I'm not shy about discussing the fact that I'm adopted. I understand that it's part of who I am and it's interesting to people. But lately it's come up more often, I'm not sure why. Maybe because I'm reading The Girls Who Went Away so it's been on my own mind lately. The book is full of heartbreaking stories about young women, most sheltered and uneducated about sex, who found themselves pregnant and sent away by their parents. Some of the parents were supportive but had to do what was done at the time, others were monstrous and made their daughters out to be evil.
A few weeks ago, my cousin and I were talking about the circumstances around my adoption. Well, what little circumstances I actually know. I know my mom was 26 and a college graduate and that my dad was tall and moved to Colorado before I was born. It just sounds like a shit situation and I've always been afraid to seek more details. Records show she had little prenatal care and I went into foster care instantly. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, ya know? But this cousin of mine, she points out that I have a college education, am nearing 26 years old, and am not in a serious relationship and asks the question: what would you do if you got pregnant right now?
I'd live. It'd suck and not be ideal, but it wouldn't devastate my life. My parents support me through every ridiculous thing I do and would nowhere near dessert me (especially with my mom's baby fever). I have an incredible group of friends. I have a giant web of cousins, cousin's cousins, and cousin-in-laws. None of those people are incredibly conservative, and none would disown me for being an unwed mom. Quite the opposite. Lots of people don't get that lucky with their adoptive family. And maybe she wasn't that lucky with her family. Though 1983 is well out of the era of the girls who went away, her parents may have still been in that frame of mind. Or maybe she didn't even tell them. Or maybe she didn't have parents. Maybe she just didn't have the means to raise a child on her own and couldn't ask for help. I'm the undisputed queen of foolish pride, could it be hereditary?
The first time I ever put in any real thought about her was on my brother's birthday, probably 5 or so years ago. A product of an open adoption, he got a birthday card from his birth mom and pictures of his young half-brother. It came addressed from the adoption agency and to my parents' name. And though I'd not consciously been thinking of her, my first thought was that my mom was trying to contact me. I fervently opened the card and started crying, I mean sobbing, when I saw what it was. I cried first because I'd invaded my brother's privacy, and then because I was jealous that he knew so much, and then because of course it wasn't her. I told my mom I wanted to find my birth mom. That afternoon I spent hours on the phone with my caseworker, the same caseworker who did my brother's adoption and remembered me showing off my halloween costume on a home visit. I got all the info, contacted all the sources, obtained all the paper work and did not go through with it. Wasn't there, wasn't ready.
In the past couple years, I've started to think of her with empathy. It took almost 25 years, but empathy is not easy. I've written a lot about her. "Someone Else" is about her. "The History of Your Life, Page One" tongue-in-cheek as it is, is about her and my father. I used to think about what if she doesn't want to meet me or what if she doesn't like me. Those are possibilities, but I don't think of her in terms of what our relationship would be like. I don't need that.
I have a knack for noticing shared family features. I laugh to myself when people say I look like my parents or brother. At a cousin's wedding last summer, a friend pointed out how alike the girls in my family look when you see us all standing together. I've always wondered who I look like, always noticed women who'd be around her age who vaguely resembled me. At the same time, I'll be okay if I only ever look like myself.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
ring
(better title soon)
At first, I just liked the feel of the ring on my finger. I liked to nonchalantly place my hand on any flat surface just to see it, just to watch it shine. I liked the feel of it. I would spin it around, first to see the angles it could take on and later out of mindless habit. When I was a kid I would put my hand on the sidewalk and rotate my shoulder until I couldn't anymore, just to see my arms from those angles. The ring was an appendage at that point, I wanted to see what it could do.
I kept pushing. When spinning became old hat, I started taking the ring off, moving it from finger to finger. It felt like a secret, like my ring did something special. I would roll it across my knuckles, carry it around the house in my palm, put it on upside down. I concentrated hard on not making it a habit, but a special ritual I did only in private. Who knows what could happen if I took that ring off out in the world. I could drop it in a sewer grate. A criminal could catch me off guard and snatch it from my hand. It'd be much easier than snatching it from my finger. My phone could ring and, startled, I could drop it on the concrete while reaching to answer and not even realize it. The ring could slip right though my hands. I did it anyway. I started taking off my ring randomly, in and outside of our home.
Sometimes I took it off and set it next to me. It'd been years since I'd seen my finger without the ring. It looked naked, slender, clean, maybe a little aged. I'd never really looked at that finger before the ring. My finger had angles, too. And was lighter without the ring. No one could take that finger, and I couldn't drop it.
I was having lunch in the park one afternoon, watching the pond and thinking about how the ring could slip off while I was feeding the ducks and sink to the bottom of the murky water. I didn't want to think about the ring anymore. It was dull, didn't shine like it used to. Didn't look right on my finger anymore, wasn't worth the worry anymore. So, in the end, it didn't slip through my hands. I threw it.
At first, I just liked the feel of the ring on my finger. I liked to nonchalantly place my hand on any flat surface just to see it, just to watch it shine. I liked the feel of it. I would spin it around, first to see the angles it could take on and later out of mindless habit. When I was a kid I would put my hand on the sidewalk and rotate my shoulder until I couldn't anymore, just to see my arms from those angles. The ring was an appendage at that point, I wanted to see what it could do.
I kept pushing. When spinning became old hat, I started taking the ring off, moving it from finger to finger. It felt like a secret, like my ring did something special. I would roll it across my knuckles, carry it around the house in my palm, put it on upside down. I concentrated hard on not making it a habit, but a special ritual I did only in private. Who knows what could happen if I took that ring off out in the world. I could drop it in a sewer grate. A criminal could catch me off guard and snatch it from my hand. It'd be much easier than snatching it from my finger. My phone could ring and, startled, I could drop it on the concrete while reaching to answer and not even realize it. The ring could slip right though my hands. I did it anyway. I started taking off my ring randomly, in and outside of our home.
Sometimes I took it off and set it next to me. It'd been years since I'd seen my finger without the ring. It looked naked, slender, clean, maybe a little aged. I'd never really looked at that finger before the ring. My finger had angles, too. And was lighter without the ring. No one could take that finger, and I couldn't drop it.
I was having lunch in the park one afternoon, watching the pond and thinking about how the ring could slip off while I was feeding the ducks and sink to the bottom of the murky water. I didn't want to think about the ring anymore. It was dull, didn't shine like it used to. Didn't look right on my finger anymore, wasn't worth the worry anymore. So, in the end, it didn't slip through my hands. I threw it.
Friday, May 15, 2009
when life gets hard, you have to change
I've been utterly frustrated with myself and every single aspect of my life lately. I don't think that's a secret. This morning, I've been listening to this song and thinking there's a good point: when life gets hard, you have to change. So, maybe I need to work on changing. Maybe if I change my idea of success, I won't be so beat down by the job market outlook and economy. Maybe if I change my eating and exercise habits, I can lose weight and be happier about how I look. Maybe if I change my selfish streak and proverbial foolish pride, I can have better relationships with people, even dudes. That's what the song gave me: a sense of how to rid these feelings of defeat and near-hopelessness.
But, wait: am I taking my life lessons from a song written by Shannon Hoon? Shannon Hoon the drug addict who died of an overdose in his late 20s?
And that, my friends, is the real kick in the ass. There's no one to take any comfort or advice from, because everyone is knee-deep in their own shit. We, especially those of us in our 20s, are in a horrible position. We've come of age in a pretty chaotic world and everything we thought was coming to us just isn't. Maybe you can rely on your parents, unless they're losing their jobs or being foreclosed. Maybe you can go to school, but good luck getting a job when you're done. And good luck paying back student loans on minimum wage.
Every blog, website, magazine, etc. has their list of pointers and advice to the young person trying to make it. Just like every women's publication has it's bible for finding and keeping a man, every lifestyle outlet has the most effective diet and exercise program. I'd wager it's almost all B.S. Most of those people are probably broke free-lance writers who are single and fat.
Since I'm just as unqualified as anyone else to give advice, I'll say this: get out of bed in the morning, get through the day, get to be safely at night. If you can do that, you're on the right track.
If all else fails, listen to some Blind Melon.
But, wait: am I taking my life lessons from a song written by Shannon Hoon? Shannon Hoon the drug addict who died of an overdose in his late 20s?
And that, my friends, is the real kick in the ass. There's no one to take any comfort or advice from, because everyone is knee-deep in their own shit. We, especially those of us in our 20s, are in a horrible position. We've come of age in a pretty chaotic world and everything we thought was coming to us just isn't. Maybe you can rely on your parents, unless they're losing their jobs or being foreclosed. Maybe you can go to school, but good luck getting a job when you're done. And good luck paying back student loans on minimum wage.
Every blog, website, magazine, etc. has their list of pointers and advice to the young person trying to make it. Just like every women's publication has it's bible for finding and keeping a man, every lifestyle outlet has the most effective diet and exercise program. I'd wager it's almost all B.S. Most of those people are probably broke free-lance writers who are single and fat.
Since I'm just as unqualified as anyone else to give advice, I'll say this: get out of bed in the morning, get through the day, get to be safely at night. If you can do that, you're on the right track.
If all else fails, listen to some Blind Melon.
Monday, April 27, 2009
a word on Bea Arthur
"Golden Girls" is one of my all-time favorite shows. I spent many an afternoon during college watching hours of reruns. Not only was the show hilarious, it was one-of-a-kind. Where else in pop culture do you see women of a certain age portrayed as anything but loony cat ladies or sexless grandmas? Dorothy and company lived it up well past the age most television characters even make it to.
And if you yourself are of a certain age, or are a television historian, you know that Ms. Arthur played Maude on the series of the same name. Killing two taboos with one stone, Maude got pregnant late in life AND decided to have an abortion. If you think that's controversial now, imagine how it played in the mid-seventies.
Truly irreplaceable.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
coming soon
I'm going to write and post something here very very soon. I've been spending all my writing energy working on a convincing essay for grad school. It's being sent out Monday, so I hope I did a satisfactory job.
Oh, and I've been working on a couple new things for First Friday. A small step toward infecting the world with my writing. Recent compliments from well-respected (by me, anyway) cohorts have inspired me. Also, I got a lot of shit for convincing writer friends to read and not ever reading myself. So, here I go.
I'm pretty sure people have been looking at this since my photo got posted on Sexy People. Sort of weird, but worth. That blog is my favorite thing in the entire world, I couldn't be happier to be a Sexy Person. Seriously. That's how sad things are for me right now.
Oh, and I've been working on a couple new things for First Friday. A small step toward infecting the world with my writing. Recent compliments from well-respected (by me, anyway) cohorts have inspired me. Also, I got a lot of shit for convincing writer friends to read and not ever reading myself. So, here I go.
I'm pretty sure people have been looking at this since my photo got posted on Sexy People. Sort of weird, but worth. That blog is my favorite thing in the entire world, I couldn't be happier to be a Sexy Person. Seriously. That's how sad things are for me right now.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
god loves ugly
I'm not beautiful.
Despite however many times I've told you I am, or walked into a room like I think I'm the female Tyra Banks or something, I know I am not beautiful.
A partial list of things I'd need to change to be beautiful:
whiter teeth, smaller boobs, longer legs, no beer gut, skin that tans and doesn't break out when touched by anything, bluer eyes, straighter hair, a straighter nose, no bags under my eyes, skinnier thighs, no freckles.
But, so what? Who cares? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is just a social construct. Beauty is only skin deep. I am smart and sassy and beautiful on the inside. The right man will love me not only in spite of my flaws, but because of them. He'll be like, "naw, baby, that spare tire 'round your waist is sexy."
But see, I've been hearing all this stuff about science 'n shit and how that's how attraction really happens. Like, pheromones that you don't even realize are attractive are attracting you. And there are other weird things, like how there are certain scents women release during ovulation that make you extra attractive, and the testosterone levels go up, so you are extra hot at the same time you are extra hot-to-trot. Seriously, it was on Oprah.
So if sexual attraction is science, and love supposedly occurs in the land of the heart beyond all logic, where do the two meet? And if it's a genetic crapshoot, what's the point of the mascara and the hair dye and a the calf implants and the hours in the gym?
Sort of.
Our dumbass human will, that romantic self-defeat I wrote about before, it's powerful shit. It'll over come all the science. It has to. How do hot bimbos end up with ugly rich dudes? A person's will for money or status or sex or compatibility or stability will outweigh pheromones every single time.
What does that mean for me with the asymmetrical face and the questionable pheromones? I guess keep pretending to be clever and wearing control top underwear.
Despite however many times I've told you I am, or walked into a room like I think I'm the female Tyra Banks or something, I know I am not beautiful.
A partial list of things I'd need to change to be beautiful:
whiter teeth, smaller boobs, longer legs, no beer gut, skin that tans and doesn't break out when touched by anything, bluer eyes, straighter hair, a straighter nose, no bags under my eyes, skinnier thighs, no freckles.
But, so what? Who cares? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is just a social construct. Beauty is only skin deep. I am smart and sassy and beautiful on the inside. The right man will love me not only in spite of my flaws, but because of them. He'll be like, "naw, baby, that spare tire 'round your waist is sexy."
But see, I've been hearing all this stuff about science 'n shit and how that's how attraction really happens. Like, pheromones that you don't even realize are attractive are attracting you. And there are other weird things, like how there are certain scents women release during ovulation that make you extra attractive, and the testosterone levels go up, so you are extra hot at the same time you are extra hot-to-trot. Seriously, it was on Oprah.
So if sexual attraction is science, and love supposedly occurs in the land of the heart beyond all logic, where do the two meet? And if it's a genetic crapshoot, what's the point of the mascara and the hair dye and a the calf implants and the hours in the gym?
Sort of.
Our dumbass human will, that romantic self-defeat I wrote about before, it's powerful shit. It'll over come all the science. It has to. How do hot bimbos end up with ugly rich dudes? A person's will for money or status or sex or compatibility or stability will outweigh pheromones every single time.
What does that mean for me with the asymmetrical face and the questionable pheromones? I guess keep pretending to be clever and wearing control top underwear.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
a self-defeatist's guide to romance
A few years ago I met a guy who struck up a conversation by telling me, "I just have to tell you that you are cute as a kangaroo, maybe even cuter than a kangaroo." At the time, I was strict about giving out my phone number, but he earned it on that line alone. I mean, a kangaroo? Are kangaroos even cute? It was weird, he was weird, I liked it. We hung out a few times and then I started making excuses to not hang out. Then I stopped returning his phone calls. No real reason, he was cool and we had a lot in common. He was a decent bit older than me, but it only bothered me in theory; the age gap didn't make a difference. The last time we talked, he told me he liked me a lot but wasn't going to put up with that kind of bull shit and that I'd have to give it up if I was ever going to get anywhere with anyone. I was already talking to another guy who'd struck up a conversation by throwing me, fully-clothed, into the pool at a friend's house and would invite me to parties at his house and not talk to me. It didn't take long for me to stop returning his calls, too.
How's that for self-defeating behavior? I didn't choose the jerk over the nice guy, I chose both and then promptly dropped both. But don't be too quick to judge, friend; you do the same thing.
I'm not saying you have the same commitment and attention span problems I have, but I'm willing the bet the cash in my pocket (all $0.56 of it) that if you aren't in a happy and relatively stable relationship right now, it's your own fault. You get a new crush every week, or you are a serial monogamist and get too serious too quickly. You only date jerks because you let dudes treat you like crap or girls mess with your mind be messed with. (A quick disclaimer: none of these theories apply to abusive relationships. Abuse is a power and control issue and a whole other ball of wax.) I know what I do: I complain that only weirdos like me, but I only like weirdos, I judge flaws too harshly, I get skittish and standoffish when I genuinely like someone...the list could continue. It doesn't take any sort of abnormal self-awareness to figure this stuff out, just a couple hours, a couple glasses of wine or bottles of beer, and a good friend who will hash out all your missteps.
So there's step one: figuring out where you've been going wrong. Ideally, you start putting your new knowledge of self into practice and at the very least if your relationships fail, you can legitimately blame the other person because they haven't figured out their issues the way you've figured out yours. No such luck, though. All the introspection is easy, the follow through is nearly impossible. I described it to someone as an addiction, maybe a more minor strain of addiction, where you know you shouldn't, but you do it anyway. It's that self-defeating business I mentioned earlier; it's cheating on your diet or driving drunk. You CHOOSE to do it. We CHOOSE to keep messing up relationships. Why? I don't know. Some of us are sadistic and the prospect of failure is easier to swallow than the prospect of success. Maybe some of it happens for the same reasons I still go to Steamers all the time even though it almost always sucks: it's familiar and I'd rather not learn how to do anything else. Maybe the question of why needs to come before the question of what in the case of this behavior. Maybe it's just because love/lust is so intoxicating and dizzying that no one can think straight, if they can think at all.
But people have good relationships (good relationships, not just long-lasting relationships. Lots of those are awful) so it's possible to work through the problems or around them, right? Love each other regardless, like Juno's dad suggested? Probably. I'll let you know.
How's that for self-defeating behavior? I didn't choose the jerk over the nice guy, I chose both and then promptly dropped both. But don't be too quick to judge, friend; you do the same thing.
I'm not saying you have the same commitment and attention span problems I have, but I'm willing the bet the cash in my pocket (all $0.56 of it) that if you aren't in a happy and relatively stable relationship right now, it's your own fault. You get a new crush every week, or you are a serial monogamist and get too serious too quickly. You only date jerks because you let dudes treat you like crap or girls mess with your mind be messed with. (A quick disclaimer: none of these theories apply to abusive relationships. Abuse is a power and control issue and a whole other ball of wax.) I know what I do: I complain that only weirdos like me, but I only like weirdos, I judge flaws too harshly, I get skittish and standoffish when I genuinely like someone...the list could continue. It doesn't take any sort of abnormal self-awareness to figure this stuff out, just a couple hours, a couple glasses of wine or bottles of beer, and a good friend who will hash out all your missteps.
So there's step one: figuring out where you've been going wrong. Ideally, you start putting your new knowledge of self into practice and at the very least if your relationships fail, you can legitimately blame the other person because they haven't figured out their issues the way you've figured out yours. No such luck, though. All the introspection is easy, the follow through is nearly impossible. I described it to someone as an addiction, maybe a more minor strain of addiction, where you know you shouldn't, but you do it anyway. It's that self-defeating business I mentioned earlier; it's cheating on your diet or driving drunk. You CHOOSE to do it. We CHOOSE to keep messing up relationships. Why? I don't know. Some of us are sadistic and the prospect of failure is easier to swallow than the prospect of success. Maybe some of it happens for the same reasons I still go to Steamers all the time even though it almost always sucks: it's familiar and I'd rather not learn how to do anything else. Maybe the question of why needs to come before the question of what in the case of this behavior. Maybe it's just because love/lust is so intoxicating and dizzying that no one can think straight, if they can think at all.
But people have good relationships (good relationships, not just long-lasting relationships. Lots of those are awful) so it's possible to work through the problems or around them, right? Love each other regardless, like Juno's dad suggested? Probably. I'll let you know.
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