Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations

by Jessica Vivian

  I was focused on creating who I want to be.

  But while visiting with Jenn and discussing how I decide what to make for dinner she noted my enthusiasm:

  “THAT'S what you should write. You should write a cookbook. Food seems to be such a part of your story. You told me how you learned to cook from being a latch-key kid. Then you could afford the good stuff and you ate well. Then you were broke and had to figure out how to satisfy that desire for artful food on a single-mom budget. I never realized it until now!”

  Yeah.

  Food was a big part of my "story." Food was my thing for a long, long time. The sensation was so strange. It was like someone telling me who I was "before the accident."

  I feel so removed from myself sometimes. So much of me got lost in the fire.

  But instead of rummaging through the burning ashes of what was a beautiful house and finding a photo album or a treasured stuffed animal, I find personality traits and hobbies that I used to possess but forgot to grab when I ran from the flames.

  I used to love to cook. I really, really loved to cook. I used to own ramekins and I used them regularly. I used them to make coconut caramel crème brûlée until the blowtorch I used to caramelize the sugar was used as a lighter for lighting cigarettes and was left outside in the rain.

  Then I couldn't make the things I wanted to make anymore.

  I had a cupcake business before cupcakes became ubiquitous and trendy. But I had to stop the business because my ex wanted to change careers and someone had to go get a "real job."

  It's so distant.

  The real tragedy of this sort of amnesia is that I remember that cooking is something I used to enjoy. I remember cooing at the Williams-Sonoma store window. I remember crying when I unwrapped the immersion blender my sister bought me for Christmas. I remember the sublime ecstasy I experienced when I ate my first Vosges candy bar.

  But, like any good amnesic soap opera saga, none of that is part of who I am now. I don't love to cook anymore. It's actually a chore. I do it because I want to feed my kids well and develop their palates, but I'd always prefer not to. And it hurts and confuses me a little. I don't know how something that used to be such a huge part of my identity could turn to ash so quickly.

  And people who knew me before talk to me as if perfecting an authentic mole sauce is still something I am interested in doing.

  And it's just gone.

  Delivery

  You wanna know why I haven't dated much since I got divorced?

  Because I am receiving so much love, all the time, from my friends and family that I just don't need to.

  I've been feeling pissy today with all the college crap and I have two-thirds of a bottle of wine in my belly, but just now the doorbell rang.

  I opened it and there was a bag of clothes and a note that said

  "Jessica, you look cold. Quick put this on!"

  From Anonymous.

  Inside the bag were some cute tops and sweaters!

  Shopping for myself is at the bottom of my priority list so it's sort of always something I need. I always need clothes.

  And one of my lovely lady friends just blessed me with some stuff and it is literally impossible for me to feel bad.

  Man oh man, I've gathered some good ones over the years.

  Mask

  “Turtle frown” and “super pout” and “stank face”...

  Even though I felt like I'd taken great strides in finally allowing myself to be photographed, it was a blog reader who pointed out that I'm still in hiding.

  And so begins the next big dig...

  I was at one of many random weekly social home school engagements when I introduced myself to a woman who'd already recognized me from my blog.

  She and I and a few other moms chatted for about a half an hour before the one who recognized me interrupted me:

  “I hope you don't mind me saying this, but you are really pretty."

  I felt extremely flattered because just that morning I had a mirror war in which I chastised myself for getting so fat and for my favorite jeans not fitting and for my hair looking a mess. I'd literally contemplated shaving it off that morning. For real. She continued:

  "But, I gotta be honest. I hardly recognized you because you're always making faces in your pictures. Like frowning and stuff. It really doesn't do you justice."

  She's right. I always make some stank face in my pictures. “Stank face" is my "duck face" as it were.

  "Yeah," I answered, "but that's just me being silly."

  "Hmm,” she peered at me, “I think it's you hiding."

  WHO ARE YOU, WIZARD!?! STOP LOOKING INTO MY SOUL!!!

  It stung a bit but usually when something stings it's because there is a little barb of truth.

  What started as a compliment was now suddenly making me really uncomfortable. Not because she was prying or that small talk had suddenly turned into therapy. More because she was right and it's one of those dinosaurs I wasn't ready to excavate yet.

  I do have a bunch of issues with being perceived as "pretty." I used to be concerned with and occupied with being the most attractive girl and, really, it got me into a lot of trouble. That was when I was young and dumb. I didn't primp, per se, but I definitely wanted to be looked at.

  Now I don't like to be looked at. I like to be heard.

  When I was a pretty girl I was leered at and preyed upon. I got attention from cute boys but when I think about the creepy stares and lip smacks and cat calls from greasy old men, starting as early as eleven and twelve years old, my blood boils.

  Now I'm a loud girl and people listen to me. People don't say "Jessica's so hot" anymore. People say "Jessica's smart/funny/wise/childish/ridiculous/got some issues/is abrasive." I like all of those over "pretty" or "hot." "Pretty" and "hot" are not character traits. They are symmetry and balance resulting from a favorable round of genetic roulette. They really have nothing to do with me. Inside.

  When I was a pretty girl I thought I liked being a pretty girl. Really, I'd just become a sexual object and just sort of went with it. Attention was attention.

  Then I got plump and people started listening to me and noticing me and I realize I greatly prefer it. But now I don't know how to be visible without feeling unsafe.

  I just got punched in the face by my next big Issue. I am terrified of being considered pretty because it reminds me of being young and being taken advantage of and I don't want to give anyone an excuse not to listen to me ever again.

  There was an episode of Doctor Who where there was a hotel and in each room was the occupants' biggest fear. Given the stomach knots, heart palpitations and juicy eyeballs I'm experiencing while trying to write this, I'd be willing to bet that inside my room would be me at 130 pounds wearing a cute outfit and with my hair done.

  I know, intellectually, that as a full-grown adult with boundaries and well-honed social skills I could keep myself physically and emotionally safe. But being attractive is so deeply hardwired to be associated with "danger" "trouble" and "not being taken seriously" that I have a hard time feeling favorably toward the possibility. Additionally, it feels like there is an either/or choice.

  I know it isn't true. But among ladies it feels like you can't be pretty and smart and approachable. It feels like you always have to choose two. You can be pretty and smart, but you'll be intimidating and alienate people. You can be smart and approachable, but probably because you're not too pretty. Or you can be pretty and approachable because other people think they're smarter than you.

  I know, intellectually, this isn't true. I can name lots of women who are smart, pretty and approachable. But something deep in me sort of thinks that won't apply to me.

  I feel like I've been performing. I've been zany and goofy and a loose cannon and brash and tell-it-like-it-is as a technique for disarming people. All of that is a part of me but I feel like I crank it up when I meet new people so they know I'm down-to-Earth
right away.

  I hide behind this blog because I can just say what I want to say and say what's real and true without having to make you comfortable first. I live online to reveal the real me with all the thoughts and feelings and flaws and grump. I can't count how many female friends said to me, back in the pretty days, "You know, when I first met you I thought you'd be stuck up because you're pretty but you're actually really cool."

  Uh....

  Well, shit.

  So I act like a bumbling fart of a person to just get the disarming part over and done with so we can get to being friends. I exaggerate my ogre-ness in order to cut straight to getting real. How's that for backwards?

  But back then, when I was "pretty" I did it by being vulgar and brash. Now I do it by being chubby and having Beetlejuice hair. I keep weight on because chubby black women are associated with warmth and wisdom. I keep it on because it keeps men away. I keep it on because it helps me avoid thinking about all of this.

  It's baffling, when I step outside myself, how something so innocuous and out of my control creates so much shame and guilt and fear.

  I feel shame because I feel like attention for being pretty is attention I don't deserve. I didn't do anything. It's not an accomplishment.

  I feel guilt because I feel like I should embrace and enjoy it and make the most of it. Like I won't be 31 forever and I'm a young looking 31. I should probably appreciate it more.

  I feel fear most of all, though. Attention from men straight up paralyzes me. I am afraid of men. Genuinely. And as long as I am fat and nappy-haired they pretty much leave me alone and I don't have to deal with them.

  Some of the most painful things I've experienced have been a direct result of my being attractive and appealing, and not having the words or framework to create a clear boundary. Almost all the painful things, actually.

  I'm fighting a hard-wired, visceral, PTSD-like fear. And it's real. I feel it in my body. My throat closes and my chest feels tight. It's not some random tape I've just gotten used to believing. It's a real, live demon. My means of defense - aside from being fat and fuzzy - has been kind of acting like a "bro" when I meet guys.

  Typically, they only see that side of me. The bawdy nerd in shlumpy baggy clothes. I am a bawdy nerd. But I'm also a total softie romantic and really malleable and snuggly and sweet and bubbly.

  I wouldn't dare let any of them know that. I'm way too scared and, based on results, I have no reason not to be.

  I know that at some point my desire to feel love will have to overcome my fear, and I hate that dealing with this shit is probably the first step to getting there.

  Ugh...

  I was high on dealing with my issues for a while and took a big break and felt like "Welp I'm all done making myself a better person" and meanwhile My Personal Vulnerability Issues were tapping me on the shoulder and saying *ahem* "I'll just be sitting over here when you're ready."

  Well, I'm not ready, but I think the random woman I met is serving as a catalyst from the Universe. So here this shit goes.

  Selfies

  I've been taking a lot of selfies lately to get myself used to my face and to see what my face does when I'm not distorting it.

  It's like exposure therapy.

  I know it's commonly perceived as being egotistical, but I kind of need it right now so I can just get comfortable with how I look.

  I'm not thin anymore. I look the way I look. And it's okay.

  Santa – December 2013

  These struggles and my writing have connected me with brilliant bold women across the country. And right now, just for shiggles, we are all playing Santa.

  This isn't a soul-opening piece. This is just about friendship and commonality and community.

  I've been friends, both virtual and in-person, with a group of women from around the world. Some are married, some are single, some are single moms. But all are giving, open-minded, honest, respectful and emotionally mature and willing to grow. They have become one of the only soft places I have to land.

  Usually we just gather online to vent about ex-husbands, children, boyfriends or talk movies or feminism or share pics of hot men. But we decided to do something amazing. We are playing Secret Santa.

  So this year while some of us are painting on smiles for our children, or some of us are bullied by in-laws, or some of us are painfully single we have something to look forward to - some small connective love token from a soul sister miles away.

  Some of us have never even met but we are sending boxes of love across hundreds or thousands of miles for each other.

  I got my secret Santa assignment and can't wait to find or make a special gift for her.

  This weekend was particularly rough mentally for me so to have solace in a group of women who aren't using me as their token wise black woman, who challenge me and help me grow means more than the world to me.

  I spent the morning having stress-related chest pains and, with my Santa assignment, get to end my day with a smiling heart.

  Candyman

  You came by and I made you something sweet. That does not mean I’m a candyman.

  Something strange happened recently as a result of my blog and I’m going to try my best to express how it makes me feel.

  So in recent weeks a lot lot LOT of people have called me for advice or support. Most of these people only know me through virtual means through the blog or through Facebook. One woman in particular came to me for some advice about her life and I gave it to her. She didn’t like it and proceeded to call me a fraud for my “love and light” image that she felt was apparently false.

  Mmmk, let’s just get something straight while we’re all here.

  I have always written for me. My marriage, my divorce, my kids and I were on fire. I had nowhere to put my feelings so I started a blog and put my them into the ether so that they were out of my body. I chose a public forum because a friend of mine had a blog after her divorce and reading about her experiences made me feel less alone. That is the most I hoped for my blog.

  What I did not intend was to become is a life coach.

  I feel like some people find some blog posts particularly wise and then they say “oh wow, Jessica Vivian is a wise woman and she’s brown and that feels like a hug. I will seek her out any time I need strength and comfort”

  But I’m just a person with my own wagon of nonsense to pull. Jenn helped me work it out in metaphor and because I love metaphors I’ll share it now:

  So let’s say I’m just a little chef in a meat pie shop making delicious meat pies every day. Then one day a customer comes in while I just happen to be making myself some candy because I’ve had a crap day and I need some.

  I decide to share some of the candy with the customer and the customer leaves and, despite having walked into a meat pie shop, assumes I’m a candyman.

  This person goes and tells all her friends how great the candy shop is and just dreams about how great the candy is. As far as the customer is concerned I am Willy fucking Wonka.

  So the customer comes back with money in hand to buy some candy.

  But I don’t have any because I’m a chef who makes meat pies. The meat pies are great. But the customer is angry at me for not selling her some candy.

  That is what I’ve been dealing with. People who choose to elevate me to Sensei levels who are angry with me when I’m not the ever-available “Mother Earth of Wisdom” that they needed. Or I’m too contradictory and it annoys them. A sad side product of being open-minded enough to be willing to change your opinion when new evidence presents itself is that you always look wishy-washy. My words are scanned and I am appointed to positions and put into boxes without my consent by people I do not know.

  On their end, through reading all my thoughts, they feel a closeness that I don’t get to feel on my end. But they forget that.

  So some near-stranger will want me, their personal Jiminy Cricket, to coach them through the
ir relationship problems and when I am not as funny or warm or maternal or wise or as they expected they get angry.

  Angry.

  And go rant on their Facebook statuses about how mean I am.

  Je ne comprends pas.

  But there is a lot about humans I “ne comprends pas” so I’ll just keep making my meat pies because they are savory and delicious and fulfilling to me and I’ll even keep sharing my candy. And the next time some angry woman gets my job confused I will shove a meat pie into her entitled face.

  The Groom

  This is a cautionary tale about a predator, but not the kind of predator you think.

  As a single mom, I am well-versed in the methodology of sexual predators. I am hyper-aware of the act of grooming.

  For those who don’t have children, grooming is the act of taking specific action to establish closeness, trust and emotional connection with someone to make it easier to abuse that person. But I generally thought, as I think many women do, that grooming was an act that was reserved for sexual predators only.

  I never, ever believed or was trained to believe that it was possible to be groomed by a friend and yet, that is exactly what me and about forty other women recently experienced.

  I have written before about my Facebook group.

  Originally, I was in a Facebook group for single parents.

  We lamented our single-ness but, more importantly, we saved each other’s asses.

  There was one member, however, who caused the hairs on everyone’s neck to stand up and whose histrionic episodes caused the group to implode.

  I refused to let that stop me from giving love.

  After struggling so much in the beginning of my single parent journey I vowed to myself that NO woman or man connected to me, who is a single parent, would struggle so needlessly. I would find a way to soften the blow.