Question

I love my dear one. But there was a time, about two years into the legal marriage phase when I had some severe doubts about whether he really loved me, and if I was compromising myself, or if I was worth anything at all. We didn't talk much, we missed being in step in the busyness of life. I was frustrated at his not doing housework or being able to guess what I would like for a present. The answer came in the form of a question. On Oprah! of all places. Well, I was watching too much daytime tv, when working a 3-11PM shift.

It was John Gottman, talking about his research on couples, happy couples, good relationships. And he had a list of questions, a quiz on how to draw a "Love Map." (Great researcher, terrible at naming.) With great hostility, I had D answer questions about how well he knew me, which I thought he would do very badly at. I was so wrong. I did no better (or worse) at my knowledge of him. And the results: we had a really good relationship, a whole lot going for us. I got to the library and got the book, and cried at the great love I was ruining.

Because I was.

It all came down to a series of questions. What do I care about? What stresses me out? When is my birthday? Who are my friends? Finding out the person I have chosen to share my life with can tell me these things surprized me. The ones he couldn't answer about me, I couldn't answer about myself. He caught onto this, and played Questions with me whenever we were in the car, or lying in bed at night. It became our game, and we both kept winning. We both started getting the attention we needed - in the way we needed it. We both learned how to be loving people. We got more interested in each other. We made the game fun.

In the midst of this, he smashed his elbow. It was deeply stressful for me, but not as painful as it was for him. He took it better than I would have guessed, stoically, always doing all the physical therapy, learning to take care of himself with one arm in a huge splint, dealing with constant pain with admirable bravery, and with graciously expressed gratitude for all help given. And I remembered, having forgotten somehow, that this was a man I wanted at my back in a war zone. On the first morning of the Gulf War, he came to me, braving an irritable National Guard Surgeon colonel, to walk me the mile to breakfast. I knew, gut knew, that this was a capable, kind, brilliant, strong and compassionate human being. No power issues, no manipulation, no petty meanness in him. Just him. And he saw just me. No divisions. Never could answer a question like "what part of me most attracts you?" (Answer, "I don't know, just you.")

Over the years, we keep asking questions. I learned to avoid " What are your three favorite xxxx?" as being too restrictive, and not allowing for a creative answer. Just "What are some xxxx you like today?" And we got creative. One especially difficult game was "Name movies with a (good chase scene, horse as a character, worst dialogue.") This is how we keep in touch. He will even ask me a question out of the blue - "Tell me what you like about your work." We know each other. And there is no greater ideal of love than to be loved utterly by the one who also knows me best. Gives the lie to the old fear of "If you really knew me, you wouldn't love me" bullshit. I now ask these kinds of questions of friends. I am delighted that the memes are running around the blogworld. We are learning to care for each other, as humans will do, regardless of the medium.

If I am sane or stable today, it is because of the mirror he holds up to me. The space he gives me to grow safely, the privacy he guards for me, the attention and admiration he gives me. His honesty, integrity, and reality. Because he is so real. Through and through the same to the core, like a solid chocolate bunny.

For me, the path to life is D-tao. I found the other side of my soul, and I almost missed it. Because I didn't know what question to ask.

Words

It bothered me deeply when my father swore at me. I was a son of a bitch. Is it worse to be inaccurately insulted? To this day, it is the one swear phrase I never use, and prefer not to hear. I certainly hated being called a brat by him. I was also selfish and rude and ungrateful, and a women's libber, Independent. The last two were some of the most vehement insults for him. It confused me, even knowing how stupid he was, to be insulted by being called what I wanted to be. Emotionally fraught, I still feel defensive calling myself Independent. I have read, and know from experience, that the verbal and emotional abuse sticks longest, is the time bomb. I have not spoken to him in five years, we have never had a real adult conversation, yet I can still hear his voice grating in my head 25 yeas after moving out of his house. His opinion of me, always rejected, is still part of how I relate to the world. When I was 18, I believed it. The words still hold power.

I don't know when I first heard about the idea of positive affirmation, I had already heard about it when it was introduced as an actor game one of the Theater program classes. I toyed with it, but never really used it. I preferred to list all that I hated, a game, my life. I couldn't do this, or that or anything I wanted to do or didn't want to do. I was all negativity and dislikes.
I was, however, building up a knowledge base, unbeknownst to me. I was learning how different people spoke, had different voices, from all the plays and movies I saw, all the books I was reading. All the talkative actors who loved theorizing and complaining and expounding. As I was absorbing without understanding or piecing it together. The words were seeping in. The idea of Good Words was percolating.

The picture came into view while I was in Basic. I found I could not run, could not keep marching, if I allowed myself to cry, to whine, to let bad thoughts stream through my head. My feet would falter if I let myself think "Oh, god I hurt, I'm miserable, I can't do this." So I shouted out the cadences, many were about being tough and marching on. The physical effect was immediate, I could keep going. I had to think positive words.

The Drill Sergeants would not accept excuses, "I don't care why you can't do it, I don't want to hear it. NO one wants to hear it." We just did the work. Told to do a job, we did it. A "can't" would mean someone would be in the front leaning rest position, and pushing until the Drill Sergeant got tired. I figured it was better off not being me. I stopped the inner commentary on why I couldn't, and it's not fair, and I hate this, unfair, unreasonable, horrible, why I didn't want to do it... and work became a kind of joy without emotional baggage. Mopping a floor gave satisfaction. When work isn't a personal injustice from the universe, it gives back pride. There is a quiet joy in just solving a problem, fixing trouble, doing the job.

When I began my lifelong conversation with D, he started by changing how I spoke. He would go quiet when I put myself down, or ask me not to talk about myself that way. In no other way would he ever complain about me, only this. It made him so sad, I stopped saying it out loud, and eventually, less and less inside. This was when I started to take the words seriously.

I polished up the positive language in the OR. An anesthesiologist corrected me every time I said anything to a patient using a negative. When coming out of anesthesia, we are like young children, hearing only the word, and miss the Not, Don't, Isn't. The negatives are processed in a different area of the brain. Which is why if I tell a child Don't touch that, that is exactly what they will do. Dr. Timmons insisted that I revise how I addressed the patient at emergence.
Examples:
"Your surgery is all over, you can wake up now." (Instead of "You are waking up"- which could be interpreted as waking up in the middle of surgery.)
"Everything went fine, you are doing well." (Instead of "Nothing went wrong")
"Let me keep your hand by your side." ( Instead of "Don't scratch your eyes.")

Because he was such an obnoxious twit about the whole process, (despite being right) I began to really practice this in my life. I would take a breath when he stopped me, and really try to be creative about what I could say. Mostly so he wouldn't catch me at a wrong phrase again. I really thought about how I said common statements in very negative ways. I worked at it, and the exercise had the same effect as when I was running in the Army. I saw life in a brighter light, and the impossibly difficult became effortless. As I thought better of my work, and then myself, I also thought better of the world. It is easier to laugh when I believe others thoughtlessly silly than when I thought them mean.

Words are important. The wrong ones do so much damage. I see it clearly every day in patients with chronic pain, the negative words grind the pain in deeper. I bear the scars of it in my father's idiotic verbal assaults (Son? of a bitch), and my own self inflicted anger. But the simple, clear, good words, applied daily, can heal many harms. I bathe in good words, slather myself in cheerful ones, steep myself in fine and soft phrases, swear with the strong curses, amuse myself with all the rest.

Life is good.

Fly

My Uncle Walt flew small planes. He was building one in his workshop/garage, I was there the day they put up the walls. He'd done all he could in his basement. I was small, I was fascinated. I told teachers I wanted to become a pilot. He promised me he would take me flying when I was older, and not so prone to motion sickness. He would have a heart attack and be grounded before he could make good on that promise, and another one would get him before he finished the plane. I grieved for him when he died, I was 19. The eight year old in me grieved for the broken promise. I wanted to fly.

My brother was in the Air Force, stationed in Phoenix when I was ten, and he and his wife wanted me to come visit, for three weeks. Which seemed a very long time to me then. On the way to the airport, my father and the truck ignored stop signs at a four way stop, crash. No serious injuries, and they got me onto the plane, for an eight hour flight. Happy to be away, I was bewildered by the feeling of lifting off, it was not quite what I expected. The clouds were astonishing, I took a roll of film of clouds, none of which turned out like they looked. I wore an uncomfortable blue dress that my mother made for me, and insisted I wear, as appropriate traveling clothes. I was bored and lonely, since the middle aged man beside me had no interest in chatting. I stared out the window, listening to the repeated music programs, Free To Be You And Me! My first time flying.

Once, we took a helicopter flight over Niagara Falls, - amazing. In a rare moment of well placed generosity, my father insisted we all go, getting my mother to come along. Very loud, thrilling, and a unique view of the Falls. The best time of our many trips there.

I would fly many times again, in big commercial jets, at the behest of the US Army, to and from Basic in New Jersey (an emptying experience recorded in Emesis) to San Antonio, Seattle, Kansas, Salt Lake, Saudi Arabia. All those flights miraculously arrived at 0dark30. A daylight pleasure flight involved going on a refueling mission for a KC-135 over Iraq. Which was strange and cold, and one of the jet pilots waggled his eyebrows at me. No shit.

On my own I flew to Detroit, Sacramento, San Fransisco, San Diego, Las Angeles, to reconnect with friends or family. The last flight home to Boston was a red eye nightmare. I think it finally killed my love of flying. As though the other difficult flights had not already done it. We moved to Boston via Amtrak mostly due to our joint loathing for flying. Too many cramped seats, too much nausea, bad food, colds afterward.

Before the disillusionment, I would go up in a small plane. Rob was my consoler right after my divorce, a kind, intelligent and gracious man who treated me as valuable. He flew me out high over the Salt Lake valley one evening, redeeming the promise, and healing many wounds. We were not right for each other, and he broke up with me before I was sent to Gulf War I- which took nerve -especially as he let me rage at him, took responsibility with great hearted equanimity. For all of this, he to this day is in my prayers of hope and thanks, for his honesty, integrity, and as an example of what caliber of man I was worthy of, but also for taking me flying, redeeming my Uncle's long ago promise. Bless his big cotton socks. And his small plane.

Emesis

It means vomit, and I promise, only one story involving alcohol. But it is an intense and miserable experience common to the human condition. It is also the moment when we feel least human. Nothing concentrates the mind so much, if only on the gut. It brings out both the best and the worst in the people around us, often at the same time, because it is suggestively contagious. It is a lonely trial to endure alone, and humiliating to be the one witnessed.

Migraines have haunted my life, during stressful periods of grade school I had them 3-4 days a week. Light was acutely painful, my head seared, but nausea was the worst part. I would lie very, very, very...... still. The idea of movement intolerable, even seeing other people move disturbed me. Eventually, my stomach would heave up, and I would empty out. Often my mother would make sure I had a bowl for the purpose (appropriately one of those blotchy plastic ones popular at the time), since running to the bathroom was an excruciating journey. She would close the venetian blinds, and I would huddle on the couch in a small knot of suffering. Usually after the eruption, I would sleep for an hour and wake feeling much better. This was in a time when migraines were not a childhood diagnosis, since children obviously had nothing to be stressed about. My mother soothed my distress.

Mom was going to get her hair done at her sister's in Windsor. I woke up ill, but told her I was better, I was 'fine really.' I was 17 and capable, no problem, it would pass. No sooner did she get out the door, but I started vomiting, over and over until I had nothing left to spew, and still kept going. Finally called her, feeling bad about calling long distance, and told her I was very sick. She couldn't come home right away, without burning her hair, so I said I could wait, what else could she do? I was just alone and scared and sick, not really in danger.

I don't really remember her coming home, but I remember being in the ER, and getting my first pelvic exams under distressing circumstances, still nauseated, crying, and getting exasperated trying to get them to believe I could not be pregnant. I'd not so much as been kissed at that point, it was ridiculous and galling to have to explain this. More so that they didn't seem to believe me. (It was a uterine tube infection, and I would spend the next two days on IV antibiotics.) At one lull in the exams, a round nurse in a stained white uniform, with soft warm blue black skin, stood quietly beside me, holding my hand, I laid my head on her and cried. That was all she did, and it made me feel cared for, safe for the first time that day.

On the eve of my 21st birthday, I went on a college field trip to Kalamazoo for a speech class, I was to perform the The Mountain Whippoorwill the second day. The evening of the first involved students from the several schools gathering at a hotel room in the conference center to drink massive quantities of Budweiser. My first time having more than a single drink of anything. When I'd had my too much Bud, my mouth was numb, I got kissed, and I started my first hangover an hour after the last drink. I toured several porcelain altars, made my offerings.

Remember running as fast as I could down the two-lane, dark highway to get to my room at the Ho Jo's. I spent the night repeating the ritual, and only got sleep, of a sort, late in the morning. I barely managed to drag myself to the conference center, and it all started up again. Much to the amusement of my fellow revelers of the night before. Due to poor signs, I could not find a necessary restroom, and had to use an out-of-the-way corner of carpet. I had no interest in any kind of performance at this point, and I do not clearly recall the trip home, save feeling ashamed, and glad that I was not close to anyone else from that class. I knew I had made a serious mistake, the alcohol was toxic to me, and I would never drink that badly again. I never passed out, I had no oblivion, and I couldn't feel the kiss. Not to say I never got drunk, or hungover again, but I learned. I was always after aware of how much I drank in how much time, and exactly how drunk I was. It became an experiment, with the toxic reaction as a potent punishment for failure. Vomiting was not funny to me, I did not want to be 'The Drunk Who Spewed' joke again.

The morning I started Basic, I was up at 2 am with diarrhea. It would continue through the MEPPS station, thankfully I knew where the restrooms where there because of the earlier urine tests. Made it to the airport, but as soon as the plane started taxiing, I started throwing up. I would continue to use the barf bag on every take off and landing, and in the toilets in-between across the country. By the time I landed at the Newark Airport you could whistle through me. Cathartic experience, both physically and psychically. Clean start it was, and felt like it at the time. Lonely, but it felt like a test that I passed. Hungry for a new start.

The worst though was the case of gastritis I developed in Saudi Arabia in the Army housing. I was alone on my day off, the only one on my floor. No way to contact anyone, and I was throwing up every twenty minutes or so, with nothing on my stomach to start with. After about four hours I thought I heard someone walking through the hall and called out as best I could. It was Cpt. Crockett, getting something from her room, a RN, and my saviour. She got me down to the CO, who got me driven out to the site. I tried to drink some water, knowing I was dehydrated, but guess what happens when you drop 16oz of water on an empty inflamed stomach? Yup, more toilet touring. I was handed around and finally got to a doc, who gave me a shot of compazine, and a cot for the night in the tent hospital, a place to lie down with someone to make sure I got some food. After I slept several hours, I felt much better -though rung out. Only then did I manage to call D. He had no idea where I was, had only lately been told I was at the site hospital, he was frantic trying to find out what had happened to me. Competent help, good drugs, and someone who cared for me, it turned out ok.

D would be my rescuer many times. Once, I'd come home from work, and felt very tired and dizzy. The dizziness kept getting worse, so that I was spinning, then whirling, and my eyes were doing that thing that happens when you spin a kid around too long. It's called strabismus, the eyes tracking movement that is not happening, conflicting with one's actual position in space, for one thing.

Yeah, well, you know what the result of that was. I was spinning- lying very, very still, eventually just wretchedly dry heaving with a pan beside me. By about 6 am I was in desperate shape, called my doc, who rather irritably told me it was probably vestibulitis and to get to the ER. (Well, you know what health insurance can be like if you don't call your primary first.) I just said ok, and woke up D to say I needed to get to the ER. He'd not had a restful night's sleep, woken to my retching every hour or less, so he was also a bit tetchy. Nevertheless, he called the Taxi, got an empty Big Gulp cup for the trip, got me dressed- no mean feat given my balance issues, and got me to the ER at the hospital where I work. I had called ahead, don't know if it helped, but maybe.

Did you know, seven AM is the best time to go to the Emergency Room? Fresh staff, not too much business. A Lovely young man slid an IV painlessly into my arm. The ER Doc, well she gave me beautiful drugs and the tastiest liter of fluid I have ever had through my vein. I stabilized and the spinning was down to a slow oscillation within the hour, D watching me, looking much relieved of his worry. I crawled along the walls up to surgery to let them know I would not be in that day, and elicited much sympathy and concern, and insistence that I get home. The whirlies lasted a few days, got us out of a plane trip- never a bad thing, and made me feel very fragile for a long while.

Last year, I took care of post-operative day surgery patients who frequently vomit. Armed with drugs, and some very good Just-in-Case bags, IV fluids, and a strong stomach. But sometimes it was not enough, and they just have to go through the process, reset the peristalsis, and go home feeling nauseated and miserable. I just hope they have quiet and sympathy, but not too many witnesses. I feel for them.

Room

My first bedroom was a converted bathroom on the second floor of an originally two bedroom house. The ceiling slanted dramatically, and it was tiny for a bedroom, even though my bed, a second hand "youth" bed was small enough to fit. Occasionally birds would get into the ventilation vent that had been there when it was the bathroom, and a very shocked looking bird would flit around the room, more often just fluttering inside the wall.

Cartoon trains on the wallpaper, stickers on the dresser door that formed the shape of eyes and mouth- skull like- that terrified me when I was small. Heating vent that showed light from my brothers' room next to mine, and funneled sound from all over the house, and hot sooty air from the coal furnace.

When a brother put me to bed, I would get swung around over the stairway, or around the tiny slanted room first, before being plunked into bed. It was often cold, and the window very high. I preferred it to be as dark as possible, since shadows in dim light turned into threatening shapes. Dense darkness didn't scare me. Cold in the winter, I would scrunch down to the bottom of the bed to bunch the blankets around me. My mother would pull me back up to the top of the bed, and would in later years complain that I fought her, scratched her a few times. I probably did, since I would wake cold and confused, and in my sleep resisted her 'correcting' my position. Hot in the summer, covered with mosquito bites slathered in calamine lotion that never seemed to help with the itch, but always in a nightgown and underpants nevertheless.

I would later move into my brothers vacated room, larger, L shaped, with a door that would not stay closed if someone walked on just the right spot in the hallway. I would eventually get a lock, but that is a bitter story, for another time and place. A refuge of a sort. I would sleep practically in the window sill in the summer, my bed pushed up against the wall. In my teens I would resist my mother's insistence on moving the bed to different positions summer to winter, and I would draw in the ice on the window as I went to sleep to the booming drone of ship horns on the river. Fogs and storms meant ship-horn lullaby. Dogs barking in the narrow back yards, the eternal hiss of the freeway two blocks away. Fans in the summer to get some kind of breeze to my back of the house, cloying wet heat and sleeplessness.

When I moved to Kalkaska, I found a cinderblock duplex, a few miles from town on land surrounded by a christmas tree farm let grow. The floors were concrete, covered by a thin striped carpet. For the first time, I had a place all my own, and I loved that furnished two bedroom. I only had to pay for heat, and so I froze. But with the electric blanket, I would curl up in bed and watch my miniature red portable tv. The quiet was unnerving for me, knowing only noisy nights punctuated by sirens. I would grow to slept well in the dense silence and intense darkness. Cooking for myself for the first time, I ate off my frisbee because I had no dishes. A field mouse kept me company some days, poking it's intelligent sharp face up, watching me as though I was in it's home. If I could have peopled it with friends, I would probably be living there still, but the loneliness, deep within myself, drove me from the eden.

A few miserable months in the outgrown bedroom in my parent's house, then another place. Two roommates. An old building near Wayne State, up on the third floor, wood floors. I slept on a foam chair that unfolded to a sort of bed. I cooked and decorated, my aunt gave me an old kitchen table. I survived and learned hard expensive lessons from user roommates, and one good one who taught me to be a better roommate myself. Another apartment on a third floor in an old house, second floor to live in, the third reached by a metal spiral stairway that would be the bane of my existence, Source of many bruises, and an open top floor with three beds. Not a happy experience for someone who always had her own room. But it would not be for long, as I started to share sleeping arrangements in a tiny attic apartment with the eventual ex. I moved with him into an apartment like the first, also on the third floor, three windows onto the street. Right next to a bar. I could hear when it was 2 am by people pissing off the apartment roof onto the roof of the bar, past my window.

Salt Lake, and a newer place than I had ever lived in, but much more cheaply built, a view of the mountains, good guy bikers as neighbors. Growing unease in my choices, but move on. There would be a rented small house that would be worse, and the end of a bad connection, another two years yet.

Barracks, eight man bays in basic. Hearing other people sleeping. I was chided for calling the barracks 'home', but they felt as much home to me as anywhere, then. Warm and dry, a place to sleep seemed enough. In San Antonio it was a 64 man bay, I had a top bunk this time. I lived in my skin by then, and did not feel the lack of privacy . I could change a tampon standing at my bunk and no-one could notice. The polished floors, the immaculate shower rooms, the tightly made beds in long rows, conversations all around, the shocking fire alarms nearly every night, waiting outside until it was cleared. Only once did someone try to mess with me while I slept. I jumped down pulling the mattress with me, glared at her -ready for her to make any threatening gesture. She merely mocked me for 'looking' at her, but she left me alone after that. My friend Voog would come in after her evening shift on the psych ward, and whisper stories of her training adventures, and starting a rumor about the Don't Worry, Be Happy guy committing suicide. It was more home for me than any place yet.

Another barracks in Ft. Riley Kansas, on the job training (OJT) at an Army hospital. I had a room to myself, because the other woman had a place in town. When the summer storms came through, the thunder would shake the building and rattle the windows. I would find myself shocked awake sitting up heart pounding in my ringing ears. Cinderblocks painted white, it was clean, spare. I was in self destructive turmoil over my 'official' home disintegrating, and I was going out to call a cab, to buy a gun. But there was this party going on in the hallway, Friday night drinking of the regular Army staff, I was welcomed, given a beer, urged to join them. I didn't go into town, I got drunk and laughed, surrounded by friendly people. Home. Huh. Well, well.

Back to civilian life, and a year endured,survived. Escape, and a friend's basement for two weeks, then a new apartment. My own space again. Recently redone, one bedroom, windows north and south, noisy floors, between upper and lower floors, beige carpets still shedding fuzz. Nothing to put anything on, I made piles along the walls. I did my washing by hand because I hadn't been shown where the laundry room was. I bought a cheap drafting table and studied by the window with the radio on. Given an old blue sofa/chair -where I slept some nights. I had a single futon, which I replaced with a full size one with a frame that smelled of fresh pine. I was just making the bed for the first time, with a new spread that I paid too much for out of school loan money, when the phone rang. I was being activated for my Guard Unit, Gulf War I. I laid down on my new bed feeling strange and stunned. A new friend would use the place while I was gone, I paid rent, she covered everything else and I would have my new home back when I came back. A fair price for peace of mind, and my own home.

Others called them "the projects" and it was apt. Eight floor apartment blocks built by the Saudi government to settle to Bedouins, who refused to live there, offered to American troops for the Gulf War. Marble floors, chandeliers, bidets, paper still wrapped around the railings, bird crap everywhere along with the eternal dust, the elevators worked sporadically and the plumbing was infinitely unreliable. Air conditioners were put in before the heat of spring, but we could have used heat. They were good for cooling off the local coke, when shoved in the vent for a few hours.

I started out with three roommates, who one by one adjusted living arrangements to suit the cliques. Until I was the only one with P**tte, a strange smelly woman with most likely a borderline personality disorder. The last month, she moved in with another friend of hers, and I had a fairly large room to myself, where D could visit with reasonable privacy, by Army standards. An embroidered tablecloth was strung across the room, rugs covered the bunk and floor, boxes for uniforms and odds and ends, Nutella jar under the bunk, and Pringles nearby, Gary Larson Calendar on the wall. I was learning to carry my home with me, and D was now my home.


Back to civilian reality again, and forever. Michelle would eventually move out of my living room. D would move in. Cluttered and small, the management company would neglect the place badly. We were bewitched by a new place, not built yet, where we would be the first to live there. Two bathrooms! A balcony, a pool, a walk in closet! It seemed huge and luxurious. And it was, we were in love, overlooking faults as quirks. We had guests in the back bedroom, friends gathered to watch MST3K. Yes, ok, so the dishwasher was installed so it could not open, but went 'thunk' against the edge of the counter. Carpet not well laid, balcony that slanted in toward the building, a bathtub rail that came out of the wall when D used it right after having broken his arm. A bright orange light outside our bedroom window that I blocked using layers of blankets tacked up. Towed from our parking for being in a snow pile area that was no longer needed and the sign gone. Friends who couldn't park nearby. The rent went up. And we looked at each other one day and said, enough, it's not a good apartment with all these amusing problems, it's a bad apartment and we need out. We had to wait for the lease to be up, those ridiculous penalties, but we moved. A house gone sour, but we had each other still.

D spotted the new place, saw it as a good home. No cats allowed here either, but the big beautiful windows let in so much light, and we loved the bells from the church across the street, trees outside, and birdsong in the spring. It was a nice place to put our home.

And now we are in provided housing. Walked into a lobby with a concierge, and big empty echoing corporate style housing unit, and were appalled. After a month, we got our belongings, and now a cat, and it is feeling like home. Binoculars at the ready, since we are on floor 20. Another unlikely environment, but we are adaptable creatures. For 14 years, anywhere D is, is home for me. We are guardians of our solitude, safe and warm. But I do wonder what the next place will be like..... and how many friends we will fit in. We have been looking, and in Boston, for a place we can afford, it is going to be small and inconvenient, but we will cope. We will find room.

Nude

When I was at Wayne State, I was a hungry student, and I did all kinds of odd jobs to fill the gaps in my income as best I could. But although tempted by significant money, I only toyed with the idea of being a model for art classes. Probably because when I was 18, in high school - I had gotten into a sort of AP drawing class. I was completely unprepared, emotionally, mentally, artistically, for a 50ish obese woman to sit on a stool, facing me with her legs not together, while I with my pencil and sketch pad was expected to draw her, surrounded by college students all drawing so confidently. I drew her crotch. I was embarrassed by my focus, lack of talent and lack of composure. I left at the break, leaving behind all the paid-for art supplies, bewildered and overwhelmed. I would like to put my arm around my 18 year old self and, gently, tell her what was to come. Poor dear that I was.

A few years later, 23, and hungry still, but (miserably) married and a thousand miles away, I did go up to the U of U and with great trepidation, signed up to model for an art class. I brought a large dark robe, changed into it in the restroom, and entered the large, dim, paint spattered concrete studio, with the platform for (oh, gods) me.

The class gathered, the kindly, soft spoken bearded professor directed me to the spot he wanted me to stand, and said something like "ready?" - I dropped the robe. It was a moment of heat and terror, and for 15 minutes I imagined myself in very Victorian clothing, corset holding my back straight, every inch of myself encased in imaginary, restrictive bombazine.

Then I was told to take a break. I slipped on my robe and went to sit - out of the center of the room. The students politely chatted with me a little, but let me have my space. I had smaller and smaller waves of uncertainty as the two hour class went on and I disrobed and posed. I began to think about what a comfortable pose was, what I could hold, and what I could not. When I modeled for the second time, I had a moment of "...hhhwwwooouuuu... " then I was fine, and ever after. I would, however, always be a model to keep my legs generally together. I am not an exhibitionist. It was a distinction the students/artists explained- see, some models did not put the robe on for breaks, and that was very uncomfortable for them.

I would soon learn the importance of the technical aspects of the job. An elbow rested on a knee is good for five minutes, but for 20-30 minutes at a time, replaced exactly, over three hours, left me with a numb forearm for over a week. Twisting positions are loved by artists, but too much and the model is going to go into spasms, and will not be able to hold long enough to be drawn. Not good for a multiple class, one position, oil painting. Any limb resting on another will cause numbness. Muscles need to be tightened then relaxed in a way that does not change the pose, in order to keep circulation going, and especially with standing poses, prevent fainting. Hair needs to be kept the same, no tying it back mid class because it is in my face. Finding a staring focus, lest the head start drifting. Getting up slowly, so I wouldn't have a leg buckle. I did have my leg buckle badly once, as I was stepping down from the platform, and the class, uncharacteristically, rushed to grab me. The day before a model had fainted, fell off the platform onto the concrete floor, got a concussion, and was taken to the hospital. They were a bit edgy about losing models.

The Professors and the students were wonderful, respectful and appreciative. I would start bringing easy to wear street clothes and would quickly dress for breaks, then quietly walk around the easels. The artists would chat with me, tell me that they loved how I was always on time, how still I was, for so long, and that my skin was luminous.

I would never comment on their work, save for a very few that I admired. They mostly drew themselves- I was the anatomical reference point. The women who were larger busted than me, drew me larger than I was. Men drew me more angular, or more to their own tastes perhaps. They expressed themselves, I was a reflection more than an object. One woman did amazing black/grey/white abstracts that I thought looked most like me of all. I wish I could remember her name, she had a distinct and powerful style.

I had to meditate to get through the sessions, because my mind would start to eat at me, race into dark places and dwell on pain. I imagined flying over countryside, dancing across water, I devised mental puzzles, did word games. Best of all was when I could simply quiet my thoughts and glow. This took the class doing much the same. The quiet filled the room, dim, except for the light on me, and I once stood for over an hour leaning against a ladder, entranced by the glow of the light shining off my skin. The paintings that day were all touched, a shared moment of enlightenment. It would happen every so often, and it was always a blessing. Once on a very hot day in July, I could feel the sweat welling up and pouring over my skin, I was a fountain, a wellspring.

I would model at other art studios in town, which paid better, though I hated the music played. But the level of respect stayed high, and I still needed the money. I would only stop after I got a job as an LPN my last year of nursing school. Finally, something that I could do that paid better- in total if not per hour. The pain was getting to be too much for me, not to mention the difficulty scheduling. I do miss that intense quiet, the studious gaze.

When I say I can stand naked in front of the world, I am being accurate. I live in my skin, exposure holds no terror for me, nor does being LOOKED AT. I am, after all, luminous.

Detail

Small details are important to small children. A beautiful photograph of an opening leaf, showing the tiny white hairs reminded me of how I once saw the world. I stared at clover, made endless strings of knotted clovers, peeled apart the tiny petals to see what it was made of. I would throw up armfuls of maple helicopters to see which ones would spin the longest. I studied the bricks in a wall, the crevices in my own hands, the shapes that water took on in flight.

I would work in libraries for many years, as an aide. A shelver of books. I knew books by number, by weight and surfaces. I scanned for designating stars and stripes- for new books, and especially in Children's- award winners, picture books, readers, all kinds of categories. I was very good at this, picking out small indicators - tick marks, a letter, stamps, colored stars or circles, that the book belonged at another branch, or in the county system. Had no trouble accepting complex groupings based on minute differences, as long as I could put a reason to the mark. I knew the Dewey system largely by heart, could spot an out of sequence book at a glance.

When I stated basic, I learned about being uniform, noticing a tilted cap, a collar askew, an unlaced boot, an undone button. Not to mention all the insignia, of ranks, officers, whom to salute, whom to simply say good morning to. And sleeve patches for the different companies, training- I was never very good at these, because they were largely meaningless to me. The bearable part of the military, or what made living so closely with so many people with varying tolerances for dirt and disorder, was that cleanliness was enforced. Brass moldings were polished, laundry bags tied to the ends of bunks in a particular way. Inspection was a minute operation, uniforms on hangers not only had to be facing the same way, but the hangers 3" apart. No individual interpretation, all clearly spelled out. We would be send out to 'police' up trash and cigarette butts. Leaves and twigs were allowed to stay. Which all seems ridiculous, but it pushes the tolerances back so far that even on an off day, the place won't stink. Living with 63 other women with minimal space takes regimentation.

Scrubbing in surgery was another life of detail, with more individual interpretation. The standard set up for the instruments on the Mayo stand was not arbitrary, it was very functional, but varied quite a lot depending on type of operation and scrub. When I would take over a case for another scrub to go to lunch, it's very important that is is variation on theme, rather than radical difference. If I already know where everything is going to be, or it is clearly visible, I can immediately take over. There is no time to lose, because the operation goes on, and the surgeon needs a clamp, scissors or suture when they ask for it, not when I get around to it. Knowing at a glance the small differences between a metz or Mayo (straight or curved) scissors, or a 6" or 8" kelly clamp or crille or tonsil, 2-0 or 3-0 silk tie is the difference between the surgeon getting tetchy, or quietly content. The latter being highly preferable.

When I circulate, not running the sterile field, but running the room, getting supplies and documenting, taking care of the anesthesiologist, I also watch the patient for safe positioning, padding, safety straps, while thinking ahead to potential hazards. Keeping irrigation fluids coming, and suction and drainage going. Masses of detail, strung together in a weaving of memory and attention.

This is all learned behaviour for me. I am not naturally neat, or organized. I am not obsessive about any of this unless there is rationale, reason, purpose. If you were to just drop by to visit me a home, which would be just fine, you will find my apartment to be noticeably cluttered, dusty, counters will have crumbs and tea stains, pans will be unwashed, sweaters and shoes may be strewn around, certainly books and papers will be all over the place. If I am given a free hour warning, then the clutter will be mostly picked up, and the more obvious cleaning done, dishwasher (wonderful invention) running. If someone is coming to stay, then mopping and vacuuming will happen, as well as cleaning well the bathroom and kitchen, rotten food thrown out, dusting and desk cleaning will be done. Nothing will ever clear away the books and papers, might as well consider them decor. The closer a friend you are, the less will be done. Because you are more important than clean or order.

I love the small, the close. I am content for it to do as it pleases, as well as putting it in order. I pay attention, trying never to force, let it flow and see the patterns. Carefully using energy, or calmly allowing the dust to settle. I move fast and bustle about, so that I can later simply sit and watch quietly. Perhaps I see the world much as I did as a small child in this way. Run outside to lie down and contemplate a leaf.

Sing

My mother sang to me, Brahm's Lullaby, Mockin' Bird, Rock-a-bye Baby, the lullaby from Mary Poppins- Stay Awake, and my favorite-Silent Night- all year long. I sang as a baby as much as I talked, sang myself to sleep at night, long singing babbles. I remember singing Downtown (yes, Petula Clark) with my mother in the kitchen doing dishes. I sang with my church choir, perhaps I was 10, faithful I was, got to sit away from parents- up in the choir loft. I loved it for itself, learning the alto parts, rounds, carols. Being in the Advent processions. Learning with such wonderful people who didn't grade me, but accepted me as one of the group of adults. My only social outlet, and a kind one.

When I went into a theater program, I expected to learn to sing, but it wasn't in the curriculum. I tried to take a sight reading class, but after the first one where phrases like "As you can see..." and "As you already know...." followed by what might as well have been Urdu, I dropped- in despair. After auditioning for HMS Pinafore, humiliatingly, I tried taking private singing lessons, but I had no idea what music to choose, or how to find music, not that I could read it. I could not be heard over the teacher's piano, and it was simply frustrating. With no confidence, I would cry in anger, my throat choking up. I did sing in a show, once. I couldn't find the key by myself, so I talked through the first line to let the piano come in so I could sing the second in the given key. I still cringe at the thought.

The Army, source of innumerable surprizes, was energizing for me because we sang, cadences marching, cadences running. Captain Jack, the one about the Airborne rangers, running all the way to- (wherever you are from) just like this! I shouted and sang myself hoarse, we all did. We sang in the barracks, the tiled latrine was especially resonant. We sang to entertain ourselves. We sang our exhaustion, our loneliness, our anger. We would all be hoarse, and still keep yelling.

I've always learned songs by listening to them, playing them over and over until I learned the words, the tunes came easily. I sang whenever I was alone, or around people who didn't care. I sang for my elderly patients, for children. When I got my job in surgery, I was delighted that many of us sing at work. Oh, there are complaints, but who cares? But I still had a small voice, and although I loved singing when D played guitar, it was difficult, and I got nervous and hesitant, and squeaked.

Then D and I went to the Salt Lake Arts Festival. A group called Yankee Clipper was playing, and they sang what I now know as St. Thomas. I had chills. When they finished, the leader said "This is a Sacred Harp song, if you are interested in this kind of singing, leave your information with me... ." I scrambled for something to write on, and gave it to him. I got the email, I went, I fell in love. Such a welcoming group of people, and that sound. In the center of the square of ordinary folks, was the voice of god transcending all the dualities and illusions. Within a year, I could hear my own voice amid the intense volume. Within two, I could read the music enough to scrape by with untried songs. Now I have a powerful confident voice. Not pretty, but I hit the notes. I don't choke. I sound like I feel.

I can sing now when D plays guitar, and we meet in the notes.

Blue

I had a long blue dress, tiny flower pattern, but mostly blue. It was the 70's, a maxi was allowable, but it mattered little to me what was in fashion, I loved the feel of long skirts around my legs. Somehow I managed to get my mother to make me this bit of cotton joy. I wore it all summer, I wore it whenever I could get away with it, I wore it until it was not floor length anymore, I wore it to bits and shreds, and made a quilt with what was left. There are no extant photographs of me in it, since it was so much a play dress, not what my mother wanted to remember me in. Perhaps as well, wouldn't want to feel embarrassed about how I looked in it. I would have other long skirts, but none would be worn with such joy, such dedicated perversity.

I wore navy blue in grade school, uniform color if not an actual uniform. Since it was a bad era for girls clothes, so much polyester, my mother made me a wool jumper (pinafore to the Brits). Unlike so many girls who were pushing on their sexual identities, I wanted mine long and full. I wanted to be covered, and in Detroit winters, warm. I wore that dark blue wool after school, not changing until I went to bed. But I grew that year, and then went to high school, where brown was the awful color, and I would wear pants for many years.

So many blue clothes, dark blue, royal blue, midnight blue. The first birthday for D that I could get him something (the actual first being the day we got home from activation from Saudi Arabia - that being gift enough) I asked him what he wanted. He mentioned that he needed a shirt, and hated buying clothes. I said fine, what kind of shirt would you like?

"Blue."

Um, ok. I found him a blue striped shirt, and he was happy. This was a man I could live my life with. Blue is such a real color for me, unpretentious, beyond fashion, comfortable. As is a man whose sole criteria for an article of clothing is that it be blue.

Shy

Painful shyness. I vividly remember being asked by my mother to give a store clerk money for what I wanted to buy. I hid behind her skirts. My stomach hurt. I really was not clear on what to do, and I was not about to let a stranger see me do it wrong. Very small me. I hate being put on the spot when I am not clear. I hate being watched. I was supposed to give a little speech for a class play, but when I stood on the stage in front of the empty room, I imagined the room of people and froze. Ran away crying. Never did the introduction.

For each of these, I managed to devise a strategy for "the next time." Bit by bit, I would stand on stage and talk. I would buy my own first box of tampons myself, because my mother only handed me bulky "napkin" boxes and embarrassed silence. I would yell back at my verbally abusive father, after I moved out and he no longer had a say in my life. I would stand naked in front of an art class. I would tell off rude people in an airport. I would tell a blustery surgeon to "Shut Up" and make it stick.* And every time, I would swallow a hard hot knot of deep shyness. Which got easier to swallow every time, if not exactly smaller. Or maybe I just grew larger.

A few years ago I heard from one of my school tormentors- I was an easy target for bullies, I cried so easily. Monica got word through another friend at the 20 year reunion, that she wanted to apologize to me. Which touched me. I remember her plucking at my stockings on the bus back from a school field trip. Giggling every time I answered a question in class, 'A' student dweeb that I was. I had almost forgotten, and long ago let it go. She was like a mosquito, irritating, but once gone, hardly worth the effort of hatred. Most people do unto others as they are being done by. I figured, after she could no longer bother me, that she probably had her own problems. The cruelty of children. She carried it around with her though, and I feel great sympathy for her sense of adult responsibility. Monica, you were forgiven long ago, but thank you.

I never wanted to be anything other than what I was. Odd. I thought thoughts that I was told were unusual, for reading, for being smart in class. Or I was called weird outright. Teased for my accent, from being around Canadian relatives. For the way I walked- ballet class and twisted feet. The way I dressed, home sewn clothes, natural modesty. I never could quite see the value of looking like everyone else though. Or thinking like everyone else. I considered them stupid sheep when I was in a particularly put-upon mood. For rolling up their uniform skirts in a fat wad at their waists to show legs to boys who were mean and spotty. I didn't want them to like me, I wanted them to leave me alone. I knew I was not likable and decided this was not worth worrying about. Accept it and move on.

Theater was a good major for me. Eccentricity was just fine, applauded, especially in clothes and behaviour. The Army was the other side of the insight, that uniforms accentuate individuality. The more the same everyone is supposed to look, the more character stands out. In the military I was popular for the first time, because of the way I walked and carried myself, for my wit and audacity. Among both men and women. I thoroughly developed my Fuck You attitude there. I do what I am expected to do, and am happy in my skin, and if you don't like it, why should I care? There were girls there who decided I would be an easy target. They were mistaken. They were frustrated. I was slightly annoyed, but mostly I thought it was funny. I knew the type, I ate that sort for breakfast those days.

Well, confession, two of them were running ahead of me on my PT test run. I was not about to let the little snots beat me, and I beat them to the finish line for the best run of my life. Felt wonderful. Petty victory. I was about nine years older than they were. Rare competitive moment.

I was asked by my dearest friend if I never felt self-conscious. Last time was when I was at a gala, and wondering if I was adequately festively dressed. I looked at not the best dressed women, but the ones who didn't quite fit their finery. Too much bad skin, too tight dresses, mis-matched stuff. I was not too bad. So, fine. I will never be the best dressed, or the prettiest. Never was. Nothing new. I won't be the worst either. And if I am? Well, first- who's to say? Better I just enjoy myself and revel in being the most outstanding. The thoughts of standing out do cross my mind, all the time, but I don't let them linger. I have but one mirror, and he loves me utterly. Fell in love with me when I was in camouflage with the worst haircut of my life.

I think, though, that the modeling is the key. Artists drawing a model draw themselves. I was there for reference, angle and anatomy and light. A muse. Their drawings were of their own vision, often their own bodies in general size and shape. The women drew breasts their own size, not mine. Knowing that I could stand naked in front of 30 people--not as an exhibition, but with confidence, is very strong. At home in my skin. I have been Looked At, I know how to take strength from it. I feel the shyness, but it no longer hurts, or controls. It just sort of sits there trying not to be noticed.


*Dr. D N, who I would grow to admire. Thanks.

Purple

I have always loved Purple. Plums and grapes were so appealing because of the color. Blackberries picked at the side of Hines Drive. Alone in a bramble on an embankment picking and eating the mesh of berries. Small I was, hidden down below the tops of the brush. A glorious memory. And my hands stained dark purple. My mouth full of purple.

I had a small bed, and inherited from my brothers an ugly beige bed spread that my mother promised to dye purple for me. It turned out more lilac, my mother's idea of a pretty purple. I was disappointed, because it was not dark enough, but I knew enough to be grateful and not complain. Likewise when I was older, my brothers long moved out and I had their room, I was given the canopy bed I so wanted, romantic notion. It was not dark wood with heavy purple velvet drapery surrounding the bed. Not that that would have been reasonable, an expensive proposition. And I was only in 3rd grade. I had a say in the fabric for the spread and canopy, but my mother's absolute notion of what colors were appropriate for a little girl meant I deferred to her. And she was sewing it for me herself. It was a pretty but very light blue, with multicolor pastels on the flat of the bed, short ruffles at the top. And the bed itself was white and gold, Sears probably still sells them. But my mother went to so much effort, and I was getting what I said I wanted... I was quiet and tried to be grateful. Appeared to be certainly. I could not be so aware of tight money and not make her feel I appreciated her efforts.

There was a lilac jumper once, dreadful polyester thing. But mom had made it. I wore it. It made me feel ugly. My mother told me purple was not the best color on me, lilac certainly is not.

When I was out on my own, I found a deep dark purple sweater in a rummage sale. I kept it, despite holes and general decay until just a few years ago. It made me feel wonderful. It was the perfect purple, and the ratty appearance, even when new to me, was part of it's charm. Soft, body too short, the arms stretched out, often worn inside out. Often worn with dance clothes. My first article of clothing in the right color, and I kept it for 20 years. Had it with me in Saudi.

I tried other colors, black especially, and grey. I had a bright pink shirt that I paid too much for in San Antonio. A saffron scarf, blues of any dark hue for many things. I owned a green car. I have had red jackets, one now, because of a sale rather than a preference. I wore army green for six years, but only when I was paid to. I wear green scrubs now for the same reason. Being able to wear colorful hats in deep rich shades, two purple- helps. I wore white through nursing school, hated because of periods and because always looked grey, and dirty. I wore navy blue uniforms in grade school and brown in high school. I have worn many unflattering clothes, but uniforms were the perfect excuse to look bad, because it wasn't my fault, and everyone around me was wearing the same thing. Easy. I believed I had no fashion sense, so uniforms in disliked colors didn't matter. I yearned for purple.

I had two years of prosperity, and I found that my fashion sense wasn't so much bad as a bit expensive. I cannot make bad clothes look good, but when I can afford it, I can choose good, flattering clothes. My love of that rich dark of a midnight purple is still part of me. The sweater I wear now, another of silk, many scarves of all kinds of purple. A stretchy knit skirt of dusty purple. I was just too poor to indulge my taste except with a second hand bit of knit for many years.

Purple is still to me a symbol of my independence. My own taste indulged. And my mother's inability to understand me, and attempts to interpret me, wrongly. Of the imposition of her will on something that shouldn't have mattered that much to her as an adult, but that mattered to me as a child. Like banning denim jeans as 'what workmen wore', not her daughter. Like resisting letting me grow my hair. "You look so cute in a Pixie." Symbolic of other narrow views and absolute dogma. My father's opinion on all of this was just something to rail against, anything he liked was what I didn't do, because I did not want to please him or attract him. That was just part of his overwhelming cruelty. But my mother was my ally, I wanted to please her. She made unreasoned demands of my taste and preferences as though they were a moral issue. Today I cannot talk to her, because I do not want to be judged by her. Because her judgment is suspect. Because she never bothered to know my favorite color, as a child nor as an adult, and I don't now care to trouble myself to get to know her.

Because I look beautiful in purple.

Iron

My mother taught me to iron- on towels. I had a toy iron and ironing board. The iron got warm, and I was given towels to iron and fold. I would use the small board with a real iron for the handkerchiefs, until I was taller. I was responsible for ironing my father's handkerchiefs. White ones. I was criticized if they were not done well. I didn't mind the job for itself, but I hated doing it for him, and for no actual purpose other than an alien aesthetic. But my mother was proud of having ironed 21 white shirts a week, seven each for my father and two brothers, when that was required. My father worked in a factory, but he wore a white shirt to and from, changing into overalls there. A priority that baffles me to this day. So much energy to so little effect. And that iron and board were a gift, a toy, for me. Worst Christmas present ever.

I was taught to iron. I would have to iron my gym t-shirts. All my pants and skirts and blouses, thankfully, not underpants or sheets, although I have heard of women who did. When I was given bras to wear, I was expected to iron them. Ridiculous and damaging to the elastic, I would sneak them into my drawer and lie about having ironed them, just as I would do with the t-shirts I only wore at school. I would not get out of ironing my father's shirts and pants, by that time a detested job. I had to do it well, both of them had no compunction about making me do it again. I was to have pride to do it right, what was going to happen if I could not iron well when I was out on my own?

So I can iron well. And I rarely iron anything. I would iron my army uniforms, minimally by the last year when I cared little. I would iron my nursing school uniforms, and then get an OR job where I had scrubs and threw them into the hospital laundry, and never have to do anything about my uniforms. I once pressed Hakama pants, the Japanese martial arts uniform trousers. Incredibly difficult, but I got them looking nice.

I do like taking wrinkled clothes and spraying them with starch, the steam iron smoothing out the mess and creating crisp, neat fabric. But only once in a while, for a special occasion. Like counting coins, or polishing silver, a special job, not anything to enjoy when it is a daily chore. I used to have my BDU uniforms cleaned and pressed with extra starch when I was in San Antonio, the only way to get away with wearing it more than one day in that heat. I still iron the occasional shirt or pair of pants, but rarely, and if ironed shirts become a requirement for D's job, I would gladly pay for the laundry to do them. I take only the most grudging kind of pride in a well pressed shirt. I do not consider D's dishevelment a personal disgrace for me, as my mother did if my father had a wrinkle.

So what was I taught, I that think that no education is wasted, and all experience useful? . Certainly not what was intended. Not to hold on to tight to standards that no longer apply, to question the standards I live by now. Pick my battles. Taking pride in a job for it's own sake- applied later to good charting.

Never iron naked.

Yeah, that'll do.

Passion

So, now you are going to ask me what I am passionate about. And that is a very hard question. Because I have been so near to death, which dwarfs all other emotions. I once wanted fame and mastery, but I do not have that kind of talent. And fame would sit badly with me. To live a quiet deep life, yes. One friend says I most want to be an Anonymous Angel. And I think that gets to the heart of who I am. I want my work to be known, but to be able to stand and watch without being known as the author of my work. Relieving pain, writing, listening with all my heart when someone most needs to be heard. To witness courage in small battles, or a last breath. To enjoy obscure talent, and spread the word a bit. To sing at the top of my lungs. Silently keep a friend company. Cheer on a couple newly in love. Make D laugh. I do not have one passion, I have a thousand small ones. Eh, keeps me busy.......

Violence

Despite hating, fearing it, my relationship with violence is complex, troubled, fearful and proud, guilty and sanctimonious. I have been swung at by patients, lived an abusive marriage. I do not hit people, not even in play anymore. I've shot M16's- well. I would never own a gun.

Small angry little girl, I beat up on my stuffed animals and dolls constantly. Threw them over the railing, smashed them into the floor, hit and stomped, with the intent of causing them pain, although on one level aware that they could not feel pain. In fact, that was why I beat on them, characters with an element of realness, but knowing I was not doing any real harm. My childhood anger was against the unfairness, the stupidity, the cruelty of my father. Although he never beat me, there were a few spankings, unjust ones, I learned nothing from them but that he was out of control, erratic, dangerous. They were not more than most parents at the time would have considered normal. I was not physically abused, it was the emotional bullying, the threat of strikes, the terror of an unpredictable authority, that has left me scarred. And grew in me an anger, raging violence, that lies there still.

I retaliated inside during his rages. Found out you can look at the bridge of a man's nose, and he cannot tell that you are not "looking at" him. I imagined hitting him, slashing at him with a knife, crushing his skull, and most satisfyingly, shooting a crossbow bolt through his mouth. Oh, I tried gentler thoughts first, prayers, images of martyrs, but nothing helped until I imagined the violence, shutting him up. When a man rages, throwing insane rants against you inches from your face for hours at a time, when you are a small child dependent on him for everything, the only defense is in your own mind. And a puny defense it is. I needed a more powerful weapon. My brother unwittingly provided it.

My oldest brother was beaten up in high school walking home from a dance, thug boys hit him in the head with a chain. A police officer found him and brought him home. Dave would be in the hospital with a concussion for the next week. When he got better, he learned all he could about self defense. And taught me. I would have been about 5. He frankly told me about fighting dirty, that if anyone bigger than me tried to hurt me, I was to fight however I could, gouge, scratch, kick, yell, go for the balls. Sometimes I think he got out some of his own aggression under the guise of teaching me, but I took the lessons anyway. My fear of being physically hurt was deep.

A girl in school decided she was going to fight me, I had no idea why - then or now. I was not going to put myself to the test for her idiocy, another irrational person trying to impose her will on me. I had no pride at all and made an uncharacteristic fuss to the teacher while lining up to go outside. That stopped the threat. I hated her for putting me in that ridiculous position. Most school teasing was more emotional, harassing me for being a "cry-baby," a true enough accusation, my labile temperament coming from my erratic home. Mostly, they were tears of anger, frustration. I would not escape the epithet until high school. I hated being picked on, of course, but it now pales in my memory. School taunts were like standing in ice water, while at home I was drowning in it. So if you bullied me in grade school, don't worry, I hardly noticed.

I had access to the library. I found the true crime section. I filled my head with the extremes of violence and perverse crimes. Read Helter Skelter, and a series of recollections by a homicide cop of his worst crimes. It filled my bloody mind, and salved some perverse part of me. Nasty images, that made my own hostility more normal. May have kept me from actually acting out my impulses, since the murderer was always brought to justice in stories. I stood behind my father one day with a knife in my hand, and hatred in my heart. I realized I wasn't sure where to cut, and I certainly didn't want to just make him mad. I would after consider what would happen, and the risks seemed much worse than just making it to 18 and leaving. The value of serious reading.

I grew up in Detroit, in a mildly poor area that would never see better days. Garages were broken into, gunshots were heard at night. When I went to college, it was at Wayne State, living a few blocks away from a notorious red light district. I saw drug deals taking place on the street. I walked all over campus, alone, at all hours. Never had any trouble. But it was always on my mind. An awareness, and a plan of what I would do.

I moved in with a guy. After we were engaged, he had been drinking, and slapped me backhanded, because I disagreed with him. I was furious. He apologized, promised it would never happen again, it was because he was drunk, and I shouldn't contradict him like that.... We would get married. He would get drunk again, it would happen again, at the rate of about once a year. Too scarce to see as serious, to me, at the time. During the last year, after I had gone through Army training, with every intention of leaving him, it got worse- weekly. Between the pleas of 'trying again' and the eruptions of violence, I was terrified, and caught. He shot his gun into the floor once, "just to see". I would be slammed up against the wall, thrown to the floor, slapped, raped- or allowed myself to be raped as a trade-off for being hit. I did what every abused spouse did, I put on make-up and felt ashamed. I had never hit anyone in anger. But once, he wanted me to hit him, to bring me down to his level, he egged me on, and I punched him in the chest. Instantly felt ashamed, sure that I had done wrong, but he was pleased, proof I suppose that I couldn't really hurt him. I felt like I'd sinned, I had even pulled the punch. Realized also that was the place on a man to least inflict damage. Knew I'd been manipulated. Disturbing interchange

It took a year for me to tell a friend, because I wanted a witness, so I would not let myself be shamed by still being there another year. I got us to a therapist. The day before that, he hit me while dead sober for the first time. Slammed me up against the washer, bruising my back, and held me there, fists jammed into my chest, more bruises. All the lessons for fighting dirty went through my mind, knowing his gun was in the other room. I knew him for a berserker, that resistance might prove more dangerous. I chose. I crumpled and begged for him not to hurt me. I begged for my life. I wept piteously. It was only a very slightly acting. I had no pride, and it still bothers me. I made the smart decision, the right decision, and it still feels awful. I want to hurt him. I still dream of shooting him, smashing his head against a concrete floor.

In the following years, I was urged by my dear one to give up the anger, stop yelling at other drivers, reacting with such hostility to slow waiters, and snapping at him. I came to the insight that anger is a toxic reaction to frustration, or the disappointment that life isn't perfect or fair. That frustration is the emotion, but anger the damaging, controllable, reaction. Gradually, I got out of the habit of rages- echoes of my father's rages. Like any addiction, I failed at times, but I was motivated to endure. For my love, for my sanity, for my soul. Gradually, gentleness took over my life, and joy followed.

And now? Surrounded by gentle people that I trust, I have let go of most of the rage. Until I hear about a violent rape, and think of how I would fight dirty. When I walk alone at night, I finger my keys ready to smash them into a nose, a groin. Almost as if by keeping such bloody thoughts in my mind, I will repel the violence. I still feel the urge to squeeze too hard, to push and slice, kick, bite. I try to let them flow through instead of damming them up inside, giving them no haven in me. I don't want to even ask if this is normal, it is normal for me, and I guard my gentleness as it grows.

Skin

The canard that "Some of my best friends are (despised group)!" proves lack of bigotry, has been swilling around my head. Truth is, I do not have "lots" of any one group of friends. My close circle of friends are pretty pale, largely due to opportunity and contact. But when I start looking at the people who are dearest to me, the picture gets cloudy, and colorful.

My first good friend was Anna, who was Scottish and Iroquois, we were friends from 6th grade until high school, when we found ourselves in different classes and with different interests. Gretchen was German, one of those poor overweight children who is not adequately bathed by her parents. We only became friends after she started taking care of her own hygiene in high school, and a delightful intellect she was. Steve is Irish and Mexican, my best bud in high school, who to no one's surprize turned out gay. We still email occasionally. Anna- Cypriot Greek, Irit - Israeli, Karen - black- and the usual mix. Michelle, Chinese and white, My D, quite white, Moira quite Danish. My first sort-of boyfriend in Jr. High was Mexican, as was the next guy I dated. Followed by MW- very black- we were each dating outside our dominant color for the first time, and really enjoyed the freedom of the different feel of our respective skin. NO, stop that, it was a sort of childlike delight in touching each other's arms, his so hairless and smooth. I would date one other man who was black, the rest white and to my aesthetic disappointment, mostly hairless. (I do like hairy guys. )

Have I picked my non-white friends to emphasize for my point? Well, I have had dinner with all of these friends, cooked for them, lived with a few, kissed most, hugged all. I have as an adult reconnected with all of the ones I knew as a kid, although only one has stayed in contact. No correlation between ethnicity and current friendship that I can discern. I lived in Salt Lake City for 18 years, the most white state in the union, hard to get enough of a cross section for one's friends to be diverse, but (Oh, gods, I'm going to say it) my best friend was lesbian. Sorry, O, but you know it is true. And Jewish. Two in one. Cool. Now? Well, I am beginning to understand the flavor of Boston bigotry. Subtle, but a hard white line across the landscape. But two of our visitors to our new apartment have lovely dark skin, and all the other visitors have been my dear (white) cousins.

Does this mean anything? Not really. Just that we are not snobs, we like outsiders like ourselves. I would have as much trouble relating to someone who spends all their free time at the Hibernian Society as someone who celebrates Kwanzaa all year, or wears purdah. Not impossible, but that very different way of seeing one's identity from how I define myself is bound to be a hurdle to friendship.I do not go out and chose people for their skin color, their ethnic background, any more than I would reject them for that reason alone. I like people for similar interests, a sense of humor, intelligence, wit, open mindedness, proximity, willingness to come visit and be kind to our cat. All of my best friends are very funny.



For the record: Irish, French Canadian (almost certainly native DNA mixed in), Belgian, Scottish, all poor peasant stock. My spouse is total WASP, with ancestors who came over on the Mayflower- he is duly apologetic. Moby is black.

Pee

Pee. Not a word my mother would approve. Too raw, impolite, bad word. But as for all of us it is a daily substance. Normal bodily process. I remember my potty chair. In my growing up there was a code phrase-'I have to scratch my nose' meant I had to pee. Typical: silence, obfuscation, shame. I remember the burning at times when I 'went', what I would now suspect were uti's. Probably simple hygiene issue, back when the instructions for wiping were from a male gyn POV- top to bottom. Only makes sense if you are looking from an exam table position. From a personal POV, it is front to back. One bathroom in the house, first floor adjacent to the kitchen. And me, I had a shy bladder, would not work if I felt I could be heard. At least visual privacy was the norm, the door would always be closed. I would be a teenager before there was a lock. Another rant about my father here, skip.

The ex believed that having the bathroom door open was about intimacy and trust. So I went along, not knowing how this worked. It would eventually become a burden for me, that even the bathroom was not a place I could feel safe, or alone.

Getting ready to go into the Guard, I had to produce urine samples, witnessed, it took a coke and a lot of humming on my part. I never thought about my bladder so much as when I was doing Army training. Drill Sergeants made us drink two glasses of water at every meal. Potty breaks were never enough, and we all went in at the same time. Lines of us undoing the pants when we were next in line, and doing them back up after we left the stall. At one of the field training buildings, there was no separation, I was back to back with the woman behind me using her stall. My bladder got over it's shyness. Got the shyness beaten out of it more like.

Ever see the Animaniacs when Wacko had to "potty"? Went all over the earth looking for a place to go? Been there. When in Saudi for Gulf War I, after the 22 hour flight, made to unload our duffle bags from the plane, given water and told to drink, not to get dehydrated. It was 0-dark-30, Army thinking, like we were about to succumb to heatstroke in the middle of the night. No toilet facilities. Then packed on busses for another two hours drive to our billets. The local driver could not be convinced to stop the bus to let us go outside. I was getting desperate, going to wet myself any minute. I told one of the women around me, and they all gathered, shielding me from view. I used a plastic mug I had brought with me, and couldn't get it all out, but enough to get by. I put the covered mug on the bus stairs, then one of the guys went to see what it was. A chorus of women's voices saying "LEAVE IT ALONE!" This is why I like Army women, if you need them they will do what they have to. Shortly after- rumor says there were threats made-the bus driver did stop, and a bunch got off to take care of business. Figures.

Applying for nursing school, I worked as a nursing assistant in a two nasty little nursing homes, mostly geriatric, but some younger disabled and psych patients. Pee was my responsibility. Diapers and toileting, 'accidents' and soiled bedding, became my life. Made changing diapers for infants in the OB clinical roatation trivial. That smell permeated my uniforms, and I changed as soon as I got home, and immediately took a shower. To insufficient results.

When I got to the OR, I was so happy at the reduction of pee in my life, I never much minded the occasions when I had to deal with it. At least it was mostly in the form of putting in Foley catheters, contained piss- no mopping. Or in urology, at least I was gowned and gloved. I was dubbed a Pee Princess one year that I worked a lot of urology cases. I got good at caths- I figured it out once, I have done at least 1K of them, I can catheterize about anyone- had to put one in an individual with ambiguous genitalia, got it in one. I have put in foley catheters in both male and female under sterile drapes, blind shots. Not easy, not ideal. Amazing what practice can do.

As for me now, I can go anytime, anywhere. Port-a-potties are luxury compared to some outside latrines I had to use. Still I insist on clean bathrooms at home. We both want a closed door, for the sake of a right to privacy. When D was in the hospital with his smashed arm, I had no trouble letting him lean on me while he used a bottle urinal. But I looked the other way and hummed for him. Cuz when you gotta go.......

Don't worry, there will not be a #2 after this essay.

Hair

Born bald, so I am told, and it took a long time for any hair to grow. Bonnets in pink frills covering my bare pate did not stop people from telling my mother what a cute little boy she had. Thin, stringy brown easily tangled, fine and flyaway stuff covered my head as a small girl (oft assumed to be a small boy.) I do remember my first haircut, in a carousel horse barber chair. I was very still. I had the feeling that the man who cut my hair was half expecting me to throw a tantrum. But I knew about seeing the doctor, and being brave, and I knew cutting my hair would not hurt like a shot. I had at some point taken scissors to it myself. I liked cutting things, and that cutting other people's things was bad, but my hair was mine, so I figured I was safe. My mother figured differently. Dramatically so.

My mother had her own issues about hair. Hers was red, straight naturally and coarse. She permed it and had it in rollers at night, and hated the color. Her parents lived apart for many years, her father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death in a flophouse, and was "found" several days later. Perhaps her mother told her she was "just like your father, it's the red hair!" But I base this on no information, just a guess that she hated her hair for more than just aesthetics. She considered dying it to be too vain for words. Although this may be an example of her tendency to endure and complain rather than change. Her older sister Grace was a beautician, and the story may be there. Grace was the one who did her perms, up until a few years before she died. Mom would, many years after I left the house, find a stylist who would convince her to let her hair be straight, and blow dry it, by now grayed to a lovely sandy color.

I wanted mine long, for sensual reasons, to feel it on my back as the wind blew it from my face. Some of it came from dancing, ballerina buns tight and glued down. But dancers' hair was very long, and when released, could cascade and flow with wild abandon, as I had seen once in a performance of Giselle.

It was emotional, and I had an irrational affinity for hair. My only crush on a woman involved her waist length silken blonde hair, when she cut it I lost interest, so I can only assume that I am not lesbian, but that I have a hair fetish.

Bangs and curls were my father's ideal, so I stayed far away from that, since for me, if he liked it, I hated it. I certainly did not want to be attractive to him. Stubbornly resisting a great deal of parental harassment to get it cut, "you'd look so CUTE in a Pixie!" (yeah, when I was two.) I grew my hair from the time I was five until I was 14, resisting pressure all the way. Then I took skating lessons when Dorothy Hammill was winning gold. I cut my frayed, splitting, mistreated hair into that Dorothy bob. It was better.

Perms came later, with mom's approval, even encouragement. I always wanted easy, and sleek, braided back and clean. The ex liked the perms, and begged me to let it grow long, I kept it short. Until I went to Basic. It was growing along nicely, until about a week before I left him. We went to one of those 'Family Cuts' type place, and I needed a trim, but told the woman, "cut it all off", then said, no, just trim it. But all he heard was the first, and without a word, he left and walked the 6 blocks home. It was bizarre. That week later when I'd escaped, I went back and got my hair cut very short.

A few months later, while in Saudi Arabia with my Guard Unit in Kobar, sleeping in an underground garage, and with no idea what kind of place we would be stationed, probably out in the dirt- we were told that there was an Army barbershop set up for us. Dylan and I went, along with many others, to where a long row of Philippino barbers shaved and cut, and gave a neck massage for a few rial. It felt funny, but that was nothing compared to how it looked. A line of shaved hair, topped by what was left, a bowl cut would have been more appealing. Captain Crockett looked at me, and I looked at her with the same haircut, and simultaneously we reassured each other- "It'll grow." It was always to D's credit that he fell in love with me when I had the worst haircut of my life.

Growing it and keeping it neat in nursing school, then working in nursing homes, was impossible, so I kept it short for years Then D broke his arm, and I was overwhelmed with taking care of him after surgery, so I buzzed off all my hair. Marvelously freeing, so easy. Except for the comments from people at work. "I could never do THAT!" was the one that baffled me. It is very easy, if you want to. D's favorite theoretical response to "What does your husband think?" was that I should say, " I don't know. Should I ask him?" He liked rubbing my head, and frankly told me, "It's your hair, I love you, whatever you want."

That cut revealed just how grey I was getting, I felt I looked piebald, so I started dying it. (I will buzz it again when I am tired of dying my hair, sometime between 60 and 70 years old, and let it be whatever color it wants.) I once cut off all but the un-dyed stuff -9 months before my visit to my parents, knowing their feelings about women dying their hair, and wishing to avoid the issue. Faint hope, my father insisted it was dyed, because it wasn't the brown I had as a child. One of several last straws that ended my relationship with him.

Then, finally, wearing a hat in surgery all day so the awkward stages didn't matter, I let it grow, trimming as I went and conditioning the fuck out of it. It's been nice, childhood dream realized, but as with all such early fantasies, it doesn't matter so much now. If I have learned anything, it is the danger of investing too much emotion in hair. It annoys me when the women at work exclaim "Your hair is so long, it grows so fast" I want to slap them and say it took me 37 years to look like this. But I make some innocuous reply, and keep my own counsel. Really, I do it for my own pleasure, and how it feels when D strokes my hair down my back. Stuff so visible, yet so intimate. My friends are welcome to touch or comment, but because they are my friends, they usually do not.

Hair is public, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise. And many people who cannot keep their thoughts to themselves are deeply emotionally invested not only in their own, but in others' public images, epitomized by hair. One man who saw me at the barber getting my hair all buzzed off, approached me in the grocery store the next day to ask me why I had done it. This is the reality. To everyone I am conforming or rebelling, making a public statement. I endeavor to learn tolerance, trying to be amused that I am being taught this through such a trivial matter as stratified, keratinized, squamous epithelium, that dead matter that is hair.