To Poot, or Not to Poot: That Is The Question

Brendan had karate class yesterday.  After he got on the mat, I sat in the waiting room with a few other parents who opted to stay to watch the lesson.  Minutes later, a woman sitting a few seats next to me let out a soft fart.  I tried not to look in her direction and I could see the other parents attempting the same.  Unfortunately for her, though, she had another daughter with her, who was not in karate class, and as kids are likely to do, she put her mother on blast:  "MOMMY!  EEWWWW!!!  YOU JUST FARTED!!!"  The woman turned crimson, as the rest of us tried desperately to keep a straight face.  "No, I didn't!" She finally barked at the offending child.  Then, for good measure, "I don't find that funny, young lady."  Her daughter was properly chastised, but she wasn't ready to go down without a fight, "What's that smell then, huh, huh??"

I sprang out of my chair and hurried outside to laugh in peace.

When I was done chuckling, I began to think about the situation a little more.  Really, what was the big deal?  It is a perfectly normal bodily function, yet, we here in America make a big deal about everything.  Big Bren -- like most men -- asks what's the hold-up in the ladies room when we go out.  Most times, I shrug and mumble something about women primping in front of the mirror, so you can't wash your hands without a wait or that there was a line to get to a stall.  But, 9 times out of 10, the cause of the "hold-up" are the women in the stalls, sitting on the toilets, with their intestines seizing because they don't want to let out an "embarrassing" sound.  I have heard (and done) everything to mask the tell-tale pooting or pooping sounds -- continuously unspooling toilet paper, unwrapping sanitary napkins, constant flushing of the toilet, singing, etc.  The list goes on and on.  It's something that we have been conditioned to do here in the States.  Go anywhere else, and it's not an issue.  In fact, I remember going to a store bathroom with an aunt who had recently arrived from Honduras.  As she took the stall next to me, she let out a huge fart.  "Tia!" I whisper-shouted (I didn't want to be acquainted with her).  She responded calmly in her normal voice, "Child, please.  Everyone knows that where there is rain, there is usually thunder."  I ran out of the bathroom and pretended not to know her.

Another fart story and I promise to be done.  When I first started dating Big Bren seriously, he sat me down and gave me his "rules."  One of them was that I should never, ever, fart in his presence.  And I should wait until he left the apartment before I took a dump.  If I couldn't wait, I should make up an excuse to go elsewhere to take care of that "disgusting" business.  I thought he was joking and flippantly said that I expected him to do the same then.  He rolled his eyes at me and life went on.

Fast forward six months into our courtship and we are sitting on the couch in his living room watching a movie.  As I settled into a comfortable position, a small fart escaped my butt.  He sat up, eyes flashing.  "What was that?"  Me, sarcastically, "I think it's called a fart.  In Spanish, it's 'pedo.'  In Garifuna, it would be 'punguo'."  With nostrils flaring (no pun intended), he got up, walked to the hall closet and got my coat.  "I think you should go now."  I just sat there thinking, "this mother*****r is crazy."  I took my coat and left.  He called me repeatedly on my way home -- likely so that I could show some contrition for my wayward innards, but I was through.  We broke up for two weeks that time.  Over some bodily gas.  When we got back together, neither one of use mentioned the "incident" again.

The point of this scatological post is that people treat their psychological dysfunction the same way they do their gastric byproducts.  We can all hear, see and smell the crap they are emitting, but they won't lay claim to it.  Or, if they are ready, willing and able to do so, those near and dear to them won't allow them to do it (because of their own issues).  Until they do, however, their innards, relationships and lives will keep seizing, trying to discharge the stuff they longer need.  So let it go.  Release it and sigh in relief.

Cringe

     To my Faithful Followers:  I apologize for my absence.  I have been in a funk. 

     You see, a few weeks ago, I was on the phone with my cou-sis (that’s not a typo – it’s my word for a cousin who is more like a sister to me) chatting about all sorts of things.  As we were about to hang up, she casually asked if I was still “doing the blog thing.”  I was a little taken aback; I had assumed that she was a loyal reader.  After an awkward pause, I answered – probably a bit snippily – that, of course, I was still posting on my blog. Why?  Another awkward silence, then she cautiously answered that she had stopped reading after the first few posts because each entry made her “cringe.” 

     “Is my writing that bad?” I asked, only half-jokingly.

     “No, no, no!  It’s not that at all.  It’s just that your disclosures make me uncomfortable.  I know what you went through; heck, I went through most of it with you.  And what I didn’t experience in your house, I underwent at my own house.  But I don’t think we need to yell those things from a rooftop. It’s not stuff I am proud of.  So when I read your blog, I imagine what other people will think and I fear that they will judge you and the family because of it.”

     I thought carefully about what my response would be.  I could see her point, but, to be honest, I didn’t care.  This was my life and my truth.

     “T.,” I started slowly.  “You are entitled to your own opinion.  When I started the blog, I said that I longed to live a life of transparency and that I would no longer be cowed by fear or shame or guilt.  I realize that people may judge me because of the life I have led or the things that I have done.  That is their prerogative, but I choose to no longer judge myself, and I choose to move past the limitations of my background.  The past is over and done with.”

     I could tell she was still unconvinced.  And it was not my job to convince her.  Still, the conversation bothered me.  Under the guise of concern about the judgment of others, I felt her judgment.  Despite my defiance on the phone, I found myself retreating, doubting, getting depressed.  And I did what I said I wouldn’t do – I stopped writing.

     Then something jarred me back to the keyboard – Tyler Perry’s disclosure of the abuse that he suffered as a child.  I, obviously, don’t know Tyler Perry, so what I’m about to say is going to sound quite silly:  I am very proud of him for coming forward like that.  Here is a person who acknowledges that he didn’t spring fully grown into the success he has.   

He had his trials, tribulations and events that others told him should remain hidden.  But he stepped into the light; even knowing that he would probably be ridiculed by some of the Black bloggers.  (One site insinuated that he was gay because he admitted to being sexually abused by a man as a child.  Frankly, it makes no difference to me whether he is gay or not.  I think it’s more contemptible to worship rappers who unabashedly call women “bitches” and “hos” than to love someone of the same sex.  But that’s just me.  And it’s probably a rant best reserved for another post.)

     In any event, I am back.  And I promise not to hold back -- even if it makes some people cringe.