just some thoughts i'm not keeping to myself

Keep your opinions to yourself. That is, if I don't agree with them.
If I do agree with them, well then, by all means, please share.

This is what Scott told me I do. That my so-called open-mindedness is, actually, its own form of narrow-mindedness. Of course, I don't agree.

I was raised in the cold North by, let's call them "conservatively liberal" people. As I recall in the late 80s as a teenager carving out her own pale, yet distinct, identity, as a family: We weren't big on religion. We were big on Reagan. We weren't big on homosexuality.

Flash forward twenty years and what are we now? As a family: Still not big on religion (keep that to yourself, please). Former Republicans, we're still not into big government (again, religion, please, to yourself) but we are big on rights. We are very big on homosexuality.

Interesting. It's what touches us so personally that ultimately defines us.

So while we had some Wild Wacky Wit and some Savannah Fest Bier at the Moon River Brewery in Savannah, GA this past weekend while watching Gators fans (there is no escape) passionately watching their god in blue and orange, Tim Tebow, who just surpassed Herschel Walker in rushing touchdowns this fall, we talked about these things. I hate Tim Tebow. OK, scratch that. I don't hate the guy. I don't even know him. But I find the fact that he promotes Biblical passages in his eye black just obnoxious as all hell.

Why Jess? How is that any different from you sporting an Obama/Biden sticker on the back of your car during last year's election?

Why am I offended by religion in my face---and evangelical crap on Tebow's face? I don't know, exactly. I just am. I find it as annoying as people who talk about blow jobs like they just had coffee, not respecting their sexuality as private in certain company. I find it as rude as the Prius-driving Northerners who, at times, shove their political beliefs in places they just don't belong. Like the workplace. Come on. Your boss is probably a Republican. All of mine have been. Every single one. From the Clinton era to now. If I agree with you, my job's at stake. If I don't, you wonder about me. Either way, I lose.

Leave well enough alone, I say.

But what of trying to change things? What of making an influence? What about that?

Good question.

How can I have just interacted cordially with people who had no problem---none whatsover---in declaring their blatant racial superiority? How can they assume I feel the same as they do? How can they be so FREE to say those things in front of me? Because I'm a white girl who has clearly had decent opportunities in this life?

Sometimes free speech is a little too free for me. The "self edit" button is missing on some people. Like Tim Tebow's eye black. And the reverse snobbery of the middle class (I'm better than you because I worked harder and came from less). I'm so confused. I just want to be free enough to be left alone. To not have to watch a football game and think about Jerry Falwell.

Sex. Politics. Religion.

Let's talk about something else.

Oh yeah, race. And education being the great equalizer. Sure, if you can get there. But what if you can't? What if you're stuck in the poverty cycle, you don't know anything else, and you don't know how to get out and even if you do get out, nobody wants you to. What then? Do the people with more opportunity get to look down on you?

Let's take a look at the ridiculously talented street performers we watched this past weekend.

There were four of them, three black, one white.

All the black guys clearly had:
Fast twitch muscle fibers.
An innate sense of rhythm.
Ownership of their manliness even though they danced.

The one white guy in the group (we called him "The Spider" because he was just so damn lanky and skinny) and while he had the courage to get out there and even demonstrate some impressive skill, to be sure, he was never going to be one of them.

White men can dance. But not like black men can. And why is it that a black man dancing is sexy and manly and a white one dancing is show-tuney and gay?

Shrugging my shoulders and just thinking my thoughts over here. Just asking. Looking for answers. Just chattering into the internets. The tubes. Asking for your thoughts back. Asking see? Not avoiding your in-our-faceness. Let's chat. Don't dictate. Not to me, please.

It's good to question things, mostly. Isn't it? That's how I see it. Keep asking. Keep observing. Keep questioning. I don't know what else to do. It's not that I'm afraid to stand for something (I know I won't "fall for anything"), it's just that I'm afraid of those who do that. I'm thinking maybe they just haven't thought it through enough.

How can you be so sure? Tim Tebow, are you sure? There's a god? Really? How do you know? Or are you just some guy who's a good athlete? That's a lot of biology right there. Or did God do it? Hmm. Maybe we should consult the breed-happy Duggars.

Are you there God? It's me, Jess.

I still like my Buddha, my gargoyles, my dirt.

But what do I know?

At least I know I don't know.

an old memory

Andover, New Hampshire.
Spring 1986.

We were waiting for an important assembly to begin. I sat outside with a bunch of other students, but really I was all by myself. For some reason, a tall senior—whose name I’ve forgotten now, who, for whatever reason that afternoon was not with his large circle of friends—sat beside me. He seemed very much alone, albeit, of course, very temporarily so. He was tall, very tall, very self-assured, and very handsome. He played all the important sports and I’d seen him many times, sweaty, covered in grass stains and dirt, weighed down with shoulder pads, kneepads, and helmets tromping back and forth with all the other boys from the field house to the dining hall. He was six-four or so with this jet-black hair and these huge blue eyes and sharply defined calves that weren’t too hairy. Too hairy was creepy to me back then. But he had the perfect ratio of bone and muscle to hair. And this was a very acceptable thing for a fourteen-year-old girl.

It was hard not to be mesmerized by athletes. I’d been watching boys kick soccer balls and dunk baskets since grade school and I could close my eyes and imagine their jaw lines, their hands, and sarcastic gestures, too. I was so in love with the idea of boys. It was beyond my own comprehension at the time. Their vast difference from me in all my self-conscious shyness and awkwardness made me impossibly curious and awestruck at their confidence. All their energy and athletic power and ability to work out math problems on the chalkboard in front of an entire class while exhibiting seeming nonchalance no matter what was so much of what I longed to be, too. I couldn’t imagine how free that would feel.

The handsome senior beside me was a tall, thin, sexy version of John Travolta. Of Italian or Persian heritage perhaps, something altogether dark and alluring amid a sea of fair-haired Connecticut wasps. Yet he fit in. He fit in and stood out at the same time. He was always polite and yet, to me, intimidating. So there I was seated next to him on this quiet spring day, age 14, horribly shy and insecure, with braces and unruly hair. And there he was: 18, graceful, muscular, broad-shouldered, and confident without a care in the world. I couldn’t think. I just felt silly and out of breath.

He small-talked with me for a few minutes, wondering when the assembly would start, what was the hold up, had I seen Coach Johnson, things of that nature. I just quietly replied, smiled, and minded my business. But, he didn’t want that. He wanted to talk. To me.

Before he said what he said, a thing I’ve never forgotten, in the hot sun that was boring a hole in my navy blue sweater in the late afternoon, both of us perched on the uncomfortable concrete walkway, I looked at how his face looked. It was so close to mine and I wondered what it might be for someone like him to want someone like me. He turned to speak to me and I was caught in his dark blue eyes framed by this enormous fringe of lashes.
He said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but----“
---- he paused and looked at me in a way that felt like someone looking right through me,
“You’re not quite beautiful now—but someday—you are going to be stunning.”

I felt my face get hot and then impossibly scorching. I smiled, faintly, looked down at my knees, wanted to disappear into the concrete walkway or jump into his arms or just shout out with some unrestrained happiness. I looked back into his face, into those huge eyes of his, not knowing what to say. But I didn’t have to speak. He looked away momentarily and then right back at me, “Really. You will be.” And then his face broke into a big, genuine smile. Like giving me some sort of honest, out of the blue gift. Like a prophet telling your future in no uncertain terms. Like somebody looking into a crystal ball. And holding it in their big, boyishly calloused, sexy hands.

And as ugly and awkward as I felt at that moment, as impossibly shy and young, I believed him.

Not long after he said this, somebody shouted something about assembly beginning and we all marched into the hall. I caught up with somebody I knew from one of my classes and he disappeared off into his crowd of friends. We never spoke again.

howling at the moon

wolves howl at the moon. we, however, fill up hospital delivery rooms, commit petty crimes, toss and turn, and, generally, behave strangely. Cynics and logical, rational people may call me crazy for associating the cycles of the moon with any human behavior (Scott you know if I say the word "energy" one more time you'll do something rash) but, please, consider for a moment that if that same moon overhead can control the tides of the ocean, why wouldn't we, made so much of water, not also be similarly moved?

The weekend began on a high note. We'd just celebrated my birthday over dinner at the Ravenous Pig. Whisper-thin proscuitto. Sashimi tuna over warm mushrooms, an odd-sounding pairing that was, in fact, divine. Steak frites medium rare. Long, thin, perfectly crispy fries cooked in truffle oil and served in a pint glass. The heavenliest pig they should call it. We never overeat there so "ravenous" is not the word for us. It's more about this gentle, yet sensual, flavor rapture (that's as religious as I get). And the only heavy thing is really their privately brewed, in perfect small batches, chocolately dark porter.

Later, at home, he sang to me "Happy Birthday dear Pumpkiny, Happy Birthday to you" and then, melting into a bit of emotional sap and Publix cupcake, wrapped me in his arms tight and sang "Happy Birthday Jess" before I blew out my solitary candle and made three wishes into one big one. I am convinced if I make my wish by blending it into one run-on sentence of requests that all will be granted. The wishes I made when we were apart---at any given opportunity to make a wish: eyelash, penny in fountain, necklace clasp touching pendant, another eyelash---those wishes I made about him, and about us, well, they all came true. So like the moon, wishes have some merit for me. Making them. Believing in them.

We went to a party way, way inconveniently far from home which is not something we do. We tend to stick to our stomping grounds, probably out of laziness and also because we don't need to go anywhere special to have a good time. It's usually the same places, or home, out back, a couple of beers and some meat on the grill, just us. But we went to the party to say happy birthday to my friend who shares the same birthday as I do. We got there and felt this disjointed feeling of who's that? Do I even want to talk to that person? Why are we here? How long do we have to stay in order to not be rude? My friend was tired and even she didn't seem to be in a party mood. We really didn't know anyone so at this point in the evening, oh about 8:45pm, we planted ourselves in the kitchen and snuck in kisses by the sink and, like partners in crime, agreed an hour was good enough and then maybe we'd hit Scruffy's for a beer on the way home.

By the time we left at 1:15am, we had found ourselves enjoying the evening far more than we ever could have imagined. Why is it always the simplest times, the ones standing around someone's well-lit kitchen over beers and a little too much headachy red wine, that you meet the best people? Well, this one was of those nights. A pleasant surprise. Our polite hour had turned, happily, into our entire evening. Where did the time go? It didn't matter. And we went home and fell into bed, glad we'd made the trek out of our way only to meet others who'd made the same journey. So refreshing and needed, really. People of high-intelligence, wit, music, car enthusiasm, religion and political similiarities. It can get so wearying to conceal my true feelings around so many of the people I meet who assume I'm a church-goer. You go ahead and spend your Sunday wearing that and listening to that. I'd rather get outside, dig in the dirt, mow the weeds (there is no lawn, sadly, just green weeds), trim the hedge (there is a nice hedge which flanks the driveway nicely, though). I'd rather be out there connecting with the Earth than thinking about connecting with some religious figure. You do your thing, I'll do mine and we'll all be happy. I think, maybe, where I'm from, that people just don't talk about their religion or their church-going like they do here. They're more private about it or something. I'm not sure. I haven't figured that out yet. I like it being private. And if my spirituality is digging in the dirt, let me be. I also honor my little Buddha in my kitchen who I've put above eye-level (Scott's too) so he can guard over us. We also have a winged gargoyle in the front of the house warding off danger. Dirt. Buddhas. Gargoyles. It works for me.

Halloween, I dressed as a roughed up, black-eye, bruises, bloodied dress and bloody hand print on my chest, girl in an off white slip dress. A tad old to be a prom queen, I was still going for "Carrie." For one really weird moment (yet even weirder that it didn't upset me or seem improbable) I pondered whether Publix would sell me a bucket of blood so I could pour it over my head for full on Stephen King authenticity. We went to a neighbor's party. It was a crappy humid and soggy time of bad keg beer, a luge and all around douche baggery where a guy I kinda-sorta-not-really dated was a real condescending creep to Scott. We hightailed it outta there fast. And ended up having one of those overly emotional nights of needless drama and questioning. It was good we weren't really drinking. I swear it was that damn moon. We ended up curled up on the bed in the half-light (of that damn moon) both saying we'd never wanted to give this much to anyone or work this hard for a relationship. I will say, of one night out of five months since we've been back together, a little moon-induced drama on Halloween night was really not that big of a deal.

Yesterday, we got a flat screen TV. A 42-inch Samsung plasma which, to our welcome and joyous surprise, was marked suddenly down to $593 at Best Buy. We tossed it in the back of my car, securing the boot down with an Ipod wire and crawled home on Colonial. What a difference a day makes. The moon behind us, the Bears in our midst in crystal-clear, mind-numbingly (did we get it too big do you think?) jaw-droppingly (is this too many adjectives?) perfect vision. I commented on fingernail length. "You'd never see that on the 27-inch Sony tube TV." Really! Wow. What a fun day. We decided we'd make roast chicken, with red skin and roasted red pepper mashed potatoes and broccoli for dinner and just have a nice easy night in together. I decided to go out for a quick run to get some oxygen in my blood and some endorphins pumping. Just a short run, that's all. Scott said "just run a mile and come back."

I wish I had. My new Saucony Pro Grids that were my most-wanted birthday gift last week make running into a marshmallow ease of delightful whip-stepping. It could be a lot in my head but there's a lotta cushioning in there and that makes the pavement-pounding ever so palatable. I ran to Lake Eola, around just once and back again. Probably no more than 3 miles. As I made my way back down Livingston, I passed people on their porches and attarctive women walking their pooches. I felt reasonably safe listening to my iPod and ready to be home. At this last stretch of my short run, I saw walking my way a man, a rather tall black one. He was wearing a red hoodie and dark jeans, appeared to be in his 20s. My first instinct was to run to the other side of the street but something stopped me. That's racist, Jess, don't think that way. Just keep running.

The quietness of that block on that street. That man walking slowly, me running. It wasn't about him being black. No. It was all about him being a man. Why didn't I just cross that street? I was more concerned with offending a stranger than with my own feelings of security. When I don't listen to my instincts, I always wonder why I didn't. Because, 99% of the time, my gut is dead on.

All I can say is, I knew what he was going to do before he did it.

I just knew.

As I ran past, he whipped out his junk and just stood there waiting for me to react.

When I saw that, I ran faster than I've ever run in my life to the light at Mills. But he just ambled on. And what would my running fast have done anyway? If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could have. Easily. I would have been no match for him.

Today all I can think is: why does it have to be so hard to be a woman? Why can't I run on the streets of my own neighborhood and feel safe? It wasn't dark. There were people around. But maybe not enough people. And today I feel angry at myself for not crossing that street. And today I am relieved, so grateful and relieved, that nothing else happened, that I wasn't hurt.

And today I feel scared and vulnerable and afraid to run outside anymore.

When I got to Mills, in the safety of traffic lights and activity and other runners, running obliviously by, happily immersed in their iPod mixes, I felt like I wanted to vomit or cry, or both. I ran across the street to the YMCA and asked the girl at the front desk to call the police. Which she did. I asked them to get out and drive down Livingston, see if they could find this guy. I left my name and number and had the Wellness Director walk me to safety because, at this point, it was dark out. When I got home, I told my boyfriend who was busy making delicious roast chicken and mashed potatoes and enjoying the early evening. He kept asking me if I was alright.

You okay baby?

Yeah.

The police called me back about a half hour later. Everybody downtown was "busy" so they dispatched a guy from Pine Hills. Of course they didn't find him. Of course the flasher on Livingston was long gone by then. Where are the police when you need them? Where are they when you need them to go catch a creep?

Full moon. Howling at it. Tides turning. Watch your back. So much goodness in the world. So much creepiness, too. Protect. Find protection. Be safe. I want not to worry but I can't help it now.