It happened last night. As I reflect, I realize it has happened all along. Each day, in most every moment I have an opportunity to look at life and learn. Yet I become consumed with more immediate concerns. He said. She said. The system, situation, or some other entity supplants a deeper assessment. Years ago, I came to understand that I create my own chaos, calm, or shades of what will be. As an Educator, I speak of this often. My students often quote me on the subject of choices. Yet, until yesterday, I never fully grasped how true my words might be. I am unsure why the events of the evening took me where they did. I share the story.
Perchance, on this the twenty-second commemoration of a lesson learned, it is time to reflect on our first, foremost, and greatest Teachers. More than a generation has passed. In that time, I have acquired much knowledge. Yet, I am forever reminded that the more I know, the more certain I am. I know nothing with certainty. What I once thought was the greatest treasure, a tradition I could never part with, was other than it appeared. I never imagined what would become my truth. Today, I share the tale with you.
On this the twenty-first year anniversary of my first holiday season without what are thought to be tangibly traditional gifts, I can truly say that, I, Betsy, remember it well. The occasion changed my life forever.
It was October 12, 1988. Mommy, Berenice Barbara sat across from me at the kitchen table. This was just as it had been all of my days. We chatted cheerfully. Conversation between us was never superficial. Nonetheless, for us, serious contemplations were fun. A pleasure for the profound has not left me. It was and is the reason I revel in the company of my Mom.
On this one extraordinary occasion, Mommy declared my family would no longer celebrate any of the traditional holidays as we had. No gifts would be exchanged in the future. Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, the Winter Solstice, whatever we might wish to call the customary holiday, in our family home presents would not appear. None would be purchased or placed under a tree. Trinkets would not sit on a shelf, nor would these be stashed in a closet for a charitable sharing on a December day. The season of gift giving would not be ours.
As Americans ponder the Thanksgiving Day holiday expectations are high. Young children look forward to all the activities loved ones plan. School age individuals are told tales of the Pilgrims and the Indians that befriended early settlers. Most imagine that on this November day, people come together peaceably. That, for the little ones is a welcome thought. Too often, tension exists in the parent child relationship. Some say angst increases as the offspring age. Whilst many wish to believe the strain occurs over time, as a child becomes more autonomous, indeed, recent research shows early interactions give rise to the relationship that will be.
Toddlers and tots rarely have opportunities to quietly, calmly, and genuinely converse with parents or the caregivers they are fond of. Hence, lads and lasses feel a sense of loss. By the teen years, the thought of another Thanksgiving celebration with relatives evokes an almost automatic response, "No thanks."
I write this reflection on, what in years past; I would have considered a couple's certain doomsday. Within hours, Alex and Alia will walk down the aisle and take their vows. Will May 2, 2009, be the day of deliverance for the two, one of delight, or the beginning of the end? I know not. I only understand that on this date, the pair will do, as I purposefully never planned to. They will wed. I have not met either of these individuals; yet today I can think of nothing but their lives and the effect they have had on me.
I became aware of Alex and Alia, A2, for short, while on an airplane headed for The Toddling Town. It was Friday, March 27, 2009. Neither the man who will become a husband today, nor the woman, who will be declared his wife, was physically present. Indeed, I may never see the persons who sincerely moved me to rethink whether I might say, "I do". Perhaps, they know nothing of what began as an innocent encounter. The Earth did not shake, and certainly, I never expected my conviction to crumble. Indeed essentially my belief did not evolve. In truth, nothing actually changed. Still, after a three-hour exchange, I began to more seriously consider what for all of my live I rejected, marriage.
For me, it all began near a week ago. There was no word of it on the Nightly News.Nightline offered no interviews. Articles did not appear in popular, or prized periodicals. Even the National Enquirer had no exclusive accounts. Bloggers did not blast me with rumors of what might have been. The story, while sensational, did warrant banner headlines. After all, neither person was as widely known as former Presidential aspirant John Edwards is. The woman may or may not have had a history that would titillate many a reader. I know not whether this thirty or forty-ish female was the mother of what the media would wish to label a "love child." I feel certain that her name is not Rielle Hunter or Lisa Druck. She is not the fictional character, Alison Poole. She was but a real person looking for love, as was he, in a parking lot.
We met in December. The year was 2007. He was a friend of my cousin's. The two were best of buds; they still are. Cousin Paul has known James for decades. Jim moved to my hometown only months earlier. He felt alone. James longed for a friend, locally. Paul introduced us on the Internet. After my relative played the mediator, the man in the middle, the means for a message, he asked if he might share our electronic mail addresses. James and I each consented, and from then on, we exchanged epistles directly.
In letters, we liked each other. Admittedly, for us, the electronic medium was limited. We decided to share a drink together; although I let him know, I only imbibe water. James said that was not a problem. We arranged to get together at Starbucks. The coffee shop was near to his home and mine. Neither of us wished to share where we lived exactly. We were hesitant, cautious, or just not willing to chance the unknown.
Tis lyrical, possibly spiritual, and definitely, it is a miracle that any of us survive love. In the year 2008, we might embrace more than a fantasy or the fleeting whimsy of sand, or the syrupy notion of love that lingers long, and lives large in the hearts of many. Might we consider that just as the glassy granules flow across the screen, as these tiny particles create an image of perfection, all illusions can be wiped away in an instant.
Tonight, I am reminded of how the results of a report resonated throughout America earlier in the year; 51% of Women Are Now Living Without Spouse. As the Gay and Lesbian population prepare to discuss issues important to their community, inclusive of their desire for more than a "civil union;" I wonder. Why, or when is marriage desirable. Why and when is it not. Presidential hopefuls plan to delicately touch on the subject of "same sex marriage." One might muse, matrimony no matter the mix, is a difficult dynamic to consider.
Weeks ago, I discovered the term "Mrs." is a source of much angst. Apparently, the title in the minds of many dishonors a woman, rather than reveres her.
Sex is in the city and in the country. Americans are aroused and sizzling. They are hot and ready to trot. Numerous are running rampant. Others await Mister or Miss Right; these persons are tenuously evaluating the situation. Some saunter into the sex scene. A few wait on the sidelines. Many find more than one partner that pleases them. Nonetheless . . .
In the last sixteen years, I have only used the word in my writing. It just does not seem apt for me anymore. In 1991, my Grandpa passed, or as some say, he died, although he never did. I am reminded of this today for someone I knew from afar for many decades, and met face-to-face only a year ago on this same date, took his last breath this afternoon.
It is a somber day; yet beautiful. Phillip, is gentle man, a giant. His heart is, to coin an expression, more golden than gold. His spirit is softer than the yellow metal is in its purest form. Phillip's goodness is great. You may think it odd that I presume to know so much about this man. After all, we only spoke on a few occasions in the past year. However, I am closely acquainted with Phillip's family. I have, by extension been apart of this loving circle for generations.
On March 11, 2006, I spent hours chatting with Phillip. We discovered all that was between us. Until then, we never understood that we were truly connected. Without communication, there is much conjecture. When we open our hearts and minds much is realized, at least Phillip and I thought so.
After marrying, my Mom tried diligently for four full years to give birth to a child. She went from specialist to specialist. Batteries of tests were run, and then, re-run. Although she and my father were both fertile and they were a couple that thoroughly enjoyed intercourse, they could not seem to produce a baby. My Mom, a scientist at heart, concluded that perhaps, she was not fecund when most women were. Perchance her cycle was different. Once considering that possibility was enough. From then on, she was able to plan her pregnancies. My Mom gave birth to three children, none born in the first three years.
Apparently, if a Washington State initiative passes, couples such as my parents would be required to have their marriage annulled. "Naturally," gay partnerships, would not, could not be considered. Obviously, such a union would not be classified as marriage material. The Religious Right, may have felt embolden after the state Supreme Court upheld a ban on same-sex marriage, however they did not propose a plan to go further. They did not restrict what constitutes marriage in a manner that might seem feasible to them. Numerous pious persons say the bible deems the purpose of matrimony is procreation. Thus, the Washington Defense of Marriage Alliance took action.
In a nation where forty plus, fifty, or sixty percent of marriages end in divorce, [depending who whose statistics you trust] the topic of companionship and connections is a must. In a country where many are separated, where children are left alone, and families are not intact, the quality of relationships is a necessary consideration. This week, the New York Times addressed this concern in two articles, Marriage Is Not Built on Surprises and Questions Couples Should Ask (Or Wish They Had) Before Marrying. I, as many do, have an active interest in this matter.
Yesterday, I spoke with an acquaintance. She seems to be happy in her current relationship; she says she is. I remember when her beau was a source of great stress. Jess was involved in his work and Lisa wanted him to be concerned with her. She tried and tried to change what was. Lisa turned to other men; Jess was upset. Still, transformation was slow in coming. The relationship came and went, repeatedly. Now the two are one, or are they?
Sixty-three [63] percent of singles have never been married.
Fourteen [14] percent of singles are widowed.
Twelve and two-tenths [12.2] percent are single parents. [Ten [10] million women, two and two-tenths [2.2] percent men]
In New York State alone, fifty [50] percent of the population is single!
One third of all births in 2002 were born to single mothers.
I thought; how fascinating, so many singles celebrating their marital status; yet, from my observations many are actively searching for a spouse, a soul mate, a sense of security, a sex partner, or something else.
It began on April 15, tax day, and while many may think that it was quite taxing, quite a burden, even a bludgeoning, I wonder if it was not my beginning. It began with an introduction, a request to keep company, at least for the time it takes to eat a meal, and then after a four-hour conversation, it became much more, much, much more.
We met in a restaurant, one that I ate in daily and had for years. Actually, though I thought that April 15 was the date of our first meeting, he informed me that it was not. Apparently, weeks earlier, when he was there with another woman, his friend, what he later revealed was his "best friend," he passed by my table, my usual table, and shared a few words and a smile. I did not recall this clearly, for in the many years of my dining at this locale, strangers stopped by my table frequently. They smiled and shared a few words; yet, rarely were their words or their ways memorable to me. His and he were as the rest, not meaningful and therefore barely worthy of my remembering. They and he were merely moments.
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