She stands on the log as if on a stage, the sun casting its beams in a ring around her. Slowly, she lowers herself, dipping a toe into the smooth blue water below.
Today’s math lesson: Money = Love
“I’m not going to be able to give you your birthday money anymore,†Bubbie announces over egg rolls. Her announcement has a finality to it. As always, Bubbie is not messing around.
I look at her blankly, say nothing.
It’s my twelfth birthday. I’m celebrating with my mom, my aunt, and my grandma at the neighborhood Chinese restaurant. We’re Jewish – we celebrate many family occasions here.
Twelve-year-old me understands that Bubbie’s “birthday money†is the U.S. government savings bond that she gives me each year for my birthday gift. I know that the money is for my college fund. I also understand that when she says she won’t be able to what she means is that she’s not going to. She’s punishing me, but I don’t know why.
Two weeks earlier there was a fight. I’d like to tell you that it wasn’t physical, but it was. I lost. My sister, then 30 years old, won, in more ways than one.
“Mother,†my mom sharply protests. In her defense, she did try to speak up for me, this time. Two weeks earlier it had been a different story. “It’s Christi’s birthday. Let’s enjoy our lunch.â€
“Fine,†announces Bubbie, shaking her head self-righteously. So the subject is dropped. But it still hangs there, above our table, clouding our wonton soup. Lingering.
At 12, I had no idea why my sister attacked me, frightening me, hitting me, blaming me for her failures. I had no idea – then and now – why my grandmother could have possibly sided with my sister. It was my first sign of their unbreakable and dysfunctional bond. I had no idea how money equaled love to my Bubbie, and how she could only show her love for her first granddaughter – her rightful granddaughter – by taking it away from me, her last granddaughter, her only illegitimate one. I only knew that I must have done something really wrong to make everyone hate me. But I had no idea what it was.
I stare at the fish tanks and wish that I could get in, get away from my family, this family of only women who seem to want to tear each other apart. I don’t want to be 12 if this means no one loves me anymore, that by simply being me I’ve done everything wrong. I can’t even say anything. I have no idea what to say. So I eat my soup and stare silently at the fish.
This meal was one of many Chinese restaurant meals with my family, similar in menu, décor, and introspection. I spent my teenage years floating in and out of my relationship with Bubbie. Sometimes I worked hard to please her, sometimes I tolerated her quietly, sometimes I fought back. But I always knew that no matter what I did, it would never be enough. And true to her word, she never gave me another birthday bond.
On the side of the highway in France
Geoff, you were there. I’m willing to bet that you’ll agree that this was far and away our most romantic dinner ever.
We were on our honeymoon, in France. A little background: I studied French for many years and could order in restaurants, follow directions on the street. I wanted more — to convince everyone that I was French. To do that, I never smiled and spoke as little as possible.
We started our trip in Paris, with long walks and croissants. We moved on after a week to little towns in the countryside: Avignon, Cannes. There were more, but I can’t remember them. The last stop of our trip was in Nice. The evening we drove there we set out late without having eaten. We were hungry and hoping to stop along the way. The highway, ironically revealed only McDonald’s and we kept going.
We were nearing the edge of Cannes, about to give up on dinner altogether. But we were very hungry, so it felt awful, almost depressing. As we neared the interchange ramp, the restaurant appeared, like a mirage.
It was small, dimly lit from within. Previously a home, it exuded a warmth that is both characteristically French and nearly impossible to find among the French. We stopped and went in, pausing to glance at the menu in the window.
The very friendly hostess sat us immediately, speaking in quick French. She brought us aperitifs and hors d’oevres before we ordered. I don’t remember the food except that it was delicious; I have forgotten almost all of the details but for you and me together, starting out on this journey together, and being so happy. The surprise and mystery of that little restaurant by the side of the highway, its appearance at the best possible moment felt like good fortune. That piece of luck has always felt significant to me.
It’s this: If we stick together and keep going, good things will fall in our path. It’s worked for us so far.
It’s my birthday
I’m 36 today. I will miss being 35, because even though this has been a hard year, it’s been a good one. I’ve learned a lot about myself this year. I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones. I’ve started writing again, in a way that truly excites me. I’ve learned to be honest with myself about what I want and what I need. I’ve learned that I can trust myself but that I should also trust those closest to me. Sometimes others can see you the most clearly. I’ve begun to ask for help when I need it, and to occasionally seek approval or criticism from others. I like how that gives me a three-dimensional view of myself and forces me to resolve disparity between what I am and what I think I am.
This has been a hard year. If you’ve stuck by me, and if you know me in reality then you most certainly have, thank you. You reading my words is the most meaningful birthday gift I could receive.
There’s this blog I like
So, I’ve been blogging since March. And a couple of months ago I started following the blog link-up over at Yeah Write. Like most new bloggers, I’m trying to drum up readers, so I try to make the rounds and read what everyone posts once a week. Sometimes I’m better at it than other times. But there’s one blog that I really like, and I always check it out when I see it in the lineup.
Joe, over at Living in Kellie’s World, caught my eye right away, because, well, he’s hot. Check out his photo if you don’t believe me. He knows a thing or two about women. He’s good, for a guy. And he’s funny, which keeps me coming back. Plus, he’s smart. He reads.
The best thing about him is how much he truly seems to love and want to please his wife. From what I know about men, very few take the time to create a whole blog documenting their efforts to please their wives. Joe, I wish you were friends with my husband, Geoff. I have a feeling you’d be a good influence on him.
Here’s the thing. Week after week I try to comment on Joe’s blog. I craft friendly-but-not-too-friendly compliments, I suggest that he submit his posts to a publication with a larger audience. I do all the things that groupies do. And every week, no matter which format I use to submit, Joe’s blog rejects my comment. It’s weird.
Joe, what’s up with that?
I have a lot of ideas
As part of Yeah Write’s 31 Days to a Better Blog series this month, I did a little free writing this week. I learned that I have a ton of ideas. Ideas are literally pouring out of my mind faster than I can remember to write them down. I filled a page of my journal in about ten minutes, and that’s just the beginning.
Here are the ten that I like the best, in no particular order:
1. Why we all should practice Opposite Day — let’s let our kids be in charge for one day of each week and see what happens.
2. Being a mom of three is a lot like living in a video game, trying to get everyone to the finish line at once without getting too distracted along the way.
3. Grandmothers are secret sources of strength for us women, and we usually align ourselves with them unconsciously.
4. How a friend’s death can dramatically affect your life.
5. The most romantic dinner I’ve ever had.
6. How I won over a boss who hated me (I think).
7. Why I tried to dump a friend and how I got her back.
8. I was once in a mom’s group with a bunch of gun-toters, and how I’m not always what I seem.
9. Why Chinese restaurants remind me that my Bubbie hated me.
10. All about my experiences with reiki massage, and where does that energy come from?
So, what would you most like to read about?
Once I hated a girl
I hated a girl once. I almost got eaten alive by my hate for her, until at long last we parted ways forever.
We worked together for two years. I was 23, just out of college. She, too, was 23, just starting out, like me. We first met at orientation on our shared first day. Looking back on it, we had more similarities than differences.
She was startlingly beautiful. She had the kind of looks that made you want to stop and stare at her. She had long silky black curls, large eyes, delicate features. She was small, but strong. She exercised religiously, ate nothing. Her body was incredibly sexy. She had tons of cute clothes. She was Jewish — the real kind, not my sorta kind. She was unattached, no husband, no boyfriend, no girlfriend. She lived in the city with roommates.
She talked, at length, on her phone in her cubicle across from mine. She talked about her exercise schedule, about her dates, about her trips to museums by herself. She flirted shamelessly with my boss.
Now, let me explain something. I flirted with my boss, too. He was just a little older, funny, and hot. But I did it guiltily. I was already engaged. Back then faithfulness was a primary concern of mine. Plus, this was my boss, not hers. She was just removed enough to be able to do as she liked. They bonded over workout tales.
Everything about her ate at my soul. She was the me I wanted to be in so many ways. And she was interesting to me. I wanted her as a friend, as a more-than friend. At the time I didn’t, couldn’t, know it. I only felt, I couldn’t think. My jealousy of her, my envy for what she had made me hate everything about her.
Did she hate me, too? I think so. I think we both exuded a vibe that repelled the other. Perhaps she was similarly attracted to me. Maybe she wanted what I had: a fiancée, a close working relationship with the hot boss, security. Who knows?
Have you ever truly hated someone? It feels like I imagine it would to fall into quicksand. It’s annihilating. Sooner or later, it comes down to an ultimatum: you or it. And if you don’t want to end up in a therapist’s chair, you’ve got to make the call. You.
Just when I’d finally realized that things had to change, she left the company for a better job. It was providential. Once she was out of my life, I felt instantly better. And honestly, I’ve never had a reaction like that to anyone since. If I did, I hope that I would recognize it and confront it. Hatred is a dark dead-end street in a bad neighborhood.
He called me young lady
I got pulled over today. We were driving home from Memphis, and I had just taken over at the wheel. Geoff offhandedly mentioned that he had been booking it at about 85 miles an hour on the first leg of the trip. He assured me that he hadn’t seen any cops out this early on a Sunday morning.
So, I admit it, I wasn’t careful. I was zipping along at 83 miles an hour, reaching for a pretzel when Geoff noticed the cop. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have seen the police car at all until it pulled behind me with its lights on. Damn. The worst part is, this exact scenario has happened at least once before, while we were driving through New York years ago. That makes me extra angry, since Geoff will be adding this to his list of stories that display my poor driving skills.
Okay, so the police officer approached the car, and I was ready with the window unrolled, my license and registration in my hand.
“Good morning, young lady,” he boomed through the window.
Wait. Young lady? The officer was markedly older than me. But still. Is “young lady” a term of respect? Was he trying to be endearing, as if he was my dad or my grandpa? What the hell? Should I be relieved that he didn’t call me “M’am”? At least I look young enough to still be called young lady, but I’m not. I’m turning 36 in a few days. I don’t feel like a young lady anymore.
I was polite to the officer, because that’s how I am. A few years ago, I would have been intimidated. Now I was just ready to get back on the road. We still had most of our trip ahead of us, and with all three kids in the car, I was ready to get moving.
Still, that “young lady” stuck with me all day. It really bugged me. And it’s going to cost me $120.
My kids need a black grandma
(Sorry, this post isn’t politically correct. Please don’t take offense.)
The kids were fighting. Gabe smacked Anna, and she was crying, milking it as usual. The tour guide, a grandmotherly black woman, came over, concerned.
“You don’t hit your sister like that,” she said, serious. “You’re the man,” she said to Gabe. A look of surprise passed his face, then he smirked at me, embarrassed.
Just as quick, the tour guide lightened up. “But I saw you messing with him,” she laughed, looking at Anna. It was obvious that she wasn’t angry, just admonishing. She turned to the baby in his stroller. “And you? Are you stayin’ out of it?” she asked. Nate grinned.
When I was little, my mom and I lived downstairs from a very kind black woman. She had a grown son and no grandkids of her own, so she sort of adopted me. I remember spending a lot of time with her. She was large and soft and often laughing. Black ladies like that just ooze love. But here’s the thing: There’s something in their size, their strong voices that commands respect.
Kids know this. They take one look, and they feel the dichotomy of fear and attraction. They want the laughter and they need the authority. They want the unequivocal love they find in her gaze, the soft squishiness of her hug, even the strictness of her directions.
A black grandma preaches it like it is. She doesn’t try to win favor and she’s demanding. Kids never get the better of her. But she always cuts her edge with a smile or a treat. She has a thing or two to teach the kids and she dives right in. Then she hugs, she kisses, she tickles. She’s an expert at bandaid application. She sings. She shows you God. She refuses to take any crap. She feeds your soul.
Do you have a black grandma?
More Memphis scenes
