Neighbors...

Walking home from my appointment at dusk.  Walking down my street, in my neighborhood, on my block.  Group of kids in front of me, walking slowly, taking up the sidewalk.  I walk around them, between the parking meters and the parked cars.  Passing the tiny girl up front, she yells at me, "You best say 'escuse me!'  I got kids here!  An' you don't say 'escuse me??'"  I hadn't bumped into her.  Hadn't touched her at all.  Her kids, a boy and girl about five or six years old, were on the other side of her from me; I was nowhere near them.  She hadn't had to so much as move an inch to avoid me at all.  I had simply walked around her.  And now she's angrily demanding an apology from me, as if I had done something inexcusably rude.  Never in my life has anyone ever said "excuse me" for simply walking past me.  For bumping into me, or getting in my way, certainly.  But not for simply walking by.  Nor has anyone in my entire life ever expected me to excuse myself or apologize simply for walking around them.  She's deliberately provoking me.  And I don't understand why.  I haven't done anything wrong.  But I'm suddenly very aware that each of these kids is black, and I am white.  And this confrontation we're having is our neighborhood, to the core.  This is our home.

I've lived in my neighborhood for over fifteen years now.  This girl staring me down with angry eyes looks to only be about twenty, give or take five years.  It's possible that I was living here before she was even born.  I went to school in this neighborhood when I was a child.  I feel like this is as much my home as hers.  But she has no way of knowing this.  This has been a traditionally black neighborhood for over a hundred and fifty years.  Back then, it was the Freemen's quarter; the first people to settle on this particular piece of ground were freed slaves.  This has been a black neighborhood from the very first brick.  But a few years ago, it started to get very, very gentrified.  Rich, white developers came in and swooped up cheap properties, fixed them up with marble counter-tops and hardwood floors and halogen track lights.  Sold them to rich, white hipsters who wanted to live close to the burgeoning downtown bar scene.  Back then, I was the only white person living in my apartment complex.  Developers bought it and turned it into a condo.  We all got letters saying we needed to buy our apartments or find someplace else to live.  I bought mine.  Everyone else left.  And since then the neighborhood has been this uneasy mix of poor black living side-by-side with rich white.  And I've seen it.  Seen exactly this happening before.  But this is the first time I've experienced it myself.  She doesn't know me anymore than I know her.  We're both making assumptions about each other.  She has no way of knowing that I went to school around the corner, or that I've lived on this block my entire adult life.  All she sees is another doughy white, nerdy-looking hipster who had the fucking nerve to walk too close to her without showing her proper respect.

Things escalate very quickly.  "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be rude.  I just walked around you."  "You best watch who you talkin' to 'for I smack yo' fat ass!"  There's no good way to respond here.  What am I supposed to do?  Fight these kids?  Let them beat me up?  Why?  So they can feel better about themselves?  So I can feel better about feeling better than them?  And there's clearly no reasoning with someone who, within a matter of seconds, is willing to resort to threats of physical violence with someone twice her size for something as minor as stepping around them.  Talking about it any further is clearly pointless.  There's no reasoning with a bully.  I learned that lesson the hard way, long ago.  No choice but to simply end this as quickly and quietly as possible.  I turn and walk away.  To more taunts and threats thrown at my back.  Victory cheers for having driven out the interloper, the outsider.  For having proved her strength and dominance to the rest of the tribe.  For having earned back the respect I somehow stripped her of by walking past her.  I'm instantly ten years old again.  On the playground again.  Having my dignity stolen by a pack of fifth grade delinquents again.  Being called "fat ass" again.  Feeling like an outcast again.  Feeling scared again.  For the first time in fifteen years, I feel scared in my own neighborhood.  For the first time ever, I feel like this isn't my home, and never will be.  I will never be welcome here.  I let them make me feel like an outsider in my own neighborhood.  I let these kids make me feel scared in my own home.  I don't feel like I had any choice.  And there's some part of me that feels I deserve it.

Requiem For A Snowflake...

Dear mother, Dear father
What is this hell
you have put me through?
Believer, deceiver
Day in, day out
Lived my life through you
Pushed onto me
what's wrong or right
Hidden from this thing
that they call life

Dear mother, Dear father
Every thought
I'd think you'd disapprove
Curator, dictator
Always censoring
my every move
Children are seen
but are not heard
Tear out everything inspired

Innocence
torn from me
without your shelter
Barred reality
I'm living blindly

Dear mother, Dear father
Time has frozen still
What's left of me?
Hear nothing, say nothing
Cannot face the fact
I think for me
No guarantee
it's life as-is
But damn you
for not giving me my chance

Dear mother, Dear father
Clipped my wings
before I learned to fly
Unspoiled, unspoken
I've outgrown
that fucking lullaby
Same thing
I've always heard from you
do as I say
not as I do

I'm in hell without you
Cannot cope without you two
Shocked at the world that I see
Innocent victim
Please rescue me

Dear mother, Dear father
Hidden in your world
you've made for me
I'm seething
I'm bleeding
Ripping wounds in me
that never heal
Undying spite
I feel for you
Living out this hell
you always knew...

NO!

                    -"Dyer's Eve"
                      Metallica

Blurberry...

No internet at home for the next few weeks, while the computer's in the shop.  (That's why this is my first post since Friday.)

No time to post at work today, or in the foreseeable future.  Several urgent projects to work on, plus they're swapping out my machine on Wednesday for a new one with a new operating system that I don't know how to use (Windows 7).  So, setting that up is going to take a day or two, at least.

So many things I want to talk about:
          -my horrible weekend trying (and failing) to fix and re-format both of my laptops
          -tomorrow's Transit of Venus (last one until 2117!)
          -my new workout (started back with the weights this morning; "Arms. Like. NOODLES!")


This really fucking sucks.  But I don't think there's anything I can do about it.  So I guess I need to just accept it.  And if I can do that, then the Brightside would be, enjoying the small, measure of relaxation and freedom afforded me by this temporary reprieve from my computer, and the internet, and my writing responsibilities.

"Make the most of it."

Confessions #3...

"Is it really mine??"

She was curled up in the fetal position on her bed, a mattress on the floor, hiding her head under her pillow.  This tiny, terrified little girl, trying to hide from me the way a child might.

"Is it MINE?!" I screamed, again, as though the volume of my voice could somehow force her to answer me.

We'd been together for four years, since my sophomore year of high school; an eternity at that age.  She had recently moved out of her parents' house and into this tiny, barely furnished basement apartment across the street from our old high school.  Her roommate, a mutual male friend of ours, had just told me they'd been "screwing for the past month."

"Fucking TELL ME, goddammit!"  She curled up tighter and pulled the pillow closer around her head.  I could hear her muffled sobbing.  I have to admit, it made me feel a little better.

She'd told me she was pregnant a couple of weeks earlier, as we'd sat parked in her car, waiting out a rainstorm.  Even though we'd only had sex once in the month leading up to that, I still just naturally assumed it was mine.  After all, she wasn't having sex with anyone else.  And why else would she bother telling me if it wasn't mine?

She told me she was going to "get rid of it."  I could feel a part of me break when she said that.  At the same time, we weren't married, weren't ready to marry, weren't living together, didn't have jobs, and I had just failed my freshman year of college; we were hardly ready to be parents.  And I didn't really feel like I had much say in the matter, either.

"How are you going to do it?" I asked, as the rain beat down on the car all around us.  "Do you need my help?"

"No, I know what to do.  I looked it up in my book of remedies.  There's an herb, and I have to make a tea out of it and drink a bunch of it, and that'll make me bleed it out."

That sounded horrific to me.  "Wouldn't you rather just go to a doctor?"

"I can't afford a doctor.  And I don't want my parents to find out.  Plus, this method is supposed to be safer, and less painful."

"TELL ME, YOU FUCKING BITCH!!  IS THAT MY BABY YOU'RE KILLING OR NOT?!!"

The next day she bought a vial of Oil of Pennyroyal from our local Wiccan shop.  The concentrated oil was incredibly pungent.  As she infused a dropper full into a cup of hot water, the sickly-sweet aroma filled every corner of the tiny apartment.  It smelled like mildew and peppermint.  It was enough to make you gag, and there was nowhere to go to get away from it.

She drank two cups of the "tea" every day for the next two weeks.  Within a day, the smell began to ooze from her pores, mixing with the smell of her sweat.  If anything, that smell was even worse, like moldy garlic, with an astringent note mixed in, something halfway between nail-polish remover and hairspray.  It was nauseating.  I couldn't even stand to be in the same room with her.

Even if it hadn't smelled so strong, and so horribly, I don't know if I'd have been able to stand it.  Because that smell was the smell of my first child being murdered.  It was the bloody death of my son or daughter violently assaulting my senses.  And I guess in that way, it was almost fitting.  It would've seemed wrong somehow if it had smelled pleasant.  No, of course it had to smell like boiled death.

For the record, I was, and am, pro-choice.  I believe everyone has a right to make up their own mind on this issue, and I do not judge anyone for the choice they make.  If a woman has an abortion, at any point, and for any reason, I do not consider it the murder of a baby.  But I found it was easy to accept these things in the abstract, when they were about other people, and other babies.  I soon discovered I felt very differently when it was suddenly about my baby.

The tincture of pennyroyal made her horribly sick.  She bled constantly, and was bent double with vicious cramps for days.  She had trouble keeping food down.  She would get sudden fevers.  She couldn't sleep.  Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would hallucinate.

I felt just as sorry for her as I did for myself, and for our unborn child.  It just seemed to go on and on and on.  I felt like this had to be worse than just going to a doctor and getting it over with.  But now it was too late for that.  I alternately tried to comfort her, and ignore her.  I stayed away from the apartment for days at a time, going out to get high with my friends, trying to forget what was going on in that tiny, damp little basement room.  I couldn't even begin to figure out how to deal with what I was feeling.  And while part of me wanted to take care of her and try to help her, another part of me hated her for what she was doing.

But then, after she'd been drinking the pennyroyal tea for almost two weeks, the oil almost gone, her roommate had casually confessed their affair to me, and all the nebulous, sickening things I was feeling crystallized into a razor-edged rage.  First, there was the sense of betrayal - they'd both been lying to me for at least a month now.  They'd been fucking behind my back.  And how could I be so stupid as to not see it!  But then came the realization:  we'd only had sex the one time over a month ago (her recent and sudden lack of sexual interest in me suddenly making sense).  But she'd been having sex with him repeatedly during that same month.  So how could she possibly think the baby was mine??  But, of course, she didn't think it was mine.  She knew it was his; they both knew it was his.  They just let me believe it was mine.  They just let me suffer through all of that, for nothing.

Because it was easier to just let me believe she was killing my child, than it was to admit that they were fucking behind my back.

I kicked open the door to her bedroom and screamed at her, "You've been fucking HIM?!"

"Oh, God, no!" she screamed, and curled up fetal, hiding her head under her pillow.  I continued to scream at her, getting louder and more angry, demanding to know if it was my child.  She wouldn't even acknowledge me, which only infuriated me more.  She just kept hiding in that ridiculously childish way, as if she could make me disappear simply by hiding her head long enough.

Finally, I'd had enough, and I grabbed her pillow and blanket and flung them across the room.  She covered her head with her hands, but I grabbed her arms and pinned them down on her bed.  Straddling her, holding her down, I screamed into her face, "IS IT FUCKING MINE?!!"

"NO!  IT'S NOT FUCKING YOURS!!  OK?!!"

...

I don't know what I expected her to say.  I guess it was more about forcing her to tell me the truth.  But, the thing is, to this day, I still don't know if she really was telling me the truth or not.  I don't know if she even knew the truth.  She'd lied to me about so many things by that point; she'd been lying to me for almost our entire relationship.  I can do the math, and I know that, statistically speaking, it almost certainly wasn't mine.  But, she said they'd used condoms.

And we hadn't.

So I still can't help but wonder.

And I know that I'll never know the answer - no one will ever know the answer - and that the numbers are on his side, so there's really no point in speculating.

But, if that's true, then why am I still thinking about it, all these years later?

Life on Mars?!...

"Scientists have discovered life on Mars."

Dozing on the couch early this morning, between snooze alarms, I hear that sentence come from the newscast on my television, and I am instantly awake.  My eyes pop open and I sit bolt-upright, throwing the blanket off my chest.

"Scientists are now saying they believe a lander sent over 30 years ago actually did discover life on Mars.  Now, this isn't the little-green-men kind of life, but they say they have found evidence of biological activity on the Red Planet.  In other news..."

"That's IT?!"

I'm all at once astounded, amazed, and outraged. We found life on another fucking planet - and not just any other planet, but one of the closest planets to us - and it gets a less-than-10-second blurb between the Weather and the latest update on the Gingrich "campaign"?  What the fuck is wrong with that picture?!

Finding life on Mars is a HUUUGE deal!  Astronomically huge, you could say, pun completely intended.  Because, first of all, finding any life anywhere else would change everything we now know about our place in the universe.  It would change the entire outlook of every single religion practiced by humanity!  For the first time in the entire history of life on Earth, we would know that we are not alone!  So, yeah, kind of a big deal.

But then to find life on Mars, specifically, would increase the importance of that discovery by an order of magnitude.  Because it could mean one of two things:  either, A) life actually began on Mars, and later traveled to Earth, essentially changing our entire concept of the origin of our species (for instance, a large asteroid slams into Mars, blowing chunks of it out into space, which later hit Earth as meteorites [we've already found Martian-meteorites in Antarctica]; and some of the bacteria or other organisms on some of those Martian-meteorites could've survived the trip, essentially becoming "seeds" that later flowered in our environment); or B) if life actually formed on two-out-of-eight planets in our incredibly-ordinary-solar-system - if we found evidence of a second genesis right next-door to us - then life must be incredibly common in the universe.

So hopefully you can understand why I'm a little upset that they didn't think this story warranted more than just a headline.

I have to know more.  So I grab my laptop and start searching the news feeds.  Doesn't take long to find an article that goes into a lot more depth.  And I'm disappointed (though, I hate to say, not surprised) to discover that once again, the media has simultaneously dumbed-down and overblown another science story.

No one has discovered any life on Mars.  The actual story, beyond the sensational headline, turns out to be that a team of mathematicians took another look at the hard-copy data of the soil samples taken by the two Viking landers back in 1976.  They analyzed these numbers to determine their level of complexity, using a new theory that biological systems are much more complex than non-biological ones.  And, using this new theory, they found data that was so complex, that they believe the only explanation is that it shows evidence of biological life-forms.

So, at most, what they've actually discovered is evidence of the possibility of some sort of biology on Mars, at some point.  Hardly the same thing as finding "life on Mars."  But then on top of that, this mathematical-complexity-theory of biological systems that they've based all of their findings on, hasn't even been proven to work on Earth!  So all of their findings are based on a method that they haven't even proven yet!

How in the fuck do you get from "mathematicians have used an unproven theory on 36 year-old data to suggest the possibility that life may have existed on Mars at some point" to "Scientists have discovered life on Mars?!"

Unfortunately, this is something I see time and again from the mainstream news media.  They did it with the whole "Large Hadron Collider May Create Black Hole and Destroy Earth" story (no, it won't).  And they did it again recently with the "Scientists Have Discovered Particles Traveling Faster Than Light" story (no, they didn't).  They never report actual scientific findings.  Instead, at the barest hint of only the most sensational stories (black holes gobbling up the planet, speed-of-light barrier broken, life on Mars, etc.) they jump all over it, remove anything resembling context, evidence, or truth, and splash the tabloid-esque headline across the front page or the evening newscast:  "Bat Boy Found on Mars Travelling Faster Than Light!  'Trying to Destroy Earth,' Say 'Scientists'!"

Ugh.

It's mornings like this that I weep for my species.

< /nerdrant >

Hurt...

I faced a big test today.  And I failed it.

I started a fight with Her.  I had a pretty good idea how she'd respond, and I had a pretty good idea that I wouldn't like it, but I set her up, anyways.  I served her the line, and she hit it back to me in the exact way I knew she would, and then I got mad at her for it.  Her response was hurtful, true, but I shouldn't have gotten angry with her for it.  And I definitely shouldn't have yelled at her for it.  Especially since I saw it coming from a mile away.  I knew it was coming, so I had every opportunity to prepare myself to respond appropriately.  But I didn't.

Instead, I yelled at her, and hurt her back.  I failed.  I failed Her, and I failed myself.

When someone I care about hurts me (which is redundant - I can't be hurt by someone I don't already care about first), I don't actually feel hurt.  Because feeling hurt is a vulnerable feeling; a weak feeling.  Instead, I skip straight over "hurt" and go right to "angry."  Because "angry" is a strong feeling - a powerful feeling.  When someone hurts me, I feel attacked by them.  And so I respond by attacking them right back.  I stand up for myself.  I defend myself.  The last thing I'm going to do in that situation is roll over and expose my belly and take it, suck it up, allow them to continue hurting me.  This behavior was ingrained in me by years of childhood abuse, at the hands of people I cared about - my mother, especially, but also the childhood bullies, who were invariably the "cool kids" that I wanted so much to like me.  But that's an explanation, not an excuse.  Knowing why I do it doesn't make it okay.

Because this behavior hurts the people I care about.  And there's just no reason for it.  I'm hurt and I'm scared.  I'm hurt by what you did, and I'm scared that you can hurt me.  What's wrong with that?  Why can't I just say that?  Why can't I just feel that?  Why do I have to jump straight to this macho "You can't hurt me!" place, like you're some asshole bully trying to make me feel like I'm nothing - like I'm completely powerless - as though you weren't, in reality, someone I care very deeply for, who means a great deal to me, and who simply made a mistake?

I'm trying.  That's all I can do.  I'm trying.  I really am.

I didn't recognize what I was doing in the moment, and in that I failed.  I allowed myself to fall back into old, destructive habits, and in that I failed.  I hurt Her, and in that I failed.  But as soon as it was over - as soon as we walked away - I looked back at everything I had said and done, and it all became clear to me.  And I immediately apologized for it.  Before now, I would've held onto that anger, allowed it to fuel my sense of self-righteousness.  But today, almost the instant it began to wane, I let it all go.  And I allowed myself to feel, simply, hurt.  It's far from perfect, but it's still an undeniable improvement.

I'm not giving myself any credit for this here.  I still failed, and I still have a lot of work to do.  I'm just trying to take an honest assessment of myself.  Nothing is entirely good, and nothing is entirely bad.  Everything is both good and bad.  I failed, but I learned.  I hurt her, but I quickly realized my mistake and stopped doing it.  And next time, I will try to do better.

That's all I can do.