Twins

Long long ago when I was single and my aging Uncle Bill decided to downsize and move in with my Aunt Davina, he gifted me two blue porcelain lamps with roses painted on the rounded stems and white shades. He also gave me a blue/brown oriental rug. The rug lasted only a decade, but forty years later the lamps have traveled with me to all my residences, and through all my life transitions. These elegant lamps always seemed out of place with my more down-to-earth décor.

The lamp shades eventually had to be replaced and then those new shades were torn by our rambunctious cats. The one lamp that graced my side living room table was twice toppled and semi-cracked by our infamously mischievous cat, Blackberry. When my in-home preschool concluded, when the daughter and her friends grew up, we slowly started redoing our home to suit our empty nest life. I kept the lamps even though they didn't blend with our new red couch, sage chair and red/sage rugs. But finally, I had to admit I wanted to let go of the past, the unconscious dictum of my biological family tree and to embrace my new present. So these lamps have been recycled to a new home.

To my surprise, shortly before my lamp giveaway, the memories of my aunt and especially my uncle began to resurface. Memories may be triggered by objects but these memories are never lost when the objects disappear. As a child, what was fascinating to me about my aunt and uncle was the fact that they were twins. Technically both were the first born; my later and last born mother was considered the spoiled baby. My Aunt Davina used to tell me she was the oldest and she certainly acted like a bossy, know-it-all first born. She, who never worked outside the home, was the one who labeled my working mother spoiled. My Uncle Bill did seem like a middle child in that his flamboyant, exuberant manner was determinedly overlooked by other family members.

From my years as a PFLAG mother with a beloved community of Gay friends, I would guess, and assume, really, that my uncle was Gay. How I wish he were alive today, for me to embrace him once again. There was never any doubt that I loved and revered my uncle, especially since our dramatic, musical,(he played the organ by heart) party hosting styles are similar. Close to my grandmother, somewhat at odds with my grandfather, my uncle never married and became the focus of snide, insinuating, remarks by my aunt's masculine, boisterous speaking husband, Paul, my other uncle.

My Uncle Bill, like his furnishings, was an elegant man. Elegant in my definition means he loved to decorate his home with beautiful items and dress up in well-made suits, colorful ties and jaunty hats. He would always have a theme to his house décor and the two themes I most remember are the home where he had nothing but antiques and his Asian home in San Francisco. This Asian-themed home had a buzzer at the top of the stairs, which automatically opened the front door. Climbing the stairs, I was led into a wonderland of Japanese dolls and Chinese pottery, silk curtains and plush couches, hanging decorative fans and colorful Geisha robes. It was a child's dream of beauty come true. In this antique-filled home, my uncle had a small organ which if coaxed he would sit down and play requested songs by heart.

Whereas my uncle smiled and laughed often, my Aunt Davina was serious and “responsible.” She and Uncle Paul were the ones who bought my grandparents' apartment complex after my grandmother died. They moved into what had once been my grandparents' residence to be near my grandfather, and independent Grandpy moved to the small back studio apartment. After Grandpy suffered a stroke, Aunt Davina cared for him until her near nervous breakdown forced her to put him in a nursing home. It was also my aunt who made it through her husband's losing fight with cancer. After Uncle Paul's death, I discovered an aunt who more openly shared her past. Her and Uncle Paul's wild side was brought out in her stories about their motorcycle exploits. In their younger years, they rode their motorcycle all over the Western Coast. Somehow I could never picture my Aunt Davina on the back of a motorcycle. Later she confessed, as did my mother, that they both got pregnant before being married. Scandalous? As a child raised with 50s virgin values, I was shocked! Yet these not so virgin confessions made these sisters more human.

Both my aunt and uncle never worried about money, as my mother did. We were extremely poor after my father lost his California Water and Power job and I remember my grandparents bringing weekly bags of groceries to our house. Later my father became a self-employed gardener, which happened to be my grandfather's trade. My grandparents never totally approved of my mother's marriage but the working man occupation brought my grandfather and father closer together. My father, a stubborn, somewhat shy man, avoided our visits to Uncle Bill or to Aunt Davina. He no doubt knew Uncle Bill was Gay, and he disliked Uncle Paul.

After Grandpy's death, and after Uncle Paul's passage, Aunt Davina sold the apartment dwellings and she and Uncle Bill bought a house together in Glendale near where my aunt and Uncle Paul had originally resided. Visits to my aunt and uncle continued to be magical, for Uncle Bill had nearly free rein in the interior decorating department. For Christmas, the entire living room shone in tinsel and glitter and porcelain figurines. Trees big and small were everywhere. Later my uncle and aunt decided to leave Glendale behind and to retire up in the northern California redwoods. This home was earthier and simpler. Though grown up, the twin factor continued to fascinate me. Amazing, I thought, that as twins Aunt Davina and Uncle Bill ended up living together. As in childhood, they had their fights, disagreements, and getting on each others' nerves, and from the outside they appeared to have opposite temperaments. But I could sense symbiotic support and there was a deeper love between them than between these twins and my third-wheel mother.

My aunt died first of a heart attack. In her will she generously provided for my uncle and named her daughters to look after him. Uncle Bill was utterly lost during his few years living alone without my aunt, even though he had spent his entire adult life living alone.

Twins...two embryos in one womb...nine months of growing limps bumping/cuddling each other...a childhood, an adulthood of sharing the same birth date and the same physical features. It is said each human seeks his or her twin. Are we looking for the universe to reflect/acknowledge ourselves back to us? Are we wishing for someone who completely understands who we are? Who “gets” us? And if this person appears to be our opposite, is it not possible he or she might actually be the twin we seek?

© 2012

A Daughter's Room

My daughter's room is part of the attic above us.

This room is fully carpeted with two domed skylights and one removable window to the roof. When she was a teenager, unbeknownst to me, she would climb out this window and sit on the roof staring at the stars in the black night or contemplate the returning sun in the wee hours of the morning. My daughter's room used to be full of pictures from her favorite indie rock and roll women, and she had a poster-sized photo of her first Portland Girls Rock Camp Band covering one of the secret doors. These doors lead to the wooden framed, open, insulated space beneath our roof. And behind these doors my daughter has stashed her no longer needed mementos. On the wood paneled walls of her room are several ink drawings, no doubt done to pass some of her lonely, insomniac teenage hours.

My independent, college daughter's room is no longer simply my daughter's room.

We have rearranged and added a new lamp to this daughter's spare room, dresser drawers have been emptied, unworkable electronic gadgets recycled. When she comes home for a visit, I feel as though the house is complete. When she is gone, I sense the room's emptiness. I'm better now. I'm replacing my mother life with a new reborn life of my own. Doesn't every mother wade her way through the waters of change after releasing her child to womanhood? Doesn't every mother find ways to fill the nest once the baby birds have left? I admit I'm over sensitive about, over attached to my love for this amazing being.

My daughter's room creaks above and reverberates with sound.

Occasionally I will sit in the middle of this attic room and smell her presence, scan her memories, wonder what this daughter's growing-up years were really like, for mothers are usually the last to know the truth. At thirteen my daughter did share one of her larger truths with me and this was her “coming out” as a Lesbian. And for this larger truth I have loved her even more. Through these swiftly passing years I have come to see her courage...the courage it took to be her authentic teenage self in a world praising sameness and the courage it takes to be a Queer woman in a world praising more conservative categories.

In recent months hope for marriage equality has gushed forth like a fountain raining down on a just universe. President Obama, as the first sitting President to do so, completed his evolution and personally came out in support of Gay marriage. This followed the beautiful, heartfelt statements of Vice President Biden. This dear Catholic man pronounced “I have no problem with men marrying men and women marrying women.” He was swayed by love, by connection with a two father family and his observation of their children's love for their parents. Then a federal appeals court declared the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional. Finally, most relevant for my J.C. Penney employed daughter, JCP, who first faced criticism for having Ellen DeGeneres as their spokesperson, never backed down in their LGBTQ support. In fact, their response to a shopping boycott by a group calling themselves on Facebook, “The Million Moms” was to have a two mom family ad in their Mother's Day catalog. And when this ad was railed against, they came out with a two father family ad for Father's Day. “Can you love a company?” asked my husband who sent me the Father's Day ad. So there has been hope.

There have also been tears: this mother's tears are testaments to the challenges my beautiful daughter faces almost daily. “That's so Gay” and “Faggot,” plus other equally hurtful phrases wafted through the hallways of her supposedly liberal high school. A preacher in North Carolina stated recently that all Gays need to be rounded up and put behind a wire barrier. As a school district home teacher, I have often had Jehovah's Witness families who believe the Bible states same sex relationships are a sin. But the Bible also supports slavery and killing one's neighbor for working on the Sabbath. My tongue gets bitten often, for I must professionally stand back in these situations and remain silent. But what I wish conservative mothers could hear from me is that just as you love your daughter, I love mine. And just as you want no harm and only happiness to come to your daughter, so too do I.

My daughter's room will always be her room.

We assume we live in a heterosexual world. We assume the majority of Whites filling professional occupations means Whites are more capable than Blacks or Hispanics, Asians or Arabs. We assume there is a “right” way of thinking. I put myself in my daughter's shoes: I look at television, the movies, the newspapers, the magazines, the social media and I rarely find my daughter. There is an increase of Gay men on the cultural stage, but what about Gay women? When my daughter sends a picture of her and her girl friend to her grandmother, her grandmother states: “Thanks for the picture of you and your roommate.”

I have to remember that it is a slow process, this movement towards change and acceptance. Growing up in the 50's I did not see one Black person in the media or on my street. It takes time. But when rational scientists and leading scholars/psychologists verify my daughter simply is who I already know she is, then I wonder at the blatant bigotry of the human race.

This June three hundred Mormons (Mormons Building Bridges) march with LGBTQ in the Utah Pride Parade in Salt Lake City. A Catholic Nun, Sister Farley, is severely criticized by the Vatican for supporting Marriage Equality and stating that “love is love.” My tears flow freely, for I am a sensitive mother. I cry at the hurt and I cry at the joy. I remember standing with my sixteen year old daughter watching the New York Pride Parade and crying. For five hours 5th Avenue was filled with nothing but support and love for my daughter. And so I cried because at last I knew my courageous, authentic daughter didn't feel alone, and neither did I.

© 2012

C is for Courage: Mason's Story

I walked through the living room and saw the bright, round face of a strawberry blond curly-haired boy. Wearing an overlarge athletic jersey, he was sitting on a swivel stool with his books, notebook and pencils laid out on a small table before him. There was a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes as he rose and shook my hand. His mother stood behind me exuding pride as she introduced us: This is Mason. Within minutes I learned that Mason loved basketball, preferring the rival Oregon State Beavers to his hometown University of Oregon Ducks, action movies and math. I had no problem bantering back and forth with this clever, eager 3rd grader and knew our time together would be comfortable and fun.

I am a school district home teacher, working with children who, for one reason or another, cannot attend their school. The duration of my stay with each student is temporary, lasting a from few weeks to a few months. With Mason, I would end up being his teacher for most of the school year. At the end of the previous summer, after intense medical investigation, Mason had been found to have a cancerous brain tumor. When I first stepped through his door, he was at the beginning of his chemotherapy treatments. We met four mornings a week and every few weeks this schedule would be interrupted by Mason's four hour round trips to Portland's Doernbecher Children's Hospital.

Mason had a single mother and older sister. They were all living with the mom's parents in order to make ends meet. As I got to know his extended family, I saw the strong faith which they were passing down to Mason, and every once in awhile, Mason would give me a glimpse into what it meant to him. But I'm getting ahead of my story...Mason's story. Our lessons centered primarily on language arts, a pinch of social studies, and a huge helping of math with card games, board games and challenging puzzles thrown in. In the beginning, there was no difference between Mason and any other student I was teaching. He came to his table prepared, excited and ready to trip up his teacher with his budding intellect. Math was a pure joy, as I watched Mason lap up the numbers and teach me how to solve the ever more complicated problems of 3rd grade. And like any other 3rd grade student, he loved beating the teacher at the games we played.

The rosy beginning slowly grew into a more difficult phase. Chemotherapy made Mason sick and his mother shared with me how his and thus her nights became restless with her anxiety and his nausea. Mason's lovely hair thinned and fell out. But his balding head shone and his eyes still twinkled. Because the tumor was in his brain, balance was impaired. He began having trouble walking upright, and his mother was constantly by his side as she guided him to the table for our lessons. We now talked more than we studied. We talked about his estranged father. We talked about his hope-filled faith. We read stories, we played games; we did less math.

When I share with people that I work with kids who are fighting cancer, they give me sympathetic glances. But every morning as I drove towards Mason's house, my heart was full of gratitude. Mason was my gift. He was teaching me more than I would ever be able to give him. He was teaching me about courage, about having a positive outlook, about the preciousness of living. On one particular morning as I knocked on the door, the chill of the new born winter was at my back. When the door opened, however, there was Mason's mother with her usual generous, warm smile despite her tired eyes. I looked toward the table and saw no Mason. Then I saw him on the living room couch. We thought he'd be more comfortable on the couch. There was a high table nearby with his books, his juice cup and a small throw-up basin. I cuddled near Mason and asked him where he would like to begin.

Games brought out Mason's energy. We discussed history, rather than read the text. Math problems became insurmountable mountains. Rain and dark clouds became the norm and as the winter school break approached, the temperatures dipped into the thirties. Every morning, without fail, Mason's mother had a gracious greeting for me at the door. Though she was sharing more about Mason's eating and sleeping habits and the worsening effects of chemo, her optimistic spirit never wavered.

In late January we had the first rare dusting of snow. Mason's mother phoned and said Mason wasn't feeling well. I asked if I could come and simply read to him and she agreed. I walked into Mason's house and immediately headed towards the couch where he lay, looking ghostly pale. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he saw me. I pulled up a chair and patted Mason's hand. I had brought a favorite story and as I began reading, Mason gave me a grateful glance. The words softly flowed from my lips as my heart ached and Mason's eye lids drooped. Just as he fell asleep, his grandmother came into the room. I had liked her right away and knew she was this family's steadfast matriarch. Grandma put her hand on my shoulder. I stood and turned and hugged her. The words in her throat caught as she spoke: He is such a good boy.

By February Mason could barely get up, let alone take a step. And one morning Mason's mom told me that the Doernbecher doctors were giving up. There would be no more chemotherapy sessions. I saw tears. I caught my own tears and held them tight inside. This incredibly funny, mature and insightful young man-to-be was dwindling right before our eyes. I drove to and from his house with a heavy heart.

Then on a Monday as Mason's mom opened the door, I saw a light in her eyes. We sat down near Mason and she explained that they would soon be leaving for Ecuador. A clinic was there which specialized in helping people with cancer using alternative therapies. The doctors at this clinic did not promise a cure, but they did promise a better quality of life. Mason and his mother would be leaving soon for two to three months. I smiled and eagerly filled myself up with the positive promise being offered. As I was saying my good-byes the grandmother walked into the living room and we three women stood silently in a long, prayerful hug.

During Mason's stay in Ecuador the family kept in touch with friends, relatives and teachers through the Internet Caring Bridge site. Updates including pictures were posted on this site and thus everyone was able to be there in Ecuador with Mason. Mason's diet was completely changed: no meat, no sugar, no processed foods...only fruits, vegetables, beans and whole grains. As his mother remarked, What a difficult diet for a 3rd grade American boy. He was also taking steam baths. Though Mason was in a wheelchair, they were having mini travel adventures to nearby villages and natural scenic wonders. One month passed and another began. The plan was for Mason to stay an added month. I eagerly scanned my e-mail for news. These reports came sporadically, but everyday as I drove to the houses of my other home bound students, I thought of Mason and his mother.

By the third month, pictures showed a Mason with short, spiky reddish hair and a glowing, rosy- cheeked face. My heart warmed as I read about his progress: he was standing and even taking a few wobbly steps. They would be home soon. I was not able to visit Mason until the following autumn. When I finally walked through his door, there stood a different kid. He wasn't completely steady on his feet, but he managed a few steps towards me. His vibrant, mischievous manner had returned. His single mother had remarried over the summer, and she appeared ecstatically happy. The grandmother greeted me with homemade cookies and a hug. We sat down at the kitchen table for a celebration. To me, this celebration represented all the determination, all the positive, never-give-up energy that this family had poured into Mason's well-being. As I sat there with Mason, his mother and his grandmother, I told myself to remember and always carry with me the story of Mason's courage, resilience and bright being. Several years have passed since I had the privilege of being Mason's home teacher. During this time he has learned to ride an adaptive bicycle, has taken trips to visit his cousins in another state, has stood and given the scripture reading at his church. His mother is home schooling him. And though he has had setbacks, Mason's healing, and his precious life, continues.

Postscript: Mason was able to attend public school for 6th and 7th grade. My former supervisor and current special education middle school math teacher remarked about what a wonderful young boy Mason was. It was through her that I learned Mason had passed on Sunday, June 10th, one day after his 14th birthday. I am deeply sad for I always wanted Mason to “make it.” But he did make it. Mason did make wherever he was a better place to be. Even in the short time I knew him, he was and continues to be a rare gift. Thank you Mason. Thank you for your joyous and mischievous spirit!

© 2012

From My Journal: Family

Say the word “Family,” and a thousand complex emotions surface. Our childhood family never leaves us, no matter how hard we try to replace this first story with another one. When my sister says that she's coming for a visit, I, a woman in her sixties, immediately revert to the competitive, yet vulnerable sibling. Dysfunctional entwined patterns unwind and I begin to feel less than adequate, unworthy, wishing for a loving appreciation of my real self from this sister who has never wanted to know or touch my authenticity.

And so I hide my truth, my do-over family's truth. I stuff down the anger over incidents past and try with the greatest difficulty to reach for that bite of forgiveness. It's time to let go, to forget. But like a rapid dog's teeth clamped onto my shoulder bone, the remembering, the reasons I dislike this sister remain.

When I have made myself vulnerable – sent books, shared my writing or written personal e-mails, I have received silence in response. When our mother died, we were able to reach across the divide and bring ourselves closer together. I thought we had made it, returned to each other as the younger, intimate sisters we once were. A few phone calls later comes the humming of a steady, dull, dial tone instead of words. One birthday call a year; only calls with a rational purpose other than connection.

The desire for connection was voiced on her end, but the actions fell flat. Several summers in a row, she said she was coming for a visit. Several summers in a row, I planned and spruced. Last minute caving, excuses on her part...no money for air fair...giving the free ticket to her son. And so I felt unworthy of her money, unworthy of her time. But she's coming now. Coming with the added bonus of one of her former Tucson home-tutored students and his family living nearby. I am trying to understand. I love my students; I easily bond with them and their families. I understand. But this sudden ability to easily buy the air fair; this sudden ability to take a bus from Portland to here because we decided to simplify the visit by putting ourselves up in Portland, does give me pause.

I succumb to archaic patterns of low esteem. Haven't I created a rich life apart from my upbringing? Apart from the fatherly rage and criticism, the motherly neglect and the hiding of our dysfunction to the outside world? Apart from the siblings who rallied together and then separated without sharing our true stories? Our everything's fine smiles are plastered across our faces now. We don't really want to know who we are. I am the odd, reflective, talkative one who doesn't live as materially rich or who lives an alternative life style...alternative only because we haven't hopped on the band wagon of America's cultural norm of status and achievement.

Since my sister's visit announcement and since reading the latest blog post on “Courage to Create” which suggested we experience a “blessings week,” I have been driving to and from my students thinking about how my family is a blessing. With my current, do-over family, the blessing rating is high. My husband is beyond supportive; he is on a spiritual plane with access to the most patient, compassionate listening devices. My edgy thinking, also extremely compassionate, intuitively wise Queer daughter has been and continues to be my opener into new experiences and life-lesson teacher. So with this family, I am beyond blessed. But what about my sister and my family of origin? I'm looking for clues all day long as I teach at one house and another while hopping back in my car in between. From the books my students are reading (The Color Purple, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Book Thief), I know family is what we make it to be. From one of my parents at the close of the day, after discussing how we lay blame during hard economic times and the American blame these days has been illegal immigrants, I fully nod as she says, “We are all human. We are really all one human family.”

OK, I get how blessed I am to have the families and students I work with daily and I get how blessed I am to understand the interconnection between all earth dwellers...but I'm still having trouble placing my sister into this philosophical belief. I suppose it comes from my stubborn nature, my not letting go of grudges, my not relaxing into myself and saying, “Fuck it, I am who I am and I lead my life as I lead it and it doesn't matter what this sister thinks.” But this sounds crude and not quite what I had in mind. I have never sworn at my childhood family and I probably never will. Perhaps one has to feel totally comfortable with someone to be able to swear at them.

My family frustration is softening. Writing and time does that. I'm owning up to my part in the family drama. I can reach out more; I can continue to risk more, be more honest. I can be a compassionate listener. Or...I can simply admit there is no reason to fight for intimacy when it isn't there. I can admit who my supportive family members are and let go of the rest. Unfortunately, I am programmed to believe only biology counts, and this pull is strong. Yet it is my women friends who are the sisters I was meant to have. It has never been easy to be the person I am because I tend to be my “self” with everyone. I have a hard time being false or merely “social.” As my husband can attest, I blurt out my inner thoughts without consequence. And I have paid the price of my forthrightness. What it all comes down to is forgiving “me” and seeing “me” as my own first blessing. I have given to families, tried to save families (including my biological one), created my own family, given widely to a community circle of open, sensitive, caring people. One of my dearest sister friends gave me a treasured piece of wisdom: “Take what you get and let it be enough!” And this is my answer to my family dilemma: quit trying to shape my sister, brother, nieces, nephews into what I hoped they might be. And let go of the person I wished I could be with them.

© 2012