about their shared experiences, especially, i presume, the death of their son and brother. plurality and the way two people can experience something different--and then defend that with solid although rarely unopposed facts and definitions and testimonies--is astounding. i think defending our side of the story can sometimes be a way of denying or foregoing complexity or ultimately conclusion, because if you admit that something is complex or that conclusions depend on circumstances, at best, or that there is no one great Truth, then i think you often discover at the same time that you have nothing to say. it's like in the moment you admit there's not a right answer, you also have nothing to say because if there's no right answer there's no point in even taking about it. but i think this is one reason why writing, and especially corresponding, is so important--we work on and eventually dissolve "Truth" with a big "T" for our individual "truths" with a little "t", becoming a compassionate person who is at peace and understanding with their own individual truth (and, often, their inability to change the truths of others). the works of c.s. lewis come to mind, with their reflection and extensive writing on the most important topics and themes and experiences in his life. i think c.s. lewis was a man at peace because as a writer he did the work to write his peace. much like my mom writing in her journals day after day to remember the good and the bad and form not only her story but herself.
i like how d'ambrosio says that one reason he keeps these documents is because as long as he has them, he and that person are "still in a dialogue." there's something really compounding about what we say to others, especially our family. like once something has been said, it's real. i'm grateful to have read d'ambrosio's essay so i can think more carefully about how to write my own story and also how to tell and show my family that i love and need them.
several of the men i work with are divorced. one of them was talking with my boss today about his family when my boss casually and cheerfully asked if there was any chance of the guy and his ex-wife getting back together. (like, who asks this?)
no, the guy said. he said she had been married before him as well but divorced her first husband when he cheated on her. in her second divorce with this guy, or soon thereafter, she was excommunicated after becoming estranged from the church. "she'll tell you that the church only excommunicates women, because they didn't excommunicate her husband for cheating on her."
my boss asked what it would take for them to get back together. (who asks that??) the guy said she would have to be good with the church again for that to happen.
"oh, so in the spirit world probably you'll be together again," my boss said.
who says things like that?? who THINKS things like that?
no, the guy said. he said she had been married before him as well but divorced her first husband when he cheated on her. in her second divorce with this guy, or soon thereafter, she was excommunicated after becoming estranged from the church. "she'll tell you that the church only excommunicates women, because they didn't excommunicate her husband for cheating on her."
my boss asked what it would take for them to get back together. (who asks that??) the guy said she would have to be good with the church again for that to happen.
"oh, so in the spirit world probably you'll be together again," my boss said.
who says things like that?? who THINKS things like that?
dear boss and co workers:
asking me how my husband is--especially asking me to go in to detail about his work and school life when you have literally met him like two times and you don't ask me about my life--does not count as asking me how i am. you are being sexist.
oh, and when we had that special lunch meeting to get to know each other better and my spiel ended up being short so you decided to ask me some more questions, pronouncing loudly that i got married (2 years ago??? and, everyone there was married, so...??) and then telling everyone about my husband/asking questions about him did not count as getting to know me. you were being incredibly sexist.
kthnxbye
asking me how my husband is--especially asking me to go in to detail about his work and school life when you have literally met him like two times and you don't ask me about my life--does not count as asking me how i am. you are being sexist.
oh, and when we had that special lunch meeting to get to know each other better and my spiel ended up being short so you decided to ask me some more questions, pronouncing loudly that i got married (2 years ago??? and, everyone there was married, so...??) and then telling everyone about my husband/asking questions about him did not count as getting to know me. you were being incredibly sexist.
kthnxbye
i ended up watching a lot of conference. i think it was mostly for the reason that i didn't want to get caught by a coworker or family member not knowing something really obvious or important that had happened. but it stung.
a lot of feminists and now-skeptics can do this wonderful thing where they listen to a neutral or even otherwise-problematic talk and pull out soundbites that give them hope. i've discovered that i don't have the ability to do this. if i even suspect a speaker or talk of meaning ill-will, i will ignore and curse them/it entirely
i feel like i've been successful in seeing the church as a body of individual, flawed people. for a lot of people, this bolsters their testimony and helps them believe it could still be true. but for me, it has only made me more bitter and confused. i still believe the church could be more than the sum of its parts, but how could so many individual parts, individual people, be so hateful, so disappointing, so casual or unaccountable in beliefs that not only harm but destroy other people. if the church is only as good as its individuals, then how come all the individuals give up their accountability and say not "the devil made me do it" but "the church made me do it" and get away with it, having it said of them that they are good people trying their best.
the worst was hearing president eyring, someone i have always admired and looked up to, quote another apostle in saying "the prophet receives revelation for the church, the bishop for the ward, the father for the family, and the individual for himself." so, women can't receive revelation? apparently. why, president eyring, couldn't you have added "or herself." why couldn't you have fixed this one harm and prevented the violence of that sentence. why, when i've trusted you so many years, you thought nothing of this?
i want to trust the church but i just don't trust the individuals, my acquaintances, in the church. just as easily as someone could say of an acquaintance, "they don't know me so i can't fault them for saying this thing," i will think, "they don't know me so how dare they ever say this thing."
i immediately dismiss and dislike and i don't know how to look for or use the good.
a lot of feminists and now-skeptics can do this wonderful thing where they listen to a neutral or even otherwise-problematic talk and pull out soundbites that give them hope. i've discovered that i don't have the ability to do this. if i even suspect a speaker or talk of meaning ill-will, i will ignore and curse them/it entirely
i feel like i've been successful in seeing the church as a body of individual, flawed people. for a lot of people, this bolsters their testimony and helps them believe it could still be true. but for me, it has only made me more bitter and confused. i still believe the church could be more than the sum of its parts, but how could so many individual parts, individual people, be so hateful, so disappointing, so casual or unaccountable in beliefs that not only harm but destroy other people. if the church is only as good as its individuals, then how come all the individuals give up their accountability and say not "the devil made me do it" but "the church made me do it" and get away with it, having it said of them that they are good people trying their best.
the worst was hearing president eyring, someone i have always admired and looked up to, quote another apostle in saying "the prophet receives revelation for the church, the bishop for the ward, the father for the family, and the individual for himself." so, women can't receive revelation? apparently. why, president eyring, couldn't you have added "or herself." why couldn't you have fixed this one harm and prevented the violence of that sentence. why, when i've trusted you so many years, you thought nothing of this?
i want to trust the church but i just don't trust the individuals, my acquaintances, in the church. just as easily as someone could say of an acquaintance, "they don't know me so i can't fault them for saying this thing," i will think, "they don't know me so how dare they ever say this thing."
i immediately dismiss and dislike and i don't know how to look for or use the good.
by some act of god, in the months leading up to as well as after my own father being diagnosed with cancer, i kept a pretty detailed and consistent journal. that was the only time in my life i had done anything like that, so it wasn't normal for me. i stopped a few months after the diagnoses. i currently have no record of when my father in law passed away and suddenly tonight i remember it and need to write it.
it was tuesday night. dh was at work and i was settling in to some snacks and some tv. i was really happy. after dark i got a call from him. "can you come pick me up?" he asked. he never ever ever comes home early from work--he pretty much never skips work, not when he's sick an not for pretty much any reason, so i asked him if he was okay. "no," he said, "my father is dead."
i asked him if he was kidding and started shaking uncontrollably. i got in the car and drove to his work and it's kind of a miracle i wasn't in an accident, i was numb and couldn't really see. dh was waiting for me. i got out of the car. he was focused and he meant business. we agreed to drive up to his mom's right away, threw some things in a bag, and left around nine. he insisted on driving, i think so his mind would have something to focus on. he seemed unshaken and deliberate.
when we got to the house there were a few people there. hugs were exchanged and we were waiting for my mother in law's inactive son in law to show up, i don't remember why, before she was going to get a priesthood blessing. she was the plainest and most level-headed i had ever or have ever seen her. it was weird how clear we all were. two of dh's siblings were on a long-planned vacation to somewhere tropical. they had just arrived there and would eventually decide not to return before they had planned, having delayed the decision until an actual funeral date was set. two other siblings lived out of state, one of them young and broke. the only other sibling came to the house soon after, but i don't remember if it was that night or if it was the next day. i think she waited to drive the next morning and arrive first thing.
we stayed up late that night. people were in and out of the house and i don't have any idea what was said. it was really late when suddenly dh and i found ourselves alone together in the living room of his childhood home. we went toward the stairs down to his old room to stay the night, and right when he was about to descend he turned around to face me and buried his face in my shoulder. i know exactly what my husband looks like--of course i do--but in that split second when he looked in my eyes with that ache i saw him like he was years ago, skinny and young and just different somehow, especially his hair. he gripped me and sobbed and cried and cried. we stayed this way for a while, and i was glad the room remained empty and still. i asked him if he wanted to go down to the bed, and he said yes. there he cried some more, crying out in pain, especially that no one would tell him how his dad had died because the cause of death wasn't (and actually still isn't) definitive.
the next morning we all left without really eating or showering to go to the accident site. it was a really beautiful day and the scene was gruesome. officials followed us around all day as we retraced the last steps and collected the facts and the things we needed.
the worst part of that day was the news crew. when we came back from the accident site there were two news crews outside their family home. dh and i were both grateful we had arrived first and before everyone else, his mom and his sister. i stood back as dh asked them who they were and what they wanted, and amicably but pretty much told them that maybe later they could have an interview. they did leave before anyone got there. dh told me he wanted to tell them to fuck the hell off, which i never would have guessed by how nice he was to them. before they left he had given them his phone number, which i guess was a mistake because they wouldn't stop calling him. not when he was greeting guests at the door for his mom, not when we went to the store to get chips, not when he asked them to please lay off. they wanted him to give them an interview around the home and just give some memories and details of his dad's life. when he declined they said that sometimes lds families ask their bishop to represent the family and give a statement, and maybe dh could ask him. (bishop later declined unless dh and the family really wanted him to.) i don't think they ever got what they wanted. i don't remember what finally got them to shut up and back off.
we drove back and forth so much that all the trips run together. my mother in law decided to have the funeral the next week instead of that weekend for some reason. i think she was just not ready. the house was always gurgling, full of visitors in and out all the time, plus more and more family all the time. the flow of people seriously delayed any plans or preparations, none of which were made really until the last, unavoidable second, but all the people seemed to comfort my mother in law. dh and i were grateful for our last hold out in his old room. we could go in and lock the door and just forget them all for a moment. it was really the only thing that kept us holding things together. we left all the events, including the public viewing, early and didn't say much to anyone. we locked the door and no one came looking for us. we stayed in there for hours, just being quiet. we had a lot of sex, i don't know why. it was like this unspoken thing, it just happened that way. the house was so full of people that it actually took time to cross a room, but in that bedroom we talked about the people and even laughed and rolled our eyes at the crazy or the family drama but talked almost nothing about the funeral or about what had happened.
the day of the actual funeral we pulled up with our dress clothes and dh's somewhat long-lost brother from texas, along with his wife and step daughter were crossing the street. for some reason i remember i was wearing my "votes for women" shirt. my brother in law called me a communist feminist with a big smile. someone said, "what's wrong with that?" i wanted to say, "hella nothing," but instead i just said "nothing" and smiled. dh's siblings were raised in the church but only his one brother (not the one from texas) was still in the church. so i constantly have this feeling of wanting to impress them/kind of tell them how i actually feel about the church, but they are so respectful and good at pleasantly avoiding the topic that it never really came up, and right then, seeing them for the first time since their father had died, just felt like the wrongest time to say "hella nothing." during the entire funeral there was this weird unspoken dynamic, buried deep. my mother in law wanted all of her inactive children to have spiritual experiences--purposefully planning activities and events around that, making a point of it. her inactive children, just having lost their father, i think wanted nothing to do with it. i guess i can't say whether or not they had spiritual experiences, but all the talk of the celestial kingdom and forever families and priesthood and temples fell so strangely flat. like, it just all happened in such a way that it even sounded weird to me, a somewhat still believing mormon. like a funeral was the last place in the world for religion. a lot of their extended family has also left the church, and everyone was walking on eggshells trying to remember a man still very much active in the gospel but with so many important people in his life that knew and understood him wholly but, ironically, not on that level.
the siblings gave the most beautiful life sketch. they took turns reading out of a hilarious and wonderful biography of their dad. my mother in law had talked for days about how she had written the perfect talk, which brought in the gospel but didn't harp on it, trying to be sensitive to the many in the room that didn't believe as they did. as far as i can remember, the talk was entirely about the plan of salvation.
before the funeral had started, my parents and both sets of grandparents had arrived. my own cancer-patient of a dad, leaning on my mom all the way to shuffle slowly along, met us in the viewing area but quickly said he felt uncomfortable being around my father in law's body and they again shuffled off. after the funeral was over, i met them briefly outside by the hearse. my brother was getting home from his mission in the next week or two, and after my mom reminded me sweetly and with strength to remember to take care of myself as well, with my hand outstretched and everything i said loudly something like, 'i will! and we'll see you again next week at the next party!!!" even in the moment i said it, i couldn't believe what i'd said. it was the most obnoxious, annoying, insensitive, weirdest, cruelest thing i had ever said, with weeping family and friends filing out of the doors on either side of me. and somehow, i had no control over it. i was way more messed up than i could grasp, and it just came out.
after the funeral i admitted to dh the worst of it. in order to keep from crying during the entire funeral--from the moment we first walked in to the viewing through every talk and finally to the release in the procession out to the hearse, i had loudly and as cartoonish-ly as possibly sang to myself in my head: "trolololo lo lolo lo lolo lo lolo lo lolo lo! trolololoLOOOO!" you know, exactly the way this guy sings it. the closer i came to crying the more exuberantly i sang it. i belted it when dh's sweetest, softer sister cried at he podium. when an older sibling of my father in law's sobbed loudly behind me right before the family prayer. even during my dh's beautiful solo song that he arrange himself, i sang it to keep from shedding more than a few tears. the thing about me is that when i cry, i cry for hours. i knew if i began crying at that funeral, i literally wouldn't stop crying for hours. i was in a weird, even removed and out of body-like fog those days, sad but not upset. but underneath something roared. when i told dh about the trololo, i was relieved that he laughed, understanding and even finding it hilarious. but i don't think i'll ever forgive myself for purposefully not feeling during my father in law's funeral what i really owed him.
several weeks later that something came bursting out. we were at home in our own bed and i was overcome. i sobbed and heaved just wanted to passed out. my sweet felt the grief mostly at night while i was asleep. i didn't even know he was up for hours crying unless he told me later. but right then in the middle of our okay evening i cried for the first time since my father in law had died. i sobbed about how life wasn't supposed to be like this. we were supposed to have dads and they weren't supposed to leave us--both of us. it wasn't okay and it wasn't fair, i sobbed and screamed.
i still have no idea how to act about it, and i still pretty much do nothing. i was with dh every step of the way but i didn't really feel (or wouldn't even feign to feel, feeling unworthy,) his grief. i was there, and yet it's like it didn't even happen to me. people kept giving me their condolences and it was like they were asking me if i was santa. i would shake and harden at the mention of it, but i couldn't fathom that it really happened. and i still feel like i let dh down in a grand and unforgivable way, even though i know that's not true and that we will carry this together all our lives. there is no way to know how to love someone in grief. there is on way you can begin to touch that grief. even as the most intimate person in their life, it will exist in on a plane you know exists but can't find.
sometimes i make a teasing joke about his dad, just like we did when he was alive, but it will be just gray enough that things get awkward or dh goes serious. somehow once "elf" quotes were flying someone said, "i hope you find your dad!" and dh and i just started saying it all the time, i don't even know why--we just thought it was hilarious, and i said it to dh just once as he was getting out of the car to pick up our pizza. he turned around and looked me squarely but kindly in the eye and said, "no, i won't," before giving me what i knew was a hurt smile and closing the car door. there are the hard moments that i think are still good--when the siblings are all together and they remember their dad. or even when we were with my family and dh accepted a father's blessing from my father and there was just this spirit in the room.
i can't pretend to know what dh thinks and feels and suspect i am very much separated from it, even though i supposed i may know some type of it soon enough. it's almost like i forget sometimes and when i remember i'm stung and can't believe it and get weird and touchy and i never know and have never known how to act about it.
i've done everything that felt right for him, that i could have, and yet it feels like the biggest shortcoming of my life.
it was tuesday night. dh was at work and i was settling in to some snacks and some tv. i was really happy. after dark i got a call from him. "can you come pick me up?" he asked. he never ever ever comes home early from work--he pretty much never skips work, not when he's sick an not for pretty much any reason, so i asked him if he was okay. "no," he said, "my father is dead."
i asked him if he was kidding and started shaking uncontrollably. i got in the car and drove to his work and it's kind of a miracle i wasn't in an accident, i was numb and couldn't really see. dh was waiting for me. i got out of the car. he was focused and he meant business. we agreed to drive up to his mom's right away, threw some things in a bag, and left around nine. he insisted on driving, i think so his mind would have something to focus on. he seemed unshaken and deliberate.
when we got to the house there were a few people there. hugs were exchanged and we were waiting for my mother in law's inactive son in law to show up, i don't remember why, before she was going to get a priesthood blessing. she was the plainest and most level-headed i had ever or have ever seen her. it was weird how clear we all were. two of dh's siblings were on a long-planned vacation to somewhere tropical. they had just arrived there and would eventually decide not to return before they had planned, having delayed the decision until an actual funeral date was set. two other siblings lived out of state, one of them young and broke. the only other sibling came to the house soon after, but i don't remember if it was that night or if it was the next day. i think she waited to drive the next morning and arrive first thing.
we stayed up late that night. people were in and out of the house and i don't have any idea what was said. it was really late when suddenly dh and i found ourselves alone together in the living room of his childhood home. we went toward the stairs down to his old room to stay the night, and right when he was about to descend he turned around to face me and buried his face in my shoulder. i know exactly what my husband looks like--of course i do--but in that split second when he looked in my eyes with that ache i saw him like he was years ago, skinny and young and just different somehow, especially his hair. he gripped me and sobbed and cried and cried. we stayed this way for a while, and i was glad the room remained empty and still. i asked him if he wanted to go down to the bed, and he said yes. there he cried some more, crying out in pain, especially that no one would tell him how his dad had died because the cause of death wasn't (and actually still isn't) definitive.
the next morning we all left without really eating or showering to go to the accident site. it was a really beautiful day and the scene was gruesome. officials followed us around all day as we retraced the last steps and collected the facts and the things we needed.
the worst part of that day was the news crew. when we came back from the accident site there were two news crews outside their family home. dh and i were both grateful we had arrived first and before everyone else, his mom and his sister. i stood back as dh asked them who they were and what they wanted, and amicably but pretty much told them that maybe later they could have an interview. they did leave before anyone got there. dh told me he wanted to tell them to fuck the hell off, which i never would have guessed by how nice he was to them. before they left he had given them his phone number, which i guess was a mistake because they wouldn't stop calling him. not when he was greeting guests at the door for his mom, not when we went to the store to get chips, not when he asked them to please lay off. they wanted him to give them an interview around the home and just give some memories and details of his dad's life. when he declined they said that sometimes lds families ask their bishop to represent the family and give a statement, and maybe dh could ask him. (bishop later declined unless dh and the family really wanted him to.) i don't think they ever got what they wanted. i don't remember what finally got them to shut up and back off.
we drove back and forth so much that all the trips run together. my mother in law decided to have the funeral the next week instead of that weekend for some reason. i think she was just not ready. the house was always gurgling, full of visitors in and out all the time, plus more and more family all the time. the flow of people seriously delayed any plans or preparations, none of which were made really until the last, unavoidable second, but all the people seemed to comfort my mother in law. dh and i were grateful for our last hold out in his old room. we could go in and lock the door and just forget them all for a moment. it was really the only thing that kept us holding things together. we left all the events, including the public viewing, early and didn't say much to anyone. we locked the door and no one came looking for us. we stayed in there for hours, just being quiet. we had a lot of sex, i don't know why. it was like this unspoken thing, it just happened that way. the house was so full of people that it actually took time to cross a room, but in that bedroom we talked about the people and even laughed and rolled our eyes at the crazy or the family drama but talked almost nothing about the funeral or about what had happened.
the day of the actual funeral we pulled up with our dress clothes and dh's somewhat long-lost brother from texas, along with his wife and step daughter were crossing the street. for some reason i remember i was wearing my "votes for women" shirt. my brother in law called me a communist feminist with a big smile. someone said, "what's wrong with that?" i wanted to say, "hella nothing," but instead i just said "nothing" and smiled. dh's siblings were raised in the church but only his one brother (not the one from texas) was still in the church. so i constantly have this feeling of wanting to impress them/kind of tell them how i actually feel about the church, but they are so respectful and good at pleasantly avoiding the topic that it never really came up, and right then, seeing them for the first time since their father had died, just felt like the wrongest time to say "hella nothing." during the entire funeral there was this weird unspoken dynamic, buried deep. my mother in law wanted all of her inactive children to have spiritual experiences--purposefully planning activities and events around that, making a point of it. her inactive children, just having lost their father, i think wanted nothing to do with it. i guess i can't say whether or not they had spiritual experiences, but all the talk of the celestial kingdom and forever families and priesthood and temples fell so strangely flat. like, it just all happened in such a way that it even sounded weird to me, a somewhat still believing mormon. like a funeral was the last place in the world for religion. a lot of their extended family has also left the church, and everyone was walking on eggshells trying to remember a man still very much active in the gospel but with so many important people in his life that knew and understood him wholly but, ironically, not on that level.
the siblings gave the most beautiful life sketch. they took turns reading out of a hilarious and wonderful biography of their dad. my mother in law had talked for days about how she had written the perfect talk, which brought in the gospel but didn't harp on it, trying to be sensitive to the many in the room that didn't believe as they did. as far as i can remember, the talk was entirely about the plan of salvation.
before the funeral had started, my parents and both sets of grandparents had arrived. my own cancer-patient of a dad, leaning on my mom all the way to shuffle slowly along, met us in the viewing area but quickly said he felt uncomfortable being around my father in law's body and they again shuffled off. after the funeral was over, i met them briefly outside by the hearse. my brother was getting home from his mission in the next week or two, and after my mom reminded me sweetly and with strength to remember to take care of myself as well, with my hand outstretched and everything i said loudly something like, 'i will! and we'll see you again next week at the next party!!!" even in the moment i said it, i couldn't believe what i'd said. it was the most obnoxious, annoying, insensitive, weirdest, cruelest thing i had ever said, with weeping family and friends filing out of the doors on either side of me. and somehow, i had no control over it. i was way more messed up than i could grasp, and it just came out.
after the funeral i admitted to dh the worst of it. in order to keep from crying during the entire funeral--from the moment we first walked in to the viewing through every talk and finally to the release in the procession out to the hearse, i had loudly and as cartoonish-ly as possibly sang to myself in my head: "trolololo lo lolo lo lolo lo lolo lo lolo lo! trolololoLOOOO!" you know, exactly the way this guy sings it. the closer i came to crying the more exuberantly i sang it. i belted it when dh's sweetest, softer sister cried at he podium. when an older sibling of my father in law's sobbed loudly behind me right before the family prayer. even during my dh's beautiful solo song that he arrange himself, i sang it to keep from shedding more than a few tears. the thing about me is that when i cry, i cry for hours. i knew if i began crying at that funeral, i literally wouldn't stop crying for hours. i was in a weird, even removed and out of body-like fog those days, sad but not upset. but underneath something roared. when i told dh about the trololo, i was relieved that he laughed, understanding and even finding it hilarious. but i don't think i'll ever forgive myself for purposefully not feeling during my father in law's funeral what i really owed him.
several weeks later that something came bursting out. we were at home in our own bed and i was overcome. i sobbed and heaved just wanted to passed out. my sweet felt the grief mostly at night while i was asleep. i didn't even know he was up for hours crying unless he told me later. but right then in the middle of our okay evening i cried for the first time since my father in law had died. i sobbed about how life wasn't supposed to be like this. we were supposed to have dads and they weren't supposed to leave us--both of us. it wasn't okay and it wasn't fair, i sobbed and screamed.
i still have no idea how to act about it, and i still pretty much do nothing. i was with dh every step of the way but i didn't really feel (or wouldn't even feign to feel, feeling unworthy,) his grief. i was there, and yet it's like it didn't even happen to me. people kept giving me their condolences and it was like they were asking me if i was santa. i would shake and harden at the mention of it, but i couldn't fathom that it really happened. and i still feel like i let dh down in a grand and unforgivable way, even though i know that's not true and that we will carry this together all our lives. there is no way to know how to love someone in grief. there is on way you can begin to touch that grief. even as the most intimate person in their life, it will exist in on a plane you know exists but can't find.
sometimes i make a teasing joke about his dad, just like we did when he was alive, but it will be just gray enough that things get awkward or dh goes serious. somehow once "elf" quotes were flying someone said, "i hope you find your dad!" and dh and i just started saying it all the time, i don't even know why--we just thought it was hilarious, and i said it to dh just once as he was getting out of the car to pick up our pizza. he turned around and looked me squarely but kindly in the eye and said, "no, i won't," before giving me what i knew was a hurt smile and closing the car door. there are the hard moments that i think are still good--when the siblings are all together and they remember their dad. or even when we were with my family and dh accepted a father's blessing from my father and there was just this spirit in the room.
i can't pretend to know what dh thinks and feels and suspect i am very much separated from it, even though i supposed i may know some type of it soon enough. it's almost like i forget sometimes and when i remember i'm stung and can't believe it and get weird and touchy and i never know and have never known how to act about it.
i've done everything that felt right for him, that i could have, and yet it feels like the biggest shortcoming of my life.
burning through Wild and excited for the movie. except i really really really really really really wish they would have had brooke smith play cheryl.
one of the guys at my work is in a family ward bishopric. i overhead him talking to someone else about dreading priesthood session because of the women coming to the stake centers to watch it. he said they are expecting "them" to "infiltrate all the stake centers in the county" and that the bishoprics and stake presidents have been told to make their plans on how to handle it "by word of mouth only." (what?? no more paper trail for church PR and the local leaders that 'aren't' involved? but everyone has been enjoying that so much! aka tearing you to f'ing shreds.) apparently his stake presidency decided to set up a tv set in the relief society room where any women could watch it instead of causing a scene in the stake center.
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