“Oh, Thair,” she said as if someone had died.
“Mama,” Thair replied, hunched down, squashed between the wall and the toilet. “Mama, I wanted to—”
Before Thair could say anymore, her mom pulled her shoulders back, wiped her tears away, equalized her voice, and said, “Thair, I think you and your friend need to leave.”
“Mama, please, can I—”
“Thair, I will not ask you again. I want you and … that woman … to leave now.”
With that she got up and pushed against her daughter to get out of the tight quarters. Turning on the TV in her bedroom, she propped herself up with a couple of pillows and stared at the screen.
Thair stood at the foot of her mother’s gigantic bed.
Looking at her daughter with wet eyes, she screamed much too loudly, “Thair! Please leave! Take that woman now and leave!”
Thair’s eyes were glued on her mother, and for the first time in her life, she could not speak. No words formed in her mouth. Judge Judy blared from the TV, the volume on full blast. Thair continued to stare at her mother as her heart broke into a million pieces and fell onto the parquet floor.
But Phaedra had escaped into the TV. Even though the tears continued to fall down her cheeks, her mother’s face was so angry, so ugly.
“Mama …” one last attempt from Thair was swiftly silenced with a look that Thair had never seen before. Or maybe she had seen it before. It was the same look she had seen on Phaedra’s face the night she finally told Thair’s father to leave, the night he came home a little drunk, smelling of women’s juices. It was a look that she had never forgotten. Eyes like Othello’s when he believed his wife to be unfaithful. Eyes that were filled with so much disappointment and anger. It was the look of hate. And now this look was directed to her.
Thair lost her balance, feeling so small, so insignificant. The woman who spoke to Thair was a stranger, not the mother who had loved her unconditionally and nurtured her for the last thirty-four years of her life. Suddenly, there were no more tears, just Lyssa, the Goddess of Rage, sat on the bed, a being so unearthly and foreign. “Leave! I will not tell you again. LEAVE!”
Weakly moving away, she walked out of her mother’s bedroom and shut the door lightly as if she were a teenager in trouble. She had done something so bad, so wrong, and her mother was utterly disappointed. There was nothing on this earth that hurt Thair more than disappointing her mother. But this time, she wasn’t a teenager, and god damn it, she hadn’t done anything wrong! She was looking for love, and she had found it in the most unlikely place, but she found it. How could her mother not relate? She had forsaken her family and moved to the US to follow her dreams. Why could she not understand her daughter, even just a little bit? Given her just a little bit of acceptance?
Jessica had already changed and gathered their belongings and was waiting in the living room.
“Are you okay?”
Thair held on to Jessica and began sobbing uncontrollably. She knew her mother could hear her, but she didn’t care. In fact, she wanted her to hear. Why was she consciously hurting her daughter this way?
23
Encinitas, California
Late April, 2004
“Jess, I would really like to go to Greece this summer. What do you think? Want to go?”
Jessica doesn’t answer, just lies beside me in bed, still half asleep.
“Hmmmm … I don’t know.”
“I was just thinking it would be great for the two of us to get away, and you would love the Greek islands.”
Jessica rolls over, her expression suddenly serious. “Thair, money is kind of tight, and you know I’m saving for fertility treatments.”
Shit. The baby talk again. I have fallen in love with Jessica. She is a fantastic partner, and we have a lot in common, but there is also one monumental issue that we do not see eye to eye on that causes continuous friction. Children. She talks about her plans to have one, and I tell her that it’s not what I want. But neither of us leaves. Most days we are happy and in love, living in a fantasy world where one of us will change our minds; the problem is, it’s a year later and neither is relenting.
I didn’t think we would be having this conversation today, but our time spent together is getting heavier and heavier; Eris, the Goddess of Discord, is making her head apparent in our almost-perfect relationship. Maybe I should just say: “Okay, fine. I’ll have a baby with you.” But I just can’t say those words. How can I plan to co-parent when it’s one of the things I know, viscerally, I do not want?
If Narcissus had had a baby, would he have been less enamored with himself and found that living for another’s happiness is more important—possibly, more fulfilling? I don’t want to lose Jess, but as much as I try to talk myself into conceding, my gut tells me one should not bring children into this world if one is not one hundred percent ready to commit to a lifetime of loving unconditionally. And I do know it to be unconditional. Thair, what about when you are old? You don’t want to be alone. I think that’s a lousy reason to have a child. When children grow up, in my mind, the last thing they need or desire is an aging parent. I know I certainly love my mother with all my heart, but I will never love her with the same love she embraces (and oftentimes suffocates) me with. Still, is there any part of me that desires an itty-bitty, innocent baby in my arms to love unconditionally?
No.
I get up, my nude body a bit tan from the early San Diego sun, grab my silky robe, then turn around as I see Jessica languidly stretched on my bed. She has already fallen asleep again. She looks so peaceful. Tears fill my heart and I think: instead of a wonderful romantic summer in Greece, it has come to this.
Disheartened, I make a cup of coffee and go into the office and turn on my computer and get online, sitting there impatiently as it boots up. I log onto Yahoo and see an email from Bertha A. Woodson. Immediately, my mind accepts the name as a previous student, but I can’t picture a face. My mental Rolodex of students’ names begins flipping in my mind’s eye; then it screeches to a halt. Of course! It’s been years, and her email has her official name, not “Angela” as I know her. I haven’t spoken to her since our class ended about three years ago. I usually delete my mind’s file of students’ names after the semester is over, not for any malicious reason, but so that my aging brain has room to learn another one hundred plus names. It’s the same story every semester, about one hundred and twenty new students all with new interesting names to learn. But Angela. How could I ever forget her name? She gave me the words that became my mantra for loving.
I wonder what she would think if she could see me now. I open the email and read:
Dear Thair,
I have thought about you over the years and have wanted to write. I am in the process of moving and have been throwing away all sorts of papers, and I came across a file with all the essays from our class. I had to laugh when I saw all your markings. I remember how angry I was when I got back my first essay and you gave me a B+. I had poured out my heart and soul into that personal essay! Ha! And a B+! I have to laugh about this now because I just reread it and it’s awful! Anyway, I am really excited to tell you that I accomplished my goal and got my Bachelor’s in English from UCSD! And, there’s more! Crazy as it sounds, I am going right back to school (can you imagine, at my age!). Anyway, I just got accepted, including a very generous fellowship, to Columbia University!!!!! I will pursue a degree in Women’s and Gender Studies. (I guess being a black lesbian woman has finally paid off!) Obviously, I am SO excited.
But with good always comes bad, I guess, that’s been the story of my life. My partner of ten years doesn’t want me to go. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I will only be gone for a few years and planned to travel home frequently, but she doesn’t understand. I think it’s more than the distance. She doesn’t want me to change.
I am not writing to unload all my personal issues on you. I actually wrote to see if you have time to have a quick lunch, just to s
ay good-bye because, honestly, I don’t know if I will come back to San Diego. At least, not for a long while. Let me know if you have time. I could meet you at one of the campuses you teach at if that makes it easier.
Warm regards,
Angela
I am so excited to see Angela’s email that I respond immediately, setting up a time to meet. I sit quietly for a while thinking about this incredible woman and how she had, probably unknowingly, changed my life. I became more open to love, more open to life in general, after our conversation. She was such a talented writer, her essays always so articulate, her words so powerful. I laugh out loud thinking about her first essay and her complaint! I thought she had always got straight As from me. A fellowship from Columbia. Wow. I can’t wait to hear all about it. Even though she is older than me, I feel like a proud parent. I jump to my feet and go into the bedroom because I want to share the exciting news.
Jessica is still sleeping, deep asleep. Deep, deep asleep. I stand above her a minute or so, then go into the kitchen to make some breakfast. I open the fridge, grab a few eggs, some washed spinach, and some feta cheese to make an omelet. I look in the fridge’s drawer for a tomato and find one stuck in the corner behind the cucumber and apples. I take it out, but it is reddish-purple, mushy, and has white fungus growing on its side. I step on the pedal of the garbage can and dump the tomato in the trash. I hear a loud “thump” when it hits the bottom.
I am sitting in Thai’s Tasty Cuisine, one of my favorite restaurants in Hillcrest. I found a cozy table outside and am looking over the menu, Pad Thai for sure and maybe a cucumber salad. After deciding on lunch, and since I arrived early, I start reading the book I brought.
I had gone to Borders yesterday to buy the assigned novel for my book club, a bestseller by Sebold, but instead stumbled on her memoir called Lucky. From the first few pages, I was captivated: a powerfully sad, but important story. I devoured the first half last night and now have it on my “All Women in America Should Read This Book” list. It’s a good warning for young women regarding safety. Mostly, it reaffirms my belief that women (of all ages!) should always move in pairs and not be alone—especially in dark, lonesome, or secluded places—those places including fine university campuses.
While reading it, I find myself becoming irritated with the author’s father and his reaction to her rape. I don’t want to be grumpy when Angela arrives because of what I’m reading, and literature tends to affect my mood, so I stop and instead just watch the people walk by. I see two, round, jolly-looking fellows holding hands, then two young girls who are dressed in a Gothic style with eye, ear, and nose piercings. I enjoy seeing a variety of people, pleased that no one has a problem with anyone or anything that looks just a bit out of the norm. This is also probably the one area in San Diego where people who are not straight can be totally free. Even people who are expressive in their choice of style seem to be comfy here. Maybe there are other areas in San Diego that appreciate diversity, but I have yet to encounter them; here, though, there is such freedom in the air. And it makes me almost blissful.
Right then Angela walks up. I am a bit taken aback by her size, so painfully thin. She looks stressed with a long, drawn face, thin arms, boney chest, not the powerful Amazon-looking woman I remember. She sees me immediately, and right after a big “Hello!” and a warm hug, she begins to excuse the way she looks since I am sure she read my expression. I am genuinely worried by her frailness.
“I think with the move, the excitement … the breakup, the overall stress, I have lost a bit of weight, but I can tell you one thing: I am hungry! I could eat a horse today!” We both laugh.
Right away the ambiance is comfortable; though never a good friend, she has occupied a place in my heart that can’t be replaced. She gave me words that I now live by, difficult as they may be at times. We spend the first hour just catching up about school, where she’s going, what she will be studying, how she feels about giving up her nursing job. We touch briefly on her breakup, but I can see it’s still a sensitive subject, and I don’t want to probe, so the conversation turns to me. I tell her about Jessica and she is not surprised to hear that I have been in a lesbian relationship for more than a year. I also tell her about that dreadful day when Jess and I went to visit my mother.
“Wow. That must have been really tough. I guess I went through something similar with my family, but because they were all the way on the other side of the country, I never felt their wrath acutely. So, what happened after you left that day?”
“Well, I called my mother the next day and the answering machine got it. I was still really angry, but I wanted to talk. I called for three consecutive days, but no answer. Finally, I rung up her neighbor, Greta, because I was nervous that something may have happened to her. I guess I just have never seen her so angry … so cold.”
“When did you finally talk to her?”
“Greta told me she hadn’t seen my mom in a few days, so she would call her and go over if necessary. But she answered Greta’s call immediately. Greta told her that I had been trying to get a hold of her and asked if everything was okay. My mother told Greta point blank that we were having problems and she did not want to talk to me.” The sarcasm in my voice was the way I imagined my mother saying it. Greta had relayed the message as sweetly as she could, all the while, I am sure, feeling quite awkward.
Angela sits there quietly, obvious concern coming from her as she grips my hand as if to say, “I’m sorry.” She knew how close my mother and I were. My voice still trembles when I talk about what happened that day.
“Finally, I knew if I wanted to see her, I would have to drive to her home. I waited a few weeks until I cooled down too, then drove to Rancho Fierno to confront her.” I pause then continue, “Gosh, Angela, I can’t believe how retelling this still hurts so much. I have been through two painful breakups, but this was so much worse. It was awful. Not talking to my mother for weeks was unimaginable. I would wake up every morning, and in the pit of my stomach, it would feel like someone had died. I remember those cruel words she said to me so clearly. It was so unlike her. I guess I was stubborn and thought if I waited long enough, she would call me and apologize. Was I ever wrong.”
“I’m sorry to hear this, Thair.”
“So, I finally went to see her, and when she answered the door, tears instantly sprung into both our eyes. I asked her if I could come in, and she opened the door, but very hesitantly. Then I saw her look over my shoulder, as if I would have brought Jessica with me! I was incensed, and that promptly fired her up, too. She began screaming at me, telling me I was her only child, that I ruined everything and that she will never be a grandmother!”
Then I told Angela how she said that she would never see me walk down the aisle in a stupid white dress on the arm of a presentable man. As I recount this part of the story, I can feel the blood boiling in my face: “She told me what I was doing with that woman was not normal, and I needed to grow up! I was so pissed.” I continue, almost forgetting that we are in a public place, my voice getting a bit too loud, “What right had she to tell me how to live my life? And all her complaints had nothing to do with the quality of my life; they were all about her! What she wanted. Not what I wanted or what was good for me.” Finally, I take it down an octave. “It was a disaster. She screamed, and I screamed, and then finally after an hour or so, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left, tires screeching behind me.”
“Thair, how awful. So, have you talked to her since that day?”
“Well, we didn’t speak for about three months after that, each too stubborn, hurt, and angry to call the other. It was terrible. Every day I woke with a growing sinkhole in my stomach. I had never gone so long without seeing or speaking to my mother. It also made me question unconditional love. My whole universe was upside down. If my mother didn’t love and accept me, then what did I have in this world? During that time, ironically enough, Jessica and I became closer … she’s such a supportive and loving woman.” I pause
for a moment because she is the most compatible partner I have ever had. Yet. But. Those damn coordinating conjunctions! Pushing those words away, I continue, “Finally, after months of no communication, my mother broke down and called me, asking me to come over for lunch. She was chilly on the phone, very matter-of-fact, seemingly impervious to my pain. I initially declined, but then, when her voice softened, and she asked me again, I accepted.”
“It must have been good to see her after all that time?” Angela asks rather than states.
“Yeah, though I still felt hurt, I really needed to see her, but I was shocked when she opened the door. Her hair was all grey; I guess she hadn’t dyed it for months. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her looking so old. Her face was pale, her eyes looked abnormally large, and her body so tiny. When I saw her like that, I couldn’t help but worry about the cancer again, so all my anger instantly subsided as I stood there.”
“Was she okay?”
“Thank God it wasn’t the cancer. She told me she had lost weight because of our situation. We talked for hours, much more calmly than the first time, but every sentence was cautious. At one point, she told me that she didn’t understand how I could be a ‘ho-mo-sex-u-al’… it was almost ridiculous how she said the word, as if it were so disgusting, she had to separate it into five syllables just to get it out.”
“Did you tell her you were really … bisexual?”
“No, I didn’t respond. For me, at that moment, it was easier to let her believe that I’m gay than tell her I am some deviant human who does not care about gender.” When I say that, I picture myself in some sort of futuristic space suit holding the hand of a being that has both a penis and a vagina—and two heads! I almost want to chuckle, but the image is a bit disturbing even to me.
The Greek Persuasion Page 18
