Verbal Constipation

The organization that Big Bren works for gives him these cards at the beginning of every year. They are affinity cards – they indicate that you are related in some way to a member of the organization. And as one credit card company would say, “membership has its privileges.” The most hardened member of the organization becomes helpful once you show them the card. Because the cards are useful, people have taken to stealing them or trying to buy them on E-bay, so Big Bren personalizes the ones he gives out by writing – with permanent marker – the intended recipient’s name on the top and his name, title and telephone number on the bottom.

This year, I eagerly awaited the receipt of my card. Come the end of January, however, Big Bren had still not given them out. One day, I came across the stack in our guest bedroom. Perhaps it was just inherent nosiness, but I looked through the stack to see who – other than moi – would be benefiting from use of the card. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.

No, it wasn’t a mistress (if it had been, I’d be locked up somewhere and you wouldn’t be reading this post); rather, I noticed that on each and every card to various family members, in addition to the name and his information, Big Bren had written a phrase or a saying. One said “Be safe.” Another, “I love you.” Yet another, “Take care.” Some were a casual “Love ya.” And on mine: nothing.

The blank space between the “To my wife, Mirna,” and his information at the bottom taunted me.

There are people who inspire conversation. My mother is such a person. She greets perfect strangers with a smile and takes her leave with a “Bye, Papi,” or “See you later, Love.” She meets someone and within an hour, they have told her their whole life story; they’re chatting like old friends. I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. I can meet someone multiple times and not even make small talk about the weather. It’s not meanness on my part or even a lack of social grace; when necessary, I converse, and under the right circumstances, I am a veritable chatterbox. But, most times, I am content to be silent.

So I really should not have been surprised by the “silence” on the card. Yet, I was indeed surprised. That card, in all its simplicity, lacked more than words; it lacked heart and emotion. By the time I got the card in hand, it had been edited to include a large "I [heart] you" in the middle. Still, where my mother causes verbal diarrhea, I apparently produce verbal constipation (the words eventually come out, but not without some strain).

I am Maid

I happened to be at my parents’ home one day this past week during dinner time. Although I usually eat when I visit my parents, I am never actually there when it is time for my father to dine. I had forgotten the intricate ritual that goes into “serving” him his dinner.

Initially, my father doesn’t eat a simple meal like most people; his meals have parts and sub-parts. There’s the meat, and rice, and boiled green banana or sweet plantains (boiled or fried), and there’s salad. Everything is served all at once. He sits down and my mother runs around the kitchen getting everything together. She brings the food first, then he’ll bellow: “cubiertos!” She’ll put down whatever she’s doing and hurry to get utensils for him. Then he’ll say: “limon!” and she’ll stop whatever she’s doing again and fetch him a lemon wedge. When he’s satisfied with what’s in front of him, he takes the salt shaker and sprinkles salt generously on his food – without tasting it first. When he’s just about done, he’ll say loudly for my mother to hear, wherever she may be in the house, “I could drink some soda now!” And she’ll come scurrying and open the refrigerator – which is located right next to him in the eat-in kitchen, by the way – get him a can of soda, open it and put it in front of him.

When he’s completely done, he will wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin that she placed there for him, and get up – leaving the plate with the scraps on the table. He will then go watch the news while reclining in his chair. My mother takes the plate from the table and does the dishes. Only then, when she’s done with her “wifely duties” can my mother relax enough to sit down and eat.

This is nothing new for me, of course. Until I moved out at 22, I was one of the women scurrying about like frightened slaves trying to anticipate my father’s every need. But until I saw this again the other day, I had relegated it to the back of my mind. And I have to say that it bothered the crap out of me. I recall the years of servitude; never having a free moment, because you could be called to “duty” at any moment by a whistle (yes, my father would whistle for us when he needed something). It could be something as simple as passing him the remote (because it was too strenuous for him to reach over the 11 inches to get it) or something as disgusting as clipping his toenails or putting medicine on his corns. As a fully grown woman with my own family now, I don’t understand why mother accustomed him to being treated that way, so that now in their twilight years, she continues to be a servant when she should be the one being waited on. I know it’s too late for them; neither one of them is going to change, but the whole thing still leaves a bad, bitter taste in my mouth.

Under Construction

I’ve written before how most women juggle multiple balls – relationship, children, work, self, friendships – at any given time. I’ve admitted to dropping one or more of the balls, but that the most dropped ball is “self.” I often get caught up in trying to take care of everyone and lose sight of me. Now, I’ve learned that I’ve also dropped the “friendships” ball and it is hidden somewhere behind the sofa so that I may not be able to retrieve it again!

I e-mailed two good friends of mine yesterday – I’ve known both women for 8 years now – with the subject line “I feel abandoned.” These are ladies with whom – up until a few weeks ago – I would engage in a three-way e-mail communication several times a day, just sharing random thoughts. One of them did not respond to the e-mail; the other sent me a long response basically stating that they had not abandoned me, I had been so involved in my own life that I had pulled away from them.

At first I felt offended; but I’m wise enough (ha!) to know that when you hear a truth, your ego will often rise up with the “oh, no, she didn’t!” reaction in order to divert your attention from the truth. So, I removed my fingers from the keyboard, before I could respond in a way that would do lasting damage.

Then, as the icing on the cake, I sent an e-mail to another friend – this one I’ve known for 25 years – about Brendan’s birthday party and got an e-mail back saying that she would love to come, but she was having a party for her daughter the same day. But she didn’t invite me and hadn’t even mentioned it until I brought up Brendan’s party.

Here I was, patting myself on the back because I had managed – since September – to get up on time, pack my child’s snack for school and have him there on time (most days, anyway – I’m not perfect, you know); when, in fact, my friendships were collapsing around me. Today, I had to face the unsavory truth that I have not been a good friend. I have not e-mailed anyone in a while; I don't call to check up on my friends; and I don't remember the last time I sent a birthday or Christmas card. The sad part is that not only have I not been a good friend to the ladies who have held me together when I was falling apart (one of them even got on a plane with me to chase my then boyfriend down on vacation because I thought he was cheating on me), but I just haven’t been good to myself lately. I really have been engrossed with the minutia of everyday life. Truth be told, I am tired of it. I am tired of the lunches, and the laundry, and the cooking, and the cleaning. I feel like I’m on one of those wheels that the hamsters exercise on. I realize that the reason I feel like this is because I have no other life! I know that if I saw a movie with a friend now and then; or met up with someone for a manicure and pedicure; or for a chat and a cup of coffee; or even just keeping up my e-mail correspondence, I wouldn’t feel so bored and isolated.

I honestly don’t believe that life is meant to be depressing or boring. So, going forward, I intend to be a better friend. I truly hope that the “friendships” ball is retrievable. And I hope that my friends can understand that their girl is not a finished product – I am the first to admit that I am “under construction.”

"You Can't Play 'Cause You Have Different Skin"

Brendan has been obsessing about color lately.  Last week, he said he no longer wanted to be brown.  When I asked him what color he wanted to be, he paused, then threw his arms around me and said "I love you very much, Mommy."  Then, he hurried away before I could ask him any more questions.

A few days later, he said that he wished I wasn't brown.  I told him that I loved being brown, but given a choice, what color would he make me?  Another pause, then he answered that he wished I was the same color as his cousin Joey's mommy -- who is also brown.  I was puzzled, but before I could question him any more, he hurried away again.

Then, on Sunday, the truth finally reared its head:  in recess recently, four boys that he looks up to and used to play with all the time told him that he couldn't play with them anymore, because he had "different skin."  He tried to tell the story nonchalantly, as if he couldn't care less whether those boys played with him or not, but I could see the pain in his eyes.  It was like I had been stabbed in the chest.  

Big Bren and I have gone out of our way to provide a multicultural environment for Brendan.  He watches multicultural programs; his "people" toys are all different nationalities; even the angel on our Christmas tree was of color.  What we didn't realize was that Brendan would not -- and could not -- grow up in that bubble.  We assumed, I guess, that other parents would be raising their children the same way.

I wonder whether racism occurs through nature or nurture.  Is it in our DNA to discriminate against those who do not look like us or are we raised to do so?  The fact that those boys used that terminology -- different skin -- makes me think that their parents are not necessarily racists.  If so, they would have used other, not so benign, words.  Just the same, if the parents surround themselves and their children with people who all look the same, it's no wonder the kids are so intolerant of change.

Big Bren, who, while not brown, feels strongly about having a child who feels comfortable in his skin, whatever color that may be, marched to the school the very next day and told the Head of School about Brendan's experience.  The point was not to get those boys in trouble, but to steer them in the direction of acceptance of others.  On our end, we will not do anything differently. We are already teaching Brendan not just tolerance, but acceptance, of cultural differences.  And with our wonderfully multi-hued family, he gets to do that every day.