Sui Generis

by Sharon E. Cathcart

  ***

  Self-Care and Social Justice (May 2010)

  Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I waver somewhere between realist and cynic. No one will ever accuse me of being some kind of Pollyanna.

  However, I have realized that there is only so much "news" I can take. It’s hard to balance my need to be well-informed against the enormous amount of negativity (ranging from world events to local hate speech) I have found out there. For lack of a better term, I think of this "news" as a giant psychic bummer.

  I don't think I should have to outline how depressing I find it that my fellow citizens actively seek legislative means to make their hatred of LGBT people, people of color and women into something righteous. Yet, with Proposition 8 in California, SB 1070 in Arizona and Oklahoma's new law requiring vaginal ultrasound and color commentary for women seeking abortions (including rape victims), that's just what has happened.

  Don't forget, though, that if you take the radical step of standing up against such things, you will be accused of being bigoted yourself -- for refusing to be tolerant of intolerance.

  In recent comment sections on the Sacramento Bee (our state capitol's daily paper), I have been accused of fascism -- by a man who said that the poor should just have to go hungry if they couldn't afford food. I have been accused of being a paid agitator for La Raza and an illegal immigrant by two separate individuals -- for pointing out the inherent profiling bias against Latinos/as in SB 1070 (no one in the discussion seemed concerned about Caucasian illegals from Canada, the UK, etc.; it was all "those damned Mexicans taking our jobs"). I've lost track of how many times I've been called "anti-Christian" for pointing out scriptural translation errors from Hebrew to English in the unbelievably trite justifications from anti-gay folks who want to argue that none of the other Mosaic laws apply but by gum, God hates queers.

  So, yeah. I've read and listened to the hate speech and negativity, and had it directed at me -- primarily by pissed-off white men desperately clinging to their tiny bit of perceived hegemony without bothering to acknowledge their privileged position. (I doubt any of them are clamoring for fruit picking jobs at 7.25 cents/pound [per the most recent prevailing wage survey] either.)

  I recognize that I have a certain amount of privilege right out of the gate, just by virtue of being white. I am lucky enough to have a home, a reliable car, adequate nutrition, health insurance, money to pay bills and a little bit for extras. We've tightened our belts a lot, and sometimes that stings -- but it's voluntary in many ways. I can choose to bring lunch instead of buying every day (or going without food), just to name one item.

  Here's the thing -- I look for things that challenge my assumptions. Here's an example: yes, I get annoyed at screaming children in public -- especially if I've saved up for a nice adult occasion like the symphony or fine dining. In fairness, a major source of the annoyance is the parents who ignore the tantrum rather than take a child out of the situation to calm down. For a long time, I said things like, "If your kid can't handle Chez Panisse, either get a sitter or go to Denny's."

  Well, when I start to consider that the family at Denny's, or even McDonald's, may have saved up for their less expensive evening out as well, it puts a different spin on things (to say nothing of the need to coach kids on manners in all public spaces).

  Anyway, I've made no secret about being one of the 87 percent of people for whom anti-depressants do no good -- which means that I can't ward off my depression with a pill. I have to figure out how in the world I will face this kind of thing with kindness and compassion for myself as well as the people whom I see as the obvious victims of discrimination and/or hate.

  The thing is, I write a lot about compassion (it's the primary theme in my novel, when you get right down to it). I work hard to walk my talk, campaigning on behalf of LGBT rights, speaking out against racial and religious intolerance, on behalf of a woman's right to self-determination, emphasizing that we are all connected in this crazy world and that behaving with respect and in honor of another's dignity is vital. (And yes, I do happen to believe that little kids can be taught these things -- including how to act in a restaurant -- and that they are also, unfortunately, taught how to hate just as easily.)

  The sticky wicket, though, is that I have not always been compassionate with myself. I feel like I'm not doing enough o help on the occasions that I am unable, for instance, to make an enormous contribution to the food bank. My few items, when money is tight, look paltry to my eyes even as the logical part of me knows that many small donations add up -- and I would never belittle someone else's donation the way I do my own.

  So, here is the crux of the matter: how do I work on these matters in a way that is compassionate toward myself even while I stand up for issues that are important to me?

  Back when I sold Mary Kay Cosmetics, Mary Kay Ash said she never read the paper or watched the news because it was too depressing. I was a newspaper editor at the time and the very idea was anathema to me. Nowadays, I totally get where she was coming from. My compromise position is to limit both reading and viewing the news and to recognize when my level of tolerance is about to be reached -- hopefully before I say something nasty myself. (Being human, I am not 100 percent successful.)

  I stopped listening to morning and afternoon drive-time radio for much the same reason. In fact, I made a conscious decision just before Christmas 2009 to only listen to music that I found personally uplifting. This might be because of the songs themselves, finding the artist's story inspiring, or any number of other reasons. Heck, if the music evokes a pleasant memory, it qualifies.

  I read books on a variety of subjects, both fiction and non-fiction. I get way more information that way than I do from a quick sound bite or a couple of column inches. Again, I need to temper reading a lot of "heavy" stuff back-to-back to avoid the aforementioned giant psychic bummer -- but it works.

  Finally, at the end of every single day I make a post to Facebook in which I share ten things for which I am grateful from the day. The person who turned me on to this, Ron Britton, is part of a large movement focused on peace and positive energy. We get what we focus on; I find more blessings than I expected now that I focus on those things instead of what I'm missing out.

  Because, see, one of the things I've really come to recognize in all of the social justice work, from signing a petition to attending a protest and everything in between, is that I am pretty damned lucky. That I can even write about these matters is proof of privilege.

  So, how will you be compassionate today -- with others and yourself? Me, I'm going to remember a quote that says "It is a good exercise for the heart to reach down and help another person up." That exercise includes me.

  Short Fiction

  Heart of Stone

  It is their job to watch.

  From high above, in many cities, stone-gray eyes gaze out on the horizon. From the rooftops, they survey their domain.

  They watch, and sometimes they protect. Theophilus thought that was the most important part of the job: to protect.

  He had, in fact, protected the building where he lived since the day it opened. He had watched residents come and go, even pass away. He was a part of the landscape to them, always watching from a corner of the roof.

  He was posed much like Rodin’s famous “Thinker,” his chin on the back of his hand. His wings spanned out from a back carved to show rippling muscle. Some might have thought Theophilus was a stone angel, but those wings were smooth and bat-like.

  Theophilus was a gargoyle.

  One of those whom he watched was a young woman. She was the one who had called him Theophilus; before that, he had no name.

  She came up to the roof one summer morning to read her book and drink her Jamba Juice. She had already brought a lawn chair, some cushions and a small table, carving out a tiny space for herself. She arranged her furniture near Theophilus, taking her time to find the best light by which to read. She put her juice and book on
the table and came over to the wall, gazing out over the horizon.

  Placing a gentle hand on one of his carved wings, she gave Theophilus his name and said she would always feel safe with him there.

  Eventually, he learned her name. She answered her cell phone by saying “Hello, this is Anna.”

  Anna had reddish brown hair that reminded Theophilus of warm bricks and blue eyes that made him think of clear summer skies. He came to know her step on the stairs and wished he could smile to show how glad he was for her presence.

  “Hello, Theophilus,” she always greeted him as she settled in with her book and juice. “It’s another beautiful day in the city.”

  If it was rainy or too windy, Anna did not come to the roof. She stayed indoors, while Theophilus watched.

  Anna sometimes read aloud; she was an actor by hobby and she liked to practice. Theophilus learned a great deal by listening to Anna; he wished that he could speak, so he could thank her.

  Theophilus grew concerned when Anna did not appear for a few days. When she came back to her little rooftop space, Anna’s eyes were red and her cheeks tearstained. She paced back and forth for a while, and then sat on her chair. She wrapped her arms around her body and rocked, finally permitting miserable sobs to escape. At last she leaned forward, covering her face with her hands.

  “I’m such a fool,” she muttered.

  Theophilus had never thought of Anna as foolish. Some of the people whom he saw on the streets or who had lived in the building, certainly, but not Anna. She was not like the others; he wished he could tell her that.

  She stood up from her chair and walked over to the ledge. She put one hand on Theophilus’ knee and looked over.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” she sighed.

  She thought about how easy it would be to lean further over the edge: to leap off. About how the pain would finally stop. About how no one would care or even notice if one more would-be actor who had faced one too many rejections just never showed up at another audition. Her office colleagues -- she could not call them friends -- would only care insofar as they would have to cover her desk until a temp could be called in.

  She could just keep leaning ...

  Theophilus had to do something. Perhaps, this once, he could make himself heard.

  A warm, deep voice echoed in her head: “Please, Anna, don’t do it.”

  “Great,” she sighed aloud. “Now I’m a loser who has auditory hallucinations.

  “You’re not a loser, Anna.” A gentle, masculine voice ... a comforting voice. And yet there was no one on the roof but Anna.

  She backed away from the ledge, her eyes wide with fright. She sat down on her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger as though massaging away a migraine.

  “This is not happening to me,” she moaned.

  She stood up, shoulders slumped, and went back to her apartment. She did not notice that Theophilus’ eyes were no longer a stony grey but now glowed green.

  Anna stopped at her apartment only long enough to collect her jacket and handbag. She caught the number 6 cross-town bus from the stop in front of the building. Theophilus watched her board the conveyance, wishing he could extend his circle of protection beyond the building to anywhere that Anna might go.

  For her part, Anna wanted nothing more than to forget the humiliation of the day -- the casting director telling her, before she even finished her monologue, that she was “all wrong for the part” and to go home. She leaned her forehead against the bus window and watched the scenery go by until she reached the stop she wanted.

  Bowers Park.

  Anna’s fondest memories from girlhood focused on Bowers Park, with its duck pond, tree-lined paths and picnic grounds. She made her way to a favorite spot, a little playground just off the path. No one was there, so she sat on one of the rubber-seated swings. She had loved the swing set as a child, sometimes imagining that she was flying through the sky to a magical land where there were friends, plentiful food and warm clothes.

  In short, a place that was not her childhood home. Her parents still lived in the same little frame house around the corner, but she could not go there without having bad memories flood up or new ones made.

  Little wonder that she had chosen to travel and study as far from home as she could ... before coming to rest just across town. The irony of her situation had not escaped Anna. Certainly there were warm clothes and plentiful food, but the closest thing she had to a friend was Theophilus.

  Anna was determined not to cry, but an errant tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. She swiped it away with the back of her hand. She had thought to escape momentarily, but her problems came with her.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she sighed aloud. At the same time, she pushed her feet into the dirt and started to swing. Just for a minute, she told herself.

  But the soaring sensation felt so very good; she was transported, just as she had hoped she would be, for a few brief minutes. She smiled in spite of herself as she stood up from the swing set and collected her purse. She caught a return bus and went back to her apartment.

  Honestly, it was too quiet inside. Anna turned the radio to a classical music station and went about making her solitary supper. She imagined having a guest across the little gate leg table from her, perhaps even a gentleman caller. She would lay the table with care and they would have a nice meal. Maybe they would take a bottle of wine out to the living room to watch a movie.

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Anna. No one is interested in you that way.” She cleared up her supper things and went to bed with her book.

  Far above, Theophilus looked out over the city. He had seen Anna return, of course, and wondered whether she would come up to the roof. It was a temperate evening; she would not be too cold.

  He closed his eyes ...

  Wait, he thought. I don’t do that. And yet, it was true; lids slid up and down over his green eyes. Impossible.

  Impossible or not, he closed his eyes and slept, dreaming of Anna’s warm hand on his wing and on his knee.

  Anna went to work the next day, as usual. She completed her tasks with the same quiet efficiency she displayed from day to day. She ate her solitary lunch. She returned home. This was her routine, and one of which she had thoroughly tired. She went to the rooftop where she had created her bower, this time with pad and pen in hand to make new plans. Something had to change.

  Theophilus noted Anna’s demeanor when she sat down. No longer sad, no longer thinking of flinging herself from the roof: determined. She was writing things and striking through them almost as quickly. Eventually, she clicked her pen shut and sat it on the table next to the paper. She stood up and walked over to the wall, putting her hand on Theophilus’ wing.

  “I wish you could talk to me, Theophilus,” she sighed, and leaned her cheek against the stone.

  “I can.” Again, the gentle male voice echoed in her head.

  She stood upright, pushing her red hair behind her ears and shaking her head a little.

  She came around to look at the gargoyle from the side, and noted that his eyes were now green. How could that be? It was, in fact, impossible. She knew that. And yet ...

  Echoes of every fairy tale Anna had ever read ran through her memory and, before she could think twice about her actions, she stepped up to kiss Theophilus gently on his stony mouth.

  She stepped back and squeezed her eyes shut tight, thinking that she was foolish and yet wondering what would happen next.

  “Anna.”

  This time the voice was not inside her head but directly in front of her.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Theophilus?”

  He was beautiful. His eyes were the green of firelight seen through emeralds. His mouth was soft and almost feminine, yet his face was masculine and angelically handsome. He was arrestingly well-built, and very much naked -- ju
st as he had been sculpted so many years before.

  “This is impossible.” She shook her head, even as Theophilus stepped off of the pedestal to stand next to her. His arms wrapped around her and he kissed her forehead; he wrapped his leathery wings around her protectively.

  “My Anna,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

  Anna wrapped her arms around Theophilus’ waist and laid her head against his chest. Where she expected to hear a heartbeat, there was nothing.

  “This is not going to last, is it?” she whispered.

  Theophilus shook his head.

  “I don’t see how it can. I am not even sure how you made this happen.”

  “You are my only friend, Theophilus.” She looked up into eyes. “I am sure that I am dreaming now, and that I will wake up in the morning and nothing will be different. No matter how much I want it to be different. No matter how much I want my life to have a purpose again.”

  “Oh, my Anna.”

  Her name was a gentle sigh on his beautiful lips. She reached up to kiss him again, with more passion than she had ever kissed before.

  “My Theophilus.”

  She felt so safe and secure in his arms. She wished that the dream would never end. That she could be held in his arms forever. A single tear drifted down her cheek and touched grey stone.

  On the corner of the roof of a downtown apartment building, there is a particularly dramatic granite sculpture. A handsome man with bat-like wings stands, looking out over the city. In his arms is a young woman, her head leaning against his heart. Residents of the building say that their gargoyle is the most beautiful one in town, and that the sculptor had captured the radiance of a couple in love.

  Anna and Theophilus watch.