These are, really, just the traits it takes to be a good human. There is nothing about this list that reads “penis necessary.”
And there were plenty of role models among our family and friends who embodied these traits.
By me repeatedly “making sure” Jack knew there was a male role model coming, not only was I assigning a gender to his activities – his two sisters were happy to build bows and arrows with him, why weren't they enough – but I was also telling him he was different and things were going to be harder for just him...not the girls...just him.
I'm saying, “Since this will be harder for you, I'll bring in reinforcements.”
That is unfair.
It is well-intended and it is subversively damaging.
I was making him needy and self-pitying. I was creating a need that may or may not have been there.
I decided, as an experiment, to back the hell off. And made sure I pointed out honorable traits in all of our friends and family, to him and his sisters, without attributing them to gender just to see what would happen.
And slowly but surely, he grew into his little Self. He started speaking up for himself more and apologizing less. He expresses himself clearly and openly. He stands up to the shit-head little neighborhood boys when he needs to and helps his little sister when he needs her. He doesn't do this because it's what “men” do. He does it because it's what people should do. Period.
I love parenting hacks, I tell ya.
And as an aside, this seems to work well with my girls, too. To quote Jaya, the oldest:
"I hate stupid tween memes with kids whining about their parents being divorced and having no male role model. I have tons! Nikola Tesla, Peeta, Stephen Hawking, The Doctor from Doctor Who, Sherlock, G-Dragon, Beast, Spiderman, Jack Skellington, Tony Stark, Michio Kaku, Neil deGrasse Tyson. Quit being victims, you bunch of punks. You embarrass me."
And speaking of kids...
My kids are really good at sensing when it's time to be a unit.
When I first first became a single mom, I explained to everyone that our little family was even more like a community.
They had jobs now and in order to afford the perks of our community, they had to contribute to make things go smoothly.
I am the Mayor. And the mayor doesn't pick up trash and heal sick people and work the cash register at the grocery store in her town. That's what the people in the community do. The mayor makes sure they have a good life for all that hard work and makes all the big hard decisions.
So anyway, the house is wrecked and I have a paper to write. I ran all over town today and I am tired. I took a short nap and just got up. I can hear all kinds of hustle-bustle in the living room. I thought they'd be asleep by now.
Instead all three kids are busying themselves with cleaning the house. They are just chatting away about whatever kids chat about, and unloading the dishwasher, and picking up the living room, and cleaning the bathroom.
They just knew the community wasn't going to function well without the house being clean so they just got to it. I didn't have to ask them. They didn't feel the need to inform me so they could get credit and praise. They just knew "okay, mom's occupied with important grownup stuff so let's do this so she has less to do."
I'm not the kind of humble person to say "I don't usually like to brag about my kids...." because I do like to brag about my kids. They've been through some upheavals, and instabilities, and been in some hostile environments, and less-than-functional environments, and they're really some relatively well-adjusted and cool little mofos.
And I don't have any tangible accomplishments except for them so I'm just gonna say it:
That's some damn fine parenting right there.
The Bridge – October 2013
I have spent the better part of the last year trying to build a community of single parents to act as a support group to each other. Initially, my heart and home was open to any and all.
If you were struggling, I'd find food and clothing and childcare and shelter and furniture for you. But I have since learned that nothing is that easy. I've had to turn my back and cover my ears a little.
If you need to join the tribe, you gotta cross the bridge.
I was high as hell on the movement I'd become a part of. Thanks to Facebook, single moms across the nation were connecting. Like really connecting and supporting each other. It had become my dream and life's mission to create a non-profit organization that connected single parents for co-housing, collection of goods, saving's circles, childcare share, and offer classes on car care, budgeting, parenting strategies.
I was going to make sure that single parents could parent alone with dignity, without help from the government and without the condescending pity or resentful vitriol that so many of us deal with. I've mentioned it before but we were really doing some shit. Like big shit. Moms were moving in together, shipping stuff across the country and even outside of the country. Some serious community magic was happening.
But...
That single mom I helped a few months ago?
I was friends with her on Facebook and, although she didn't go back to her ex, it was clear her priorities were skewed. It seemed she was more interested in having fun and reclaiming her lost youth than on getting her life together.
That was a little disappointing. I'm still glad we helped her, because she was on fire. But I'd be lying if I said I was satisfied with her progress.
That wasn't the only disappointment, either.
I also learned that it doesn't matter how idealistic or crunchy or well-intended a group of single parents are, people are still people.
I was a member of two online groups for single parent support. Both had aspirations of high connectedness. Both touted a spirit and environment of non-judgment. However, at the same time as if the drama gods were working overtime, both groups imploded and people revealed themselves.
My local group was taken down by good intentions, hypersensitivity, and emotional anaphylaxis - initiated by two women who are not even single parents and both of them are my two closest friends.
The national group may still be operational but some drama unfolded over women judging each other for dating or screwing or something. I don't really know and didn't care. The group had ceased to serve me. I no longer felt like I could relate. My ex is not in my life causing courtroom drama. My children are far out of diapers.
Eventually a group of women, having confused me with another woman, created an offshoot group of which I became the topic of judgment and gossip. Bless their hearts.
All the glitter was gone. The truth revealed.
A crunchy group of women is still a group of women. And for some reason, no matter how connected to our higher selves we want to believe we are, we still revert to middle-school politics in groups.
No matter how flat you make your pancake, it's still got two sides. I think this is something Dr. Phil says but it's a good analogy and it applies.
I love all my friends deeply.
But when trading sob stories, it's best to keep in mind that there are stories not being told and stories not being heard. There are involved parties who are not present. No matter how much you think you know someone, you don't know them. You just don't. And that's when things get really hairy and really complicated. There is a shift in character and values when people are under extreme distress. And for some people, it feels like deception.
I don't think it's deception so much. I don't feel like anyone lied to me to get something out of me. I don't feel like anyone has purposely withheld information from me. But I do feel that people can't be expected to make rational decisions while the Universe is sticking needles under their fingernails.
When helping desperate people you accept a certain amount of risk. You accept that this person may turn on you - because they are desperate. Or they may use and use and use and never give back - because they are desperate. Or you may give and gi
ve and give and they will never help themselves - because they are desperate.
They are not conniving or shifty or sly. They are hurt people under stress and therefore cannot really be trusted to treat your love with the precious gentleness you think it deserves.
Also, eventually, everyone needs to cross the bridge.
I used to think my single moms and I were like survivors of a plane crash that landed in the ocean.
We hang desperately onto any piece of debris, with our babies clinging to our backs, gasping for air and watching out for sharks and praying someone comes to get us soon. But then, two of us decide to hang onto each other so we can take turns resting and neither sinks into the water. A third offers her makeshift bail bucket. A fourth joins and offers to paddle. And by pooling our resources and strengths we survive. But that's only half of it.
By working together we reach land. We walk together through the treacherous jungle evading wild animals and flesh eating bugs. We come to a deep canyon, a rickety bridge the only way across. On the other side of the gorge is a thriving village. They yell to us that there is plenty of food and plenty of shelter. If we make it across we will thrive. We just have to cross the bridge.
So some of us do.
We throw our kids on our back, adding weight and making the task even more dangerous. It's dangerous. It's unsteady. We tremble. We sweat. We cry. One wrong move and we fall to our death, taking our children with us. But we focus on the encouraging voices ahead and we will our limbs to move us despite our fear - leaving the untamed wild behind us. And having crossed we embrace each other and celebrate. We take our places at the fire. We warm ourselves and our children. We fill our bellies.
And sitting by the fire, we notice that our numbers are smaller. Not everyone made it across. We have left some behind.
They are at the gorge, paralyzed with fear.
They pray that Tarzan will vine-swing in to rescue them.
Or
They are angry that we left them behind, and shout curses at us.
Or
They scream for help and want us to come back over and aid them across.
But we can't. And it's not because we don't want to. But we've already done it and we can't risk our lives for them. They have to do this alone.
We're on the safe side with open arms and a hut and some coconut water and a seat by the fire waiting patiently, hollering encouragement, or angrily barking instructions on how to safely cross.
And sometimes we have to watch as the tigers consume them before they get the courage to move, or we watch them succumb to famine, or we watch them hesitate a little too long causing the bridge to give, allowing them and their children to tumble and perish.
And we feel helpless but there is nothing we can do.
Some days I wish I could grow wings and grab all these women and carry them to safety.
But I don't have wings and I've already dragged them panicked and gasping from the water to the shore.
And now it's time for my children and me to learn how to forage and build fires and huts and fish and hunt so we can pull our own weight in the new village.
And we try our best to be grateful for our survival and push down the nightmares of those we lost on the bridge.
Fuck Up
I fucked up.
I went back to college at the top of Fall.
I did very, very poorly in college the first time around, not because the work was difficult, but because I had way too much freedom. I didn't go to class ever, and I didn't withdraw either, so my GPA is the absolute worst.
Thankfully, I got accepted to a local community college. I'd heard it was a terrible school but I didn't really care. I just need some credentials. I know I'm smart. I know I work hard. But no employer really has any reason to believe that if I don't have some kind of paper to back it up.
I realized sometime this summer, quite suddenly, that I didn't want to live in Mobile forever.
I don't want to live in America forever, actually.
I always wanted to travel; so I decided I needed to find a way to get a degree, and then I'd have a better chance of landing a job abroad. I know I have a long way to go with my terrible GPA but slow progress is still progress.
Well...
When I went to register I found that a schedule had already been produced for me. The class times were terrible, but my grandmother offered to watch the kids so it was okay. As long as I was in.
My first class was at 8 am and on the first day the professor didn't show up until 9:30.
See, I'm under the impression that if I'm paying for something then I'm getting something in return. I don't appreciate paying someone to teach me and driving across town for some idiot to la-dee-da in to class an hour and a half late.
So...
I told him as much.
I'm not a child. I'm not a 15-year-old; this is not high school.
This is college. I'm paying out-of-pocket because I don't quality for any financial aid. I am paying the school for him to teach me. That is his job.
Well, we eventually worked through that together, and I did well in his class. However, the kids were miserable at my grandma's house.
I told them to suck it up. Means to an end and all that...
My other class was a drafting class with a super mellow teacher. He was very nice but unfortunately the school hadn't ordered the proper textbooks. Because of the updates in the software we were supposed to learn, the updated textbooks were absolutely essential. Because of a miscommunication between the staff and the school, there were no old textbooks available for us to use. So he did his best teaching us, on a whiteboard, how to use a computer drafting program.
Most days, defeated, he sent us home early.
While he was lovely, as a person and as a teacher, I was constantly aware of the time and gas wasted driving across town only to discover, day after day, that I wasn't going to learn anything.
My third class....
That one was in the evening and I paid CBL's oldest to come watch the kids. So if I'm paying for a sitter and gas and for the class itself the last thing I want to hear on the first day is:
“Okay y'all, listen up. I don' wanna be here an' I know y'all don' neither. E'rybody gon' git an A up in dis class because I hate gradin' papers. All the tes' gon' be open book. Okay? Good.”
Everyone else nodded with excitement that they got a “good” teacher because apparently “good” means lazy as fuck and insulting to my time.
Suck it up, Jess. Means to an end.
So the first day started with her reading straight from the text. Typical classroom stuff. Then, for some reason, she got on the subject of chromosomes and she said – for real – that if someone has a Y- chromosome they are a man, and if a woman has two Y chromosomes then she is a lesbian. If a man has three X chromosomes then he is gay.
She said this.
Honestly.
Like, she wasn't being funny or ironic.
And all these twits in class start laughing.
Then she tells a story about her “gay ackin'” nephew and how her sister hugs him too much and it's making him a sissy.
It's as this point that I realize this school lives down to its reputation.
Then she makes us watch this psychotic video of this ex-football player turned preacher barking aggressively about how Beyoncé is famous because she doesn't eat or sleep. She works hard toward her goals and that people are too lazy.
We were asked to give our opinion on what the preacher said. I said that while I understand that he is trying to motivate people, it's unhealthy to encourage Americans to ignore their health and well-being. Additionally, success does not look the same to everyone. My version of success is not necessarily monetary and it's a good thing everyone is different.
She told me I missed the point.
Maybe so.
I sent her an email directly that evening telling her that I was
very uncomfortable with her discussion about her nephew, and her many references to government checks and food stamps as I was unsure what they had to do with psychology.
She apologized for my being offended and said she was just trying to lighten the mood.
I said okay.
After that day, however, everyone got the notes she'd emailed the night before, but me.
I was starting to think I'd made a huge mistake.
I called the Counselor to see if I could change majors and, by extension, all my classes. She said it was too late but after talking to me on the phone decided I was worth some extra effort and string-pulling. It was, apparently, merely hours from the end of the last day to withdraw and get your money back. She called this and that office, touted my AP English and ACT score. She was shocked at how things had gone so far and “didn't wanna lose this one.” But alas, her efforts were to no avail.
I could continue to pay for gas and not learn anything. Even if I changed majors, two of the three classes would not apply. Or I could withdraw and at least get my time back.
I went to the office and withdrew. I did not get my money back. I just fucked it all up. Just fucked over here and fucked over there.
Maybe I should have stayed? I don't know.
I'm applying to different schools now and I'll try again for next semester however this time I think I'll do online classes only. I don't do well in a classroom environment...obviously.
Reboot.
Again.
Amnesia
Even now, several years beyond my divorce, I get hints from people I love about who I was before all of it happened. Recovering from a dysfunctional relationship is like recovering from amnesia.
Typically, while digging out of the bad marriage mud pit, I wasn't particularly concerned with remembering who I am.
Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations Page 18
