Seismic Shifts

I just pulled in the driveway after a full day at school.
I am in the middle of my fourth semester at Nassau Community College (NCC), and, as it should, after a year and a half, the workload has increased exponentially. I am loving the experience, still excited about learning new subjects and even more thrilled that my 58-year-old brain is retaining a fair amount of the material.

Such a time! My classes have been wildly varied. English 101 mixed with Logic and Set Theory. Stir in Journalism with The Bible As Literature, Women's Studies (honors), Human Sexuality (uh huh), add a dash of Environmental Resources, Psychology, Sociology, Algebra, Film Appreciation, Drawing, Voice, Communications, and Plate Tectonics, and, voila! You have the fantastic soup I call my college education!

Here is a composite school day. I pull into the eastern parking lot, where the spaces are bigger and my chances of not getting my doors dinged somewhat improved. A hopeful seagull eyes the coffee cup in my hand as I swing my overstuffed backpack over my shoulders. I power walk across the wind-swept brick promenade, past the library and the A-F clusters, the Tower, the CCB and G buildings. Then I make my diagonal way across Goose Poop Commons, walking a bit slower and more carefully now, until I hit North Hall, for my Women's Studies Class.

It is, not surprisingly, a class made up entirely of women, all young except for me and one senior observer. She is here for enrichment, not credit and does not have to do any of the homework. I hate her. Just kidding. In class we talk about women's issues ranging from the history of the Feminist Movement, to the present day global issues of women's health, equal and reproductive rights, to inequities in the workplace and in the home. The professor is a small soft-spoken woman with work-worn hands that look out of place coming from her academic sleeves. She guides the conversation fluidly, careful to land lightly on each head, as the members of this particular class span a range of socio-ethnic backgrounds. I am the only one in class (besides senior observer) who knows who Gloria Steinem is. They are much more cognizant of Rihanna's and Chris Brown's misadventures than they are of the efforts of Susan B. Anthony or Betty Friedan.

Class is over and I and my brain trek over to Cluster C for Beaches and Coastlines where my zany-but-brilliant professor will twirl around the room jabbering about divergent versus convergent plate boundaries, continental shifts, hotspots and how oceanic plates will always subduct and continental plates never will (because they are less dense and therefore more buoyant). How volcanoes form and how the seismic activity of the shifting plates causes earthquakes to occur. We have a test next week on Tectonics.

I hear the distant Tower Carillon warbling "You'll Never Walk Alone" in a pleasant, off-key sort of way, signaling another class change. Another brisk hike to the art wing of Building G to meet yet another eccentric-yet-brilliant professor. She charges in, curly black mop of hair bouncing over cat-shaped black-framed glasses. Even without her plum-colored lipstick and matching magenta man's tie, she awakens our sleepy post-lunch senses with animation and, yes, artistry. Today we have a live (read NUDE) model from whom to draw. He is an old man, who, I've gotta say, took a few moments to adjust to. But he was accommodating and game all the way and, after an exhausting couple of hours, I had a nicely improving set of sketches. Professor Plum approved.

I pull my lunch box from my book bag before leaving the studio to inhale a sandwich and a Diet Pepsi. Film Appreciation in South Hall (yep, across the poop again) is the last class of this day. Today we are watching Big Night, that wonderful Stanley Tucci/Tony Shaloub film from the '90s where two Italian brothers come to terms with living, working and relating in their newly adopted America. The lights are turned off and blinds drawn. I find myself nodding and shaking my head to stay awake, saying a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that I have already seen this one. The lights go back on and we discuss and dissect the meanings and symbols of every frame. The professor, one of my favorites, is the same woman who taught my Communications 101 class last semester. She is caring, careful and thorough. She is one of those special people who knows each student by name after one session.

Time to go. Jacket zipped, pack slung, I make a last pit stop and take my final lap across the field, through G up and onto the promenade, past the library, and down the path leading to the eastern lot. That same seagull (I swear!) is perched on the top of my car, happily pooping on the glass of my sun roof. He waves a jaunty farewell and flies off as I put it in drive and head for home.

If I could astral project and, after floating up to look objectively down at myself, I might marvel at the aging brain's ability to concentrate on such diverse topics, one after another. It is a big shift to delve into the humanities, jog over to science, switch over to art, film and literature, all in the span of one school day.
A big shift.
I'd even say a seismic shift.

The Heart is a Lonely Companion

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. I was blue and weepie most of the day, since just a few weeks ago, my partnership of five (on-again/off-again) years broke up, and I had ensconced myself in lonely self-pity.

Seeing people coupled up was unbearable, and when I read Facebook comments from happily-married friends complaining about this romantic holiday, I wanted to thrash them. Don't they appreciate what they have? A loving partner who stands by their side through thick and thin? A co-parent, co-pilot, com-patriot?

I sit down to coffee for one, moving my feet a few inches to the left on the coffee table to accommodate her phantom feet as we warm ourselves by the fire. I find myself looking at things in the store, thinking she would like this or that. Her habits I once thought were silly, have remained in my repertoire. I sleep diagonally on the big bed, vainly trying to cover the cold empty space to my right.

I miss shared stories, shared Smartwools, shared texts and toothpaste. In my naiveté I had been certain we would be together forever, even when all signs pointed elsewhere a long time ago. I think perhaps what I am most missing is an idea, a romantic idea that was never grounded in reality. I still grip the possibilities such an idea brings -- albeit with someone else -- with all my strength.

Although this doesn't make obvious sense, the emptiness echoes louder because she is around all the time. She lives nearby. We share friends and our daughters are like sisters. Our social circles run together like some cruel, in-escapable venn diagram.

If I could, I would hoist myself up and move to somewhere far away, where palm trees grow and colors are new. For now, I walk through my days in various stages of numbness and misery -- a Limbo I will gladly put behind me as time begins its slow heal.

Out of Order

Out of Order (def.):
not in sequence
broken
not following the rules or customary procedure


Life is a little scary these days. I walk the halls of Nassau Community College as a full time student, the only white head bobbing in a sea of youthful shining crowns. Life seems to be going backwards.

Backwards. Hmm. The familiar formula of high school/college/job/marriage/children/retirement, has not been my trajectory. High school/college dropout/work/marriage/children/divorce/come out/back to college. From the looks of it, I shifted into reverse somewhere along the line. But here I am, here, now, and somehow that feels right. Not always comfortable, but right, nonetheless. I had thought I was aiming at a degree, but it turns out that is not it at all. I am traveling, and the trip itself -- as it unfolds -- is becoming enough.

There have been many moments when I have felt broken, mis-aligned, "out of order." My drum beats differently and my ears hear a different song, a new song -- or maybe it was my song since birth but I could only ever hear snatches here and there. I am a musician and have tried to create my own song over the years, or at least uncover the one already within. I have had some success, I think, because my singing and guitar playing have moved and comforted many people and, in turn, hit a chord (so to speak) with myself.

Alan Cohen's moving essay, A Child's Song, tells of an African tribe that gives a special song to each new child born into their midst. This song is sung to the child throughout hers or his life, especially at milestone moments -- entry into puberty, major accomplishments, marriage and death. "You may not have grown up in an African tribe that sings your song to you at crucial life transitions," Cohen summarizes, "but life is always reminding you when you are in tune with yourself and when you are not." ("Sing Your Song," from Wisdom of the Heart by Alan Cohen, copyright 2002)

My song led me back to school. In my Communications class last semester the professor, a soft spoken woman with a wild curly mane, had us turn our desks to face each other, encouraging us to speak about the meaning of our names, our confidences, concerns and canons. Words spoken in trust, were breathed with care and attention. I had much to say (perhaps too much!) and my young compatriots listened and responded with their own stories. I told of a 27-year marriage, which produced five fantastic individuals, two sons and three daughters. The ending of that marriage when I announced to family and friends that I was gay. My new and finally authentic partnership. The feeling of freedom matched only by the stress this upheaval brought to the five I loved most. My children have supported me on my journey despite the pain they felt as they saw their parents' marriage (and a good deal of their sense of security) come apart.

In the preface of his book, Man's Search for Meaning, Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl speaks about happiness and success as byproducts of being true to one's path, as opposed to aimed-for goals. "Happiness must happen, " he states. "You have to let it happen without caring about it. I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge." Later on in the book he says, "Man is not fully conditioned and determined, but rather determines himself whether he gives in to conditions or stands against them. Every human being has the freedom to change at any instant."

This I am doing! Changing, growing, re-interpreting myself. Not a re-invention, for in many important ways, I have been true to parts of my name, my song, my potential. But a big piece was missing and is just now filling in. With this new-found fearsome freedom, comes an even more fearsome responsibility, for five of my most important people rely so heavily upon me for their own visceral sense of security and fledgling worldview. Jumping ship, from an accepted and celebrated heterosexual life to a seemingly odd, surprising and churning sea of homosexual identity has been daunting. Yet its true-ness, its relief and release have spoken to me so clearly, saying my leap was entirely worthy.

These past few years, my life’s path has been rocky. Stones fell from the surrounding hills, blocking my path. These stones were named Loss, Confusion and Identity Crisis. I have had to stop, sit on these stones and weep for a while. It is only now that I can begin picking up these stones, stacking them along the side of the path, forming a cairn as tall as me -- the shadow they cast in my life’s mid-afternoon sun, pointing the way.

So what if I do things "out of order?" Family, then school? I am moving forward, swimming for all I am worth, often against the tide. My white head bobbing in the sea of shining crowns is swept along for the ride.

Good Intentions

I once rescued an injured turkey in the middle of a winter road in upstate New York. Heading into the sleepy snowy town for supplies, I saw her sitting in the middle of the slushy road her head swaying back and forth. I pulled over and went to her, clucking softly all the while. Since she didn’t seem to mind me, I gathered her up and carefully placed her on the passenger seat. She sat calmly, wrapped in a blanket as I frantically drove, searching the area for an open vet’s office.
No such luck. After a while, she blinked at me and slowly lowered her head to her breast. I drove home in the gray dusk stroking her head and assuring her of a fine and noisy heaven, one filled with corn and open fields, with no traffic anywhere nearby.

Mom's Last Christmas

It was a Christmas morning like so many others. The pajama-ed pack sat, each in their designated spots surrounded by their particular pile of presents. The mother was the only one not sitting, busying herself in the kitchen with pans of bacon and eggs lending fragrance to an already warm scene.

Five mostly grown kids bantered back and forth while the grandfather, who was blind, sipped his first coffee carefully. The oldest child, now a young man out on his own, was playing his guitar and singing softly by the bay window. His grandmother came and sat beside him.

Suffering the confusion and resulting agitation brought on by Alzheimer's Disease, the grandmother perched on the love seat by the sun-streamed window with her first grandson, who was a wiry ginger-haired young man. He turned slightly toward her, serenading her with his guitar. Her agitation melted and she began singing along, oblivious to the fact that she did not have a clue about the song or its lyrics. No matter. Grandmother and grandson shared a moment -- an unexpected gift.

Mom passed away in her sleep a month later.

Sex Ed, According to Mom

I am taking a Human Sexuality class in college this semester. Now, I know what you're thinking. "After giving birth to five babies, doesn't she already KNOW everything about sexuality?"

You'd think, right? But I am learning many new things, not the least of which is how clueless and draconic some of the thinking still is among the 18-23 year old generation who are my classmates.

The professor, a 60-ish woman with a severe military crew cut perched atop an otherwise twinkly countenance, minces no words. She throws words like "vagina, penis, pubis, sperm, ejaculation, urethral orifice, clitoris and labium majorum" around with abandon. The class snickers and shifts in their seats.

She ask about their sexual careers and their opinions of their sexual partners. Some of the answers were shocking. "I likes me a virgin," one boy said (I am not kidding). "Nice and tight." "If a boy behaves badly, I think it is the girl's fault," said one young woman. Oh, my God!

At this point, my hand is waving wildly in the air. The professor, who has heard it all before, smiles and gives me the floor. "I am a mom of both boys and girls," I say, my voice failing to hide my upset. "this is not a game and it is not a contest. You are not counting coup. This is a fellow human, with feelings and emotions. A daughter, sister, friend. Son, brother, comrade. When you see this in the other, you must give them the respect and carefulness they deserve and need from you. Only then with each of you discover the explosive miracle of intimacy. Only then."

Silence, and more shifting. Some boys slide lower in their seats. I can hear their silent words. "Who let my mom into this class?" A couple of girls sitting near me shoot me grateful smiles. The professor pauses for only a second, then proceeds. "Who else wants to share?" she asks.

When Quiet is Deafening

Life is lonely these days. Four out of five of my kids have grown and flown the nest. I am left here in the family house knocking around from room to room with my last remaining high schooler. I remember visiting my grandparents' big Brooklyn house with the wrap-around porch on Sunday afternoons, wandering up to the third floor and wondering why there were several rooms closed off and unused. It seemed spooky and musty and tomb-like up there, and I remember promising myself I would never close my house off like that.

But these days I do just that. The boys' rooms on the first floor have been long since transformed into guest/TV rooms and I mostly keep those doors closed to avoid having to clean them very often. Two out of three girls' rooms are also vacant, their former occupants off at college elsewhere. My youngest dwells in a room three closed doors away from mine and, although we often find each other at the kitchen table, we each sense the quiet, like an unexpected and unwanted new tenant. Where there were kids, there were always MORE kids, friends of each who I would find everywhere in the house, and especially in my refrigerator, feeling at home enough to raid it at will.

I am a single parent at present, and that lonely state of being amplifies everything else. I long for noise. For mess. For dirty dishes, questionable jokes and raucous laughter. I miss seeing the sleepy faces of all my children as they stumble down to Cheerios and milk in the morning. I miss the around-the-table songfests of my theater girl with all her theater friends. I miss damp towels on the floor and tripping over piles of shoes in the hallway. I miss them all piling on my bed at night, with wet-from-the-shower hair dripping on my sheets, to watch pay-per-view with me. I miss. I miss.

In the film version of The Sound of Music, an eternally cheerful Julie Andrews says at one point, "When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window." I am ready for my window, please.