Saturday, September 29, 2018

Yes, it's another #MeToo post...because this week has broken me.

In the midst of the cretinous circus that's been playing out on Capitol Hill this week, the thing that has struck me most is the off-the-charts level of denial it takes for some people to think that a woman would make up a story like this to get attention. Christine Blasey Ford has gone public with her very private trauma only to be subjected to death threats.

Death threats.

Think about that for a second. You tell your story, and people who don't even know you--who don't even have a dog in this fight, really--want to kill you.

It's not the fact that those folks think she's making it up that bothers me so much as it is what that belief reveals about the depths of misogyny in this country: that there are people who genuinely believe that women are so fundamentally unstable, needy, and plain bat-shit crazy that they will willingly--nay, enthusiastically!--throw their careers, families, and reputations under the bus in order to 1) get famous; 2) blindly serve someone else's political agenda; or 3) just for the hell of it, because, WOMEN. You know, they're like that.

To me, that realization--that a significant number of people believe that women are innately crazy, and therefore dismissible and disposable--is even more depressing than the hearings themselves.

I think--well, I know--that part of the reason that this case has pushed my buttons even harder than usual is because Brett Kavanaugh and I are of an age. Both born in 1965. While I didn't grow up with the kind of privilege he did, I did grow up in an affluent Midwestern suburb where I went to school with lots of people, male and female, who did.

Back then, in the early 80s, it was a real social coup to find out about a parents-are-out-of-town, let's-have-a-party at the house of one of the kids who lived in the really rich parts of that town. Even better if it was a party thrown by someone who didn't even deign to go to the public high school, but to one of the private schools.

(Thankfully, now) I didn't run in the kind of social circles where I ever would have been invited to those parties--I wouldn't even have thought of crashing one. I do remember driving by one, once, on Wolfe Park, where hundreds of teenagers spilled out of the enormous stone mansion and down the meticulously groomed grounds to the street. At the time, it seemed glamorous: a way of life that I could only read about in The Preppy Handbook, which I read more as an aspirational DIY manual than as the parody it was.

Imagine this place at night, with hundreds
of teenagers drinking on the lawn
The image of that party has popped into my mind all week, since it's at such a gathering that Christine Blasey Ford was attacked. Could I imagine such a thing happening at that house party on Wolfe Park? Absolutely. Did such things happen? I wasn't there. I don't know. But if I met someone now, 35+ years later, who told me that she'd been attacked at that party, I would completely believe her. And I would also believe that her attacker went on to become a well-educated, wealthy, and powerful man--one who would be just as shocked to be confronted by his victim as Brett Kavanaugh was.

And that was the other thing that pushed my buttons hard: does Kavanaugh even remember that night? Did he know her name then? What so many people don't seem to understand is that just because he doesn't remember it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Trauma sears memories indelibly into the brain. The fact that she remembers it so clearly is backed up by brain science. The fact that he doesn't is backed up by patriarchy.

My friend Erika posted something on Facebook yesterday that resonated deeply with me:
Several months after I escaped a rape attempt, I passed the guy (a stranger to me) on the street. I stopped in my tracks. I know, 100%, that he was the one, because he stopped in his tracks too, and I saw the fear and recognition in his eyes. Time arrested for a moment, then we each walked on. 
I can’t fully recall in detail the face of my boyfriend at the time, but I’d swear I could pick out my would-be rapist from a crowd. As he was then, and I think even as he has become.  
I wonder if he would recognize me.
I was raped during my junior year of college. It was date rape--a guy I'd met at a bar, who came home with me and wouldn't take no for an answer. At the time I told no one. I was ashamed. It was my fault, of course, for letting this guy into my apartment. What did I expect? 

The fact that I can now describe it as date rape is a very recent phenomenon. Though I called myself a "feminist" in college, even I was uncertain as to whether what happened to me "counted" as rape or not. 

And I remained uncertain until just a few years ago. My friend Christina was clearing out her house in preparation for a move, and she gave me all the letters I'd sent to her while we were both in college. Looking through them, I came across a letter in which I described what had happened that night. Honestly, I didn't even remember that I'd written to her about it. But there, in black and white, I told her about how I'd said "no." Multiple times. And still this person persisted. 

When I read Erika's post, I remembered something else: that a month or two after the rape, I was sitting in an English class in University Hall when the door swung open shortly after class had started, and there stood my attacker. He'd apparently wandered into the wrong room. Though he was probably only in the doorway for a few seconds before he realized his mistake and turned away, like Erika, those seconds were frozen in time. We locked eyes, and I know he remembered. 

What makes me especially sad as I write all of this is that I don't think I could have told this story publicly had my mother not died earlier this year. I wouldn't have wanted her to know. Not because she would have been ashamed of me, or blamed me--though for sure, that's why I didn't tell her then, or in the thirty years afterwards. But because she would have been sad, too. And hurt, and guilty. I wanted to spare her that. More evidence of the many forces that keep women silent.

So when our President claimed that Dr. Ford's story couldn't be true, because if she really had been attacked, of course she would have told her parents, and they would have prosecuted Kavanaugh...well, the most charitable way I can describe my reaction is "Wow. You really, really don't get it at all." He doesn't get it on any level: not on an emotional level, not on the parent/child-relationship level, not on a historical level, not on a legal level. Of the innumerable ignorant statements that man has made since taking office, that is one of the most profoundly ignorant. And that's saying something.

But the thing is, he's voicing what a lot of other people are thinking. 

So add that to the list of things we've all learned this week: first, a good number of people think that women are flat-out crazy and bent on destruction. And second, that even though they're crazy (maybe because they're crazy?), no one else can be held accountable for what happens to them. 

Duly noted. And grieved. 

Friday, June 8, 2018

Fragments and full stops

Hans Thoma, "Kinderreigen," 1872
For years, my mom had been talking about wanting to write something about the games she remembered playing as a child growing up in Mercer County, West Virginia. So many of them seemed very specific to that time and place: a game called "Pretty Girl Station," another played in the fall called "Dead Man" where kids formed a ring around a pile of raked leaves, chanting as they circled it until a kid hiding in the pile burst out of it and chased the others off.  

When she got her diagnosis in March, this particular task took on a new urgency. I didn't know that she'd been working on it until she was in the hospital in early May, though. One morning while my brother Mark and I were visiting her, she told me that she'd gotten a start, but added, "I'm such a slow and picky writer...I'd write a sentence and even before I finished it I'd be editing it. So I didn't get very far with it." 

My brother Mark and I both suggested that she and I just have a conversation about the games, which I'd record and then the two of us would co-write the article. Mom was pleased with that idea. She was a folklorist too, after all, so completely understood that sometimes it's more natural and productive to talk about your memories than it is to write about them. 

Of course, none of us knew at that time that she'd be dead within the week.

When she died, I asked Mark--who had her laptop--to keep an eye out for a document about children's games. He found it pretty readily--it was titled, in all caps, THE GAMES WE PLAYED--and emailed it to me about a week after she died. 

Here's what she'd written: 
When I was eight years old, our family moved to Athens and I became one of Kathryn Gibson's fourth graders. For the first time I learned playground games. Concord Grammar School was a two story brick building  surrounded by grass facing the street and play areas on the other three sides. There was the usual playground equipment:  a seesaw, a slide, swings, and a giant stride. It was a frightful thing consisting of a number of chains attached to a tall metal pole. Two metal bars were attached one above the other to the end of each chain. We ran hanging on to the bars one hand above the other and soon we were flying through the air fast round and round.
I remember the games we played as seasonal. In the spring it was jump rope for the girls in the back of the building with all the rhymes we knew. The boys played mumbley-peg and marbles at the side.  The boys’ knuckles would     
I got to that last incomplete sentence and burst into tears. What clearer evidence that her voice had been silenced for good than an unfinished sentence? I'd never even know how she meant to finish that one line, much less the whole piece. But I could see how carefully she'd crafted what little there was--how evocative that description of the giant stride was, both in terms of how it worked and the combination of terror and joy it inspired in the kids who played on it. 

Giant stride on a New York City playground, circa 1910-1915
There was no full stop to that sentence, but there had been a full stop to her life. I was bereft, sobbing inconsolably not for the first time since she died, but certainly for longer than I had before. 

So much regret. Why didn't we do this sooner? Why didn't I tell her about Anne Lamott's concept of "shitty first drafts," and suggest that she try to write a sloppy version of the whole thing, or at least an outline? Why didn't we ever talk about our respective writing processes and practices? 

My therapist tells me that these deep regrets are all part of the "bargaining" stage of the grief process--that bargaining doesn't only include the promises and deals you make to get your loved one to live longer, or to bring them back to life, but also the whole range of "what ifs" that haunt you when the person is gone. 

Mom had hoped to submit her piece about children's games to the West Virginia Division of Culture and History's magazine Goldenseal. I may still try to complete the article; over the years, I know that she had sent me several emails with details about those games, which might include enough information to put something together. But it will never be in her voice. 

Mom had told me about her diagnosis on St. Patrick's Day. On Easter Sunday, her amazing primary-care physician, Teresa Holt, came to mom's house in the afternoon to talk with all of us about the prognosis and mom's options. It was a difficult but necessary conversation, made so much easier by Dr. Holt's no-nonsense and compassionate approach. Seeing her sitting on the couch, holding my mom's hand, and explaining how the disease would progress and answering all our questions, I felt unexpectedly calm. If this was the person in charge of mom's care, I had far fewer worries about what was to come. 

Later that afternoon, I was sitting next to Mom at the dining-room table, helping her with something on her computer. Out of nowhere she turned to me and said, in her sort of mock-severe tone, "Rosemary Hathaway, I want you to promise me one thing." 

"What's that, Momma?"


My plan, ever since we knew that at some point mom would need round-the-clock care, was that I would decamp to Columbus this summer and work on the book there. "I would love that," she said--and I think it was about the only way she would have tolerated my being a caretaker, if she knew it meant I was getting some writing done as well.

That didn't happen, obviously. And the book remains unfinished, six months after my original deadline for getting it to the press.

Completing it seems like such a chore. Like mom, I know what needs to be done but my internal editor gets in the way. Already the idea seems stale and overdone to me--what do I have to say about Appalachian history and identity that more recent writers like Elizabeth Catte and Steven Stoll haven't said far more persuasively and eloquently? 

And the mental energy it takes to do that kind of writing...well, I just don't have it right now. 

And part of me is afraid to finish it. The book is in many ways about my parents' experiences growing up in West Virginia and attending WVU, and moving to Ohio and reinventing themselves as Appalachian out-migrants. Irrationally, it feels like finishing the book is consigning them to history, to the past. 

But it is also a legacy to them. And knowing that it was one of my mom's last wishes to finish pressure there. 

I guess it means I have to take my own advice, the advice I regretted not giving mom about her own writing: just get it down. Crank something out. Get some input from a trusted reader. Plenty of time to revise later. 

Plenty of time. It's what I have that she didn't.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018


This morning I was out in the front yard, once again weeding the bed along the sidewalk.

In the distance, I could hear a lawnmower running--the neighbor's yard-service guy was out early, too, to get his work done before the heat and humidity become unbearable. As I pulled mock strawberry and thistle, I vaguely registered the sound of the lawnmower stopping, being loaded into a truck, and an engine turning over.

The lawn guy's truck pulled to at stop at the intersection where our house sits. I had my back to the street, but I heard a voice behind me. I turned around to see the lawn guy leaning toward the open passenger-side window of his truck.

"Thank you for the peonies," he said, referring to the two gigantic bushes in the bed along the other side of the house, whose branches are so heavily loaded with blooms right now that they have toppled to the ground. "I love their fragrance."

It took a moment to understand what he was saying. "Oh, me, too...please cut some and take them--there are so many." 

He waved that idea away, just saying, "Thank you. I grew up with them," then drove off. 

Such a simple and unnecessary exchange. But it rocked me to my core. 

It's these unexpected kindnesses in the last couple of weeks that have both soothed me and utterly destroyed me: a letter from a friend of my parents', containing such detailed and loving memories of them both. A neighbor who stopped by to drop off some cookies. Tom went to the door, so I didn't see her, but as she walked away, I could hear her three-year-old daughter saying "Bye bye, wall. Bye bye, flowers." A phone call with a former colleague of my mom's that ranged across topics from the inconstancy of cats to transgender rights to purchasing Turkish rugs, with thoughts about mom and her last days scattered in there, lightly, when they came up. I understood why she was one of the few people mom told about her diagnosis. 

All of it feels like not enough and too much simultaneously. What did I ever do to deserve such kindness, even from strangers? I certainly have not been as kind or thoughtful when others I know have suffered losses, much less in daily practice. And hearing so many stories about my mom's generosity makes me feel especially unworthy. 

Before anyone leaps in here to demur, let me stress that that's not the purpose of this post. Even in the midst of the exquisite tenderness of the moment, I recognize that my mother was not a saint and neither am I, nor do I wish to be. It's taken me the better part of the last few decades to grow the steely backbone that I also know my mother had. 

I simply want to acknowledge the many examples of grace I've experienced recently. 

I don't mean "grace" in the religious sense--but something like that, in the sense of its being "unmerited favor, love, or assistance." No need to get God or the divine involved. Humans can and do grant these gifts to each other, knowingly or unknowingly...and in these harsh times, we should probably strive to do it more often. 

Ever since mom died I've had a quote from a Robert Frost poem in my head. It comes from "Home Burial," one of his narrative poems about a couple that has lost a baby, their struggle to cope with the loss and with each other in the aftermath. The wife says that
The nearest friends can go
With anyone toward death, comes so far short
They might as well not even try to go at all.
In those lines, Frost perfectly captures the isolation of grief: the world keeps spinning, the sun comes up and goes down, and even those who are mourning alongside you are just that--alongside you, having their own separate and personal experience of it. 

I first read those lines when I was nineteen, in a 20th-century American poetry course, and they (obviously) struck me at the time, since I remember them all these years later. 

But I also realize, now, that Frost is suggesting that the wife is wrong to interpret the fact that friends' "minds turn...and make their way back to life and living people" as evidence that "the world's evil." Frost seems to be suggesting that part of grief is the feeling of betrayal the bereaved feel when they, too, have to bend back toward life and living. 

Fellow mourners, friends, colleagues, strangers in trucks: we're all on separate paths, but we can see each other and wave as those paths align, diverge, or intersect. 

When it comes to both grief and grace, time and religious belief are irrelevant. About a year after I took that poetry class, my dear friend Jay died of AIDS. At the time, a friend told me that she didn't know what to say to comfort me, because she knew I was agnostic. That same friend showed up at my mom's memorial service, even though we hadn't seen each other in over 20 years. It was an amazing kind of full-circle moment, to find that in the intervening years we'd both learned that comfort doesn't lie in platitudes about something intangible or theological. It lies in your real-world presence. 

After I joined Facebook a decade ago, I reconnected with another friend from college who I hadn't been in touch with since my freshman year. In an early exchange, she asked about Jay; she'd met him once on a weekend visit, but didn't know about his passing. 

When I told her that he'd died twenty-two years earlier, she wrote to offer me her condolences, saying that she knew that it was old news to me, but that to her, "the loss is fresh." That meant a lot to me, both in the moment and now--evidence that grief is cyclical, not linear. Her fresh loss brought me back to my own grief about Jay's death, though from a very different perspective and place. A wave from one of those parallel, or perhaps spiraling, paths. 

That friend has also provided grace to me in recent days, as she's blogged about her own process of mourning her husband's death in 2016. In fact, it's her daughter's name, Grace, that made me think about the way grace moves in our lives, and gave me the title for this post.

And it's reminder to me that it's never too soon, or too late, or too unwelcome, to offer condolences, grace, and our mere presence to each other. There's a reason why the colloquial expression is to "grace us with your presence." Because our presence is perhaps the truest kind of grace there is. 

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Beauty, decay, air

My mom died in the early morning hours on May 16, about ten weeks after she was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer.

"Breathe," "Take deep breaths," advised friends in the hard moments and days afterward.

How to do that when you watched your mother suffer from oxygen hunger in the last hours of her life, eyes half-closed, gasping for air, fingers turning blue? Breathing seems like a betrayal, a grotesque indulgence. It certainly doesn't feel healing.

A couple of days ago I had a doctor's appointment, and as part of taking routine vital signs, the nurse put a pulse oximeter on my right index finger. On the paperwork I got afterward, I looked at my blood-oxygen level: 97%. Normal, healthy, too much. I remembered my brother and I looking at the same kind of device on my mom's finger during the long afternoon before the hospice team arrived, watching her oxygen levels plummet from somewhere in the 80% range into the 70s and 60s, even as we cranked the oxygen concentrator up, switched her over to the 10-liter portable O2 tank that was eventually supposed to allow her to be mobile. The panic as we realized the tank would only last for a couple of hours, the home health-care service dispatcher saying that the nearest driver with a larger oxygen concentrator was at least an hour away.

The concentrator, the hospice nurses, mom's primary-care doctor, and a tornado all arrived around 6 p.m. In the midst of our personal typhoon, a thunderstorm had produced a twister that was spotted in Franklin County, and the sirens wailed. A tornado, its winds sucking up the air around it, its physics indifferent to the destruction it causes.

Things calmed both inside and outside after that, fortunately. The hospice nurses pulled the pulse oximeter from mom's finger: "We're monitoring symptoms now, not numbers." They retreated to the dining room, though, to crunch various other numbers--mom's weight, dosages of other medications she'd taken that day--to calculate the proportions of the magical pharmacological cocktail that eased the gasping and allowed mom to breathe, to sleep, to die quietly and peacefully a few hours later.

Driving back to my own home the following week, the beauty of the May world assaulted me. When I'd driven from my house in West Virginia to mom's house in Ohio a couple of weeks before, the trees were just starting to leaf out. While she was in the hospital, we took her flowers from her own garden: fragrant lilies of the valley, which had been her wedding flowers, and blooms from the tree peony that she had transplanted from her own mother's garden after her death. 

But I drove back in a different world--one that was lush and green and suffocating. Summer had arrived. Mom knew it; when she came home from the hospital, just a day before she died, she said, glumly, "Well, it looks like spring is over." 

When I parked my car at home and got out, the first thing I noticed was the clematis in the flower bed along the side of our house. I just planted it last year, and it had finally gotten large enough this spring to train it onto a trellis. Tom and I had very carefully wound the delicate vines around the trellis base just a few weeks ago, but now the vine was filling the bottom part of the trellis and was full of purple blooms, cascading to the ground like the train of an elegant gown. The climbing rose on another trellis a few feet away exploded with deep-pink flowers. So much beauty. It wrecked me. 

Now, just a few days later, the clematis and the rose are both dropping their petals, drooping, beginning the process of decay. As I wrote in my journal, "So many fucking obvious metaphors everywhere these days." 

The one thing my mother desperately wanted to have done while she was in the hospital was to get her garden beds weeded. I'd made a start when I had last been in town, before she went into the hospital, and while I was working she came out and joined me for nearly an hour, cutting back the Lenten roses, thinking about which plants she wanted to replace. "I don't understand why I can feel so bad in the mornings, but then be able to get out here and do this," she said to me. Weeds may have been the bane of her existence, but gardening was her exercise and her worship and her relief. At 91, she could still get down on the ground and back up again with little difficulty, and could kneel for the long stretches of time that gardening requires. 

Not long after that, of course, her lungs and her body betrayed her. But like Edna in Kate Chopin's The Awakening, "she knew a way to elude them." Despite the trauma of the last afternoon of her life, and the many regrets I have about assuming there would be time to ask all the questions that still remained, I admire her for realizing that although she made it home, she would not be able to live there in the way she wanted to. She would not be able to work in the garden. So she set her rudder towards death and hustled across Lethe. 

Shortly before the hospice nurses left, they wanted to change her clothes and the sheets on the hospital bed; the oxygen concentrator put out a lot of heat, and the room was stuffy. Together with my sister and sister-in-law, the nurses and I exchanged mom's long-sleeved satin pajamas for a cotton t-shirt--in aqua, the color she looked best in. 

In the process, I saw my mother's naked body for the first time since I was a child. In it, I saw my body: though I knew that I had her height and her shape, it was another thing to look at her and feel like I was simultaneously looking in a mirror and seeing the undeniable evidence that my lively, fierce mother was old

There was the scar where she had a mastectomy seven or eight years ago. There were her long arms and bony hands--so like mine--bruised from hospital IVs. This was the body that carried me, gave birth to me, loved me and worried for me. This was a familiar body, but also one I recognized as a well-used and worn body. A body that could no longer sustain the being inside of it. A body that was now a trap rather than a tool. 

I thought, "Well done, you fragile and miraculously strong vessel. You held this woman's spirit and allowed her to live independently and do the things she loved to do for so many years." But I could see, so clearly, that the time had come for the spirit and the body to part ways. 

Beauty. Decay. 

And air.

I was asleep when mom died, but my brother Mark was in the room with her. When he knocked on my bedroom door to tell me the news, he said, in a voice quiet with awe and maybe a little bewilderment, "I think mom just slipped away." After the noisy horror of the afternoon, her ultimate passing was almost utterly silent, he said. No gasping for air. 

The lungs do their work autonomically. Our bodies are miraculous machines and terrible burdens. But only we, as humans, have the gift--or the punishment, depending on your perspective and the day--of being aware of all of that. 

Consciousness aside, though, we are animals, governed by the same cycles as any other part of the natural world. At my mom's memorial service, the minister read Wendell Berry's poem "The Peace of Wild Things," a favorite of mom's that echoes this awesome and awful reality:

Since I've been home, one of the few things I can do to sidestep despair is to work in the yard. I pull weeds, pick up dropped petals, pinch spent blooms to produce more. So many fucking obvious metaphors everywhere these days. 

But also a reminder both painful and inevitable that, as Walt Whitman wrote, "All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses/ And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."