He Said, She Said

Her side:

They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. She should probably offer an apology or explanation. Sorry, I have no control over this arm. My hand accidentally landed on yours. Or, how about, it was instinctive; I thought you were someone else? Anything but the humiliating truth, which made her sound like a fool. Oops, for a second I thought I was still your wife.

He had allowed her hand to rest on his a long while before gently pulling away to drain his glass; long enough for her to realize what she had done and swallow a flood of tears before they escaped. Had he waited to see what she would do? Been too shocked to react? Or, was it possible he had relished the moment and traveled back ten years the way she had? What was in that hesitation? She would choke on the question rather than ask.

Denise closed her eyes and pulled a breath between her lips, hoping to clear the mess in her throat and stop the spinning in her head. More likely, he could still read her thoughts and had only resisted the impulse to wrench his hand away to protect her feelings. Why did he have to be so fucking perfect? There's the icebreaker she needed. Just testing to see if you're still perfect enough to make me feel like a loser. Congratulations, you passed.

Their animated waitress broke the heavy silence for them with an innocently inappropriate,

"Everyone doing okay here?"

Denise considered crossing her hands at her throat to signify choking. Craig ordered another
round, the relief in his tone a sure guarantee of an extra ten in his already predictable overtip.

"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away.

That's it? Back to business as though nothing happened? His use of the word we twisted her emotions further, but she managed a response for her daughter's sake. "Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."

"We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."

Denise looked the waitress in the eye as the girl deposited a fresh margarita in front of her. "We don't."

"You changed your mind?" the waitress asked, picking the drink back up.

"Sorry, I wasn't talking to you. I want the drink; I don't want to be part of his we."

Craig smiled at the girl. She returned the drink and backed away from the table, tossing a less animated, "Enjoy your drinks," at him before leaving.

Denise choked through the growing obstruction in her throat. "L.A. is so far, and so expensive."

"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass in a lone toast and took a drink.

"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."

"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise."

How sweet. Mr. Perfect immediately solved every problem. He severed that we without a second thought. He could be both mother and father, bankroll, and guidance counselor all rolled into one. Maybe he could decorate the new place and teach Kristin to act while he was at it. She would just scratch mothering and worrying right off her to do list and replace them with amputate uncontrollable right arm and get a grip.

The heavy silence returned. She rotated her glass on the table, staring at the condemned limb. Anything she said would be wrong, argumentative, whiney, negative, or pleading. This meeting was a mistake. They should have dealt with their daughter's decision separately.

"Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.

She took a sip, bowing her head to meet the glass halfway before her trembling sloshed a spill on the table to remind her how imperfect she was. "No, it might be the best thing in my life."

They sipped through the next uncomfortable silence; she wishing her poorly disciplined arm could reach out this time and squelch the unspoken words before they suffocated her, and he chewing his lip between drinks. Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Perfect showing signs that he might also be struggling for composure?

"I'm sorry." The words hit her ears and she tried to believe she had said them, but his eyes erased that hope.

With a slight nod, she grabbed her purse. "Ladies room. Be right back." She rushed across the bar, relieved to find the one-seater empty, and leaned against the wall to review the reasons she didn't want him to be sorry. That made him the bigger person since she hadn't found the strength to say the words when she should have. He hadn't done anything wrong, so his apology could only be the lead-in to a disappointing statement yet to come. Or maybe this was another instance of his being sorry for pain she had caused.

Denise went directly from the ladies room to the parking lot without bothering to say good-bye. Silence was better than anything he had left to say.

His side:

They sat across from each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. He certainly didn't want to ruin the moment. She had forgotten her anger for a second and touched his hand in a gesture so uncharacteristic that he wondered if she was even aware of her action. One word might set her off again, and he wanted to savor as much as he could of this return of the woman he had fallen in love with a quarter century before.

Denise was really beautiful when she wasn't angry but he wouldn't say those words. He had tried to tell her before and she took it the wrong way. For some reason, she took everything he said the wrong way so he had stopped talking. Was that how it ended? It was hard to remember if there was any one thing now. And because he never knew what happened, he hadn't been able to go into another relationship. Why destroy another woman?

He looked across the table and realized he had lost her again. Denise had her eyes closed and was doing that huffy breathing that often came before the outburst. Fortunately, he had work and Kristen to pour his love and life into. Kristen! He remembered the reason for this get-together as the waitress came to check on them, ordered another round, and then approached the subject.

"Kristin is an adult now. I think we have to let her make her own choices," he said as the waitress walked away. Immediately, he wished he hadn't said I think. Denise would perceive that as him trying to control everything.

"Even adults need guidance at times, especially from their parents. Craig, she only has one semester left. I can't pretend I condone her leaving before she finishes."

He half heard what she said, focusing on how to correct his last faux pas. "We can't stop her. If we try, she'll think we don't support her."

The waitress brought the drinks and Denise went off the deep end, making an issue over his use of the word we, probably because she was already ticked about the previous use of I. There was nothing he could do to please this woman. No matter how hard he tried, she couldn't accept anything he did. He would say as little as possible the rest of this meeting, and when he did have to speak; it would be short, positive, and neutral.

"L.A. is so far, and so expensive."

"And exciting for a young girl." He raised his glass and smiled. Short and positive.

"What if she doesn't find a job? She won't go there and immediately become an actress. There's real life before the big time and I can't help her. I couldn't even afford to get there if she needed me."

"I can," he assured her. "Let her follow her dream. If it works out, great. If not, she'll realize on her own that she needs to finish that last semester and return to plan A. I won't let her suffer, Denise." Couldn't get more positive. That should ease all her fears.

She didn't respond and he didn't know if her silence was a positive reaction or not. Maybe she hadn't heard him; she was staring at her glass and turning it. "Something wrong with your drink?" he asked.

She leaned over to take a sip, as though looking at him was more than she could stand. Guess that wasn't a positive response. What had he done wrong this time? She never gave him a clue, just disapproved without explanation.

"No, it might be the best thing in my life," she finally answered. Great. That had to be a dig. The sour, salty drink was better than the company she was with. He chewed his lip, wishing he could take back the million things he had done to turn her into this bitter woman. He would, if he knew what those million things were.

"I'm sorry." He offered a general apology that she could apply to whatever she imagined he had done. Without a response, she excused herself to the ladies room. Why did he keep trying? Obviously, she wanted nothing to do with him and couldn't even tolerate an hour or two to discuss their daughter's future.

Once they got Kristen settled, he would let Denise off the hook. She'd only have to see him from a distance, at Kristen's wedding and major events in her life.

He watched her walk into the ladies room and said a silent good-bye, to Denise and to all hope of ever changing her mind about him.

Ignorance is Bliss

Her friends all went to Dr. Weiss, so Cindy made an appointment to see him after missing her second period. She thought he was a total jerk, but how could she say that about the most popular obstetrician?

Everyone else she knew breast-fed, used disposable diapers, delivered at Methodist Hospital with an epidural, after having had an ultrasound to determine the gender so they could choose names, clothes, and nursery decors accordingly. She would do the same, even though she preferred formula, cloth diapers, natural childbirth, and surprises. She didn't want her child to start life as an outcast.

Cindy wanted an unusual name, something fun to say and hear, Eli, with a long 'e' for a boy and short 'e' for a girl. Robert, never original, wanted a boy named Robert. His mother put in a request for Sarah, which meant she would criticize anything else and make life miserable for everyone concerned unless she got her way.

Sarah Elizabeth was born at Methodist Hospital, assisted by Dr. Weiss, an epidural, and a lactation specialist. She went home to a pink nursery and Dora the Explorer accessories, almost identical to a dozen other nurseries in the neighborhood.

At three months, Sarah had her picture made at Wal-Mart, dressed head-to-toe in Baby Phat, immortalized in the same poses, using the same props every other child in town used. The photographer worked with her until she flashed the traditional grin.

Over the years, Cindy took Sarah to the same movies her friends saw, bought her the same toys her friends played with, and cloned her in the latest child-fashions. She repeated the worn out clichés the other mothers spewed, because those were the same lessons their mothers had taught them.

"Don't ask him why his eyes are slanted or tell her she has spinach between her teeth. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. Pretend you don't notice the wheelchair or color of her skin." The subliminal messages bled from one generation to the next. Slanted eyes, wheelchairs, skin color, and accidents must be bad if they aren't good enough to talk about.

"Stay away from controversial topics like politics, religion, racism, ignorance, and poverty. You want people to think you're nice, don't you? Don't rock the boat. Never mind why they're different; what you don't know can't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. You will never be given more than you can handle, so this too shall pass, without your voice or investigation. Ask not want not.
Use your manners, respect your elders, get along with everyone, and you will be fine."

Sarah made it through high school without rocking any boats. She wore the right clothes, joined the popular clubs, used her manners, avoided tough topics, and respected her elders. She never questioned the passes her history teacher made at her, or told anyone what she had witnessed in the stairwell at ten thirty-seven on the last day of her sophomore year. She did not question the 'D' Miss Sands gave Lori Meeks, even though she had seen Lori turn in the term paper Miss Sands said she never received, and heard Miss Sands call Lori a lesbian. She didn't tell anyone about the gun Jason White kept in his locker. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them and she was not one to rock boats or take risks. She said no sir and yes maam, please and thank you, and not much else.

The big wedding wasn't Sarah's idea, and she hated the Evangelical Church. However, who was she to argue with him, or his parents. Everyone in their family had a big wedding at the Evangelical Church and expected him to do the same.

Everyone in his family used drugs, cheated on their taxes, and voted Republican. Yes maam, she would do the same. Who was she to question tradition, rock the boat, or bring up difficult topics?
Sarah had no trouble hiding her husband's affair from herself, or her drug addiction from him and the kids. Their kids were too polite to ask questions or bring up the wrong topics. Ignorance was bliss.

Simon or Paula - Value of Critique

Modesty is one of the things I admired most in the musician I married. I said he never took the credit he deserved. He said, "When you're good, you don't have to tell people. They tell you."

He died thirteen years ago. Recently, our daughter met a disk jockey and some fans who were still talking about how great a musician her father was.

Another good lesson I learned from this man was to value fans and people with more experience. He grew from listening to the advice and criticism he received from others.

On the flip side of this story, I watched a decent performer waste his potential by surrounding himself only with people who said what he wanted to hear. With a bit of coaching, or a few words of criticism taken to heart, he might have become great.

At the age of eight, my daughter took first place in a regional singing competition. As a result, the producer of a local television program she had previously only danced on invited her to sing on a few episodes. When a stranger recognized her in public, and I noticed her little head swell, I remembered her father's words. When she slacked off on her practices, I knew she could use his lessons.

"Everyone in the competition was good," I reminded her. "Your trophy only means that on one day, a set of judges enjoyed your performance more than the others. On another day, or with a different group of judges, the outcome might be different. Your work is not done."

For the next ten years, I tried to make sure she received a healthy balance of praise and criticism. I could honestly commend her effort and dedication because she was always a hard worker. However, her performances were not always perfect, and I let her know where I thought she needed improvement. When she outgrew me, I paid a small fortune for a voice coach who might have been Simon Cowell's mentor.

Which brings me to the title of this article. Simon has taken quite a beating in the media over what some perceive as cruel and inhumane treatment of the American Idol contestants. I'm here to vouch for his authenticity, commend his honesty, and vote him my pick for American Judge.

All contestants go into this competition knowing Simon Cowell will critique their performance in stage presence, vocals, marketability, personality, and song choice. Right or wrong, each of these categories matter in the business and he says nothing these performers won't hear from industry executives should they be lucky enough to get in the door for an audition.

Simon delivers a slice of reality, without the usual fee or likely bribe most pay. Thick skin is a requirement in the business, and anyone who hasn't developed this required hide is probably not ready for the big time.

Paula Abdul, who won't allow Simon to deliver a critique without interrupting and physically abusing him, is portrayed as the nicer person. Randy Jackson's comments are often inaccurate and his advice far less useful, but he evades public criticism. Without Simon's input, I fear many of these contestants would walk away with nothing, straight into the wasted potential trap.

Our society seems incapable of dealing with honesty. I believe we have forfeited educational components of communication in the name of nice, or in search of a misconstrued version of self-esteem. I wonder what will happen to a generation of people raised on inflated egos and hollow pedestals.

A no-holds-barred, potentially excruciating, honest critique by Simon is at the top of my daughter's wish list. I salute her courage.

We Don't Share Crayons

I believe every child deserves a special, never-have-to-share toy. House rule said this toy stayed out of sight when friends come around. Jessica chose crayons as her non-share toy, over Stephanie, the doll who shared her skin color and went everywhere she did.

This might have seemed odd to anyone who didn't know she owned the special one-hundred-twenty pack with the plastic trays and individual holes for each crayon. Or, that her mother hoarded her own box, although she had the measly sixty-four pack with cardboard holders.

Stephanie and the crayons survived college and returned home with Jessica. I discovered this the day I came in with a new stack of coloring books and she, her little sister, and I each ran to our rooms to get our crayons. We laughed as we gathered around the dining room table and they teased me for having my own stash.

"I am not the only adult with crayons," I argued, picking up the phone to prove that was true. I dialed my neighbor, grinning at the girls when Tracey assured me she had her own crayons. "Bring them over," I said. "I bought new coloring books."

Tracey wrestled an eighteen-gallon storage container through the door and placed it on the floor beside her chair. She pulled off the lid off, revealing every crayon, marker, and colored pencil on the market.

My younger daughter giggled as Tracey pulled her favorites from the bin and lined them on the table. "I bet those belong to Dustin and Kristin."

"Hell no," Tracey answered. "They aren't allowed to touch these." While Tracey looked through the new books, my daughters eyed my sixty-four box of crayons and me with new appreciation.

My cousin Dana dropped by a few days later. The girls mentioned our coloring party and she wanted to know why we hadn't called her.

"Do you have your own crayons?" I asked. "We share books, but not crayons."

Dana rolled her eyes. "Of course I have my own crayons."

We scheduled a coloring party with Dana on the following Monday, and invited Tracey. The following week, we put the leaf in the table when one of Jessica's friends joined us, and we spilled over to the kitchen table the week after that when the friend and the cousin brought extras.

For months, we had our adult coloring party every Monday evening. I found out most of my friends had their own crayons, and that one had nearly died of embarrassment when her son told his teacher she wouldn't let him borrow her crayons for his homework.

One Monday night, a friend called and invited me to play Scrabble. Much as I love Scrabble, I told him I was in the middle of my weekly coloring party but he was welcome to join us, if he had his own box of crayons. He didn't have crayons, but drove over anyway. We didn't share.

Maybe it's something only women do? I'm curious now to know if any men have their own crayons.

A Walk With My Real Mother

I went for a walk with my mother yesterday. I walked out the back door with the confused imposter who had been living in her body the last few years and ended up with my real mother by the time we circled the building and stopped to rest by the front door.

Her wheelchair supported both of us until I finally let go to sit on the bench. She rode in the seat and I hung onto the handles, gripping a bit tighter than necessary. If the migraine vision stole my balance or my hip dislocated, I could imagine what she might do to herself trying to rescue me, since that's what real mothers do.

We had forty-five minutes to kill before the ambulance would return her to the nursing home. She called it the hospital but I think she knew the difference this time. She needed to pretend, the way I had the week before when I wheeled her to the dining room down the hall and called it taking her out to dinner.

She tucked the surgeon's report between her leg and the side of the chair and used both hands to drink her diet Sierra Mist, screwing the cap back on after each sip. I wondered which excited her more, having a drink in a bottle instead of a Styrofoam cup with a straw, or realizing she had the dexterity to manipulate the cap without help. Her hands looked confident. Maybe she remembered how I had complimented her penmanship when she signed the forms in the office.

She noticed how green the grass was despite the heat, and decided the thumping noise in the distance must be a large construction tool. It must have felt good for her to be outdoors. In the last year, she had been out only to pass from a car or ambulance to whichever railed, motorized bed she would occupy next. She smiled at a little girl passing with her mother, removed the cap to take another drink, and laughed when she realized it was ninety degrees and she was wearing a sweater. People would think she was crazy but she really wasn't even warm.

She remembered I had no air-conditioning in my car and apologized for making me come out. I reminded her I like heat, and said I was glad to be there. She mentioned knowing someone else was supposed to have been in my place and the nurse had to call me, but believed me when I said I wanted to be there.

We talked about the good news from the doctor; the hip had healed and he released her to put all ninety-six of her pounds on it again. In her mind, that meant she could go home soon, and she proved once again that she was in her right mind by telling me in detail all the things she needed to do when she went home.

I reminded her how much she appreciated the nurses and therapists at the hospital, and how she had saved every menu to show me the wonderful meals they served. She said those things were nice but she was still anxious to go home before she got too spoiled to all that pampering.

I wanted the confused imposter to replace my real mother so I could avoid the rest of the conversation. Her eyes met mine and asked for the truth, as no one but a real mother can.

Today, I hope she doesn't remember that I told her the truth.

He Deserves Better

"Come on. He deserves better."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"If you know it, why don't you let him go?"

She releases her hair, lets it fall over her face, stalls, wants to escape his eyes. He holds the pressure, refuses to smile, obviously expects an answer. "I've tried, I've done everything possible to push him away."

"You're breaking him. He really doesn't deserve this pain."

"I really don't deserve this pain, either." Was that defensive, or pitiful? She replays, analyzes, can't decide. "I don't want to be this way."

"He loves you too much."

"I know that." Defensive. No doubt. Too much love is the problem. What can she do with too much?

"I told him to divorce you." He loses the attitude. "Sorry. That's what he needs to do."

Tears. Always tears when she wants them least. "Don't be sorry. I tell him the same."

"Then why do you keep coming back? You confuse him. Give him hope."

"You really don't get it." Screw the tears. She glares back through the steady stream.

Finally, he looks away, sighs, maybe he wants to understand. "Why the hell do you keep hurting him?"

"I always think I can do it this time. One more chance and I'll get it right. But I don't."

He comes back with cold eyes. "I don't like you right now."

"No problem. I don't like me right now."

"You won't change, will you?"

"Someday. Probably not soon enough to save his broken heart."

He acts human, places his hands on her shoulders, and pleads with his eyes. "Let him go."

Her throat closes. She nods.

"Make him hate you so he can move on."

She closes her eyes, doesn't care about the tears that continue to pour, nods again.

"Promise?"

She dies inside, whispers, "Promise."

His hug feels sincere. She walks away, buries her love deeper. He deserves better. She can't handle too much.

Everything Familiar

An eerie absence of everything familiar troubled Poncho, yet he hesitated to move since the bed felt more comfortable than it had in years. He compromised; didn't move a muscle other than to strain an ear and listen for sounds he normally tried to shut out - squawking birds, slamming doors, fights at the school bus stop, and Felix's damned muffler. Nothing. Surely, this lack of pain and annoyance could only mean one thing: he had died in his sleep. What a disappointing state of neither-good-nor-bad death turned out to be.

He opened an eye, found the midmorning sun peeking under the curtain instead of halos or pitchforks, and abandoned the original premise. The early morning sounds were missing because he had slept past them. He wiggled his toes, lifted an arm and leg, and then repeated the routine several times. Considering he had nothing to account for this mysterious relief, he especially appreciated the sensation of movement without pain.

Refusing to question or tempt this gift of luck, he eased from the bed and weighed options. He could use the extra energy to vacuum, or scrub the shower tiles he had neglected for so long. Or, he could capitalize on the emotional lift of having been through death and rebirth, and work on Amy's birthday poem. While making the bed, he decided the carpet and shower tiles could wait for another good day. Thirteenth birthdays only happened once, and didn't wait for anything.

This was a big year for birthdays in the Tranton family. Their baby would hit the teens,
Leonard--always Poncho's baby--would turn forty in April, with his wife following the next month. If all went according to schedule, Poncho would turn seventy before the year ended.

Walking taller than he had in months, Poncho padded to the kitchen and opened the pantry door. He bypassed the frosted mini wheats he would normally have pulled off the bottom shelf and reached up-still pain free-for the tin box on the top shelf, appreciating the heart swell that always accompanied contact with the tin.

He left the blinds closed, the lights off, the television and radio that he normally turned on for company silent, and carried the box to the table. Shielded from intrusion or distraction, he ran a hand over the faded Pansy lid. The picture on the tin was probably out-dated, which meant the matching stationary inside would be as well. That didn't matter; after writing twenty-seven birthday poems on Pansies, he would not break tradition for the sake of style.

The lid popped off easily now. With it came the memories. The week before Leonard was born, Mary had come in from her baby shower with an assortment of bottles, embroidered bibs, diapers, knitted booties and blankets - and one odd tin of Pansy stationary from her Auntie Edna. Incensed when Poncho laughed and suggested that Auntie Edna had finally lost her last marble, Mary informed him that she would write her thank you notes on that paper, making it a most appropriate gift.

Trouble started when Mary adopted a smug attitude and prissed her Pansy tin over to the Formica table she could barely fit her pregnant belly under. She mistook Poncho's smile as more ribbing, when in fact, the only thought in his head was that he had never seen her look more beautiful. Love was also responsible for the bigger smile that had encouraged her to toss the dishtowel at him.

Fixed on her goal, Mary ignored him and returned to her tin. She pulled up one corner of the lid, and another secured itself more tightly on the opposite corner. She rotated corners, turned the tin in every position on the table, held it between her knees and pried the lid with both hands, hit it with her fists, employed the assistance of the bottle opener and pliers. He had reached for the tin, offered to help, several times, but she ignored him.

Poncho held the lid to his chest now and re-ran every expression on her face that night, the emotions he had felt while watching her struggle with that tin, and all the love he had carried for her since.

Mary never got the lid off the tin, nor did Poncho open it to write her thank you notes after she died. He hadn't opened it until years later, when their first granddaughter was born, and he used the first sheet to thank his daughter-in-law for that gift.

He fanned the few remaining sheets. There were enough to cover the birthdays he had left, as long as he didn't get too wordy or mess up. Soon, boyfriends would supply whispers of love to his granddaughters. They would only look to him for wisdom. That wouldn't take much space.
Amy's thirteenth poem came easily, two drafts on the back of a dry-cleaning ad, and one perfect version copied onto Pansy-bordered stationary. While he had the paper out, he wrote a thank you note to Mary for understanding why he had never acknowledged his grief on the anniversary of her death. It was important that Leonard celebrate that date as the day of his birth without being reminded that his life had taken hers.

Poncho placed Mary's note in the bottom of the tin, wiped his eyes with a napkin, and returned the Pansies to the pantry until September, when Priscilla would turn sixteen. He took a deep breath, opened the blinds, and filled the coffeemaker with water, ready to restart his day - filled with everything familiar.

(excerpt from the novel Unlucky Horseshoe, to be published soon)

Strawberry Lane

I spent one of my fifty-one years in a meager apartment on Strawberry Lane, in a rundown business district of a fading neighborhood. The bathtub didn’t hold water and my bedroom window was at ground level, separated from the parking lot by a narrow sidewalk.

Headlights, slamming door, screeching engines, and squealing tires guaranteed interrupted sleep, night or day. Metal closet doors popped off track daily and the olive, apartment-sized stove clashed with the copper refrigerator that required weekly defrosting. The single, unadvertised amenity was a slow draining kitchen sink that provided an excuse to dine out frequently.

I moved on to nicer apartments with matching appliances, walk-in closets, and adequate plumbing and eventually bought my own homes in residential neighborhoods. Still, at the lowest points in my life, I was homesick for Strawberry Lane. Decades later, I finally understand why.

Home is where the heart is. I had sown the seeds of my hybrid heart on Strawberry Lane, when I settled as comfortably into my role as wife and mother as I had been in my role as daughter, and realized I didn’t have to give one up to have the other. I reveled in the one opportunity I had in life to have my cake and eat it too - freedom and independence yet with the security of a husband and extended family to pick me up if I fell. My world was safe, my opportunities endless, and life couldn’t have been better.

It wasn’t the building or neighborhood I longed for when I was homesick for the apartment on Strawberry Lane. I missed the promise life offered while I lived there. Today, I feel the same homesickness for my country.

I long to return to an America that protects me and offers endless opportunity instead of glitzy amenities. I miss the Strawberry Lane America that feeds the hungry, houses the poor, medicates the sick, and hugs the lonely. I want an America where there’s a party in the courtyard at night to make up for the headlights in the bedroom window. I want to have my cake and eat it too, not sacrifice freedom for a façade of security. When I moved to Strawberry Lane, my father didn’t sell my security blanket to buy himself a new golf club. I wish America still loved me the same.

Daddy died of cancer in 1989. The apartment complex on Strawberry Lane burned down in 1992. A bush stole America in 2000. Maybe it isn’t too late to recover the last one.

Uncle Charles Hates Towel-heads and Queers

There I was with fifty years of love and admiration invested when I discovered his love meant nothing at all. What do you do when that happens?

This man had shown up on every holiday, picked me up when I fell, cried when I cried, laughed when I laughed, clapped when I sang, carried my furniture up three flights of stairs, visited me in the hospital, danced with me at my wedding, and dried my tears at funerals. What did that mean if he could just as easily hate other people for no reason?

“Nuke them all,” was the first sign. I thought it was a joke (not a funny one). But he didn’t laugh. “We need to nuke that whole area off the map,” he continued.

He would get over it. He would realize how wrong he was to say that, and regret the confusion that allowed those words to slip between his lips. I had faith in him; he would never truly wish innocent people dead.

But he didn’t take it back. He never did laugh, or apologize. He didn’t catch the splinters of my heart as they scattered in unexplored directions.

Those people became towel heads. He wanted them dead. He said it often and loud.

I heard every possible rationalization for continuing my relationship with him from other family members. He’s family. He’s a good Christian man. He donates time and money to charities. He hasn’t ever done anything to you. He’s entitled to his opinion. Did they agree with him?

“We aren’t taking sides,” they said. “Don’t ask us to.” I wasn’t asking for sides, I was asking them to stand for principles. Everyone should have their own principles and standing for them isn’t taking a side. It’s being real.

As the political climate changed, so did Uncle Charles’ vocabulary. Nigger and queer joined towel head and spic. Uncle Charles hates them all and his ability to hate came as a devastating surprise. I had assumed he loved everyone the same as he loved me. Should I be grateful for the climate that made openly expressing his hatred so comfortable for him, so I’d know the truth? Or was this a case of what I didn’t know didn’t hurt me?

“If you have nothing good to say, don’t say anything,” my mother advised. “He has a right to his opinion.” He has a right to hate people he doesn’t know? I had to think about that. On the surface, it made sense but deeper, where my heart and mind dissected the situation into possibilities, probabilities, and consequences it wasn’t acceptable. Was it my business?

Education was the answer. Somewhere along the way, he had missed some important lessons in Sunday school. He hadn’t absorbed Grandma’s seldom spoken messages of love, and everyone knew he hadn’t read a book in years and watched the news only long enough to catch the sports and weather. I would help by bringing the needed information to him. He was a good man. He’d appreciate my help.

I collected articles and books, and prepared debates and composed scenarios. He didn’t appreciate my effort. He didn’t look or listen. He laughed. “You sound like a damned hippy,” he shouted. “Keep that crap to yourself. You have a heart and a brain. The heart belongs to the church and the brain will get you in trouble if you go twisting what the church teaches this way.”

“Your church doesn’t teach you to love everyone?” I asked. “Don’t they tell you it’s wrong to kill? That’s what nukes do, Uncle Charles. They kill.”

“I’m not killing anyone,” he offered as his final comment.

Uncle Charles didn’t want to talk to me any more. But his kids had plenty to say.
“You need to keep your mouth shut and get along,” one said. “You hurt his feelings,” came from another. My aunt shook her head. “You’ve divided the family with your hatred,” she accused.

My hatred? My mouth? My division? All I had done was try to talk to him about his hatred of innocent people and the death wish his mouth delivered. I was the bad guy?

Pleas came in from everywhere. “The family that prays together stays together. You have to come on Thanksgiving for the sake of the family, and don’t cause trouble,” they warned. “Don’t ruin our holiday with your negativity.”

I tried. I really did. I packed up my children and grandchildren and joined the rest of the family for a day of gratitude and kinship. Uncle Charles said grace. While he thanked God for wealth and health, flashes of starving Iraqi children with blown off limbs distracted me and ruined my appetite. I bowed my head lower, in shame for what my country was doing to other families while we gathered to express gratitude for not suffering the same fate we forced on them. Is that how God planned it? Should I participate in thanking Him for something I believed He wanted no part in?

“Dig in everyone,” brought me out of my trance. “Gramma, what’s a towel head?” delivered me from my quiet.

“It’s a very ugly name some people call others,” I whispered.

“Why?”

“Because they don’t know better,” I explained. “But you do, so don’t ever say that again.”

“Can we teach them better?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

What Uncle Charles didn’t know might not have hurt him, but it did hurt me. When his hatred filtered through his family, and they used it to vote for an administration that would use their uneducated opinions to kill people in my name, they hurt me, they hurt my children and grandchildren, and they hurt innocent people in Iraq and Afghanistan. Do people really have a right to be this ignorant, and demand that I keep my mouth shut?

“Don’t brainwash that baby with your liberal bullshit,” the nearest cousin advised, with the amen of his hypocritical prayer still on his breath. “Towel heads are terrorists who’ll kill us if we don’t kill them first.”

My semi-brainwashed baby’s eyes stretched in fear. “Kill us?”

“Nobody is going to kill us,” I said. “Eat your turkey.”

“Are we going to kill them first?” my grandson asked.

“Do you want mashed potatoes?” I answered.