It may be insignificant to mention, but the ride home on Friday was the perfect start to a relaxing weekend back at home in Blairsville, Pennsylvania. As I was carelessly speeding along Route 22 at 90 miles per hour, I saw a man alongside the road walking away from his truck. He seemed to either be looking for something or simply trumping head down to the nearest gas station, which was quite a walk. I continued about three miles before I decided to turn around and ask if he needed a ride. When I arrived, however, he was gone. It didn't bother me a bit, but it made me think of the time Jess and I had a similar experience, one involving a hopeful hitchhiker on the way back from Rhode Island. We marveled at the fact that the hitchhiker had no idea that two people had taken the time to backtrack and help him out. We then marveled at the fact that these things happen every day, even to us. It's amazing the kind of impression you can leave on someone and the impression that someone can leave on you -- without even saying a word, without even meeting you.
Trying to make up for some lost time, I picked up speed once I had gotten through Altoona and into Ebensburg. Even at that speed, however, I noticed the flashing lights of a motorcycle coming the other way over a hill. More reactionary than anything, I slowed down only just in time to notice a police car sitting just out of view on the other side of the road. When I had gotten safely past the cop, I followed the motorcyclist's example and flashed my lights to the opposing traffic, a small red car. I noticed their brake lights come on immediately and smiled. It might've been entirely inconsequential for anyone else to have mentioned, but it certainly bolstered my belief in karma. You reap what you sow, so plant some good seeds.
Within the hour of getting home, Colleen and I were roasting marshmallows and mountain pies over a fire and catching up on the past few months. After realizing the terrible choice we made in renting the X Files ("Scully...I...I have no idea what you're even talking about"), we downed three-fourths of Jose while we soaked in the hot tub, then fell asleep half-drunk watching Santa Clause 3. It seemed as if though our time together had been stolen when I hugged her goodbye tonight after going to see the movie, Night at the Museum 2.
A usual occurrence during a weekend with the Masula is the divulging of secrets. Yet this time, it was my grandma who decided to open up to me. Somehow, the topic of marijuana came into our conversation, and she suddenly became agitated. She told me that, had she heard of any or been offered some when she was working in the factory in her early 20s, she would have certainly liked to try it! At 86, my grandmother appears to be the most quaint, conservative and fragile woman I've ever seen. Everything about her - her mannerisms as well as her outward appearance -- suggests a very humble nature. At 20, she had been trained and hired at a factory in Iowa, inspecting planes to be sent overseas for the war. She laughed when I mentioned "Rosie the Riveter" and then abruptly asked me a very interesting question: "Do you think we should have dropped the bombs?" Then, with a serious yet curious look, she warned me, "Be careful what you say!"
I was speechless at first. Frantically, I mentally flipped through the piles of notes from my World War II classes this semester and - carefully - calculated my answer. I pondered aloud the terrible tragedy and numerous Japanese civilians who died in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, but also was sure to stress the number of American lives that would've been lost had we been forced to invade the mainland. I also recollected my professor's lectures on Japanese warfare, relentless and, if need be, suicidal. She nodded, adding that my generation was more apt to think more about the humanity of the situation, while her generation focused more on victory and the safety of their men.
This got me thinking, not about World War II, but other subjects I've never touched upon with my grandma. The more I talk to her, the more I learn and the more I realize she's not as conservative as I once thought. Recently, I've been tempted to bring up the subject of homosexuality, perhaps even telling her about myself. Yet on the ride home, I decided it wasn't important enough unless it came up naturally in a conversation. It is true, however, that I'd like her to know before she dies, given the shock of the news isn't the reason for her death. Why I need her to know, I'm not sure. Nonetheless, I can't help but feel she already does know -- she rarely asks me if I brought any girls home, something she made a point to do every time I visited.
Elsewhere, I've made breakthroughs...or simply just progress, perhaps. The past week, I've been taking care of Scott's demon, Leila, and found that she had nowhere to go this weekend but to home with me. I didn't mind, but I did catch myself concocting a lie to tell my mother once she asked whom the rabbit belonged to. Instead, I told the truth (It's been a while.), and she didn't even flinch. In fact, she repeated my boyfriend's name back to me, asking where he was this weekend. Having rabbits herself when she was a girl, she took to Leila nicely, with the exception of course that the animal not be allowed in the house. I knew she was aware that my boyfriend and I had gotten back together (Thanks, Laurel.), but I was shocked by her blaise attitude, her seemingly accepting tone of it all.
I can't help but to smile a little when I recall the first time ma mere approached me about my sexuality. Far from being funny, however, she came into my room one night after I had been talking on the phone with my ex-boyfriend. Tears already brimming in her eyes, she asked if I had been seeing anyone. For some odd reason, I told the truth. (Perhaps this happens more than I think it does?) "Is it a guy? Yes. What the hell is wrong with me? "Is his name Sam?" Yes. Stop telling the truth! She nodded her head jerkily, stood up and walked out of the room without a word. Seven months later, I was dating a girl.
I remember the Saturday afternoon as if though it happened yesterday. Beautiful day, sitting on the sofa in the basement to stay out of the heat. My mother came down the stairs and sat on the chair opposite me. I assumed she was taking a break from working outside, but when I looked up, she was looking at me in a very unusual way. The silence was broken when she said, in her all-too-Bonniesque way, "So you're bisexual?" The words dropped like my grandma's justified bombs over Japan. I responded by saying "I guess so," and she robotically nodded her head just like before. Rose up from her chair, went up the steps and disappeared into the hallway, no further questions. It was like a bitchslap in the face, leaving me feeling so uncomfortable I had to stop reading my book.
During this last recent breakup, she was the only one I could reach as I bawled hysterically and moped pathetically in my lonely apartment. While I'm ashamed of my frantic behavior on those few days, I can't help but be amazed at the cool and collective nature she exhibited as she gave me counsel over the phone. She had already known (Once again, thanks, Laurel.) about my having a boyfriend, so there was no explanation needed. Even once the relationship had been mended, she somehow knew and never said a word.
Silence is one of the most effective weapons in anyone's arsenal. I'm not just speaking about the typical "silent treatment" that wives in sitcoms give to their husbands when they do something stupid. It's the silence that is often unintentional, a silence of fear and one that no matter how much dirt is heaped on top, it grows like weeds and never stops. Silence can also divide. It can drive a wedge through relationships. No matter how great it seems on the outside, no matter how many other things the person knows about you, there's still that one thing that sticks like an annoying piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe.
I hate to reduce it down to a wad of stubborn Bubble Yum, but it really does bother me under the surface, the silence on the issue of my sexuality. While it may be far from important that my parents accept my new boyfriend or girlfriend into the family, it's good to have the subject acknowledged. I find it even more difficult to know that it's the same on the other side of the fence. I love to meet the parents of whoever I'm dating -- with a guy, the chances are slim. It frustrates me to no end when I hear people resign to, "That's just the way things are." Things change, as they're supposed to, yet things here are not changing as fast as I'd like.
By now, I've noticed my rather cheery introduction has spiraled into a note of inhumanity and disappointment. As always, however, I hope for the best and prepare for the absolute worst. I don't believe anyone should have to live like this, but that's just the way things are, right?
Within the hour of getting home, Colleen and I were roasting marshmallows and mountain pies over a fire and catching up on the past few months. After realizing the terrible choice we made in renting the X Files ("Scully...I...I have no idea what you're even talking about"), we downed three-fourths of Jose while we soaked in the hot tub, then fell asleep half-drunk watching Santa Clause 3. It seemed as if though our time together had been stolen when I hugged her goodbye tonight after going to see the movie, Night at the Museum 2.
A usual occurrence during a weekend with the Masula is the divulging of secrets. Yet this time, it was my grandma who decided to open up to me. Somehow, the topic of marijuana came into our conversation, and she suddenly became agitated. She told me that, had she heard of any or been offered some when she was working in the factory in her early 20s, she would have certainly liked to try it! At 86, my grandmother appears to be the most quaint, conservative and fragile woman I've ever seen. Everything about her - her mannerisms as well as her outward appearance -- suggests a very humble nature. At 20, she had been trained and hired at a factory in Iowa, inspecting planes to be sent overseas for the war. She laughed when I mentioned "Rosie the Riveter" and then abruptly asked me a very interesting question: "Do you think we should have dropped the bombs?" Then, with a serious yet curious look, she warned me, "Be careful what you say!"
I was speechless at first. Frantically, I mentally flipped through the piles of notes from my World War II classes this semester and - carefully - calculated my answer. I pondered aloud the terrible tragedy and numerous Japanese civilians who died in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, but also was sure to stress the number of American lives that would've been lost had we been forced to invade the mainland. I also recollected my professor's lectures on Japanese warfare, relentless and, if need be, suicidal. She nodded, adding that my generation was more apt to think more about the humanity of the situation, while her generation focused more on victory and the safety of their men.
This got me thinking, not about World War II, but other subjects I've never touched upon with my grandma. The more I talk to her, the more I learn and the more I realize she's not as conservative as I once thought. Recently, I've been tempted to bring up the subject of homosexuality, perhaps even telling her about myself. Yet on the ride home, I decided it wasn't important enough unless it came up naturally in a conversation. It is true, however, that I'd like her to know before she dies, given the shock of the news isn't the reason for her death. Why I need her to know, I'm not sure. Nonetheless, I can't help but feel she already does know -- she rarely asks me if I brought any girls home, something she made a point to do every time I visited.
Elsewhere, I've made breakthroughs...or simply just progress, perhaps. The past week, I've been taking care of Scott's demon, Leila, and found that she had nowhere to go this weekend but to home with me. I didn't mind, but I did catch myself concocting a lie to tell my mother once she asked whom the rabbit belonged to. Instead, I told the truth (It's been a while.), and she didn't even flinch. In fact, she repeated my boyfriend's name back to me, asking where he was this weekend. Having rabbits herself when she was a girl, she took to Leila nicely, with the exception of course that the animal not be allowed in the house. I knew she was aware that my boyfriend and I had gotten back together (Thanks, Laurel.), but I was shocked by her blaise attitude, her seemingly accepting tone of it all.
I can't help but to smile a little when I recall the first time ma mere approached me about my sexuality. Far from being funny, however, she came into my room one night after I had been talking on the phone with my ex-boyfriend. Tears already brimming in her eyes, she asked if I had been seeing anyone. For some odd reason, I told the truth. (Perhaps this happens more than I think it does?) "Is it a guy? Yes. What the hell is wrong with me? "Is his name Sam?" Yes. Stop telling the truth! She nodded her head jerkily, stood up and walked out of the room without a word. Seven months later, I was dating a girl.
I remember the Saturday afternoon as if though it happened yesterday. Beautiful day, sitting on the sofa in the basement to stay out of the heat. My mother came down the stairs and sat on the chair opposite me. I assumed she was taking a break from working outside, but when I looked up, she was looking at me in a very unusual way. The silence was broken when she said, in her all-too-Bonniesque way, "So you're bisexual?" The words dropped like my grandma's justified bombs over Japan. I responded by saying "I guess so," and she robotically nodded her head just like before. Rose up from her chair, went up the steps and disappeared into the hallway, no further questions. It was like a bitchslap in the face, leaving me feeling so uncomfortable I had to stop reading my book.
During this last recent breakup, she was the only one I could reach as I bawled hysterically and moped pathetically in my lonely apartment. While I'm ashamed of my frantic behavior on those few days, I can't help but be amazed at the cool and collective nature she exhibited as she gave me counsel over the phone. She had already known (Once again, thanks, Laurel.) about my having a boyfriend, so there was no explanation needed. Even once the relationship had been mended, she somehow knew and never said a word.
Silence is one of the most effective weapons in anyone's arsenal. I'm not just speaking about the typical "silent treatment" that wives in sitcoms give to their husbands when they do something stupid. It's the silence that is often unintentional, a silence of fear and one that no matter how much dirt is heaped on top, it grows like weeds and never stops. Silence can also divide. It can drive a wedge through relationships. No matter how great it seems on the outside, no matter how many other things the person knows about you, there's still that one thing that sticks like an annoying piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe.
I hate to reduce it down to a wad of stubborn Bubble Yum, but it really does bother me under the surface, the silence on the issue of my sexuality. While it may be far from important that my parents accept my new boyfriend or girlfriend into the family, it's good to have the subject acknowledged. I find it even more difficult to know that it's the same on the other side of the fence. I love to meet the parents of whoever I'm dating -- with a guy, the chances are slim. It frustrates me to no end when I hear people resign to, "That's just the way things are." Things change, as they're supposed to, yet things here are not changing as fast as I'd like.
By now, I've noticed my rather cheery introduction has spiraled into a note of inhumanity and disappointment. As always, however, I hope for the best and prepare for the absolute worst. I don't believe anyone should have to live like this, but that's just the way things are, right?
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ReplyDeleteYes, that is the way things are... for better or worse. Trust only in the fact that you are growing to know yourself and accept yourself... and since you'll be spending quite a bit of time with yourself, it's a marvelous revelation.
ReplyDeleteI am moved by your feelings of helplessness, of wanting to confront the "elephant in the room," yet parents need time to work through things. Know, though, that your mom loves you... even when she doubts or questions your sexuality, it is most likely because she is afraid for you. Show her you're not afraid. Show her that your boyfriend, your life, his rabbit, your companionship, his protection are all wonderful. Don't regret or be "ashamed" of your behavior in this last breakup... your feelings are valid... keep showing her... yes, keep showing her.
Lee, Wow. This just flows right into things. Did you know where this was going when you started with the truck at the side of the road?
ReplyDeleteConsider giving your mom a big, long hug and telling her you love her no matter what.