Schism

    I've been thinking a lot about the multiple personas we display depending upon the people we are with and the situation.  More than knowing the right time and place to tell that bawdy joke, I'm talking about the different people we become to match a locale - sometimes referred to as wearing different hats or masks.  For example, I have my mama persona, followed closely by the wife one (sometimes they intermingle), the manager one, the sister/friend, the performer/writer and maybe a couple others.  At the core is me, or my perception of me, and the rest is layered on from there.
     My kids have never seen me act or sing professionally, mostly as that part of me has been on hold since they were born.  They've seen me at work, but they were so young and I wasn't really being a leader at that moment in time, so they don't know that part of me.  They absolutely know the mama who walks through the door and hasn't quite transitioned from work to home.  My husband has had many a conversation with me about the people I live with not being my employees.  (I am clearly still a work in progress.)
      What has been keeping me thinking is that so many of these personas are necessary, sometimes due to the nature of life (i.e. work vs. home) and sometimes due to necessity (i.e. Heather's true desires vs. what Heather can get away with the world knowing). If my need for organized paperwork spills over into my home life, no harm no foul.  But if I was the sort of person who fell in love with inanimate objects (objectophilia), I should probably keep that between myself and said object (and my support group).

     So, I've been wondering whether this separation of church and state can lead to a fracturing of the subconscious. Is this compartmentalization a way to deal with the necessities of life? Or ultimately does this lead to a less then fulfilled human, a broken soul (more emotional than spiritual)?  Is this the sort of thing that shocks your kids when they clean your personal effects out after you've shuffled off your mortal coil and gone to join the choir invisible?  Do we leave anything in writing, or burn it all before we die?  How much do we want our loved ones to know about our true selves, the part we listen to crappy love songs to satisfy.

     Mom and I had a discussion about her notebooks and personal records long before she died.  She said that if anything happened to her, I wasn't allowed to read any of it.  I was to destroy it all.  I told her, tough luck - I'm not destroying anything.  Needless to say, that pissed her off.  It caused her to start winnowing out her personal effects long before she died, airbrushing her image and my understanding of her.  As her death was so unexpected, she didn't get much headway on clearing the farm out. After she died, I was left with a couple of boxes of papers and notebooks to look through. I won't share the intimate details, because she didn't want me to know them after all.  It did make me wish that she had wanted to talk about some of this with me before she died, because I wanted to understand the whys behind some of her choices in life.  

     Oracle reminds us that we've already made our choices, we're just here to understand why.  Perhaps there's no more reason for my mother to explain herself, as there is for me.  As long as we're all consenting adults here, and comfortable with our conscience, then shifting in and out of whatever applicable persona is necessary for the task at hand might not fracture you or obligate your exposition.  But it begs the question, which is the authentic self and which are the clones.

     

Bagheera

     Our cat Bagheera died yesterday.  He fell off the couch and broke his leg; his nineteen year old bones, too brittle to handle the landing.  As you would imagine, it was a horrible experience for the entire family, and we were thankful that my sister was there every step of the way.  She had come to celebrate Mother's Day with the children, as she is their other mama, and yet again, she was there to comfort and love all of us.

     Bagheera was my mother's cat, though originally my sister's.  When my sister came to live with us and help raise #1, she had to leave him with mom.  Many years later when my mom came to live with us, she had three cats and a dog named Bear.  Having long since moved to a bigger place as we were anticipating mom coming at some point, our new landlord was ok with the cats but not the dog.  Mom tried to re-home him, posted notes at the vet, reached out to the very few friends she had - but no one could help.  She had two choices, take him to the pound where he would watch her leave and never come back, and no doubt be killed after the allotted time, as he was an older dog and very jumpy, or put him to sleep.  She felt she had no other choice, that I had given her no other choice.  She never forgave me for making her kill Bear.  Honestly, I've never forgiven myself either.

     When she arrived with her cats, Cree, Turtle and Bagheera, she kept them in her room and to herself.  This was the norm for several years.  Six months before mom died, Cree developed diabetes and quickly died from kidney failure.  Mom was devastated and kept his urn on her desk.  She told me that when she died, she wanted the cats to be buried with her.  When mom died later that year, my sister and I mixed Cree in with her ashes and buried them together.  I opened her door and let Turtle and Bagheera out the same day she died.  It took them many days before they joined us, but eventually they did, and then they became mine, ours.

     Turtle died 1/20/2013.  She laid down in the hallway upstairs one day and decided not to get back up. The vet said her body was shutting down.  It would only be a matter of time.  So we made the hard decision to let her go and be with mom.  Because she died in January, my sister and I had to wait until May, the time we go each year to celebrate mom's birthday, her three children once again around her.  That year we did just as we had promised mom, and put Turtle with her.

     And now Bagheera is gone.  His death is a horrible loss for the family, as we loved him so very much. He had formed special bonds with each of the children and with my husband and myself. He had been ours for so long that he was really our cat.  He sat with my husband during his writing time.  He sat in my son's lap while he played video games or sat on his butt when my son would stretch out on the couch.  If you got up off the couch, Bagheera would immediately move and take your spot, leaving a circle of cat hair and dandruff.  I didn't care about the mess; life is clearly too short to worry about these things.  My eldest would tolerate him slowly walking over top of her on his pass to the open seat - high praise from someone who isn't an animal person.  And the little one was in love with him, absolutely smitten with the old cat who let her carry him around from room to room, who never got upset when she kissed him and hugged him.  He would burp old cat breath, and she would tell him how fabulous he smelled.  He would slow blink back at her, letting her know that he had claimed her as his own.  For me, Bagheera was the last link to mom,  Holding him while the vet administered the euthanasia was necessary as my duty owed to him, but so painful, as though I was cutting myself off from her - this nineteen year old cat, my life preserver.
     Bagheera will be physically reunited with mom, Cree and Turtle this weekend, when we three join again to celebrate what would be her 72nd birthday.  I know that she was waiting for him yesterday, Bear and the other two beside her.  I've always believed that our animals go on to the afterlife, because as mom used to say, heaven would be less than perfect without your pets.  Eternity is a long time to be without your best friend.
     

Two Vignettes

     A couple short vignettes from today:

     Two older customers got into a heated discussion first thing this morning while in line waiting for a teller.  Back and forth they went about Donald Trump and what he would do for the country if elected.  "He'll make America great again ... (no, he won't) ... stop all these immigrants from taking our jobs ... (my parents were immigrants) ... but I bet your parents worked ... (yes, they certainly did) ... these immigrants don't even have to learn English ... (you're right there) ... our grandchildren won't even have Social Security thanks to this President ... (that's not true) ... etc."  They didn't agree on anything except the immigrants/illegals were ruining this country and getting all the benefits.  The pro-Trump person was a woman and the person, a male.  "Sir, you are wrong," she said several times.

 .......

     Later, I was helping a client in my office.  He was telling me that he called customer service last night, but he got "an Indian, and you know how you can never understand them."  I stared back at him.  Then he said, "not an Indian Indian, (then he patted his mouth and said oo-oo-oo-oo-oo), you know, an Indian."
     Honest to God.
     I'm not kidding.  A grown man repeatedly smacked his mouth with his hand in my office, reenacting his spot-on racist stereotype of Native Americans.

.......

     As Dave Chappelle says, this racism is killing me.

Phone Calls

     After my Nana died, my mom told me that one of the worst parts was not being able to call her mother on the phone and share the day's events.  Even years after, mom would reach for the phone, hold it for a moment and then hang it up with a sigh.  She would say that it would hit her ... oh right, she's dead.  It made me so sad for her, and for myself, because I knew I'd be in the same boat one day.
     When my personal ship to Valhalla sailed, it was much the same.  Mom and I have the same dark sense of humor.  I'd encounter something that amused me during the day, and she would be the one to share it with.  Or we'd make fun of it together.  With her gone, I'd keep it to myself.  It's like trying to explain a joke after the fact, it loses its luster.  In private, Mom could also curse like a sailor, probably because my father was a sailor.  I didn't swear in front of her, because ... d'uh, she was my mother, but all bets have been off for some time now.  On a side note, I remind the children that these are just words, some in use for thousands of years, and that there will be people who will think less of them for using these words, so be mindful of the right time and place.  But in a hypocritical fashion, I tell them not to swear in front of me.  Fuck should come out of my mouth and not theirs, if I'm in the room.
     But I digress from my original thought.
     My husband is now encountering the same void of communication that I have, something I tried to prepare him for.  He had a thought about something yesterday and was going to call dad to pick his brain, but dad's gone.  No call.  The sadness grows.  It didn't upset me that he didn't think to pick my brain; he wanted to ask his father.  I completely understand.  We don't fill the holes in our life created by the loss of those we love or have loved.  We just learn to walk carefully around the edges.  We do a disservice to ourselves and those we've lost, whether through death or distance, when we expect others in our lives to fill those empty spaces.  I've learned that grief is not a one size fits all shroud.  Some people learn how to change outfits, some learn how to accessorize and some convert it to an undershirt.
     Mom used to send me cards for every special occasion, little care packages for the kids - hand painted Halloween shirts, a handmade bracelet for a birthday with an explanation for each chosen bead, envelopes with clippings from magazines that I should be aware of, a painted wall hanging with the words from my childhood bedtime prayer that still hangs over my daughter's bed, the list goes on.  After she moved in, she'd continue to make them things - intricate wands for them to use to pretend to be wizards like Harry Potter, a decorated worry book for child #1 to write her worries down in, more hand painted shirts, and always the cards. When she died, all this ended.  I still make things for the kids, and we all enjoy a rollicking art project, but it's not the same.  And I know that it will never be the same again.  Whenever we paint, I always make sure to wear a smock over my undershirt.  I don't want to get it dirty.      

For Him Again

     He's gone. my beloved father-in-law.

     My brain said that I should sit and eulogize, try to express my grief.  I don't have the words to adequately voice what this loss, his loss, means to my family and to me.  Obviously, my husband has lost his father, a man that he has spent his life trying to make proud - something that many children find to be a moving target.  His role model, his most earliest mentor, the person who taught him how to shoot, how to appreciate the woods, how to chart your family history, and how to hunger for a relationship with God - to question, to observe.  My children have lost their grandfather, a man very different than the one who raised my husband, but that is the nature of age and time.  The first two children are very sad, as they had formed a strong relationship with him and an appreciation for him.  The third child is sad at the concept of the loss of him.  With less time spent with him, her understanding will grow with the stuff of created memory and mythos.
     I've lost a friend, a debate partner, co-philosopher and theologian, a father.  Estranged from my own father when I was 15, I've already told the story of what the introduction and acceptance of my father-in-law meant to me.  I didn't need him to be proud of me.  The only person I have ever needed to be proud of me, died seven years ago.  She showed me early on how she believed in me and how wonderful I was.  Her fierce love challenged me to be as good at everything as she already knew I was.  I needed him to love me, to accept me.  We didn't always agree.  We didn't have to, and in fact, we didn't discuss the topics that we each knew we were on opposite sides of the fence on.  He knew he wasn't going to change my mind, and I knew I didn't want to piss him off.
     Aside from my sister-in-law, Kim, who is more sister than in-law, he was my biggest supporter in a very large and beautiful family.  His loss is palpable to many, not just me.  And I will not even begin to imagine understanding that of my dear mother-in-law's loss.  To have been his, and he yours, for a lifetime ... that's a love that most people will never be fortunate enough to know.  If I think about it too long, I can't catch my breath.  Truly, her loss is the greatest.
     I don't normally like to mix my poetry with this blog, but I will share the poem I wrote for him the day he died, if only that it would bring comfort to anyone in this family that I love.


For You

There are no words today.

You’re gone from us, from me.

No more beloved nicknames,

deep conversations prefaced

with “now, let me ask you this,”

no more salted peanuts in your Pepsi,

the skins floating to the top of the

long necked bottle, no throat clearing

cough followed by that deep sigh

through your front teeth, the way

you rested your left arm over your

right when seated at the kitchen table,

thumb absently rubbing the skin, the  

smile that made your eyes disappear.

No more growled “take that” when you

would play the low card, hoping that

I would toss down the higher trump. 

Get up on both cheeks, Heddo.

Your heart can break again and again.   

     

Privilege

     I've been ruminating over many ideas, but there's one that seems stuck in my head over the last several weeks.  I have talked in the past about the harsh comments and dare I say abuse, that many in the retail and customer service related fields receive daily.  What I've become more keenly attuned to since I've changed professions, and now have an office, is the heightened level of sexual innuendo and outright inappropriate forwardness that many men, and in particular older white American/European men exhibit.
     I'm not talking about casual flirtation, or even comments about my firm handshake - those more often seem to come from men around my age or younger.  And I certainly have no problem with being told that I look nice or my hair looks pretty.  Those statements always seem weird though, like would they say that to a man they're working with ... "Thanks, for getting those tires rotated so quickly, Bob, and I love what you're doing with your hair."
     No, the closed office door seems to bring out the crazy comments from the older men.  I've been asked if I was married and then told that if they were just 20, 30, 40 years younger they would give my husband a run for his money.  There are several assumptions wrapped up in that concept that I don't have the energy to address, but I will tell you that the comments come from single and married men.  I've had men get up from their seats across from my desk and either sit on the desk to my right or come stand behind me and lean on my shoulder.  That's led to either me quickly standing up or a "coughing fit" and excusing myself.
     There is a part of me that would very much love to tell these guys off and kick them the hell out of my office and my store, followed by calling their wives - but we get customer service surveys like everybody else in the world now.  It's my word against theirs, and if I want to hope for a smooth interaction, I have to find ways to make it seem like they're joking with me.  I say this knowing full well that I'm in charge and have been in various work places for a long time, which gives me certain latitudes that others don't have.  I've also had the luxury of having female bosses for most of the last 15 years, so I haven't had to worry about sexual harassment from the top down.
     My most recent example is more over the top than most.  A well known client in his mid 70's came in to add his son to his account. He's always pleasant, but often very flirtatious and will do so in front of his long term girlfriend.  The last time they were in together, he said something outrageous, along the lines of clearing off my desk (i.e. implying in order to have room for sex on said desk), which caused me to gasp and look at her.  She laughed, said he was harmless, and that if she thought otherwise, she'd set him straight.  Somehow this was supposed to excuse his comment.  When he came with his son, I thought he'd be more reserved, but alas, this seemed to free him more.  He called me his girl, his sweetie, etc, to which his son said, "great, another person I have to send a Christmas present to this year."  I had to leave the room at one point to get some paperwork, and I said I'd be right back.  He said before he departed he wanted a kiss goodbye, but "this time, use less tongue."  He called that part out with my door open for all the world to hear.
     I've never had a younger man talk to me in such a disrespectful manner behind closed doors.  I've had my intelligence and leadership skills questioned, but that knows no age or sexual identity boundaries.  I've also had people beg me for help, cry, laugh and invite me to listen to the most amazing stories about their lives.  It's those stories that do more for me than a 70 year old man's sweaty ass on my desk.    

Mad World

     I begin by saying that I'm not in a happy place right now, so I apologize if my words make any one of you sad or low.  I have always viewed part of the reason for my existence to be a light for others, so I certainly don't want to run contrary to that goal.  It's dark in my head, fair warning.
     There really doesn't seem to be any sense in the world right now.  Terror and destruction is raining down from extremists ... Brussels, Paris, Egypt, Turkey, Yemen, Tunisia, California.  Islam is being vilified, when more Muslims are being killed daily at the hands of these terrorists.  The refugee crisis is catastrophic and untenable; children continue to drown, families are broken, a generation or more is being lost.  Syria is forfeit  ... with towns like Madaya where the people are literally starving to death.  At home, our Presidential race is comical and frightening; each day bringing ridiculous statements doled out through tweets.  Tweets.  The decayed state of discourse in our nation is best encapsulated by 140 characters.  The Senate Republicans have decided that they don't have to do their jobs, but they get to keep their pay and their health insurance and fuck the nation, as they best understand the Constitution.  And let us not forget the North Carolinian Republican lawmakers who have decided that discrimination of LGBTQ people is a-ok in their book.
     For fuck's sake.
     This madness is overwhelming.  We need action; we need superheroes.  We need something, something more than prayers and good wishes.  We need to remember that this is the only world we have, and we are fucking it up royally.
     And on top of all this sadness and misery, my dear, sweet father-in-law is dying.  I saw him last September, and we both knew then that might be the last time I would get to see him alive.  We didn't need to say it to each other.  We just knew.  He doesn't need me sitting there being weepy and morose - no one needs that.  He doesn't deserve pity, that would and should piss him off ... some insipid prayer circle of who can get Jesus on the line first.  (Editor's note: I had something a bit more intense here, but for the sake of my beloved Aunt, I have reigned myself in a little.)
     It doesn't work that way.  None of it works that way  
     And before my religious friends and family think I've lost my mind, my way or my faith.  Nope, the Lord and I are tight.  I know what I've discussed with Him about my father-in-law, and we're keeping that close to the vest.