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Love, I Salute You

Posted on February 23, 2014 by yetanothersinglegal

I am one of those “late bloomers” who showed up to dating substantially tardy. In high school, a combination of about 50 extra pounds,  a jheri curl and an uncontrollable habit of waxing poetic about books in the middle of conversations about singers and TV stars forfeited my already lackluster game in the girlfriend competition. College was overwhelming on so many levels that the thought of embarking on a journey that others had begun years before me seemed both frightening and ridiculous. Post college, when I threw myself into the dating pool, I did what I had done when I was barely 10 and my father threw me into Lake Pontchartrain and TRIED to teach me how to swim. I thrashed wildly about as if the water which barely covered my head would take away my last breath before finally giving up and laying my substantial bulk on the water’s surface, content that if I were in a “drowning situation” as my father said, I could be saved by my stellar floating skills.

I supply this background into my romantic history because I have found myself in my first long term relationship. I am 38 years old. When The Yankee and I hit our 3 year mark this summer, I will be 39. 

Because I have always been a self-motivated over acheiver, I am genuinely surprised at myself for taking for granted the many life skills I could have been strengthening through a healthy, loving relationship. Somewhere in between my mid 20s to now, I became so accustomed to my life as a curious adventurer who pursued each and every arbitrary whim those gemini twins whispered into my ear that I never even thought to cultivate my other self. The self who shifts her priorities for a partner. The self who not only willingly cares for a lover, but relishes such a duty.

Today, I had a revelation that surprised me. Not only would I make a really good wife, I would probably enjoy being one.

I chuckled when this occured to me. I have never been anti-marriage; I just honestly never spent much time thinking about it. I attended numerous weddings throughout my 20s and 30s with no other thought than, “I am so happy for my friends.” I have spent time with married couples and even babysat their children feeling no other emotion than gratitude that I could hang out with happy people and their hilarious offspring. So, today as I sauteed pork chops and contemplated the two other meals I would make so the Yankee and I could have wholesome lunches at work, I was truly surprised at how happy it made me. I thought about how often I think about us – not just me – but US. At this point it comes rather naturally for me to stop in the drugstore to pick up something that I know he will need and to text him, asking him to bring me something I didn’t feel like stopping at the store to get. There is something to be said for having help. Those few times in the past I had thought about having  a husband, my mind immediately went to how much easier my life in a metropolis like New York City would likely be if there were another income I could utilize.  Now that I am in a partnership, I feel the most secure when I know someone else will bring in toilet paper because I for damn sure am not going back out to get it.  

I am grateful for THIS love in my life at THIS time. Because I have consistently developed into a more compassionate human who is able to tame her ego, I truly believe 38 year old Keturah is much better equipped to nurture a relationship of this magnitude. When I think back to the frightened, arrogant gatekeeper I was just 10 years ago, I am actually surprised that I managed to break 6 months in a relationship. This post is not so much a salute to love as it is to my decision to awaken to it. For while The Yankee is truly a wonderful boyfriend, had I not chosen to develop the skills that are crucial to love properly, this post would not exist. And neither would my first long term relationship. 

 

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Narratives That Give Love a Bad Name

Posted on December 28, 2013 by yetanothersinglegal

Ever since I was a girl, I’ve fantasized about seeing the world. Even when I was a pre-teen, I knew that by seeing the world, I did not mean vacaying in swanky resorts that felt like a night at the downtown Hilton in any nondescript American city and going on cruises, choosing the snorkeling excursion to add some adventure. As an avid reader, my imagination ran wild and when I played that “what do you want to be when you grow up” game in my head, I knew my life would involve leaving American borders for extended periods of time, if not forever. Something has happened to me these last several months. Perhaps, it is because I am looking at a solid decade at a wonderful job which I love in the best city in the country, but I am also beginning to feel the soft legs and mushy muscles of a woman too comfortable and in need of challenge. Perhaps it is because I am gleefully approaching 40 and realizing that this grand number warrants a grand life shift to accompany it. I have decided that instead of the vague “sometime in the future when the time is right” non-deadline, NOW is the ideal time to put my childhood dream into adulthood reality. Around late October, I decided to take baby steps along the way to the next phase of Keturah: global citizenship.

I set an ultimate move date: Summer of 2015. Picked an area of the globe that spoke to my heart: Africa, with specific focus on South Africa, Ghana or Ethiopia. As part of my plan, I spoke this goal into being – telling friends about my impending move and networking with colleagues who could be helpful in job searches. I have even plotted out my auditioning of countries where I’d like to live, planning a trip to Ghana in July with the possibility of exploring other countries in West Africa as well. I’ve picked the brains of numerous Africans – both living in Africa and here in New York City – and spoken with Black Americans who have travelled extensively across the continent. By speaking this almost reality into existence, I have already felt the soft gauze of lethargy and monotony float from my person. I am excited about my move even though it is almost two years away.

Out of all of the conversations I’ve had these last few months, the ones that have been the most revealing are chats I’ve had with friends about “What will you do with your man?” I’ve explained to friends that while The Yankee and I are definitely in love, neither one of us feels that this love is necessitated by marriage. Since we are staying together, we obviously are perfectly content with the status of the relationship and have talked about revisiting and reexamining it when the time comes. Like me, The Yankee is also fighting his way out of inertia right now. He, too, has just begun a new journey in his life. His journey is not necessarily tied to a move to another continent. In two years, it still may not be, either. With that said, I’ve shared with friends that my move to Africa is imminent. It is a pivotal step in the next phase of Keturah. It will happen. I would prefer it happened with The Yankee. But, it will happen regardless of him.

Saying this in the presence of women “of a certain age” has been a little unsettling. When I have calmly spoken about planning my life around my desires and those desires are not attached to what will or will not become of my romantic relationship, I have been startled by some of the love narratives on which many women base their decisions about relationships.

Love Narrative #1: The Ring Trumps EVERYthing (and I do mean every single other thing that you, as a woman of a “certain age,” should want for your life)

“What if The Yankee proposed to you in 6 months?” My friend, Theresa, asked me this bizarre question after I had spent a good 15 minutes explaining how important this move was to me and how not fulfilling it would leave me with a sense of discontent.

“Huh?” I truly was baffled by this question.

“I’m saying, what if he asked you to marry him because he wanted you to stay and create a life with him? Would you still go?”

While the sentiment in this question is one of genuine love of a man for his woman, if you truly examine it, the implication is a bit insulting. So, what if your man wanted you so badly that he had to stop you from fulfilling a significant goal in order to keep you? I mean, you do get something out of the deal; he will marry you, after all. Why not just put that global citizenship business aside for later? Take the ring, Girl. Take. The. Ring!

I asked Theresa if she had been listening to anything I had just said. Unless The Yankee proposed marriage after he had decided on his own that an international move was something he wanted to explore, why would I even consider saying Yes to his proposal? I asked her if she would have married her husband had he shown a disinterest in having children or raising them in the Christian church. Both of these are values that are supremely important to Theresa. If she found herself in a relationship with a man whose idea of family so drastically differed from her’s, no matter how much she loved him, marrying him would make absolutely no sense as his preference in lifestyle was not congruent to her’s.

“I actually would find a marriage proposal from The Yankee under the context you have set up rather manipulative,” I explained to Theresa. “Why would a man who loved me want to keep me from my heart’s desire?”

“Girl,” she sighed. “Most women would be like: ‘I got me a good man who loves me. Let me make this work.’ You are on some other level.”

Which brings us to…

Love Narrative #2: The Scarcity of the Soul Mate (in other words, romantic love is so rare and so limited, that when you have something that even slightly resembles a soul mate, you must NEVER, ever, NEVER, ever let him go!)

Although Theresa is a good ole Christian gal, many women with diverse values and points of view truly believe the narrative underlying her “you got a good man; don’t let him go” comment. Narrative #2 implies that the universe has placed a glass ceiling on love. There are finite experiences. Limited amounts of potential partners. If you have one truly amazing, fulfilling relationship that results in mutual growth and happiness, the chances of your having that again decrease with each passing moment.

Not only is this a hyperbolic fear that is often implanted solely on the psyches of women, but it is also illogical and makes little sense. Much like I am not the first woman to love The Yankee, he is not the first man to love me. It stands to reason that we are rather lovable people. No, we did not find each other easily and there were some dreary crazies in between our love just like there were some dreary crazies in between our past respective relationships. But, we have consistently sustained loving relationships that have brought us benefit and joy. If we decided to part ways, don’t our past experiences predict that there is even greater love out there for BOTH of us?

This fallacy that we will only find meaningful love with “The One” perplexes me. While I am not a cynic, neither am I a woman who believes that love is anything more than a choice to grow with someone. That choice requires you to make a host of other choices as you create a partnership with someone who shares your values and worldview. If I am being love at every single moment of my life, why would I not attract it more than once in a lifetime?

Love Narrative #3: In Matters of the Heart, Women can not Engage the Mind

This last narrative insults me more than #1, actually. It has been a subtle assertion by more than a few who truly find it surprising that I could walk away from a man I loved when there was no “real” problem with the relationship.

“I hope he comes to his senses when it’s time for you to move,” a friend commented after I explained that The Yankee was not hearing the call of the Motherland like I was.

“We shall see,” I responded. “There is still time so things could change. If they don’t, then I’ll have to make a difficult decision.”

When I have spoken about this inevitable decision, I have presented it as one that is not terribly complicated. Either he will want to come or he won’t. If he doesn’t, then I will have to end our relationship. I will eat a cheese cake. I will shed some tears. The sun will rise in the east; it will set in the west.

I have been told I am strong and evolved for being able to even think about this possible dilemma so calmly. While I will never dismiss any compliment, I am disturbed by the notion that ending a romantic relationship is fraught with purely heart-wrenching emotion. A near-crazed woman who can not face the reality of her relationship because of intense emotions taking over her still seems to be the dominant image of a “woman in love” that plays on the subconscious of even the most progressive men and women.

Yes, if I have to end my relationship, there will be sadness. It is not a decision I will come to lightly or joyfully. But, if the reality of my life and its circumstances means ending it, I am more than comfortable allowing my brain to take over when my heart is ill-equipped to do so. I fully endorse raw, messy emotions being underneath decisions in love, but I refuse to believe I am the only woman who’s more than capable of using her head even while her heart hurts.

I am sure many women proudly live by at least one of these narratives. And some would even say it is BECAUSE of these narratives that they have found themselves in loving relationships that have enhanced their lives. However, it should be noted that at the root of each of these beliefs is fear. Is it just me who finds it problematic that something we all agree is deeply important to the human experience should be rooted in a belief structure that appeals to our lesser selves? Shouldn’t we cultivate love narratives that perpetuate the belief that romantic love comes from a place of power? A place within our greatest selves that has not given in to the fallacy that we are fearful, weak creatures. The best romantic love is empowering. Our belief system about it should mirror this power.

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The Motherhood Revolution

Posted on August 21, 2013 by yetanothersinglegal

Two friends, Josie and Cynthia, recently announced their pregnancies. I was terrifically excited for both of them. When Josie told me, I leaped from my seat, clapped like a trained seal who had been hitting the bottle right before show time at Sea World and screeched so abruptly she looked a bit terrified before thanking me for my exuberant congratulations. When Cynthia announced her impending baby among a group of friends, I broke into my own special version of the Vesta Williams’ love anthem of the 1990s, Congratulations. When I had finished serenading her, I suggested our group start organizing itself to caravan to her baby shower on Long Island.

Josie and Cynthia have known me for quite some years so they should not have been at all surprised by my inability to withhold unrestrained, undignified enthusiasm and off key, heart-felt singing. However, both ladies were a bit taken aback by my excitement when they told me they’d be furthering the human species by ejecting an infant from their special places.

I have written many times about the assumptions people make about women like me – women in their childbearing years who have expressed a life-long disinterest in motherhood. One need only skim the many posts on this blog where I have shared stories of my students who just assign an imaginary baby to my life even though I have never spoken of having one, boyfriends who grudgingly break up with me when they realize that not even my love for them magically erases my disinterest in giving birth to and raising children and well meaning friends who have been dismissing my choice since I was old enough to voice it by patting me on the head and gently chiding: “Oh, you’ll change your mind one day.”

Perhaps the most perplexing assumption of late is that since I do not desire children of my own that I somehow do not like children. Or more so, I am unable to acknowledge the beauty inherent in bringing a child into this world and making its successful transition into adulthood top priority. When I sang to her, Cynthia actually asked me, “But I thought you didn’t want kids?” Admittedly, she threw out that comment in mock response to the line in Congratulations where Vesta croons to her former lover on his wedding day: “I thought it would have been me.” However, the look on her and Josie’s faces when I seemed genuinely excited for them revealed that bewildering assumption: But, if you don’t value motherhood for yourself, you can not be this happy that I am becoming a mother.

I don’t know why this seems confusing to parents. Non parents who respect the sacrifices parents make to rear their children. A woman who makes the choice not to mother saluting one who does. I’d like to think that the growing number of women who are simply saying “No, thanks” to motherhood understand the biological pull for many of our peers to say, “Absolutely Yes” to it. I’d also like to think that non-parents are thoughtful and logical enough to know that a world where NO ONE procreates is a bit problematic. For those of us who spend our fertile years religiously committed to birth control, there logically needs to be just as many (if not, more) who feel called to parenthood. And why wouldn’t we child-free adults who are living the life we feel fits us so naturally be excited for our friends who, by taking on children, truly believe that they have now grown into the life that fits them perfectly?

If anything, my excitement for my pregnant friends is heightened because of my choice not to have children. There is something about today’s women choosing to mother that feels more like an actual choice than when women married and had children generations ago. This realization came to me when I went to see Nina Davenport’s documentary, First Comes Love. In it, Davenport chronicles her (and several of her friends’) journey to have a baby in their early 40s. Since Davenport and her friends are over 40, they rely on costly fertility treatments and the sperm of male friends to realize their dreams of motherhood. At one point in the film, Davenport has the camera trained on the mother of her close friend. It is an uncomfortable moment as this woman’s 42 year old daughter has just come out of the bathroom to reveal a negative sign on her pregnancy test.

“It seemed so much easier in your day,” Davenport sighs. “You guys met the right man, had kids without all of these procedures and that was that.” She then asks, “Which way do you think is better – what you guys did or the way me and your daughter have to do it?”

Without blinking, the mother said: “I think your way is better. If I had to do it over again, I would live my life like you girls have.”

As if her subject misunderstood the question, Davenport probes the woman further. “But, even with all the loneliness and all the uncertainty? I mean your daughter has tried AGAIN and has been disappointed AGAIN.”

The woman does not change her answer. She goes on to explain that she was 20 when she had her daughter. She knew little about herself or even her husband. “You girls own yourselves more. When you decide to have a baby, you already know so much more about who you are and who you are not…well, I think that might have been a good way for me to do it, too.”

THIS is why I am genuinely happy for and proud of my friends who bring children into the world. In the 21st century when women have rightfully earned the luxury of owning themselves, many not only choose to lease out a great portion to children, but some of them fight like hell just to have what for their mothers, was really not a choice. The older mother in Davenport’s film articulated something few talk about when reflecting whimsically on those “good old days.” Motherhood was not something that many women necessarily chose. At least not in the way that my two friends have and certainly not in the way that Davenport and her friends have. Like marriage, motherhood seemed to be this thing that happened to our mothers. Many of them enjoyed mothering and those who didn’t, made the best out of it. However, when the societal expectation is that a girl barely in her 20s takes on motherhood are women authentically choosing motherhood or merely following the mandate to do so?

In 2013, western society has kindly loosened the motherhood mandate yet Josie and Cynthia STILL chose it. I would have to be a blind fool not to recognize that simply making the conscious choice to mother is just as revolutionary as my choice to pass on it. The ability to genuinely choose what does or does not happen in your womb is where the revolution truly lies.

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When Daddy Died…

Posted on March 27, 2013 by yetanothersinglegal

“In order to die a good death, one must live a good life.” – The Writings of Nichiren Diashonin, vol. 1

“The life of a human being is fleeting. The exhaled breath never waits for the inhaled one. Therefore, I should first of all learn about death, and then about other things.” – The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 2, p. 759

I have been a practitioner of Nichiren Daishonin’s Buddhism for close to four years now. As an active member of the Soka Gakkai International (SGI), the world’s largest lay Buddhist organization, I have spent the last four years working to access and maintain my Buddhahood by relentlessly working on what we Nichiren Buddhists refer to as human revolution.  For non-practitioners, that simply translates into: Taking FULL responsibility for your own life by transforming yourself at the most fundamental level. It means embracing the ultimate truth of the universe. That your life houses within it the law that governs this vast cosmos.

While I have gained a litany of benefits from strengthening my Buddhist practice, it was not until a little over three months ago that I witnessed the concrete actual proof of my development as a human being. The day after Thanksgiving I got a call from my brother saying that our father had taken a bad fall and was now in a coma. The prognosis was not positive. Roughly a week later, my daddy died.

It was this obstacle, which I recognized even then as an inconspicous benefit, that allowed me to gratefully add another marker to the long list of markers outlining my growth as a human in the short time I had been chanting nam myoho renge kyo. My father graciously allowed me to witness his death – an excruciatingly difficult ordeal that has better prepared me for the eventual deaths of others I love. My father’s gift to me underscored the sage guidance the Daishonin shared with his followers centuries ago. The best way to guarantee yourself a death of value is to live a LIFE of value.

Your Death Will Mirror Your Life

My father was a planner. A very practical man. He was not long on formality or wasted resources. He had but one goal his entire adult life: Work for 30 years at a good state job, save up enough money during his working years AND his retirement to pay off his house and leave his kids a respectable “estate” – as respectable as possible for the son of a junk man. He did not believe in Christmas gifts or frivilous spending. He believed in quiet joys – going to the movies, day trips to Biloxi, lunch at the Golden Corral. As far as he was concerned all of those lavish luxuries that others felt they “earned” because of daily toil was short sighted and ultimately, resulted in a man stiffing his family when they needed him most.

Two years before he died, Daddy had gathered my siblings and me and told us with as much sensitivity as he could muster: “I am not young; my health is not great. Here is how I want my funeral handled, what I want done with the house and how much money each of you will get.” When my sister burst into tears in the middle of what seemed to be Daddy’s self-administered eulogy, he comforted her with: “I know this is hard, Sarah, but we have to face reality. One day I will die and it’s best that y’all know what to do.”

The last two years of his life, my father was fully prepared to leave this Earth. Whenever I came home, he always ended up telling me some variation of this story: “I have taken care of my children and helped them when they needed it. I am living comfortably in my retirement when some men my age have to apply for food stamps. I am still in my right mind when friends I went to school with are slowly losing their’s. God has blessed me; I have lived a good life.”

It was because of these conversations that I gladly gifted my father the death I knew he wanted. When my brother explained there was blood seeping into Daddy’s brain and if the doctor performed surgery, he would either be killed instantly or worse, survive the surgery as a permanent invalid, I faced reality the way he and my Buddhist faith had taught me. I advised my brother to give our father the death he deserved. “I’m buying my plane ticket now,” I said. “Tell the doctor to give Daddy the strongest pain meds he has and then take him off life support.”

During the four days I sat with my father waiting for the inevitable, I thought of a moment from years ago that completely encapsulated who he was and how he lived his life. We had made plans to go to the movies and I told him I would meet him at the house at 3:00. When I drove up, his truck was gone and there was a yellow post-it note stuck to the front door. You were supposed to be here at 3. It is now 3:10. I am at the movies. When my father was being transferred to hospice care, the doctor gently informed: “He probably won’t make it pass Saturday.” At 4 o’clock that Sunday morning, the hospice nurse called to let us know my father had taken his last breath. Yes, Gerald Kendrick was a strict adherent to deadlines. Daddy lived and died by the clock.

Grief Can Coexist with Joy

My father’s death exposed an understandable, yet disappointing belief the general public harbors about grief. That, by its very existence, grief is supposed to break you. The death of a parent, I was told many times, knocks the wind from under you and I should be prepared to be inconsolable. I remember a time when I believed that myself. Before nam myoho renge kyo, I, too, associated the very nature of grief as existing solely because it sapped one of her joy.

It was (and still is) difficult for those who love me to believe my joyful grief at my father’s funeral was genuine. Even now, months later, when I talk about my father in casual conversation, I can feel people waiting for me to break. When I called one friend to tell her the news, she suggested I was so calm and composed because I hadn’t quite accepted my father was dead yet. “I know it’s hard to face it,” she consoled. Since I appreciated her sincere attempt to give me what she assumed I needed, I didn’t correct her assumption by saying, “Actually I am calm and composed BECAUSE I have accepted the truth instead of fighting against it.”

How fortunate I am to have taken on a spiritual practice that suggests before we spend time trying to figure out life, we need to first make peace with understanding and appreciating death. I think about how fearful I was of my parents dying when I was in my 20s and even well up into my early 30s. One of those friends who tried to get me to “not be afraid to admit you are broken” had lost her father several years prior. Back then I saw death as a negative, a disruption of life so I cowardly avoided my friend. When my friend’s father passed away, I had not taken the time to learn about death. To see it as a part of life, not an interruption of it.

“Really, I am not trying to be strong,” I explained to a friend who couldn’t understand why I wasn’t more upset. “I am just simply strong.” While I was definitely grieving the loss of my father, I was also happy for him. Completely elated that he was able to rest from his current life in preparation for his next. How fortunate he was to be granted release at a point when he felt content and at peace with the life he had so carefully crafted.

“It actually makes perfect sense for me to be burying my father,” I told another friend who commented on how unnatural it feels to bury a parent. “Now, if I were burying my child…THAT would be terribly, terribly unnatural. But the life cycle sort of dictates that your parents will go before you.”

There have been moments when I have thought to myself: Oh, I need to call Daddy only to remember that he is gone. That I am now a fatherless daughter. These moments are anything, but easy. I welcome the sadness they bring because my Buddhist practice has also taught me to appreciate suffering without being defeated by it.

Up until now, I intentionally chose NOT to broadcast the details of my father’s accident and swift death. This facebook culture that seems to entice even the most tactful person to make her life one ongoing status update makes it nearly impossible to have private moments remain just that. I write this blog entry now only because I need people to know that my father’s death was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is not said with an air of flippancy or detachment. This sentiment comes from the part of me that understands life is eternal and extends beyond this present existence. The part of me that knows with absolute certainty not even the loss of the one man who loved me unconditionally is able to defeat me.

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WHOA!!! People have been LISTENING to me?!

Posted on December 31, 2012 by yetanothersinglegal

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The new Boeing 787 Dreamliner can carry about 250 passengers. This blog was viewed about 970 times in 2012. If it were a Dreamliner, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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How to Meet A Man

Posted on November 11, 2012 by yetanothersinglegal

Recently, I received a text message from a good friend. It read: “What site you meant your boo on? I’m determined to have a boo myself in six months.” This was not the first time I had been asked this question in the year since I met and fell in love with a sweet Yankee who adores me. Another friend asked me for not only the online site where I met my boyfriend, but extensive advice on how to approach online dating because “you’re the only woman I know who has been successful at it.”

It doesn’t take advanced analytical skills to figure out what my two friends were really asking. How you got this man?

Trouble is: the answer to this question is not simply: “okcupid.com.” Because I don’t want to detract from their pro-active approach to finding love, I am reticent to tell them the full truth: Using okcupid (and any other dating site) had little to do with the resultant love I found.

I have utilized online dating sites for upwards of 7 years – well before the stigma of admitting you had to do more than simply show up wearing a form-flattering dress to any place where men congregated was removed from the reality of dating over the age of 21. My “success” rate had not been any better or worse than when I met men at social events, through friends or brave “Hey, how you doing” flirtations at the grocery store. Sometimes, I went on mediocre dates that fizzled into nothingness. Occasionally, I embarked on shaky relationships that “could be something” only to have them dissolve for the standard reasons shaky relationships don’t really make it past those first few months.

So, what do I tell my friends? Do I admit to them that when I faced the truth of who I was and made concerted efforts to overcome that truth did I find myself (quite unintentionally) in a very strong relationship?

Who I was/am: A deceptively detached and distant woman. I use the word deceptive because most people would not think of using these adjectives to describe me. I am quite a personable, social person. I love being around people and engage with them fairly easily. But what most people did not see (and what I did not see for a long time as well) was that my “friendliness” saved me the trouble of actually CONNECTING WITH PEOPLE. In many ways, my ease in joking and chatting people up were ruses. If you make enough clever jokes and spar well in witty banter, people are often so busy enjoying your cleverness and wit that you can exonerate yourself from having to show them anything else. You don’t have to open your life to these fellow human beings nor come up with an appropriate excuse (couched in witty humor, of course) as to why you don’t possess the energy or courage to enter their lives, either.

Do I place more difficult truths at my friends’ feet and tell them that this distance, this detachment was not exclusive to my relationships with men? And that in order to fight against it, I had to work just as hard not to succumb to my patterns with my best girlfriends as I did with the men I dated. I had to push pass my cursory dismissal of people’s desire to really know me EVERY SINGLE DAY. I had to be honest about what was underneath my distance from people. What was the cause of my quiet belief that genuine relationships with people took too much energy, required too much effort, asked me to risk too much. So, my fight to transform myself occurred at the sub-surface level and below the surface as well.

Yes, I did put some time and thought into my okcupid profile. Yes, I did log on several times a week just to “show my face and keep myself out there.” Yes, I emailed all the men who approached me even if there was not immediate evidence that we were a “match.” But, I’d done all that for the last 7 years.

My approach to dating had not changed prior to meeting the Yankee. The transformation was much more pivotal: Me. (Yes, it is really that simple.)

I am still actively creating causes to continue that transformation. And if the Yankee and I end up parting ways in the immediate or distant future, this transformation will not stall as a result. Just like the truth of who I was/am was not exclusive to my relationships with men, the work I plan on doing towards my human revolution is not exclusive to my boyfriend. It supercedes him.

So, it is about time for me to come clean and admit the title of this post is intentionally misleading. No, ladies, I can not tell you how to meet a man. What I can tell you, though, is the reason you are having trouble meeting men is likely linked to the reason why although you love her to death, you have great difficulty making that weekly “check in” call to your mother. Your disenchantment with the game of dating likely resembles your disenchantment with your boss, your co workers, and the field in which you have chosen to work. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you know that weary look you get when breaking bread with a guy who is “okay, but…?” Well, you get that same look with some of your friends. The ones who make you slightly uncomfortable, but you don’t know why.

Yes, you can do the arduous (and sometimes painful) work of unraveling the truth of who you are and what you believe. But no, it will not guarantee you success in the search for a mate. It won’t even make the journey to love any easier or even fair. But, here’s the thing: if you are fortunate enough, you will have to make hundreds more weekly calls to your mother. If the universe deems you worthy, you will also have to negotiate relationships with that demanding boss and those “lazy” co workers for many years to come. And your frenemy just might leave your circle of friends to find another, but the likelihood of her replacement causing the same discomfort in you is pretty darn high.

It benefits you to DEAL WITH THE TRUTH. To work to create a belief system that honors you and all the humans with whom you will come into contact in this lifetime. Whether it results in love is really irrelevant. The only relevant outcome is your own transformation as a human being.

Filed under: Love | Tagged: , , | 7 Comments »

Sustainable Joy

Posted on July 31, 2012 by yetanothersinglegal

A friend asked me MONTHS ago for my opinion of Steve Harvey’s Act Like A Lady; Think Like A Man.  This friend had taken her husband to see the movie version on one of their date nights and for some reason couldn’t wait “to ask you what you thought about it because I knew you would have a strong opinion.”

I had to disappoint my friend.  For 37 years, I have managed to never seek the advice of any of the litany of self-help dating books that make up what has to be a trillion dollar arm of the publishing industry. And when Mr. Harvey’s highly successful book turned into a highly successful movie, my desire to see it – for its sage guidance or light entertainment – never arrived. I held no strong opposition to neither the book and subsequent movie nor Steve Harvey’s bizarre promotion from a moderately funny comic to the single woman’s yoda. When Harvey was doing his rounds on Oprah, however, I do distinctly recall being irritated by him.  I could not explain why, but I was certain that my irritation cut much deeper than Steve’s seemingly sincere attempt to let women into the inner workings of the male mind, particularly the mind of the “marriage-ready” male.  

I never read the book; I never saw the movie.  I never could explain why I was irritated by both, though, until last week.

I read an article in the August issue of Vogue that dug into a much-neglected angle of what should be a moot issue at this point in our species’ evolution: a woman’s right to choose.  What made Pamela Paul’s angle unique was that she did not write an article about abortion.  It was not even an article about birth control options. It was an article about women in the prime of their child bearing years CHOOSING to get tubal ligations because they had known since they were adolescents that they did not want children and preferred the guarantee of a child-free life that tied tubes promised.

The women’s doctors soothingly suggested they just stay on the pill since they would probably change their minds later in life.  Some physicians even said they would “consider” performing the procedure if the women’s husbands would come in to verify they both had agreed on what she would and would not do with her uterus. Several doctors spoke wistfully of the joy they found in their own children, ending with the caveat: “What if you meet someone you REALLY love and then you can’t have his child?” Doctors even offered this cautionary tale to married women who could not find the words to counter this unintended accusation that they did not really love their husbands if they were unwilling to have children.

Paul was fair and diplomatic.  She wrote about a doctor’s responsibility to withhold a medical procedure if she felt it were not in the best interest of a patient.  And what ethical gynecologist would dole out a tubal ligation with the same indifferent ease as she would scribble out a prescription for the pill? However, there was something about the somewhat extreme “convincing” that these women had to do in order to get their doctors to perform this procedure that irritated me as much as Steve Harvey’s segments on Oprah.  

What if you really DO want children?

What if you regret this decision you’ve been asked to justify since as long as you can remember?

What if you act your ass off like a lady and think constantly like a man, but…no man ever puts a ring on it?

What if you sleep with that nice, cute guy before the three month grace period and all he’s willing to give you is a courtship of kindness, warmth and some pleasant memories?  What if you give him SIX of your best childbearing months and he STILL wants to offer you only this?

While these questions appear benign on the surface, at a deeper level they reveal a potentially harmful narrative that is subtlety sold to women.  This narrative reads: in order for a person (particularly, a person who possesses a uterus) to be authentically happy, several external factors have to occur.  The narrative suggests that while child-free women can enjoy their current life, they will experience a deep unhappiness later in life because of the absence of this child that would have absolutely brought them joy.  See, it is not the woman herself who determines her happiness; it is this action.  It is the act of giving birth and raising a child from which true joy comes.  This is why the doctors in the Vogue article were reticent to play a role in permanently blocking this source of ultimate female joy.  What if their patients did regret their decision?  How could these women possibly experience sincere, deep-from-the-belly joy while living with the absence of this child that never was?    

As part of the external-factor-determining-happiness narrative is the thesis that asserts: happiness will likely bestow itself on you once you have mastered the maintenance of a loving relationship with the right partner.  Beneath those doctors’ requests that their married patients bring in their husbands to sign off on the tubal ligation was the notion that if he does agree with this NOW but changes his mind LATER, he might be forced to leave you.  And much like the absence of the child that never was, how could these women truly claim deep-from-the-belly joy when having to say goodbye to wonderful husbands with whom they had cultivated healthy relationships?   This narrative is most implicit in Steve Harvey’s well meaning campaign catering to the fear planted in women that to never be invited into the exclusive club of wifehood is to be sentenced to a life of disgrace, forced to roam the earth with a gigantic red “S” emblazoned across your chest.  Harvey merely repackages what society has sold to his readers for generations. When dealing with the requisite sufferings and pleasures of adult life, happiness is expedited if someone provides you with a road map pointed concisely in the direction of acquiring the ideal romantic partner.  Because once you have the ideal romantic partner, you will be in the ideal position to birth the ultimate female joy. 

Again, I hold no ill will against Steve Harvey.  And I understand why a reputable doctor would be apprehensive about performing such a permanent procedure on a woman who she feels has not lived long enough to fully grasp the finality of her decision.  My only question is: What if we sold women a new narrative?  One which claimed they, and they alone, were the source of their happiness.  That through consistent effort, they could cultivate a happiness that was not as transient as we now have them believe.  That such deep-from-the-belly joy could be sustained through the entrance of a bad lover and the exit of a good one.  Since they are the ones who already possess it, this joy could even survive the realization that they had made the wrong choice years earlier in their doctor’s office.  

This is the power of joy that is internal; it is ever-present and can even co-exist with sadness, regret and disappointment.  If women believed this new narrative, they just might begin to evaluate the success of a romantic relationship on how much it contributed to or detracted from their pre-existing happiness as opposed to whether it was progressing fast enough to marriage. This new narrative can even incorporate vestiges of the old.  Maybe women would respond better to the notion that happiness has to be attached to SOMETHING external.  After all, strictly self-focused happiness can easily give birth to selfishness and isolation.  Instead of the time-sensitive and often anxiety-ridden quest to pregnancy, what if we actually told women that their happiness is based significantly on identifying and working toward their true purpose in life?  The reason for which they chose to be born into this world, at this time, under their particular circumstances? What if we led them to believe this purpose does not necessarily begin or end with motherhood?  

What if someone convinced women we are infinitely powerful beings who are worthy and capable of sustainable joy?  What if THIS was where the new narrative began and ended?

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Love, Actually: Living Off My Father’s Inheritance

Posted on January 1, 2012 by yetanothersinglegal

My father is preparing for his imminent demise. He is choosing to prepare for this by preparing his children for his imminent demise. This holiday season marks the second time we have been summoned to the house for a “family meeting.” Last year, I, personally received a letter in my mailbox in New York City. My father called me to make sure I had received it and to restate what the letter had already made clear in his careful, ALL CAPS handwriting. “I want to inform you of our family meeting to be held at 1 p.m. on December 31 at 1416 Meadow Street in Metairie, Louisiana.”

This year my father’s flare for the official (and melodramatic) has subsided and he has simply said to each of us: “Come to the house on New Year’s Eve. I need to talk to y’all again.” It is at this second meeting where I begin to sit with the reality that my father will be dead soon. Last year, his verbose explanation of how we were to handle his funeral, the house, our inheritance were merely reminders of how responsible he is and protective of the modest safety net he has built for us over the years.

But, this year his breathing seems a bit more labored, his step a bit slower, his energy even more clipped. I and one of my brothers are the only two of his children who know the doctor has suggested that our father would need to be put on dialysis in about a year. Because he is our father, he has told the doctor this will not happen. Unlike the doctor, my brother and I are positive that our father’s calm, yet certain refusal will remain even when the doctor’s suggestion has graduated to the recommendation stage.

This second meeting, which repeats much of the information from the first meeting, is only a guise. A way to seat the four of us together for three hours and remind himself that he has reached the most pivotal of goals. The son of a junk man who survived the Jim Crow South, “seperate but equal” public education and several major hurricanes beat the system. He has been able to build his own house, live off a good pension for the last decade and now, leave this house and some money to his children. He has proven to this country that despite its attempts to beat it out of him, this negro boy has, truly, lived the life of a MAN.

I feel myself begin to be overcome by…something. I do not know what this something is. I only know what it is NOT. I am not overwhelmed by the thought that in a few short years, my brother is likely to call me to come home because the result of my father’s refusal to be put on dialysis is our attendance at his funeral. I do not think my eyes get itchy because I know deep down I will never again live in this house that has become a symbol of victory for my father. A part of me thinks my eyes are itchy partly because it has occured to me during this meeting that I will never again live in the only city which my father and his father called home. (I think?)

What I know is that when my father hands us all our original birth certificates, my eyes somehow find their way to the section where my parents’ names and ages are listed. The yellowed paper tells me that on June 4, 1975, Marva Kendrick was 29 years old. This legal document reminds me that before she was thirty, my mother had been the wife of Gerald Kendrick for several years and had just given birth to his fourth child. This is not new knowledge for me, but for the first time I am aware of the sharp contrast between her life and mine. I have never been anyone’s wife or mother. For 36 years, I have simply been: Keturah, pursuer of passions, traveler of the world, observer of people.

And this is why my eyes are itchy. My mother’s is not the only life that is in direct contrast with mine. For my father, a life is created by staying safe. 1. Plan to stay in a pensionable job for 25 or 30 years. 2. Do not risk that job by paying much attention to boredom or the lack of challenge or growth you feel. To me and most of my generation, job security has become an oxymoron in the best of circumstances, a plain ole pipe dream in the worst. I have vaguely planned my career track based on my interests, talents and desire to feel challenged in every aspect of my life. Anytime I have been able to parlay any type of employment that is not a standard job that one finds listed in the newspaper, my father is absolutely awed by my ingenuity.

Looking at my mother’s information on my birth certificate undescores how drastically different my story has been from my parents and how different it will continue to be. For one, I doubt there will be children to sit down at my kitchen table with whom I will go through important financial documents. While I do own property, it is no more a smybol of my victory over the system than my secure, reliable job as a public school teacher. The condo I own now can be easily traded in for a flat in London or even sold simply to rent a nicer apartment in a better neighborhood. My Department of Education paycheck can be suspended for a year or two while I spend a year teaching in South Africa. I may marry. I may divorce. Neither will do much to add to or subtract from what I envision as a happy, fulfilled life.

And as I sit at the kitchen table in my childhood home, I come to the most powerful realization. My father is going to die. He may have already been told this by his doctor. And I, his doting daughter, will be able to handle it with grace. I am not afraid of his death nor my own anymore. I am not dreading the phone call as I had been years ago when I first began to notice his whezzing and coughing. I am prepared for it mainly because unlike my parents, I have chosen Nichiren Buddhism as my spiritual practice, a religion that is not based on Christianity’s premise that salvation from this cold, cruel world is granted by an all knowing, all powerful deity. While I do not propose that the Christian faith is not valid and unable to bring comfort to its believers, I am aware that I, unlike my parents, ventured out in my spiritual path just as I have in my profesional and personal paths as well. I CHOOSE the religion that brought the most to my life as opposed to remaining in the one that was the most familiar to me. The one with which others were most familiar. I chose Buddhism because it has been most congruent with the truths of life and the world than other religions. It has also been the most useful tool for transforming my life than the Christian faith. This reason for my being a practicing Buddhist instead of a practicing Christian, too, seems to be in direct contrast with my parents’ reasons for being psuedo-Christians all these years.

So, perhaps what had and still has me “overcome” by my father’s second family meeting is gratitude. A sense of sincere appreciation for the real inheritance he has already given me. I want to cry because I am thankful that he had the courage to navigate a world that was so limiting to him and for doing so in the most dignified way he knew. I am grateful that he prepared this country for me. If I didn’t fear it would steal his thunder, I would interrupt his auto-eulogy by thanking him for my inheritance. And explaining that it is, in fact, more than this four-bedroom brick and mortar victory in which we all now sit. It is so immense it can not be whittled down into numbers on a check.

Filed under: Love | Tagged: , , , , , , | 3 Comments »

A Thank You to the THING

Posted on September 25, 2011 by yetanothersinglegal

When I was in my 20s, I used to hear about the THING that would happen to me when I was in my 30s. The THING would cause me to put away such childish notions as “it’s me against the world” and the rather irrational theory that modern day feminism translated into a complete refusal to compromise with any male person (PARTICULARLY the male person you were sleeping with). It would also slowly chip away at my refusal to pick up a pot periodically, throw some food in it and put said food-filled pot over some fire. Because of the THING, I would cease to mock the girls who had spent countless semesters in college grooming their boyfriends for husbandry and would (like magic) obsessively begin to hoard bridal magazines, finally understanding that it was my destiny to wife. To mother.

The THING did eventually happen. Kind of. I realized that isolation
from other humans was merely cowardice draped in the fancy dress of “independence.” Once I stopped working so hard not to allow my Self to be swallowed whole by romantic need, I began to enjoy the comfort and safety GOOD men brought to my life. I even took up cooking. If only because my 30ish body held onto restaurant food a lot longer (and positioned in disturbing places) than my 20ish body did. The THING didn’t do much for my indifference to marriage, though. Six years into my 30s, I have only managed to graduate my “Marriage? Hmmmm….I guess” to “Sure, if I met a cool guy…who I loved…and who was an adventurous eater/traveler…with an acceptable FICO score…yeah, Dude could talk me into marriage…why the hell not?”

I have ruminated on whether I am just too stubborn in my indifference to matrimony to ever be fully won over by the THING. I have been attending weddings for about a decade now, devoid of the latent animosity I hear women who have been gripped by the THING feel. Amidst my happiness for the couple, a silent “When will it be my turn” has yet to whisper its way into my psyche. When I am at the beginning of a new relationship, I don’t ask trick questions that are designed to decipher if the object of my affection will be ready to walk down the aisle in roughly a year or two.

I figured this was one battle of modern single womanhood from which I had been exonerated.

Until….

I attended a very symbolic wedding. The bride was a friend and former colleague whose presence at the school where we both taught has been missed since she left. The other bride was this friend’s girlfriend of 5+ years.

There was nothing particularly unique about Monique and Michelle’s wedding. A get together at Monique’s childhood home the afternoon before the ceremony in which she and her future wife gave out gift bags to all those who had helped plan their wedding. Loving wise cracks from one of the bride’s father at the reception, where he admitted: “the only time Monique disappointed me was when she went to that college in Ann Arbor….but she met her life partner there so I guess I can forgive her for that.” There was a meticulously planned ceremony that expressed the personalities and cultures of the couple. There was an endless parade of professional and amateur photo sessions that made me wonder just how stressful weddings are for the people who star in them. Food. Grown up beverages. Lots of smile. Lots of love. Nothing too unique as far as weddings go.

Except….the state of Michigan didn’t deem Monique and Michelle’s commitment worthy of legal recognition.

It was this fact that made me truly envious of the love that marriages, in their purest form, represent. Monique and Michelle decided to follow the African-American tradition of “jumping the broom.” When this tradition showed up in the ceremony, I naturally assumed it was just another standard way of honoring the Black American experience. Until the minister explained the tradition to the uninformed. “Slaves’ marriages were not legally recognized in this country. They developed this tradition of jumping over the broom as a way of having a concrete symbol of being married. As the brides honor this tradition today, they want you to reflect on the reality that their commitment is treated with the same disregard as the marriages of the ancestors of one of the brides here.”

So, Monique and Michelle spent thousands of dollars (and twice as many planning hours) on this wedding to stand in front their families and friends, committing their lives to one another with the complete understanding that they would not be “really” married? What was the point of this ceremony?

The answer to this question is what I now realize the women who have been completely gripped by the THING really desire. It is what I and every other living being intrinsically seek the older we become. Love that goes beyond fickle feelings of passion and romantic euphoria. Love that even extends beyond the two people who are at its center. Love that connects two families; thus making the two individuals in the love responsible not only for each other, but also accountable to the many people who were instrumental in forming them into the people who had the courage to commit to each other.

So, this matrimony thing is much bigger than the wedding dress? It is of much greater significance than the exchange of rings and vows? It is two people saying, “We need you here to witness this. When arrogance, selfishness, doubt weasel their way into the life we have created and try to convince us that we don’t have to bother anymore…we brought you here so you could remind us that we promised each other and all of you to do the hard work of loving.” It is that sentiment, that unabashed need for the kind of love that requires the love of extended family and friends that almost brought me to tears. Here, these two women understood the REAL reason why we marry. They understood it so much they took it on with none of the built in safety nets that their heterosexual counterparts receive with no questions asked.

The THING has won. I want to love that completely. Whether or not I marry is still irrelevant to me. What has become more relevant is my desire to become the person who accepts that such a level of love is what contributes to my humanity. It is what makes me like every other human being. Perhaps, that is what the THING ultimately does to you. It shakes you out of your youthful delusions that you are somehow different. That the way to do adulthood is to reinvent the wheel. Redesign the whole entire bike until the ride is much more difficult and complicated than it need be.

The THING is over 30 itself. (It is probably well into its 40s, actually) It likes things simple and plain. When people are in relationships, they compromise. When people are hungry, they cook. When people love, they commit.

Filed under: Love | 3 Comments »

An Age of INFORMED Decision Making

Posted on April 20, 2011 by yetanothersinglegal

1.
After three months of dating Bernard, he sent me a tentative text message. Although I have spent the last three years bemoaning the emotional ambivalence of people who send text messages to initiate serious conversations, Bernard’s text was completely clear; it left no room for misunderstanding.

I have been doing a lot of thinking about us. Our journey. Can we talk tonight?

Sitting in Starbucks trying to get some work done, I looked knowingly at Bernard’s text. I am 35 years old, I thought. A calm, yet ominous reality washed over me as I gathered the remaining papers I was grading and reached for my purse. I knew. Once I called Bernard, I would be having the same conversation with him as the one I’d had with Daniel almost eight years earlier.

2.

Meredith is one of the most vibrant, energetic older women I have ever met. She works full time in a job she adores, never seriously considering what most women her age dream about almost daily: RETIREMENT. Recurring days with no where to go and nothing to do. Meredith loathes the thought of this “reward” given to Americans who spend their youth productively contributing to society.

30 years ago when Meredith was my age, she was married with three children. It was not a happy marriage; she was a wife and mother because all of her friends were wives and mothers. She was an ordinary girlchild with an average education who did what was expected of her and married the first young man who she seriously dated. He had a college education and thus the earning potential to take care of Meredith and the inevitable army of kids she would birth.

“I never thought about having kids. About what it would mean for me. About how much time and dedication it would take,” Meredith explained to me. “I wasn’t surprised by the difficulty and the level of sacrifice motherhood involved,” Meredith was quick to add. “I just never thought about it or considered whether or not I wanted to take on the responsibility. It’s just what I assumed I’d eventually do because…well, everybody assumed it was what all the girls would eventually do.”

3.
Nothing about Bernard’s hesitant “let’s be friends” monologue surprised me. Somewhere around our third date, it became clear to me that Bernard was ready for fatherhood. And since he was a man of stellar character, fatherhood would come after he had fallen in love with the right woman and married her. Somewhere in between our third date and this current conversation, it had become clear to Bernard not only was I not ready for motherhood, I was rather disinterested in it.

“I knew it was not smart to keep seeing you when we wanted two different things, but I really liked you and…I don’t know…I guess I thought this gap in what we saw for our futures would just magically disappear.”

There was no need to explain. Bernard was 39 years old and didn’t want to be a 50 year old waking up in the middle of the night to change a diaper. It made no sense for him to become more emotionally attached to a woman whose vision of her lifestyle now and ten years in the future just made no sense when a baby was inserted in the picture.
“I respect your decision, which is why I never openly asked you about it when you made comments that suggested you didn’t want to have children.” As Bernard awkwardly tried to find a way to end this unpleasant conversation, I was acutely aware of how much this conversation differed from the one I’d had with Daniel some years ago.

Unlike Daniel, Bernard was, at the very core, my ideal mate. He was intellectually, spiritually and socially the person who I am working relentlessly to become. If I can have this conversation with him and still not question whether or not I REALLY don’t want kids, well…could it be that this really is a decision that is solid. I was 28 when I had to explain to Daniel that I didn’t really see myself as a mother. Like many people suggested to me, I wondered if perhaps it was just him. I didn’t love him enough. I just didn’t see him as someone who would play an equal role in parenting. But here I am, at a point in my life where I crave a partner and a life spent tending to someone other than myself, and my reaction to the notion of pregnancy and caring for an infant remains the same: a clear and certain NO.

When I finally save Bernard from his ill attempts to terminate our phone conversation, I sit on my sofa feeling two emotions. Sadness at the loss of what my relationship with Bernard could have been. And RELIEF. I literally exhale, thankful that I have been given an opportunity to truly have my value tested. When a man with whom I was falling in love admitted that he could not see me as an option, it never occurred to me to think about “fixing” the problem that disqualified me from the race to be his mate.

4.
“This generation is a lot more focused on knowledge,” Meredith points out. “You guys seem to be more aware that big life decisions should be made after gathering information. You actually do make INFORMED decisions.” Meredith maintains that I am not the only woman she knows who does not want to have children. Her daughter is childless by choice. A niece even younger than myself has pushed back her attempts to “get pregnant” every year since she and her husband started vaguely planning to have a family. As Meredith lists the young women she knows who are making informed decisions, I suddenly realize why I wanted to talk to her shortly after my conversation with Bernard.

I have been given a privilege that women from Meredith’s generation were denied. By simply coming into my womanhood at the end of the 20th century, I was causally handed what I have never quite understood until now was a right that my mother’s generation was dismissively denied and what my contemporaries and I routinely take for granted.

I am not only repeatedly put into situations where I must make ENORMOUS adult decisions based on my own values, but the world EXPECTS me to do so. To choose the life that is the best fit for me. I dictate my professional life and my personal one as well.

I have spent over a decade deciding if a particular man was worth my trust and love. Or even another date. If his personality and dreams and values were properly matched to mine. I have had the added privilege of choosing to prioritize the aforementioned traits over the characteristics on which women are often encouraged to place the highest value: is he gainfully employed and does he treat me kind of nice? When I said yes or no to these relationships for any number of reasons, there was a world that was able to accommodate me regardless of the outcome of my decision. I had the privilege of agonizing over whether I had made the right choice when I said yes or no. I was fortunate enough to even worry about regret slowly seeping into my bed during late nights when I slept without a Bernard or a Daniel. To question if I had made the unfortunate mistake of letting a good man go. Should I have just married (insert the name of any good man here) and had his baby?

I made these informed decisions and dealt with their consequences, holding no one responsible for their repercussions but the woman who had made them.

I have won what Meredith’s generation never even realized they were not offered: a womanhood that was synonymous with adulthood. For some reason, the womanhood Meredith describes when she was my age sounds much like the lives of my teenaged students. Lives where they have illusions of choice, but at the end of the day, they follow the dictates placed on them by a host of “others.” You don’t really choose to do your homework; if you don’t do the homework, your parents take away your cell phone. You don’t really choose to mutter quietly under your breath about how stupid the homework assignment is; if you actually said outloud – for EVERYBODY to hear – that the assignment is asinine…well, this teacher lady makes you pay for the comment.

It is not just childless-by-choice women who have benefitted from the expectation that we fair creatures should consciously choose to mother or not to mother. It is also women who choose to delay childbirth until THEY feel they are emotionally and financially ready to handle the commitment. It is also married women who matter of factly say to their husbands: “We’re stopping after just this one.” These women have essentially gone through the same data-gathering process that I have and have made an informed decision. One based on not simply emotion, but also the realities of their lives. They have brought life into this world on their own terms.

After my recent conversations with Bernard and Meredith, I find myself deeply appreciative to the universe for this radical expectation that I and I alone should dictate the parameters of my life and stand behind those dictates without flinching.

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