replacement

Her name is Shelly. 

As an old English name, it means “Meadow on a Ledge”…whatever that is. For me, the female version of this name has a contemporary meaning; Shelly stands for replacement. Replacement. I’m being replaced.

We have been in a quandary since his parents flipped out.  I agree with him–we should see other people, because there is somebody better for both of us out there.  However, I do not believe we should do this now, not in front of each other’s faces.  We discussed this, and more, that Sunday.  So then, how could he tell me he loves me and lie with me until my soul touches heaven…and within the same hour, broach the subject of meeting her?  He is the only person I know who could make love to a woman who loves him, make her feel safe in her most vulnerable state, make her forgive him (for parental beliefs that are not his fault–even though following them is), and then casually bring up “seeing new people”. I choked on my cigarette. His explanation was vague, so I don’t think he knew who he was being set up with, but he knew co-workers wanted him to meet some girl.  He was noticeably excited about it.

Placid-face-saying-encouraging-things,  meet Electrocuted-insides-screaming-expletives.  Ya’all play nice.

I had made plans to see his students perform, before it was too late, the following Friday.  I was going to come straight from work, and told him to tell the kids I was coming.  The next day, he informed me that a co-worker would be introducing them the same night I planned to go, so I said that I would not be there. I was disappointed in not being able to see students I helped begin–and I was disappointed in him.  He said he was sorry, but I don’t think either of us believed it.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday…went by quickly.  I was trying to stay busy, all while being gracious, all while insanely competing with an unknown woman for my boyfriend of 5 years’ love. I stayed so busy, I didn’t notice until Thursday that I’d overdrawn my bank account–by about $100.  I had to ask him for money so that I could just get to work, and I hated to do it.  Of all weeks, and of all days, why did I have to show him that she was already better than me? I felt pretty resigned as I drove by the school on my way home alone Friday. I knew she was prettier.  I knew she was smarter.  I knew she was white.

What I didn’t know was her name.  Nope…he told me that when he got home.  After he kissed me hello, and after I quietly told him I didn’t want to know any details.  He was considerate of my wishes and gave me only the broad gist of the meeting.  He said he’d gotten Shelly’s phone number.  I suddenly had a feeling that our weekend was going to suck.

We made plans a few months prior to go to Pensacola on Saturday to see the Blue Angels and to see Historic Downtown areas.  We were to go the day after he met her.  Still trying to be gracious, in a gritted teeth sort of way, I let him sleep in a little more than either of us should have.  I knew we wouldn’t get to do any of the other stuff that I wanted to show him (like downtown) unless we left early, before eight.  I also knew he would sleep late and somehow get out of doing anything that he didn’t want to do. I resigned myself to it, accepted his apology when he woke up with a headache at nine, and threw away the downtown maps.  Why should he care about what I want? The airshow was awesome and we actually had a good time, enjoying each other’s company…except for when he was actually holding my hand in public while we were watching fireworks…and down here, hours away from virtually everybody he is related to…lo and behold…his cousin walks by, and he jerks his hand away from mine as though I had burned him.  I actually thought I did.  What bothered me most about the incident was not that he jerked his hand away; it was that, in a crowd of thousands, he was looking around for who might be looking at us.

On Sunday, he called her, and a date was set for Monday night. Mexican food was agreed to be a suitable choice. By that time, Shelly was a supermodel in my mind, and I hated her. Since I’ve been dating him, he has brought out this violent jealousy (emotionally turbulent, not fist-to-cuff) I never knew existed in me.  I felt it then, and didn’t speak to him much throughout the day.  Somewhere around nine in the evening, insanity took over, and I ironed his clothes–for school, and for his date.  I chose a shirt I love to see him in, one that brings out his eyes and fits well. I have a favorite picture of him, and in it, he is wearing this shirt.  In the picture, his eyes speak of a soft and deep love for me, nowhere near as intense and heart-melting as the real thing, but the picture actually does his gaze justice.  I lovingly ironed every stupid crease as if the shirt could say, “She really ironed the shit out of me…she loves you this much…don’t do this, man.”

The next day, I didn’t have to work (awful time for an off-day).  I was going nuts, so I cleaned a whole bunch of stuff, loaded the dishwasher, hung up my clothes, ironed the rest of his clothes, and played on the computer until he came home to change. I wanted (and had planned) to stay away from him, but insanity took hold of me again.  I helped him get ready instead. I made sure he put on the good brown belt.  I surveyed my ironing job as he put on the shirt.  I reminded him to trim his nose hair.  My heart imploded in spurts and jerks.  I reminded myself that if Shelly was better for him, it was a good thing.  I hated myself for thinking it. 

As he was leaving he leaned over to kiss me goodbye. He always, always kisses me goodbye, no matter what else is going on in our worlds. This time, it was too awkward.  Even as I leaned into him, our lips touched and my eyes flew wide open. My brain screamed, he is kissing you goodbye before he goes out on a date with another woman. HE IS KISSING YOU GOODBYE BEFORE HE GOES OUT ON A DATE WITH ANOTHER WOMAN. We both pulled away. We both looked away.  He spoke first. “That was weird.”

I let him have a sad smile. How astute of you, jackass. “Yeah, weird…See you later.”

I watched him leave, I slammed the door, and I sat in the kitchen and cried. Just enough to know that I was still normal, and this betrayal hurt, and whatever he has fractured can never be fixed. None of this made sense.  Five years.  I have loved him through shit, but nothing like this, for five years. I hate him but I can’t hate him. I gave him permission to do this. I want him to be happy. With me. What did I do wrong? What could I have done to make him choose me over a normal southern-white life? What is so wrong about a life with me? I used to be so strong. Why did I choose to surrender some of my power to this man?  Why can’t I see that he is just as racist and stupid as his parents and everyone else? He can’t reconcile the racism and the love for me, so he is just quitting.  It’s easier. Why can’t I hate him and walk away? I went to the basement and watched T.V. At some point, I locked the door.  I didn’t want to see him until I was ready to face him, and I sure didn’t want him bouncing in talking about some great date that he had.  I knew it would be great. I knew he would want to kiss her, get rid of me, date her many more times, tell her she’s beautiful, propose to her, marry her, make babies with her, spit on my grave with her.

It took me a little while to come out of the basement once he came home.  He did knock on the door, and I told him I’d be out later. I got up all my courage and walked outside, but downstairs, instead of upstairs on the deck, where he was. He was on the phone with his parents. I hate them still. He walked down to me. He must have seen the look in my eyes and so he kept walking past. He turned around and just looked at me.  At this point I figured he couldn’t tell me anything about this stupid date because he was too busy pretending I wasn’t here while talking to family.  I walked alongside him, and we walked upstairs together. 

Since I have waited until my wounds healed a little, Shelly is actually out of the picture, and what he told me about the date is irrelevant. He told me things that made me feel better, and things that made me feel like there will be a lot more where she came from.  I still love him more than I hate him, and have probably been nicer to him this past week than I have in a while. I have not–and will not–let my guard down. He is the only one who has the power to hurt me so much that part of me will be destroyed. I really can’t afford to damage the wrong part of my soul, and never trust enough to know love again.  I know that now. I am enjoying what time we have left, and I want him to remember me for a long time.

Shelly stood for replacement–my replacement–but she just as easily could have been Jessica, Ashley, or Lily. The irony here is in what his name means.  In English, Israeli and Hebrew…the man I chose to trust…has a name that means “Supplant” or “Replace”. We should have both seen this coming.

My brush with unfamiliar feelings…

I have no idea how to concretely categorize how I’m feeling right now, and I have to get this out.  There are some lies which must be told to keep the people you love safe.  These are not lies that I’m telling, but I have to corroborate them.  Now, keep an open mind. 

Racism and bigotry is still very alive and well in the south, and especially in the Bible Belt. I was not raised to believe that people are not people when their skin color is different, but too many folks down here have been.  The older generation can’t get beyond the ideas about different races from their youth (think civil rights era, wars in Korea, Vietnam, and the Middle East). Still, some of the students I encounter don’t know quite what to make of me, because their experience is limited, but they are generally more accepting of people around them. The hateful backlash against the president…I’m sure that you can recognize that at least some of it is due to the color of his skin (even though he’s half-and-half). Want proof that such hard feelings still exist?? Link, link, link, and link. 

I have been in a wonderful relationship for five and a half years, and it is an interracial relationship.  I am the luckiest person alive to have found such a wonderful, caring individual to share my life with.  The two of us have been through so much together, and our love just grows stronger and stronger. We live together. We are not married, due to the fact that his family doesn’t and CANNOT know about our relationship.  You can read a little more about our situation in a couple of posts I wrote back in May (one <–read at your own risk! and two<–much more tame). He has been under a tremendous amount of pressure from balancing his two “lives”–one with his family (that doesn’t include most of who he really is) and one with the rest of the world (where he gets to be himself and include me). For the entire duration of our relationship, I have made excuses for his family and their views on interracial dating, and Black people, in general.  “They are good people and can’t be wicked and truly hateful if they raised their son so well…oh, they’re just from a different time in history….oh…they have lived in a small town their whole lives….well, they just haven’t had the opportunity to get to know people of different races, and would be more tolerant if they had…well, maybe…” This is his family, and the last thing I want to do is alienate him from the people who have loved him his entire life, because they would disown him.  So I have justified these elaborate deceptions to keep their feelings safe, and to keep his family in his life.  Even after every racist comment, reaction, joke (which I actually think are hillarious…yeah, I know…), and ugly comment about the president, I have still defended them. For their feelings.  For their sense of security and what makes sense in their limited world.  For what is acceptable to the “teachings” of the church.  For the fact that the son who loves me is more helpful to them in their increasing age and has the best chance of providing them with grandchildren than the other son….and the list goes on.

I have overlooked all of these things, until recently.  (Here’s where the open mind comes in handy) They were planning a trip to see him for this weekend. Did I mention that they didn’t know that I already lived here?  So needless to say, we were scrambling for an excuse, justification, or any reason for me to be here, with all my stuff when they arrived.  We decided on the path of least resistance, where I would just be living here temporarily, etc., etc., with no mention of half a decade of dating.  It seemed harmless, with me as a roommate, since we’re both post-grad, and are adults in every sense of the word, right?

Wrong.  We might as well have dropped bombs on them. From the reaction we got, you’d think he told them he had given me a ring (which he has).  Momma, Daddy, Brother(who is closer to our age)–they all flipped out.  They cancelled their visit.  They haven’t spoken to him in two days.  And I am left with an unfamiliar set of emotions.

Despair, which is new for me, in light of how I was raised so multi-culturally.  Despair which attempts to prove white people are looking at me and thinking, “she is black and dumb,” or “she is black and ugly,” or “she is black and worthless.” Despair which shows me the futility of trying to have intelligent conversation with them ever again, because I have the distinct feeling that they will just smile and nod while the n—-r is talking.  Despair, because I’ve had meals at the table with these people, and all of those interactions are now suspect. Despair when I consider the future with my s/o…they will never understand our relationship, and because of my newfound dumb, ugly, worthless and subhuman status, I actually almost believe that I’m not worth the risk.

Hatred, which is all-consuming and sickening all at once. Hatred which fuels a wish for a malignant something-or-another to be found this week.  Hatred which inspires a desire to sign them up for all sorts of junk mail services. Hatred which drops all the previous defenses I had for them…and labels the behavior as what it actually is. Hatred as un-like my nature and as unhealthy as it can be. Hatred in my chest and somewhere deeper, that is making me hot, cold and sick to my stomach.  Hatred that may not ever subside and allow me to forgive, especially if the current situation leads me away from the man I love.

Anger. Furious anger. I don’t even have the adequate words for how I felt when the comment “…well, you won’t be renewed at that job now,” was made.  Angry clenched teeth, when I realized that they would not bother to call him, and would ignore him on the internet. Helpless anger because, despite their irrational, unfounded, racist, outdated, small-minded, hateful, unintelligent, nonsensical beliefs and feelings, he still cares what the hell they think, and he’s hurting in a way that I CAN’T HELP MAKE BETTER unless I leave for good.

We knew this day was coming…but this is not even the level of revelation we were so afraid of. I am also equally appalled at my reaction.  I didn’t know I was really capable of feeling this way about his family, and I’m sorry that I feel as irrationally as they do.  I didn’t think they could have me so upset I’d be ready to wash my hands of the whole affair.  But he has been as wonderful as he can be–as sad as he is, he’s been more tender and loving than normal, and all I can do is hug him and tell him that I’m here for him.

Can people not recognize that the Emancipation Proclamation was in 1862, Desegregation mostly occurred in 1954, Anti-Miscegenation laws were repealed in 1967, and we have a damn half-black president, elected in 2008.  Yet…here I am today, in 2009…miserable because narrow views that take pride in STOMPING on my very human-ness, still exist, and are touching my life in ways I never would have believed.

Long Weekends

Well, I guess this Memorial Day weekend is going to be a wash–practically from coast to coast as I understand it.  No fun in the sun. No shorts-wearing while sitting on the grass for outdoor concerts. No matter.  I have nobody to hang out with for the traditional festivities anyway.  I am pretty bored with the silence and lack of company (my s/o is with his family camping, so I’m being deprived of precious weekend time with him), but I have plenty to do and think about.  I’m packing up my apartment to go…somewhere…but there’s not a move coming anytime soon that I know of or know where to. 

At this point, the plan is that either I’ll move in with my man or I’ll move somewhere closer to him, but live alone. We have beein in a long distance relationship since the fall of 2006, and it has gottent to the point that neither of us can take it much longer.  The actual requirements of such a move are not that simple, however and we have two major obstacles to overcome.  (1.)  He is under the gun to find another teaching position in Alabama somewhere that is at least a step-up from the 1A program that he almost got tenure with.  Sad state that Alabama is in, there weren’t enough teaching units to renew him and hire a new core subject teacher with only one teaching unit available. He is in the same position that I was–band director–so naturally English (or Math, or History, or Football Coach) wins. I honestly don’t think he’ll have a problem finding another position–he’s a really likable guy, and he has the endorsement of his current principal who really had no choice but to let him go.

And (2.) His parents do not, after five years of dating, know the first thing about our relationship, other than the fact that we are friends.  I am a secret because of our different races.  But we’re very much a match (although outward appearances would suggest otherwise) and very much in love with each other.  We decided that just as long as he can secure a job far enough away from his disapproving parents, we will live together. There’s a distinct chance that he won’t find a job far enough away to pull off living together undetected.  If he doesn’t find a job more than 30 minutes away from his parents, what then?  Or what if he finds a job very late in the summer? This part really scares me, because as part of our compromise, I’m waiting for him to find a job so that I can look in any nearby school system.  There’s a possibility that I will not teach if I wait too long this year.  There’s also a possibility that I will NEVER teach again…which I cannot come to terms with.

Maybe I’m not supposed to teach.  A bitter pill to swallow, but still, while the creator, fate, and my own choices push me further and further away from the bandroom, I have to recognize this as a possibility.  Further, I am not making this choice as a spouse; we are not married, although I have the ring he gave me that says “I would if I could.”  I am technically still a free agent, and I could decide to go look for my own teaching postion, get into competition with him for jobs right now, if I so desired.  He asked me the other day if I had put in any applications. My puzzled look and response of a simple and blunt “No” should have spoken volumes to him, but he doesn’t even realize that he holds all the cards. The reason that I am waiting is because if I were to get a job tomorrow in an area of the state that fits our needs, he wouldn’t pack up all of his stuff and come with me.  It is painful to realize that there is a double standard, but there is.  And rather than lose him, I am waiting for something to give so we can just keep going on with our lives, but in a place where we can do it together.

I have all this time on my hands to just think about the situation this weekend.  And this is a very long weekend, indeed.

On The Clock (the biological variety)

It would be Mother’s Day that I realize something about me has changed.

I realized just recently that there’s this ticking sound somewhere, deep in my left ear…possibly somewhere on the left side of my consciousness.  What is this awakening?  I want a baby. Damn.  I should have recognized the string of events that led me to this turning point in my life. 

From an interview on 20/20, I learned that:

Women who think they can wait, really can’t. And now, more and more who want children are ending up without them. Twenty years ago, nearly 9 percent of American women in their early 40s did not have children. Today, that number has nearly doubled.
And for successful professional women, the figure is considerably higher – so says economist Sylvia Hewlett in her new book, “Creating a Life.” She conducted a survey of more than 1,000 women with incomes over $55,000 a year.
‘Amongst this group, childlessness really is a huge problem. Thirty-three percent of them don’t have children at age 40,’ says Hewlett, which means they probably won’t have children. ‘They’re at the end of the road, as it were. And if you look at corporate America, 42 percent of these women don’t have kids.’
And a majority of them, Hewlett says, wanted to have children.
Why is this happening? Is it that these women aren’t getting married? Or that they are getting married, but they’re waiting too late to try and have children? Hewlett thinks it’s both.

I have said for a long time that having kids and being a band director is not a possibility in the first five years of life. At the same time, being a band director and having kids is not possible in the first three years of teaching at one school.  I’m 28 now…do the math.

I know that being in my mid- to late 20s, I’m at the perfect age to have children. The most fertile I’ll ever be, if I’m even fertile to begin with.  My family history of uterine fibroids limits me, especially if there are tumors already present and growing.  There is no female in my family (older than me, of course) that still even has a uterus. There’s a pretty good chance I won’t last till the age of 35.  So, if I really want to have kids, then damn it, I want them with my boyfriend.

Last year was rough enough, and I made it worse by breaking up with my boyfriend.  We had been carrying on a long-distance relationship for about a year and a half already, and I just wanted to know if he could offer me anything permanent. He said he couldn’t, but then the most amazing thing happened.

When I broke up with him on Labor Day 2007, I had no idea he would hold on to me so hard.  I thought he’d be relieved that he didn’t have to lie anymore—to his parents or to me.  Surely, with his genuinely good looks (he has really gotten more handsome in the years we’ve dated, but he worries about his teeth), a girl would have his heart in an instant, made better by his “knowledge” that she had to be white. I thought he’d forget about me.  No—instead he promptly got shit-faced. Then over the course of the school year, he called me.  Just to talk, or cheer me up, but he called.  He opened the door for me to admit that I still loved him.

July 25, 2008 was a turning point.  I didn’t even realize that through the fall and spring, we’d become closer again.  I did know all along that I didn’t NOT love him; I just figured there was no future in waiting for him, so far away, with so little time.

I officially got back together with my boyfriend, who never stopped loving me. I think he matured some in our time “apart” (we never stopped talking and loving each other) and only became more of a man with the passing of time.  His absence did make my heart grow fonder, and I pledged to do any and everything in my power to make him happy because he has made me feel so loved. After the time we spent almost exclusively together during the first part of the summer, on the day in question, he asked me, “So…what are we?” This was the exact same question I’d asked him a little more than four years prior, so naturally, I said I wanted and needed him. Really, he took me back, without any real, good reasons to do so.  But that is love.

Spending time with him, closer to the way we used to live together this past summer, only led me to love him more and really appreciate the qualities he possesses.  Seeing him in a new light gave me the opportunity to really grab hold of our dreams for the future, however murky it might be.  I know now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I want to spend the rest of my life with him, traveling, growing together, raising a family, struggling a little, working life out, and loving.  After almost four and a half years of loving my boyfriend, I know that if he asked me, I would make any sacrifice for him, even if that sacrifice was to become a mother to his child or children. I would want the chance to raise them as well as he has been raised.  Having this knowledge gives me a reason to be EXTRA careful in our (really good quality) alone time, because the more I want a pregnancy to happen the more likely it is to occur.

Then…there is a friend that my roommate introduced me to—who, until recently, was experiencing the distinctly miserable symptoms of pregnancy.  She did not keep the baby, and I don’t blame her, but it gave me cause to stop and think. 

This woman suffered nausea and vomiting from waking moment to the point in time where she just “gave up” on the day.  Her skin changed, due to the influx of some very strong hormones.  She was irritable, unfocused, and weak.  She had diarrhea and threw up so much she couldn’t control her bladder when she did. Horrible, right?  I thought so too—but when my brain threw me the B.C. curveball, I began to really think about what she was going through—and then it just occurred to me that, especially if we would make a family out of ourselves and an unexpected child, I would put up with all the side effects for the end result.  I would grant my boyfriend immortality, so to speak.  Weird, right? So when she decided to have an abortion, I could not second-guess her decision in the least, so, we went with her for support. 

At the same time, I made a decision.  I am ardently Pro-Choice. I knew all along that if life was not at a point that I could be a good mother, or the other half of the right union, I would abort.  I could not have been the kind of mother that my mother was at 23 years old.  Four years later, though, I have met someone that is worth it. Our trip to the abortion clinic did two things: it solidified my stance on supporting pro-choice legislation and candidates, and it made me really sure that—no matter what—I could not have an abortion in my position, but that the choice needs to still be available.  There were women there, some close to my age, some younger.  They all had reasons for being there, and for some this was their second abortion.  But from talking to them in the waiting room, you knew that no one was evil, and that the choice did not come easily for most.  Their reasons were simple—for the ones that we talked to at any length; they just weren’t ready to be good mothers, to a first child…or to a second for some. I feel that that is a really responsible decision—free of the rhetoric that the pro-life protesters (who we also talked to on the sidewalk), who believe in their truly concerned way, that women are going to regret their decision and suffer for the rest of their lives—for the well-being of any children that come into the world, the choice that the women we met made, they made with the knowledge that they would regret it on some levels.  But I also know that they were thinking about the future, and what they could give to existing or not-yet-conceived children that they could have, love, and provide for when they were ready.

I made my decision that day too. I know that I couldn’t bear to abort any child that my boyfriend and I might have.  For me, and for my boyfriend’s sake, the pro-lifers’ plea would not fall on deaf ears—but not because of what they had to say. If he stayed with me, and made the tough decisions about his parents and extended family, in order to have our family, I would do everything I could to be the best mother possible.  If he left me…and that is the more likely possibility…I know the road would be so much harder, but I would still do everything I could to provide for our child, even if I never spoke to him again. Being a parent is the hardest thing a person can aspire to be, and I would have to take that commitment seriously primarily because of the love we have shared. I only speak for my boyfriend’s XY and XX supply—anybody else’s chromosomal contribution would not be given such great consideration. I don’t have a very good reason why, but I feel that it would be wrong to abort a child of LOVE, versus a child of LUST. Also…here I am, 28 years old…if God is a vengeful God, then the most perfect and fitting revenge would be to never give me the opportunity to try again.

Maybe I would feel differently then, if it was merely lust, too.  If this ticking gets any louder I might not think so logically about it. I hope that when I am more financially stable, I won’t have to make such tough decisions, especially if my brain is screaming at me to “MAKE A BABY!!!” before time runs out.