Mimetalker's Open Salon Blog

Mourning & Mathematics...with Albert on the side

Fri, 18 May 2012 10:05:40 -0400

When a spouse dies you are a widow or widower. Parents die and you are an orphan. There is no name for a parent whose child dies. It would make conversations easier when the subject of children comes up. Do we think by naming it, we give it power? Do we fear acknowledging the possibility will make it happen?

My brother pointed this out to me while we were preparing for his daughter's funeral. He may have been thinking about it for awhile. His youngest son died nine years ago.

In this same conversation, my brother said he loved his first two children so much he thought having more would help him cope if the worst thing imaginable happened. It is ironical, but not humorous, that the two added children have both died. His theory proved false.

Not that we were competing, but my brother and I are now numerically even. We both had four children. My first two died before they were born. The two that lived were not replacements, they were simply more.

Losing the first two made me more conscious of how precious the two who lived were, and that made me a better mother than I would have been. That’s my theory without the ability to prove it. My scientist father scoffed at such “theories”, but I’ve been reading about Einstein.

Certain aspects of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity couldn’t be proven. The instruments and methods needed had not been created yet. When challenged he said “I know it’s true. Others can work on proving it if they wish, but they will find it impossible.” They tried to do it through mathematics. Einstein said, “Since mathematicians have invaded the Theory of Relativity, I don’t understand it myself anymore.”

My thoughts exactly, though lately I’ve been having some uncharacteristic reflections for a D- Math student.

My brother is in that highly intelligent "geek" category. He solved the Rubik’s Cube puzzle through mathematical equations and woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me, which is why I remember and resent it. It wasn't just his brilliance that was annoying, he interrupted an incredible dream I could never get back.

I know it was his logical-self, responding to newly experienced emotions, that forced him come up with a ridiculous child number theory. If he thought about this mathematically, the holes were obvious. Each number is unique with its own properties. If one disappears, order is destroyed, resulting in chaos.

As smart as that may sound, it isn't.

Numbers don't disappear and matter cannot die, it changes form. My morning coffee contains atoms and molecules from people who lived thousands of years ago. Within my bones are my ancestors. The first time I heard Celtic music, I felt them dancing.

And chaos is more predictable than you might think...and more beautiful.

When my son was three I found him one day laying on his bed staring at the ceiling with an expression of amazement. I asked what he was thinking about and he said, “Isn’t it wonderful how numbers never end?” I nodded and wondered how in the hell was I going to raise a genius.

This was the first of many things my son made me stop and consider. I had to agree with him. Infinity feels magical. It mathematically expresses the love I have for my children, all four of them.

Contemplating infinity can comfort a “sorrower”, my name for a parent who has lost a child. Maybe someone will come up with a better one. Sorrower is hard to say, but then, I guess it should be.

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NOTE: In 2011 NASA proved two aspects of Einstein’s theories on the Gravity Probe B mission: time warping & frame dragging. Even Einstein couldn’t imagine that. I find that hopeful.

http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-05-04/einstein-s-theory-of-relativity-proven-right-by-stanford-nasa-space-probe.html

Photo: google images-fracturnal depiction of chaos

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Friends,

This is the last piece I plan to write on OS for awhile. There were projects I put on hold when my niece's condition worsened. It's time to get back to work. I'll dip back in when I can.

Blessings...sharon

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Warning: Mother's Day Rant...

Fri, 11 May 2012 10:05:50 -0400

Yesterday a man who delivers a weekly newspaper to our office wished us all a happy mother’s day. He never lingers for personal conversations, so doesn't know I am the only one. The two other women want children but spent their prime fertile years with creeps. Now it is almost too late and despite wishing, hoping and praying, nothing looks promising. We’ve discussed sperm donors, and adoption, but they don't want to do this alone. They saw what that did to their mothers.

It's risky to say, “Happy Mother’s Day” to a stranger. She could have miscarriaged two weeks ago, or watched a daughter die from cancer last month, or lost her mother this year and dreads the holiday. She may smile and say “Why, thank you”. And you’ll go on your way, thinking you made someone happy.

You won’t see her later, in bed under covers, crying until exhausted.

I was one of those women. I had a miscarriage the day before Mother’s Day and another one six months later. The first time a stranger wished me "Happy Mother's Day" I couldn't comprehend what he was saying. So he said it again. I nodded and then found the closest bathroom. I held on to the stall door and silently screamed. Mime technique became unexpectedly useful. I used it to create a Mona Lisa inspired "mask". The Happy Mother's Day well wishers could interpret my smile however they wished.

Years later, after I had children who served me breakfast in bed, with a dandelion bouquet on the tray, and M & M’s on the side, I still remembered the missing ones. No one, not even my husband, knew this day had moments of sadness.

Every Mother’s Day I called my mother because I felt guilty the one year I didn't. The obligation made the conversation awkward. I didn’t think Mother’s Day mattered to her because she said it didn’t. But when she died I found a scrap book I didn't know existed. In it was the mother’s day poem I wrote when I was ten. It was written in third person, describing her as a young mother who loved her baby girl. She laughed when she read it. That wasn't the intended response. I thought she'd cry happy tears like the mothers on TV. I encased it in plastic so she could hang it on the wall. When I didn’t see it again, I thought she threw it away.

My daughter and I celebrate “M.D.” by watching the campy horror flick, “Flesh Eating Mothers”. It’s a morality play. A philandering husband spreads a new strand of VD and turns the women he sleeps with into cannibals. By chance they are all mothers and the easiest prey is their children. In one scene a mother encourages her son to drink more milk and pictures him as a juicy lamb chop. It is so horrible it is hilarious.

We invited my daughter’s husband to watch it with us, but he won't. The title reminds him of the mother he wants to forget.

Most women I know have mother issues of varying complexities. The men do too.

Maybe we need a national day of therapy. “Hey! You look like someone who came from a mother. May I give you a hug?”

Driving White

Mon, 7 May 2012 09:05:28 -0400

I think I was arrested, but it was confusing. The police never said those words or put me in handcuffs. Maybe they thought it could set off a riot. People were in the street, circling around the cars and yelling. If I hadn’t been so scared, I might have enjoyed it. The cops told everyone to go home, but they got in cars and followed. At the station they packed the small waiting area. Someone began singing “We Shall Overcome.” A few were friends, but most were not. I was surprised they cared so much about someone they didn't know. Later I understood this was entertainment: white girl arrested for driving in "black town".

My parents bought a new car every ten years and this time, instead of trading in the old one, they kept it for us kids to drive. With my older brothers away at college, the ’57 pink Pontiac was mine. Among my friends, I was the only one with a car and money for gas. I didn’t have a job, but I got an allowance. My friends thought I was joking when I told them that. “White people spoil their kids”. I didn’t argue the point. My last group of friends were the definition of spoiled. Their allowance was ten times mine and they drove new cars. They weren’t speaking to me anymore, except to yell names at me.

We had gone to a basketball game and I had a full car. My passengers were all girls because I promised my mother I would not give rides to boys. I didn’t like that, but I wanted the car.

When I got to Natalie’s house, the cops pulled up behind me. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I felt sick and scared and wondered how long my parents would ground me this time. The policeman asked for my license but I couldn’t find it. “I brought the wrong purse. It’s at home.” The officer said to get out of the car, slowly. That’s when I started to cry.

Natalie’s mother was already there yelling at the cop. “This is a nice girl.” She got close to his face, hands on hips, spit talking, “She isn’t what you think she is.” He ignored her, opened the back door of the squad car and ordered me to get in. Without asking, she jumped in the other side. Natalie’s mom, who had watched me play cards, and dance with her daughters in her living room, had never spoken to me. Now she patted my hand. “Stop your crying, girl. I’m not gonna let them do nothing to you.”

My mother didn’t know who called, but the woman scared the hell out of her. “Your girl was arrested. The cops took her off to jail.” My father was at a meeting and she was without a car, so somebody came to get her. She didn’t say much about that except it was the most terrifying ride of her life.

The police brought my mother to the room where Natalie’s mother and I waited. Mom’s neck had red blotches and her voice trembled. Natalie’s mother said she would leave when my mother came, but she stayed.

The policeman asked my mother if I had permission to drive her car. She nodded.

“Did you know where your daughter was tonight?”

She looked at me. “You were supposed to be at the game.”

“I was, and then I drove the girls home.”

Mom nodded to the officer. “Yes, I knew she was doing that.”

Natalie's mother laughed.

The officer excused himself and left the room. I introduced my mother to Natalie’s mom. She described the whole scenario but didn’t tell mom I cried. She lied. “You’ve got a brave daughter here.” My mother smiled, but it was her polite smile. She was too angry to understand what Natalie's mom was saying.

The cop came back with my car keys and court date papers. "You can take her home."

Friends gave us a ride back to my car. They all had stories of first time arrests. They made the stories sound funny even though they weren't. We laughed, but my mother was horrified.

Alone in our car I said, “I can’t believe this happened. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” She screamed, “Nothing wrong??!!! YOU DID NOTHING WRONG??? POLICE DON’T ARREST PEOPLE FOR NOTHING.” Her hands gripped the steering wheel. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? What will the neighbors think?” I turned away to hide my rolling eyes.

My father came home and listened to my mother’s ranting, and my defense. He read over the court order. The only charge was driving without a license. He was mad, but not at me. “All they had to do was look up the records.”

The next day at school kids expressed their outrage and ask when the court date was. They promised to be there. A black student activist said this was an opportunity to expose racist attitudes of the cops. Witnesses for me, could cite their own experiences. My parents hadn’t let me go South for the Freedom Rides, but I could do this.

That night at dinner my father said he called a judge who was a friend of a friend. “You had twenty-four hours to produce your license. The police over-reacted.”

“Good. In court we’re going to show how racist they are. They’ve done worse things to my friends.”

My father shook his head. “You’re not going to court. The Judge told them to drop the charges.” I acted upset, but felt relieved. As brave as I wanted to be, I was only courageous in my fantasies. Real life had not demanded it from me.

Telling my friends made me feel very white and privileged. They teased and I didn’t have a good come-back. “Will your Daddy to adopt us?” I apologized to the student activist, but he shrugged me off. “It’s not your problem.”

Thirty years later I came home and told my husband it was my lucky day. A cop pulled me over and said I was going 45 in a 30 mph zone, ran through a stop sign, and did not come to a complete stop at the light. "Can you believe it? He let me off with a warning!" My husband, who has been stopped numerous times for doing nothing but driving in his own brown skin, shook his head, “Honey, you’re not lucky. You’re white.”

I was embarrassed at my naivety and wanted to find the cop to demand he arrest me. That would have been dumb. My husband and I share income and bills. White privilege saved us both 300 bucks.

circular horizons

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 23:04:15 -0400

My husband compares the world to a horizon. Everything falls into place and connects along an expanding line.

I see the world in circles. They spin, bump and bounce. Connections are delightful surprises within the chaos.

We have been together for over forty years and had this conversation two nights ago. It began because I told him I figured out a way to focus more at work. I start my workday writing in a journal for ten minutes. I write what I love about my job, why I am grateful to have it, how it will make the world better, and what I need do that day. I explained if I simply think about what I should do, the thoughts become images and those images transform into something else and soon I am somewhere else. But written words are meaningful visual patterns, and that holds my attention long enough to formulate a plan. After sixteen years in the same job, it felt exciting again.

My husband laughed and I thought he would say, “You discovered my secret.” But he said, “Really? I never do that.” That’s when he described his line-view of the world and recited the first verse of his favorite poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

All I could see from where I stood

Was three long mountains and a wood;

I turned and looked another way,

And saw three islands in a bay.

So with my eyes I traced the line

Of the horizon, thin and fine,

Straight around till I was come

Back to where I'd started from;

And all I saw from where I stood

Was three long mountains and a wood.

As he recited, I imagined Edna turning in a circle.

That night I lay awake thinking about how each one of us creates our own reality. It makes me want to pay more attention when people talk, ask more questions...see if I can glimpse into their world and expand mine.

The man I have loved since the moment I saw him, lay next to me. It was impossible to sleep, wondering what else I don’t know about him.

Photo Credit: Getty Images

damn...

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 18:04:35 -0400

Just when I think I’m doing okay, I have a day where images and memories of my niece explode inside. I miss appointments, and put the wrong dates on flyers, and question if it’s my brain or if I’m just sad.

I think I’m sad. The memorial services are over now. There is nothing else for the family to do for her. I think about my brother and her mother. She called them every day, even before cancer. When the phone rings, do they momentarily forget and think it’s her? I think about her husband, who posted pictures of the work he did in their yard on Facebook. He said he used to make her come and see what her hard working man had done, and she always acted impressed. Now his friends and family are impressed, but we know it isn't the same.

And last night at a gathering, a friend unknowingly, sang the children’s prayer she loved…the one all two hundred of us sang as a call and response at the graveside service. “I am…I am…a tiny seed, planted in the soil of His love…”

I know we'll be fine. But damn.

My niece & her husband's picture that was published in an LA Culture Magazine. It was their version of American Gothic. Those that know them, know they were close to cracking up.

Her hometown newspaper did a feature article the day after her memorial. A reporter called my brother after he read the submitted obituary:

http://tdn.com/news/local/sunday-obituary-damina-nesbit-green-loved-fiercely-and-danced-to/article_1fd5af1c-86c6-11e1-ab63-001a4bcf887a.html