The weight of V Day

I don’t really like Valentine's Day. All those hearts and flowers and candy that everybody else gets. Gross. Even when I was married it wasn’t such a big deal. LtColEx would stop at the grocery store on his way home from work, grab a card, a dozen reds and a box of Esther Price mixed and his responsibility to his valentine was bought and done. I usually baked him a cake in a heart-shaped pan I only used on V Day. I must have thrown it out. I don’t still have it. Maybe there’s a metaphor in there somewhere about throwing away my heart …. pan after the divorce. Maybe not.

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I would be perfectly happy ignoring February 14 if everybody else would shut the hell up about it but Coraline doesn’t see it as a romantic holiday. She first became aware of it when she was about four. When I said I didn’t really celebrate it, she was heart-broken. “Does that mean you don’t really love me?” she asked with tears in her eyes. Awwww. Shame on me. Now I make an effort for her. I dug out a card and bought some dark chocolate Oreos and some mint M&M’s. We’re going to make a trip to our favorite local chocolatier later in the week, if blizzards don’t keep us home. She drew me a red circle on her Kindle with her drawing software. I guess it was supposed to be a heart. It’s the thought that counts. You can't really buy love with cards and gifts, right?

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She’s at her dad’s for visitation today. When he picked her up, he gave her a red rose and gave me a white one. That was sweet and unexpected. I can’t even imagine my dad giving me a red rose on Valentine’s Day. I’m not sure he even gave my mom a rose, although I was probably so caught up in my own V Day kid drama, I didn’t notice if he did or didn’t.

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I was born on the cusp of the baby boom and gen X. The first few years I was in school, we decorated our shoe boxes with bits of lace and red construction paper hearts and hoped somebody would put a Valentine in it during the class party. Or better yet that it would be filled with valentines, one from everybody in the class. There was no “bringing a Valentine for everybody in the class” bullshit. You decorate your shoe box and you take what you get and if you feel like shit about your measly score, you don’t let anybody know. And you certainly don't steal a handful from one of the popular kid's boxes when nobody is looking.

Yep, V Day was a popularity contest. You knew exactly where you stood in the second-grade pecking order as soon as you opened that dressed-up shoe box and looked inside. I guess it was a good warm-up for adult romance: a mix of giddy hope, excruciating let-down, and gratitude for whatever love you found tucked through the slot in your box.

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The metaphor falls apart in my later years of elementary school when we were told to bring participation valentines for everybody. Didn’t matter. Still a popularity contest. In my family we got to choose one box of little sappy cards each at the store, enough to satisfy the requirement that everybody got one, including the teacher, who got the special teacher valentine. Only one problem: all of the valentines in the box weren’t created equal. Each box had one or two that were bigger than all the others. And while some said simply “Hoppy Valentine’s Day” with a picture of a frog, others said “Be mine” or “You’re special” with hearts and a kitten. I toiled for hours over which card should go to which classmate. Give the big one to my best friend? Or to the popular girl I wished were my best friend? The kids who got the most big valentines were obviously the most popular kids.  Some kids got to give valentines with a little red sucker stuck through the card or a tiny box of conversation hearts stuck to the card. I guess they didn’t have 5 kids in their family.

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Fifth grade. Sweet grilled cheesus, does anybody have any good memories of 5^th grade? Is 5^th grade simply to prepare us for junior high? I’ve written about 5^th grade a couple of times on this old blog. About being best friends with a popular girl for a year and about two boys fighting to square dance with me. It was also the year of my first kiss, which had nothing to do with Valentine’s Day so I’m not going to share that story yet. And it was the year I had my first crush on a boy in my class.

By the time we were 10 we were expected to like like a particular boy, so I told the other girls I like liked Steve A. because we’d been friends since we were about three and had even walked to kindergarten together every day. He was safe because he was like a brother. My real crush was on Clint H. though and it was a secret I carried deep inside along with my absolute belief that Bobby Sherman was my real dad. I never told a soul, not even my best friend.

I did tell Clint on Valentine’s Day though in the most awkward, painful way possible. Not only did I sort through my little box of cards and choose the one that said “Be mine” to slip into the slot he’d cut in the top of his shoe box, I also sorted out the candies with the three most romantic, loving sayings from a box of conversation hearts and stuck them in the pocket of my coat. When we all put on our coats to go outside for recess, I made an excuse to go back to my desk and waited until all the other kids had left the room. Then I lifted the lid of Clint’s desk just a little and slipped those three hearts into the pencil tray inside his desk. Covert love attack accomplished, I ran outside to play. 

I have no idea what I expected would happen. That he would somehow intuit that he should “be mine”? That Jesus was watching and would reward me for my loving gesture by making Clint like me back? Looking back, it was pretty passive-aggressive, but those were the times. Girls weren’t supposed to make the first move … or the second or third. I grew up in a time when girls couldn’t even call a boy on the phone, not even when I was in high school, so my brazen act of slipping those three candies in his desk would be an unbearable faux pas if I were discovered.

We came back in from recess, took off our coats and settled in at our desks. I watched as Clint opened his and discovered the three little candy hearts. He looked around and said, “Where did these come from?” Everybody craned to look at the hearts in his hand. I looked too, as if seeing them for the first time, as if he weren’t holding my heart in his grubby 10-year-old hand. “I bet Reticula put those there,” one of the boys – I can’t remember which one now – shouted out. “I did not,” I denied. I’m sure my face was the color of a red construction paper heart. Clint turned and looked at me, expressionless as a 10-year-old boy, and then turned back to face the front. I don’t even know if he ate my little candy hearts. I was drowning in shame and embarrassment. I couldn’t even look at him, probably for the rest of 5^th grade.

Two-and-a-half years ago, and decades after I left 5^th grade, my mom was dying and Clint was her lawyer. I hadn’t seen him since shortly after we graduated. One afternoon as she lay in her hospice bed, I went uptown to his office to discuss her estate. He’d been recently diagnosed with a brain tumor, and even though he looked just like an older version of his 5^th-grade self, he seemed so tired and worn out, like he just wanted to get through the day. My mom died a few days later, and a year or so after Clint also died, before her estate was even settled.

Here’s what I wish had happened that day in 5^th grade. I wish Clint had opened his desk and said, “Where did these come from?” and the other boy had said he thought I put them there and then, instead of hiding in my shame, I wish I’d stood up and said to the entire 5^th-grade class, “I did put them there. Clint is one of the smartest kids in the school. He works hard and he never gets in trouble. He’s not mean to other kids and he’s a fast runner. Also, I think he’s cute. I put them there because I like him. There I said it. I like him.” And then I wish I’d sat down and felt not a twinge of shame. That’s what I wish had happened.

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Ah, well. I've given up on sneaking the sweetest conversation hearts into boys' desks .... because that would be creepy now. I'm sorry I never got to tell Clint I was the one who put the suggestive candy in his desk in 5th grade. On the other hand, I don't think I could have stood to see that blank expression on his face again, this time because he didn't fucking remember anybody putting conversation hearts in his desk at recess. I haven't really improved in the realm of romance since 5th grade. Maybe if I'd had success that day? But probably not.

I do hope you're having a good day though. It certainly looks like everybody is happy and in love if my Facebook feed is any indication. So many flowers and chocolates and bottles of wine. If you're sitting home alone eating chocolate chips out of the freezer like I am though, here's a soothing video to make your day complete. Click it. It's my valentine to you, sweet reader.

The weight of an inauguration

 

I was so moved by the inauguration ceremony today that I leaked tears the entire time (and the entire day after). As the ceremony came to a close, in addition to relief, pride, and hope, I felt exhausted. Utterly exhausted. I could hardly keep my eyes open, my head up. I felt drained. Not emotionless. Not empty. Just like I need to shut down for a minute or two and stay in the space between the grief of the past 4+ years and the hope for the next four. I felt like the moon. The real, cratered moon that's been pelted by meteors for eons. I stayed alert through the long dark night of the past 4 years, and as the sun comes up, I just need a minute of rest. Or maybe a few.

We have so much work to do. I know today was a beginning, not an end. And yet, that feeling of exhaustion is still with me tonight as I write, after the afternoon parade and the evening program and the fireworks. It was all so inspiring, so dignified and joyful. My heart is full of cautious hope and yet I feel exhausted.

Some guy I don't know posted this comment on a friend's post about the inauguration: "You are the only person I have seen post anything about the inauguration today...80 million people silent. Remember when Trump won FB was swamped with flags and people excited. I still find it hard to believe 80million voters showed up on election day, but not on Bidens [sic] social media, rallies or even posting support of his big day on social media...very odd indeed."

I almost scrolled on by. I almost wrote "You're a dumbass." I almost wrote, "Shut the fuck up, you delusional piece of shit. Your guy lost and it's over." I almost wrote that my Facebook was filled with angry tears and disbelief on January 20, 2017, and I was packing to ride a bus to DC to protest in the huge, non-violent Women's March." Instead I told him my Facebook newsfeed was filled with happy, hopeful posts about Biden's inauguration (true story), and that it looked like he was hanging around with the wrong crowd. I think maybe he doesn't remember what normal looks like, what humble looks like.

Do any of us remember what normal looks like though? One of the first things we need to give up is our national addiction to drama. To always being on alert. To the constant bombardment of insults and horrible decisions; the pathological attention we've been paying to the horror show that's played out in the White House over the past four years. We have to give up the adrenaline-fueled rush of alarm, of dread, of rage, of disbelief ... it's addictive and venomous. We're like rats hitting that treat button, and the treat we get is poisoned. It's making us sick. All of us. Whether we hated Donald Trump or loved him, he is a sick man who made us sick too. And I'm afraid we've forgotten how to live without it. I'm afraid we've forgotten to expect decency, from our government and from ourselves.

Maybe the guy who wrote that comment doesn't recognize Biden's dignified, even-tempered, intelligent strength. Maybe he hasn't seen how Biden's refusal to shout and rant and seek constant attention is exactly what we need now. It's what all of us need no matter whom we voted for. We're exhausted and we're sick and we still can't let down our guard.

So today, we got what we needed: a quiet, sane, dignified, sweet transfer of ... not power, but character. A transfer of character. Just like Donald Trump was the disappointing opposite of Barrack Obama, so too is Joe Biden a different opposite of Donald Trump.

And now that Trump has shown us the worst in our country, the worst in ourselves, maybe Joe Biden and Kamala Harris can help us find in our national story the heroic tale we've always wanted it to be. Maybe this is what it took to burn off the lies we tell about ourselves, our country, and start with new bones. What we've seen destroyed, we now have to build with a new vision. Together. Eyes open.

Today I felt like a burden was lifted, and I'm so joyful that burden has flown off to Florida. I hope the exhaustion I feel from carrying that heavy load of lies, gaslighting, cruelty and disdain, as we all have, gives way to new strength soon. You can't build new muscle without tearing down the old. So I'll drink a glass of chardonnay, go to bed early and plan to wake up tomorrow feeling calmer and saner, kinder and less ready to flip the rage switch, more like Joe and Kamala.

Brave enough to be the light.

If you want to square dance with me, you have to fight

Isn't it funny what will trigger a waterfall of memories? Yesterday Coraline and I were glued to the insurrection at the Capitol building. Of course, my wish, as it always is, was that this would be the one act of an insane wannabe king that would bring us together as a nation. It seemed like a no-brainer that those of us on both sides, regardless of how we voted in November, could agree that a line had been crossed. I just keep hoping, but again I was disappointed.

This morning a Facebook friend from high school posted that the dread Antifa had infiltrated the poor hapless Proud Boys (does anybody else see a treehouse with a sign that says "no girlz alowd"?) and broke into the Capitol building just to get the Boys in trouble. Now I have to admit my imagination is somewhat limited. I just can't picture these so-called Antifa agitators researching and obtaining the proper pseudo-Viking pagan tattoos, ordering big-ass Confederate and Trump flags, stockpiling Kevlar vests and firearms, practicing their mean faces, traveling to DC, and standing maskless through Trump's hour-long plea for insurrection just waiting for an opportunity to break into the Capitol building and wander around like tourists. Except for the guy who stole a podium and this guy who sat at Nancy Pelosi's desk and wrote her a brief, but nasty, note while he scratched his balls. That ball-scratcher definitely has a beef with fascism. Or maybe it's good taste. But all the others? Really? We're supposed to believe they were Antifa actors?

On the other hand, it kind of sounds like fun. I mean, I'm against fascism. Have been since the 60's. I'm as anti-fa as a Roosevelt. So sign me up for the next infiltration of the insurrection!

But I digress ...

Several people tried to deny that the evil Antifa  was really to blame, to no avail. She's certain Antifa was up to their old tricks. Backing her up though was a name from my past -- way back in my past. A boy -- let's call him DG -- I went to school with apparently also has inside information about Antifa. He piped right up with an opinion backed by zero evidence, and suddenly I was looking at a memory reel about this boy and we were never even friends.

First thing I did was examine the palm of my hand just under the center of my first and second fingers for a small black dot that's been there since we were in second grade. It's a graphic reminder (pun intended) of the day he stabbed me and broke off the point of his pencil in my hand. I pulled the lead out afterwards, but no amount of washing would remove the graphite from the wound. I remember it took a long time to heal. I don't remember why he did it. I know I didn't tell an adult about it. I wasn't a tattle-tale. I do remember the day I served my cold revenge.

Some weeks later DG, who sat in front of me, turned around and asked me for an answer on the phonics worksheet I'd already finished. I'm surprised I was awake. I taught myself to read when I was four, so doing phonics worksheets when I was 7 was excruciating when I could have been reading a book. But boredom isn't my excuse for the answer I gave him when he showed me a drawing of a boat and asked what letter completed this word: shi_. I looked at it, covered my paper and said, "T. The answer is T." He wrote it down. I don't know what, if anything, the teacher did about that. It didn't matter. My revenge was complete.

My next memory of DG wasn't until three years later, when we !were in fifth grade. Every year we did a few weeks of square dancing in gym class. Did I mention I grew up in a small rural town in Iowa? We also learned songs from Music Man every year.

Anyway, we were told to choose partners. Fucking excruciating. One of the reasons I'd never want to be 10 again. In those days girls weren't allowed to call boys on the phone, much less choose them for partners in square dancing. And, yes, girls had to dance with boys and boys had to dance with girls. Duh.

I'm sure I suffered through the find-a-partner ritual many times but this time was different. This time DG and another boy I'll call BR both wanted to dance with .... wait for it .... me! They both came over at the same time to stand beside me and stake their claim and then ... wait for it! They started fighting over me! I am not fucking lying!

They were trying to punch each other (they weren't the kind of boys who were good fighters), grabbing each other's shirts and shoving and shouting, "She's dancing with me!" "No she's not! She's dancing with me!" And their faces were red and angry and everything!

I know it probably seems like this is the kind of thing that would happen to someone like me all the time, but I promise you, I was not the kind of girl boys fought over. Other girls -- popular girls -- were that kind of girl (although I don't remember two boys fighting over who got to square dance with any of the other girls). I was the opposite of that kind of girl, that kind of girl boys liked. Some girls even had boyfriends already, of a sort. I did not have a boyfriend and it wasn't because of my daddy's shotgun. I didn't even think any boys in my school liked me, although there was one boy in my class I wished would like me.  (I will confess I had my first three-way that year, but that's another story.)

I don't remember whom I ended up doing the do-si-do with that day. Someone with sweaty palms, I'm sure. The only reason the incident stuck in my memory is because it was so unexpected and extraordinary. First, because I'm not that girl. And second, because boys just didn't fight in school.

The end of the anecdote is not that I suddenly found myself with two boyfriends who hate each other to this day because neither could have all of me. I guess they used up all their courage that day. BR did ask me to homecoming our freshman year, but I was waiting for his cousin, two years older and with a driver's license, to ask me so I told him I already had a date, and then I went with his cousin. We were close friends through high school though and he never pulled a Nice Guy on me.

DG and I were not ever friends. He was a bit of an outcast and he wasn't even close to being in any of my circles. I doubt we ever even went to the same party. But I do remember this. One of the other boys scratched out his photo in my senior yearbook and wrote "loser" over the top of it in pen. I was pissed, but it couldn't be fixed. DG kept asking me if he could sign my yearbook and I kept putting him off. He got more and more insistent, but I didn't want him to see his photo and think I had done it. Even if I explained what happened, I thought it would hurt his feelings. Now I remember he probably suffered worse in high school. I'm sure he was bullied, but he was also pretty arrogant so  who knows? Maybe he had feelings of steel and I put him off for nothing.

I don't know if he ever signed my yearbook and I don't care enough to get it out and look now, because decades later that boy is a man and he seriously thinks some brilliant group known only as Antifa infiltrated those bad-ass Proud Boys yesterday and made it look like they broke down doors and windows and took over the Capitol building when those proud Proud Boys were actually just innocent, peaceful demonstrators who were trying to save their poor embattled leader from ... well, from prison actually, but let's not go there. He believes those meek and mild Proud Boys were the soft, squishy victims, punked at their own insurrection ... yeah, I just can't care now whether he saw his defaced photo (is that even a pun?) in my yearbook in 1976.

Thanks for reading my trip down memory lane though. I know this post is random as hell, but in case you haven't noticed, 2021 has been showing its ass this week and this is the first fucking week of the year. Let's hope it gets better before it gets worse, my friends, or I'll be writing about that three-way I had with two boys when I was ten years old just to keep myself away from the news.

Note: My friend who posted the original post is my friend. We agree on many things and we don't agree on some things. Some of those things are important to me. Not as important as my friendship with her.