Those Who Do Not Learn From Their Mistakes ...

They say that the truth peeks its head out jest.  And one of my husband's running "jokes" is that although I have multiple degrees, I often don't "get" things.  At first, I laughed along.  After all, what fun is life if you cannot laugh at yourself?  And, let's face it, oftentimes it takes me a second or two to get a joke or to figure out how to put something together and my sense of direction blows.  I am often "literal," where "abstract" is the word of the day.  I get that.  But after 10+ years of being the butt of the "she doesn't get it" jokes, my laughter has dried up.

Case in point:  my birthday is coming up, so I compiled a list of things that I need, but am too cheap to buy for myself and sent the list to Big Bren.  At the top of the list is Microsoft Office for Mac.  Within seconds, he calls me and the coversation goes like this:  "I got your list.  Didn't you buy a copy of Microsoft Office a few months ago?"  "Yes, but that was for the PC."  "But it had multiple permissions, right?  And we only used one."  "Yes, but it was for the PC."  "How many permissions did it have?  Can't you use that?"  Sigh on my end, "No."  "You don't get what I'm saying.  You can be so dense sometimes."  Click.

I looked at the phone for a good minute, trying to decide what to do.  Should I let this go?  The more I considered letting it go, the angrier I got.  Soon, a blind rage filled my mind.  I dialed his number and called him a few choice names that were a lot worse than "dense."

Of course, the irony of it was that it was he who was not getting it:  I could have purchased 10 copies of Microsoft Word with 100 applications each -- the fact is that you cannot make software formulated for a PC load onto a MAC as they have two different platforms. 

Granted, I am extremely sensitive on the intelligence issue: during alcohol-fueled rages, my father would say that we - the three girls - didn't deserve his last name because we weren't "smart enough."  He would say that it was a waste to have so many "dumb" girls.  He could never remember what he'd said once the alcohol wore off, but even now, 30+ years later, I can still remember every single word.

My dad would argue that his words, however mean, had a motivating effect, because every one of us "dumb" girls have gone on to earn multiple masters' degrees and even doctorates.  However, aspiring to something and running away from something else are two different things altogether.  When I went to school, failing was not an option, because I knew that somewhere within my father, he expected me to and would be standing by to say "I told you so."

So to hear this man, whom I have vowed to spend the rest of my life with, pull out the "smart" card is like sticking a knife in a barely healed wound.  I truly wonder what has earned me this "dumb" label with him.  I am an attorney and a productive member of several professional associations, where I am often asked to organize events and chair continuing legal education programs.  I have authored chapters in a legal treatise.  I have published articles in parenting magazines.  I am an avid reader and am always trying to find ways to better myself.  When asked to describe me, not one person who knows me would utter the word "dumb."  So what exactly is it that I am not getting?  Could what they say be true that those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them?

Why Me?

Ever since Bren was born, I have always had him on my computer desktop.  Some picture of him is always the background.  That way, I feel like he is with me, even when I'm at work.

The other day, I was working from home and left my laptop on while I went to cook dinner.  A few minutes later, Bren comes running into the kitchen and said, "Mommy, your computer is on!"  I continued to stir the pot of rice I was cooking, "yes, I know.  I left it on." 

"But Mommy, I'm on it!" 

I glanced over at him again.  I wasn't quite sure what the excitement was about.

"Yeessssssssss ...."

"No, seriously, Mommy.  A picture of me is on your computer."

Finally, I stopped stirring and faced him.  "Yes, you are on my computer.  You are always on my computer.  It's my way of keeping you close when I'm working."

He paused a little bit and then said, "But ... why me?"

After I finished explaining to my child that I love him so much that I never tire of seeing him, he went away, shaking his head at my silliness.  And I had to shake my head at the fact that he had to ask why him.  Funny, how the people we would give our lives for never realize how much we love them.

Til Death Do Us Part

Chris Rock has a funny bit in a comedy routine where he talks about being married.  He says – and I’m paraphrasing – that there comes a time in every marriage when the wife is going to wish the husband dead.  He says that he has caught his wife looking at him plenty of times where he can almost see the thought bubble above her head “I wish he would just drop dead right now.  I won’t have to deal with a divorce or a custody battle.  Just drop dead!  Drop dead, drop dead, drop dead!”

I have been there.  In a comedy routine, it is funny; in real life, it is not.

Two days ago, I picked up a pen, found an old journal and started writing again.  Before that day, I hadn’t journaled in over four years.  Giving up journaling was traumatic for me.  It was as if someone had pressed the “mute” button on my brain. I no longer had an outlet where I could vent my feelings, my disappointments, my anger, safely.  But I had to stop, because my privacy was breached and when I wrote, I no longer knew whether I was writing what I actually felt or if I was writing for an audience.

As a child, I was not encouraged to express myself.  Children were seen and not heard.  So I wrote.  I would internalize everything and when it got to be too heavy a burden, I would lay it down on paper.  That is how I dealt.

Then I met Big Bren.  Big Bren and I were like oil and vinegar.  If he said “up,” I said “down.”  If he said “black,” I said “white.”  We clashed constantly.  But instead of walking away from him and finding someone with whom I was more compatible, I continued to subject myself to him.  And so, I wrote.  I wrote all the things I could not tell him.  When I felt my anger spiraling out of control, I wrote some more.  But still I stayed.  And the more I tolerated, the more he piled on.  There was no pleasing him.  He became controlling.  One day, he smashed my computer screen because he reviewed my browsing history and didn’t like some of the websites I had visited.  He shredded a $300 coat I bought him because we got into an argument.  He poked fun of me for meditating.  One time, we went on vacation and on the flight back, I fell asleep and leaned onto his shoulder; he elbowed me awake.  I wrote this all down.  (I'm sure that if he was a writer, he'd be writing about me as well.  He ticked off my mother one day when she was making him coffee at her house.  She asked him how he wanted it.  His reply:  "Like my woman -- dark and bitter."  He would probably also tell of the time soon after we started dating when he told me me was going on vacation and I called my friend Nycol up and we followed him.  Or when I threw a glass at him because I heard him concluding a telephone conversation with "I love you, too" and thought he was speaking to another woman; he was -- his mother.  Or when I attached a GPS tracker to his car.) 

Then, one day, he discovered my journals.  At first, it was a hidden treasure for him.  He could get a sneak peak into my mind without my knowing he had been there.  Then, his need to control took over and he began “answering” my journal entries.  If I said something nasty about him, there would be a corresponding response.  In one I wrote, “I need to get out of this relationship.”  He responded, “don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

Every time I got a new hiding place for my journal, he found it.  He was completely invested in controlling everything about me, including my thoughts.  After we had the baby, it seemed to get worse.  Now he had a little person to control me with.  When I wrote entries to my son, he ripped them out. 

So I stopped writing.  And that is when the “I wish him dead” thoughts started.  That and the recurring depression, over-eating and corresponding weight gain.  I prayed he would die and I would get a chance to meet someone and be happy for once.  I prayed he would die before my son became aware of how truly dysfunctional his parents’ relationship was.  I prayed he would stop breathing in his sleep and simply die.  I didn’t want him to suffer.  I didn’t want him to get killed.  I just wanted him to die!  I didn’t feel like I had the will power or the wherewithal to walk away from him, but well, if he died …

I’ve said before that God doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want Her to, but She always listens.  Shortly after I started praying for that man to die, things began to change in my marriage.  It was as if a film had been lifted from my eyes and I was able to really see for a change.  I began to notice that when I didn’t speak up for myself (because I was pouring everything into a journal), his behavior escalated.  He was exactly like a child seeking attention.  I realized that the closer I was to the truth about a matter, the louder he yelled and the more hateful he became.  If I challenged him on something trivial, the stakes became higher and higher, with no winners.  And underneath all the bravado, he was a frightened little boy who was afraid that I would reject him and leave him all alone.

As all of this became clear to me, I began to change as well.  Instead of spewing hatred at him for all the things he didn’t do, didn’t have and couldn’t provide, I began to appreciate all the things he did do and continues to do for our household.  Instead of automatically responding with an opposing view to everything he said, I began to think first and answer second.

Those relatively minor things have made all the difference in our putrefying marriage and have given it a new life I didn’t think he was going to live to see.  As sure as I sit here, the man that he was is dead and gone.  Just as I have laid the old crazy version of me to rest.  Which is a good thing, because the woman I am now would not tolerate the ill treatment of yesteryear; and I hope that who he is now would not be attracted to a loony bitch.  These days, we most definitely still have our fights; old habits (on both our parts) die hard.  But when I see either or both of us engaging in the old behaviors, I can stop the pattern now before the downward spiral.  The result is that I feel like I can write again.  This blog was the beginning of my renaissance – the permission I needed to give myself to speak freely again.  He no longer feels the need to read my journals (or even this blog), but if he does, there is nothing that I haven’t already told him. 

Long live my husband.

Update 9/30/11:  I was telling Big Bren about this post and how I'd written about all the crazy things we did to each other.  He looked at me, smiled wistfully and said, "Yeah, we had a really passionate relationship."  Aaaarrrgggghhhhh!

Love

I got this e-mail from my little brother, Roy, today and it almost made me cry.  Sometimes, it helps to know that someone, somewhere, is thinking of you and loves you.

Eye of the Beholder

When I was a kid, it always puzzled me when my mom insisted on going pretty much everywhere with my dad. My uncles would hang out together; they would even go to Honduras solo, but my mom wasn't having it. When I was about 10, I remember asking her why she was so clingy. (Of course I didn't phrase it that way -- I valued my teeth too much to get them knocked out for being "disrespectful.") Her response was something to the effect that good men are scarce and women would kill to have my father.

I have to admit that I looked at her sideways. I was odd as a kid (oh, who am I kidding? I'm a bit odd now!), so I never had that "I adore my daddy" phase. Whereas most little girls saw their dads as gorgeous superheroes, I just saw my dad for what he was -- a hardworking, but cranky, aging, and not-so-goodlooking man with alcoholic tendencies. And in my 10-year-old mind, I could not for the life of me fathom why anyone else would want him. Hell, I didn't know why my own mother wanted him.

I am 38 years old; my parents are still together; and even though my father is almost 70 years old, my mother still accompanies him everywhere he goes. Ask her today why she does that and she will give you the same response she gave what feels like a million years ago: good men are at a premium and there are women out there who would kill to have a good husband.

The other day, I had to attend a Young Lawyers event as the representative from another section of the New York State Bar Association. As I walked out the door, Big Bren called out after me, "don't flirt with anybody!" Then he proceeded to text me several times during the event just to see how I was doing. Honestly, I don't think any young boys fresh out of law school were checking for me, and while my wrinkles and back fat are not getting any more endearing with age, it was kind of cool to know that Big Bren still thinks I'm desireable enough to be protective of.

Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!

I am reading an interesting book -- Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix, Ph.D. -- which postulates that the majority of people seek out romantic partners who closely resemble the character traits of their parents.  The reason for this, says Hendrix, is that children, as helpless little people, are at the mercy of their parents; so, as adults, we seek to "fix" whatever dysfunction we were subjected to at home.

This theory is not new, of course; Sigmund Freud said about as much in his many writings.  And, even before I heard this theory, I often complained that Big Bren seemed to encompass all the things I hated about my parents -- sometimes he is cold, emotionally unavailable/neglectful and impossible to please.

I was making dinner today when I decided that I absolutely had to have grilled steak.  It was drizzling outside and our wooden deck was dotted with raindrops.  I carefully made my way over to the grill and put the steaks on the fire.  In my eagerness to get back inside, I neglected to dry my feet and rushed onto the marble floor.  I had taken two steps when one foot hit a patch of moisture and I went careening toward the floor.  I tried to break my fall by putting my arm out and instead fell on my hand -- hard.  My knees quickly followed.  The whole house seemed to shake when I finally hit the floor.  I just stayed there, reeling from the pain shooting through my legs and arm.

Then something unprecedented happened:  my husband gently raised me, placed me on his lap and held me to his chest.  With as much tenderness as I have ever seen him exhibit, he rubbed my knees and hand until the pain went away.  Tears rushed to my eyes (again! For those of you keeping count, that's twice in two weeks -- I fear that I am losing my iron maiden edge).  Not so much from the pain -- although I told him it was -- but because when I fell as a child, I was never the recipient of such kindness and love.  I felt about 7 years old again, but instead of being told to get up, brush myself off and not dare cry over something as insignificant as a fall, I was being nurtured and even coddled.

When I felt better, I brushed away the tears and rushed off Big Bren's lap (old habits die hard).  But I was left with the knowledge that each person should be judged on his/her own merits and not based on a projection of what others may have done (or failed to do).  

Thank you, D.

Invisible

It is 2009. Long after Dr. Martin Luther King marched and died. Long after Malcolm X urged insurrection. Long past Jim Crow and “separate but equal.” And, yet, racism is alive and well.

I live in Putnam County, which – despite being a mere 57 miles north of New York City – is still predominately white. I have gotten used to getting the side-eye when I am out with Big Bren. The second glances my bi-racial child garners have become second nature. They don’t bother me anymore. But, no matter how many times one experiences it, once cannot get used to racism, whether latent or blatant.

Two times this week, I have entered a restaurant, waited patiently to order and when it came to be my turn, was skipped over by the host/proprietor in favor of the white patrons behind me. In the first case, the white couple gently reminded the hostess that I was there first. In the second case, the young boys glanced over then proceeded to place their order. Both times, my blood boiled over. I felt marginalized; invisible. And while another, self-respecting Black person would have walked out, I opted to stay, choking on my anger, along with my food.

What was worse is that in the second instance this week, Big Bren was in the restaurant with me. And I felt comfortable enough to say to him, through gritted teeth, “what am I? Invisible?” Only to have him minimize my feelings and my anger by saying “You moved, that’s why he skipped over you.” “Yeah, I moved from second place to first place, when the woman in front of me finished placing her order!” Sarcastically: “Oh, it must be because you’re Black then.”

The tears welled up in my eyes; not just because of the indignity, but because, after 10 years together, here was something he would never understand. It felt like the scene from that movie, Something New, when Sanaa Lathan’s character was trying to vent to her white beau, played by Simon Baker, about some injustice at work and he blows her off, saying that he was tired of hearing Black people whine about prejudice and racism all the time.

Before this, I had never looked upon Big Bren as something other than me. When I filed a discrimination complaint against Zurich Insurance Company – my employer at the time – when they wouldn’t give me an accommodation after I gave birth that they had given to numerous white parents, he was unwavering in his support. And when the EEOC issued its finding that Zurich had discriminated against me, it felt like a vindication for us. It was us against the world. In a span of 10 seconds, he became part of that world and I was reduced to invisibility yet again.

Sign on the dotted line

It’s funny how much like a business contract marriage is. Actually, that was all the rage a few years ago – entering into a written agreement with your future spouse as to the “terms” of your union. For instance, the person who didn’t mind cooking would offer to cook in exchange for not having to clean up afterward. The one who was more financially savvy would agree to pay the bills, as long as the other partner agreed to take out the trash on garbage day, and so on.

When I first heard about these written agreements, I wrinkled my nose in distaste. What is the use of being married, I thought, if everything is a quid pro quo? Isn’t the purpose of marriage to not only share the good and the bad, but to grow together? How can you grow if everything is etched in stone?

Almost 6 years in, I now know that whether you write the terms down or not, you are in a binding agreement. And the people who sit down and say, “this is what I want; this is what I need; and this is what I am willing to give and do” are better off in the long run.  And, quite frankly, it is often the little things that begin to grate on your nerves after a while.  It's the socks on the floor, the unwashed dishes and the unloaded dishwasher.  It can be snoring or the way someone snorts when s/he laughs.  What personally bothers me is the refrain:  "I can't read minds!"  Often said with equal parts frustration and derision.  You don't need to be a mind-reader to know that dirty laundry will not wash, fold and/or put itself away.  You don't need a ESP degree to know that an empty refrigerator means it's time to go grocery shopping!

On a whole, though, I am glad that our issues are relatively minor because the “terms” aren’t just about chores or who is going to pick up the kids from school; they are about how you treat yourself and about how you allow or expect others to treat you. For instance, I have family members whose partners routinely cheat on them. They turn a blind eye or – if confronted with the truth – show anger for a week or a month and then decide to “work things out.”  Except their version of "working things out" is simply to ignore the problem; thereby allowing the partner to do it again and again. There’s one woman whose significant other has cheated on her at least 5 times – the last time was in her own bed. By not taking action the first time, she signed the contract conceding that he could do it the second, third, fourth and fifth time. Short of ripping that contract up and declaring a breach, there is no way to get out of it.

Then there are those for whom “divorce is not an option.” I am as much of a romantic as the next person, but that is like walking into a car dealership and saying, “I am going to buy a car from you today no matter how you treat me, or how much you inflate the cost of the car, or even if you try to sell me a lemon.” You can only imagine how well that salesman is going to treat you and how much effort he is going to put into that transaction – not very well and not very much.  That's not to say that divorce should be taken lightly -- it shouldn't be.  My "deal breakers" are but two things:  infidelity and domestic violence.  I'll work on everything else; but I'll be damned if I am going to lay down and be a doormat for anybody.

There are days in my marriage when I am blissfully happy and days that end with me fuming, “I didn’t sign up for this crap.” I used to think that I had no power; that I could only go along until I got to the point where I either learned to cope or got so fed up that I moved on. I have learned, though, that marriage can be like a career that you've put a lot of time and effort into – sometimes it’s frustrating, but most times it’s fulfilling. And, like a job, sometimes you have to stop and ask, “Am I being treated fairly? Am I getting equal value for what I am putting in?” If the answer is “no,” you have to be willing to speak up and change the terms of that contract. No one can do it but you. I’ve found that most people are always willing to renegotiate.

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).