Hand Her That Wheelchair

The Matron is not yet dead.  She is limping along.     For those readers hanging in-- whether bated breath or low expectations - hang in there.

She'll decide whether to hang up the proverbial hat or wheel into the Home.   Or not.   In sum, the Matron is considering and reconsidering the blog.   It's all about time, folks  And energy - that's it.

And will let you know.

To My Faculty Colleague

The Matron recounted much of this on Facebook and will do so again here, to inform, delight or disturb blog readers who are not her friends on Facebook (yet!).

Open Letter.

Dear Faculty Colleague,

Thursday, you needed to leave the faculty union meeting early.   This meant juggling through a myriad of tightly packed chairs and bodies.    When you got to the two colleagues at my side, you politely said "excuse me" and they did.   But when you came to my chair--the last one, aisle -- you paused to put your hand on the chair and say with venom:   I am SO SORRY that I'm not a size MINUS ZERO like you.  I wish I was but we can't all be FREAKISHLY thin.  I am SO SORRY I'm not super skinny.  I wish I was but I'm not."

Then you shoved my chair in (with me in it), glared, and walked away.

Please know that I would never, ever malign you for being overweight.  Actually, I wouldn't have noticed this without your comments.  Please do know that those of us who are a "minus zero" might have food and body image issues that precisely parallel those that you have -- if you have any (and your hostility makes me think that you do).  We just have different responses.  Same feelings.  I think you know this because your aim was so true.   You meant to wound and knew how -and wound, you did.

 I don't know your name-- and because our encounter left me so stunned (deer in the headlights, actually) -- I probably won't even recognize you, should we meet again.   While I briefly entertained thoughts of revenge and retaliation, these were instantly unsatisfying.   Revenge also requires some degree of energy and pursuit on my part (and would mean learning your name).  

In the end, of course, I realize that participating in whatever cycle of ugly this was won't do me -- or you -- any good.  I don't need to know your name to wish you well -- to wish you freedom from whatever burdens you carry.  No-- I won't take on the pain for you (good try, though) but I hope that your own suffering can be alleviated.   Freedom from suffering.  Peace.

That is a much more satisfying cycle and a better place to live.

Sincerely,

M

Wherein the Matron Treads Dangerous Waters

A couple of years ago, Minnesota Public Radio started -- no, woke up -- the Matron with the "radio journal" of a young Somali man.   Here since a small child, the young man lamented the state of his male elders:   "They sit in coffee shops and gossip all day. They waste their time talking about politics and dreams that evade.  They do nothing while my mothers and sisters and aunties cook, clean, raise the children, and make all the strong decisions.  These women do nothing but work.  For the men in my community, it is quite the opposite.  What kind of role models are these men -- for me?"

It just so happened, yours truly had been spending an inordinate amount of time at a coffee shop central to the Somali community.  The Twin Cities has the largest Somali population outside of that country; most are Muslims.   Because a coffee shop near one of Scarlett's many shows was easy --and the wifi and coffee were strong -- the Matron pretty much took up residence, all but cooking and bathing there.  She certainly slept from time to time.  

She was almost always the only woman.

At first, she didn't really notice.    A frequent ladies room flyer, she delighted in that spot's eternal vacancy:  "what a great place!  The bathroom is always empty!"     The men's room?  Sometimes there was an actual wait!   Sloooooowly she took note.   Part of the coffee shop's appeal was its singular atmosphere:  entirely pleasant, like an African Cheers fueled by caffeine instead of booze.  So nicer.  Everybody knew everybody's name.   There was plenty of hugging and back-slapping, spirited phone calls in the lilt of mystery languages.  There were hours of gesturing, vibrant outdoor conversations over cigarettes and steaming mugs.

And everyone enjoying this good company?  Male.

This didn't really bother the Matron -- even as she fully understood the gender disparities (and yes, she chose that word) that meant the men had the freedom (or leisure?  she wasn't sure) to converse in public all evening while women were nowhere to be seen.  

But that young man's lament for those 'wasted' lives forever changed the Matron's perspective.  From then on, for every man sipping espresso and reading the paper, she imagined the wife, mother, or daughter at home (or all three and their sisters).   Toiling.   She also imagined their young sons, bearing witness.  Yet she also knew that she had just the most marginal grasp on the obstacles the fathers and husbands faced.  Forget  meaningful, interesting work that defines a life or profession.   She's talking obstacles to simple employment.

Tonight, the Matron revisited that environment in a different, nearby cafe -- again, waiting for Scarlett, this time while the daughter indulged her need to be in the audience.    Once again, the Matron was the only woman in the teem and flow of life.   Indeed, she and her trusty laptop landed the very last, most awkwardly positioned table available, which she gratefully snatched up.   Once again, she fully appreciated how little she knew about the lives of these men, how hard the road they traveled.

But something else has transpired since that first coffee shop two years ago and the radio journal.    Before teaching a Gender and Women's Studies class called "Women and Global Issues," the Matron did what any scholar worth her salt would do.  She studied.  Now, academic are supposed to be neutral, objective, reasoned.  But she made a strategic decision to study in order to embrace Islam as a feminist.   Because an unfortunate n internal radar --fueled by very little other than a low grade fog of female suspicion -- had already unfortunately positioned the Matron oh-so-slightly of the opinion that Islam was bad for women.   She took it upon herself to change her mind so that she could demonstrate to her students that Christianity, Judaism, and Islam had comparable restrictions when it came to women:  no better, no worse.

At this point, it may strike the average reader of this blog -- who is trying to get through one damn post in a single glass of wine, thank you -- that a book or documentary might be the only legitimate way to tackle this topic.   Reader?  That would be true.

So she won't even pretend there's anything adequate, thorough or balanced about what's ahead, but cut to her personal chase.

After four months of reading books by and about Islamic feminists, the Matron had a much more acute awareness of her own physical oppression, vulnerability, and objectification as a woman within her own religious and cultural spheres.    She returned anew to Judeo-Christian injustices inflicted upon women and began to think that any woman who had more than three children for religious reasons (no matter what religion) might be good with God but was in serious secular trouble.    Even Buddhism, where her own religious salve resides, took on a more ominous light with its long, male-centered history and wars about which she had previously been unaware.   She left her study with a bitter taste for fundamentalism in all its forms.

After four months of reading books by and about Islamic feminists explaining, delineating, and defending Islam, the Matron also realized that her low grade fog of female suspicion was . . . actually a well-honed survival instinct.   She could not come away in feminism's defense of contemporary Islam  as it is experienced by most practicing women throughout the world, no matter how very, very hard she tried.   Please reread that line:   "as it is experienced by most practicing women throughout the world."   She understands there women are wearing hijabs in operating rooms, board rooms, universities, and political chambers.   You can wear a burqa at Harvard (and yes, she knows she can't wear one in France).  

But her attempt to retrain herself as the feminist cheerleader for Islam?  Total backfire.   Instead, her intellectual foray led her to the conclusion that gender equity relied upon the freedom enjoyed by the physical body. Can life for men and women be equitable (not equal, but equitable) if the rules regarding the body are much more numerous, comprehensive, restrictive, and consequential for one gender than they are for another?  

For this feminist, the answer is no.    The question can be posed to all religions:   what are the rules regarding the body?  Where it can go?  What it can learn? How much autonomy it has?  Can the body just get up and go?  Run?  Fight?   Love?   Choose its sexual partners and number of children?   Remain without scars and mutilation (yes, male and female circumcision in all cultures came under her scrutiny)?   No religion gets a free pass or gold star:  none.  

No matter how she aimed these questions and where, Islam came up far, far short.  She'll say it:  shorter than Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism (her main concerns).   The rules regarding the body are much more numerous, comprehensive, restrictive, and consequential for women than they are for men.  This, for the Matron, was --and remains -- the deal-breaker. Yes, she understood that feminist Muslims found liberation and power within these rules regarding the body; she understood the reverence and devotion to Allah symbolized (embodied) when the body was disciplined, just so in this way and that.  She got it.  But didn't buy it.   No matter how hard she tried.   Because at the end of the day --or backed into a corner -- how free are you if you cannot be the primary agent of your own body and physical space?

So tonight, in her position among the men, she was far less sanguine.  Instead, she noted physical constraints and conditions  long, fluid, and flexible enough to accommodate the man who lifted his bare face to that all too fleeting Minnesota summer sun.

She made a point of doing the same and wondered where that young journalist was now.   Had he graduated from college and found that meaningful life for which he longed?  Was he paving a different path for the next generation of men, the ones who would also have mothers, sisters, and wives?  Of course, she knows nothing about this young man's whereabouts or fate.  But she is very glad that he's out there and hopes he has a lot of like-minded friends.  Both men and women.

Bad Behavior

The Matron was recently pondering her bad behavior  --and, logically, thought she would make this public.

1.  See above

2.  It is her practice -- not occasional lapse -- to drive with both the windows open AND the air conditioning on.

3.   When one of her children proves particularly irksome, she waits until the offenders turns his/her back and then sticks out her tongue, wags her fingers, and makes third-grade faces.   Extreme cases mean that she will also wiggle her butt for a full body flail.

4.  It is not unusual for her to literally sweep dirt under the rug.   But only when ennui renders the dust pan untenable.

5.  Fits of a certain someone's anger can - not always or even frequently, but predictably  -- result in broken household items costing less than $20:   old clocks, glasses, tape dispensers.   Mostly here the Matron feels vindicated that at least a financial rule is involved.

6.   See #5.  The Matron feigns shock--SHOCK-- if the broken item is uncovered.  She is brilliant at scratching her head with her husband, puzzling over what could have possibly have happened.

7.  Without fail, mid-semester finds the Matron fabricating Important Meetings immediately following her on-campus classes, freeing her from onerous interpersonal engagement with students.

8.  She believes and acts on the premise that it is possible to telepathically command other drivers to do what she deems right -- even if this means tailgating just to make sure that message is getting through.

9.   If you are a member of her immediate family and turn your back on a plate of food holding something she thinks particularly delectable?  It's her.

10.  Knowing that her germ-a-phobic children believe that one wisp of someone else's lips on a glass makes it toxic, the Matron sometimes takes a nice big secret slurp out a beverage she brings them.   Just as a memento to all those fluids she and they have already exchanged.

Closing Her Eyes and Taking that Leap: Faith

The Matron is not well known for her risk taking skills.

The most daring thing this middle-aged mama has done, of late, is dog sit for a puppy.   Yes, a wilder streak in her youth led her to Prince Charming, but after Initial Impulse died down, nearly 22 years of staid and steady spun out of that dalliance.

That's a whole lot of steadiness, folks.

But the Matron turned 50 last November.   This means that the next birthday -- just four months away - makes her 51.  And so on.   The time for reflection, coupled with a hearty dose of panic, has passed.  It is time to move forward before time runs out.  

Part of moving forward led the Matron to mark that fiftieth with a physical challenge, something she was certain she could not do:   thirty 90-minute Bikram Yoga classes in thirty days.     But she did it, side-by-side all the 26 year olds and their nubile skin.   Yes, there was more sagging on her end of the mat --psychological and otherwise -- but she emerged 30 days and 30 classes, later.

Friends?  That felt good.   She didn't move any mountains -- just her scrawny little ass - but that sense of movement fueled cells and spirits in ways she hadn't anticipated.     The most informative element of the endeavor -- for the narrowly planned, highly-wrought Matron -- was the absolute lack of 'planning' involved.   She signed up quite nearly on a whim -- without even thinking.

Just like how she jumped into the fire with her beloved and didn't really 'decide' whether or not to have children.

Here was the conversation about whether or not to have a baby.  John and Youngish Miss are four months into their marriage, four years into their co-housing/love relationship, and four sips away from finishing a second bottle of wine.

Youngish Miss:   "We haven't really, seriously talked about whether or not we should have children."

John:  "Nope.  We haven't."

Youngish Miss:  "On one hand, if we don't, I might regret it.  On the other, I'm not particularly fond of children."

John:  "Me too, both counts."

Youngish Miss:  "Let's not use birth control -- this one night -- and if I get pregnant, then that's REALLY A SIGN that it's meant to be.  One time and all.  If not, then we're DESTINED to not have children."

All John gleaned from this edifying discourse was that sex was involved.  He was a definite yes.

A few weeks later, Youngish Miss was on the phone with her beloved, weeping over their rash behavior.   Still.   She had that baby.   Because the foundation of that impulse was stronger than whimsy:  there was desire she wasn't yet able to fully articulate or recognize.   Intuition knew it was there.

In retrospect, the Matron understands now that many of her best decisions -- her marriage, graduate school, children, house she lives in -- were what other people might call impulsive.   When asked to get a doctorate in English by that department's chair, she just said yes without as much as blinking.   When John asked if she wanted to buy their current house and sign on for complete upheaval, she said yes without thinking things 'through.'

She had neither planned on getting a doctorate or moving.

Yes.

She's doing it again -- saying yes.  This time?

To South Africa.

Yours truly recently spent five spa-like, dreamy days at a work conference in Atlanta:   king-size bed, room service, work-out room, pool, bar and restaurant.  If there is heroin for a middle-aged working mother of three (who is afraid of drugs and legal problems), it is called the Crowne Plaza.   When the Matron signed on to learn more about "faculty development" and "instructional design" (basically, learning how to help college professors be the best teachers they can be with the latest tricks and tools) all she could think was:  five days!  Five nights!  Alone!

She sorta, kinda, nearly forgot about attending that actual conference itself!  When the moment came -- someone from the Crowne Plaza's perfectly anonymous front desk rang her wake up call and she actually had to go to WORK -- the Matron was slightly disoriented.   She'd forgotten about attending the conference itself in the heady anticipation of amenities alone.

Turns out that nearly every minute of the conference offered her something rich, rewarding, and new.  She learned enough in the first two hours to feel like she'd already justified the college's substantial dime --and then spent the next five days repeating that experience.    She met amazing people and had rich, personal, and professional discourse into the wee hours; she did nothing but feed her psyche, soul, and intellect.

Along the way, over the course of those fives days, came the decision that wasn't a decision but a 'yes' without thinking or blinking?  A woman with the authority and pocketbook to make this happen invited the Matron to come to South Africa for a year -- during her 2014 sabbatical (starting next summer) -and help a certain university gain firmer footing in online teaching, an area in which the Matron herself excels.

  South African University Administrator:  " I would love for you to come and teach us to teach online!"

Matron:  "I'd love to!"

This transpired at midnight; the conference ended the following morning.   The important --and lovely -- South African administrator left early, early in the morning for her 18 hour flight home.    The Matron woke, once again disoriented and uncertain.

That was one tenuous invitation -- a few last minutes before the two women, who spent most of the conference side-by-side-- parted ways.   It was a complex invitation as it extended to the Matron's family as part of the complete package, invited.   The Matron understood that she could drop this thin thread and never contact that administrator -- lovely as she was -- again and forget the complete Upheaval and absolute Complication that even attempting to make this happen would involve.

She opened her computer and sent an email:   "I would very much like to work with your faculty."

Many, many issues remain unresolved -- including approval from her own college -- but the important, life-affirming energy is in the 'yes' itself, regardless of outcome-- trusting the impulse that has brought her life's greatest surprises and gifts.

The CV and cover letter will be in the administrator's hands by July 15th.   When asked if that was enough time, the Matron said:  "yes."  

 Because it is indeed, precisely, time itself that this 50 year old woman is considering.  





~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

And 'yes' -- she will be bringing the younger two children and seeing what happens with HWCBN and college.  John's ability to leave his work for a year, uncertain.   She will keep you posted on the outcome and the yes!

Actual Family Dynamic

Fishing from the pontoon boat? Of course!  The Matron and her family are at a cabin.

John: "I'm afraid to fish because everybody's going to argue about whether or not to kill it or throw it back in."

Merrick (thoroughly alarmed): "You were going to KILL a FISH?"

John: "See?"

Matron:   "Don't be silly. It will be fine."

John actually does catch a large fish -- maybe a carp? He knew, yours truly can't remember but DOES remember the screaming that ensued when the thing was dangling from the hook.

John: "Get the basket! Big enough for dinner!"

He might have said "let us murder all small children." Complete mayhem. Imagine all voices, top pitch.

Scarlett (already almost weeping): "Dad! He's gasping!!! Throw him back in!!!"

Merrick: "HIS NAME IS BUTTERBALL!!!! PUT BUTTERBALL HOME!"

Stryker: "My God, Dad. You're not seriously considering killing that poor thing are you?"

Butterball was returned to his murky home water.

John to wife: "Effective parenting or maternal indoctrination?"

Matron: "Careful. There's some algae on your leg that you might be smothering."

Matronly Malaise

a middle-aged witch, me --
tangled on my two great arms,
my face in a book
and my mouth wide,
ready to tell you a story or two
                      (Anne Sexton, Transformations)


One must be just the right mood to fully appreciate Anne Sexton and her permanent perch in the gallows.    It is the kind of mood best accompanied by a photo of a caged plastic doll and a bottle glass of cheap red wine.

And maybe a cheesecake.

The Matron finds herself just so.

From time to time, she is visited with a peculiar --quite specific -- malaise.  For the past few days, said state hinted and lisped, ebbed and surged, only to settle in today.

Nothing fits quite right:  her jeans are too, well, jean-like.   Yesterday's pert hair now hangs limp.  No book holds her attention and the play she is supposed to be penning for a local theater torments her from its unopened Microsoft Word file.    She yawns and rolls her eyes at students' online questions.  Stupid!

She knew it was going to be bad on Saturday while preparing for a lovely dinner party that she her fine self was hosting.   Whenever a guest texted or called to query "what should I bring" or "remind me of the time?" her immediate internal reaction was:  F- you.

These are people she likes.   Invited to her house, even.

The children are oppressive.   Life goals?  Laughable.    

There are too many dogs in the house.   In addition to her own two, she is currently dog-sitting her mother-in-law's.

He is 8 months old and a terror.  

Everywhere the Matron turns, there is yip, yip, yip.  The borrowed dog eats garbage.   His favorite toy is toilet paper, garnered mid-swipe (yes). The other two dogs have wood ticks.   Scarlett wants to go to Target, the library, Punch Pizza, and then a friend's house culminating in a 12:00 am pick-up.   Merrick is bored, a fact which requires much repetition and renewal "I'm bored.   Mom!  What can I DO?"    HWCBN says nothing from the sanctuary of his room until he emerges with complex requirements for cross-country college visits and immediate, equally-complex adult-level application issues for various scholarships and adult endeavors.  That must be done now.

Before anyone calls an emergency number, the Matron understands --and is grateful for -- the transitory nature of her intolerance toward . . . well, life.     This happens now and again, perhaps once, twice a year and inhabits her for a day, maybe three.  She is willing -- determined, even -- to call this malaise existential.

Being alive is to be awake, hungry, grateful, anxious, uncertain, elated.  Unsettled.  Temporary.  Yearning.

For no tidy reason or narrative, this is where the Matron sometimes resides.   Where she is now and, a psychological space from which she will -- according to life's transient and temporary rules -- also depart.    

Oddly, perhaps, yours truly is grateful for --and even oddly appreciates -- these underbelly moments.    She is glad to be a full spectrum participant, from Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath to . .. well, Garrison Keillor and Billy Collins.    Fog lifts and generally, there is sun.

After all, she named her one and only daughter Scarlett:  "Tara.  Home.  I'll go home and I'll think of some way to get him back.  After all, tomorrow is another day."

Now, pass the cheesecake.