Chapter 1-
I believe in God because of a kindergarten teacher with a grip like a weathered longshoreman and a Missouri drawl. She had the simplest of names, Mary Hill, but she was anything but simple. Ms. Hill was a wonder of a woman. She was a juxtaposition of Southern Baptist values-a devout Jesus-lover and staunch proponent of the scriptures endowed with a feminist independent streak that kept her from being tied to any man that she might find acceptable in a theological sense. She was a virgin at sixty and quite likely always would be. This did not prevent her from raising a child, in true fashion to her nature and in defiance of her own views that espoused the necessity of a two parent home.
The first time I met Mary she nearly crushed my hand, which was a marvel since I am extremely strong myself and had learned the importance of handshakes when I was in training to be a plumber. My mother and I talked for days about that initial exchange, amazed and concerned that a woman with a bone-crunching grip was caring for children. I learned later that this fear was a mere flight of fancy as I found her to be the gentlest of people with children.
The second time I saw her was at my brother’s wedding and we had a very heated exchange that nearly became a shouting match and sent my sister-in-law into tears. Mary was dismayed at the selection of flowers which had been placed at the top of the white chocolate covered cakes. In truth she was dismayed at her daughter, Becky’s, selection of husbands. Becky had been bred to be a minister’s wife and her choice in my brother fell football fields away from the expectations of her mother.
Most conversations I had with Mary were mine fields of dogmatic differences. In spite of this, and often because of it, she will always be dear to me. I knew that at critical mass we were the same. We were rebellious people that wished desperately to be good.
Being good is a relative thing and is a ‘thing’ that must be quantified. Good requires a doctrine or guidelines or opposite to define it. Given the criteria, there are tests and evaluations to determine one’s success or failure- one’s ‘goodness.’ Nevermind that one is so ill-suited to the parameters of such tests that it is asking a pale, wilting, asthma-riddled, Manhattan-born child to sherpa a Himalayan expedition up K2. Mary was undaunted by the disparity between who and what she was and the system she had chosen to appraise herself with. I, myself, was angrily bucking the saddle of it constantly.
It was our similarities that gave me hope though. Associations are like that. If one sees someone, not different from one’s self, that succeeds or is given great charity it is a success for both. In this way, it is because of Mary that I came to believe that I might have use in the world despite my copious failings and that there was a God. Believing in a God was important. At times the only thread of rope one had to hang on to when everyone else in one’s life had failed was the thought that God might love you if no one else did.
Mary knew God loved her and she was unconcerned with the drama that seemed to be a constant in her life. She told me many stories during the time that I knew her about a youth that was fraught with ill health and proclamations of medically impending death that were always overcome. During the period that I knew her best her doctor had given her eight months to live before her liver failed altogether. Years passed and she was still alive and then finally declared to be well again, at least in terms of her liver.
That isn’t the reason, however, that I believe in God or that whatever I have done that I might find use or redemption for my grevious errors. It is because of one day in particular when Mary was ill and began to hemorrhage. She knew that she should have called her daughter to take her to the hospital but for some reason chose not to trouble her. It seems that in a world where most of us are throwing our hands up and running around shouting at the smallest of problems because they appear to be catastrophic that when a truly life-threatening situation happens we are so much in denial that we fail to acknowledge it. That somehow if we acknowledge it then it is real but if we don’t and just say, “oh dear,” and turn away that it won’t be there when we turn back to look at it. I know this thinking well because I’m diabetic and have almost lost my life many times because I failed to notice my blood sugar dropping and something snapped in my brain. I would just continue doing what I was doing and then drop face first onto the table and someone would have to force cake frosting into my mouth until the sugar was absorbed and I regained consciousness again. I understand denial and its children in a deeper way.
On this day when Mary realized that it had gotten past the point where she could help herself, as she lay bleeding to death in her home, too weak to pick up a phone and dial 911, she did what I have usually failed to do -she cried out to God to help her. A few minutes passed and she opened her eyes to find her young mentally retarded neighbor standing over her. The young woman had never been to her door before, much less inside her bedroom. She said that God told her to come and help Mary. And she did. She called 911 and Mary was taken to the hospital. The doctor said that if Mary had lost any more blood she would have died.
In Mary I saw the hope that God would not forsake me, a rebellious child. And with my black social history and emotional dyslexia, I saw myself the same as the disadvantaged woman. The Bible says that God uses the foolish things of the world. For this reason I felt I must qualify for some job somewhere since I was the most foolish person I knew.
There have been times when that story was all that I had to hold on to. It has also been one which I have ruminated on many different ways and gets at the root of every real issue that I have. At the core of the story is the issue of trust. I didn’t trust people though I loved them thoroughly. I wanted to at least trust God. ‘People’ say to trust in God. The inference is that if you trust in God he will not let you down, that he will be there for you if you need him. But we are also told that if our prayers don’t get answered that then we should know that there are things that we can’t see and that it is a good thing that we don’t get our prayers answered because getting that which we ask for would not serve us well in the long run. This troubles me because what if a millennia old God sees my need to hold onto my very modest apartment to raise my children a very decadent selfish thing when compared to the African nomads who live off the land and are grateful for a bag of water for drinking every other day? I’m supposed to trust God but what if what God has in mind I’m not very comfortable with? What if I cry out to God and God just says that in the larger scheme of things it is better to lose my life but I want to live?
This leads to the question of what the purpose in living was. What was my purpose in breathing? What is anyone’s purpose? This question for me always came back to the two convictions that I had grown up with. The first conviction was that I needed a partner. Perhaps it was the years of loneliness that I spent as an awkward child that never seemed to fit in anywhere. I wanted desperately to love somebody and be a wife. Then at least I would fit in with one person. I spent all of my childhood and teenage years mentally planning my wedding. It would be big and grand with lots of dancing, maybe Mariachis and my entire extended family celebrating the fact that someone actually loved me enough to put a ring on my finger. I just wanted to be loved so much that someone would buy me a ring. This raging need was in direct opposition to the very essence of my personality. As a teenager I wanted to go to West Point. I wanted to jump out of airplanes and fly helicopters. I required the kind of life that leaves little room for another. As an adult I lacked the ability to even consider consulting with anyone else (even the times when I had a partner or husband) on anything. When I was in a relationship I operated as if I was all on my own and that fact frequently lead to me winding up being on my own.
The second conviction was that I was supposed to do something important. My mother had given up much to have and raise me and like parents often do put the responsibility of doing something of significance outside of the home squarely on my shoulders. I felt, always, that I was expected to do something big, but was never told what it was or how to do this grand thing. Expectation in finding my true purpose was a fabulously heavy coat that I wore in the sweltering sun. It prevented me from ever feeling comfortable but I was too vain to take it off.
By the time that my destiny came for me I was a neurotic pharmaceutically-enhanced disaster.
On February 2nd , 2004 I spoke for the first time to the man that would become my husband. Meeting him began a process in me of discovering who I really was. The truth was stranger and more dramatic than anything fictional that I had ever read. There is a quote I wish I could remember fully. It goes something like this: To understand the true nature of reality is to go mad. After the last four years I now know that I am not the person I thought I was, that the truths I once held were a greater fiction than anything I could ever have invented, that walking among us are people that completely transcend the limits of what we call human, and that seemingly good men and women are not to be trusted if their interests run counter to your own. Even more frightening were the differences in opinion among good people on what is to the ultimate good of mankind.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Looking back on everything, maybe what I have to say has nothing to do with destiny or the path of humanity. Maybe at the center of everything is just a love story about two people. Two really, really dysfunctional people.
Much of my adult life has been spent either single or in a failing relationship. The generations before mine seemed able to have marriages that lasted lifetimes. Knowing the nature of those lives, I don’t know if this is success or failure, but either way it has given me much food for reflective thought. Was life a hell because they stayed together? Given the level of happiness that I had achieved in mine without a relationship, was life always a hell even if you didn’t stay together? Whether couples stayed together or not I had ascertained that one thing was certain: the need for communion with another is greater than the necessity of oxygen.
There is a project that I did as an art student in 2001 that sums up the gist of my single and unsuccessful romantic life. For an art critique I created an installation that included a hundred yahoo personals ads that papered the walls in an endless repetition of longing and hope. When it was my turn to discuss my work I got up and read the following:
I was born to the problem: A matriarchy full of feminists that bowed and cowtowed to the shuffle and scrape of the masculine boot, but told me I must never do the same. From the cradle I was told not to let a man define me, but taught to serve them til my food grew cold. Never let them think they have you, never sit in their chair. And endless game with the male as the opponent. It needs an opponent.
A more troubling problem: I was never beautiful. I had fewer chips to play the odds. I learned to jump through hoops instead. I learned to search faces for one with laughing eyes. One who refuses to play by their rules. Who sees me as an equal. When he sees me, he’ll know me and everything will be well.
A larger problem: We are a lost generation. We are isolated from each other. Our mothers taught us not to trust the other sex in the playing of the game. We live in one place and work in another. Our isolation increases. The rules of engagement foiled the playing of the game in our work space. I get older. The battle is now fought in roaring crowded rooms where the exchange is stunted. I lose.
An unforeseen problem: I get older, the rules have changed once again. They dictate taking everything that we are, winding it down into a critical mass. A few paragraphs, to read. Because no one goes out anymore. The game is now played in the underground-the internet. I play the odds, I write an ad Titled: The Next 30 seconds. It reads: I know that I have only the next 30 seconds for you to decide whether to answer this ad. How can anyone decide a whole lifetime of possibilities in 30 seconds? Life is an awesome thing. If I learn in the course of mine to appreciate each moment then I will die happy. As this moment hangs before you for your inspection, what are you thinking? Will you answer? Did I say something that reached deep at the heart of what you are?
I receive 100 responses. I am very popular with accountants. I go on 30 dates. 20 of them say they have fallen in love with me over the phone. I date one for almost a year. But it never works out. Even though I increase the odds. Maybe because I increased the odds. But there had been something lurking-something fundamental. And I think: am I subverting nature? Have our lifestyles and upbringing perverted nature so that we have difficulty coming together and staying together?
I meet someone who was born on the same day I was, the same hour. We drink the same tea. We read the same books, we think many of the same thoughts.
And he’d always been alone. It’s what I had always rallied against. At least when there was an opponent, you weren’t alone. But maybe the real problem is: I am supposed to be alone. And there would be nothing left to say…
When I was done speaking I sat down, looking, I’m sure, like a giant gaping wound that was oozing everywhere. My art teacher, Sant Khalsa, smiled at me and stared for so long that I wanted to run from the room. Since that day I have seen that look many times on the face of gurus and holy people, on the face of my spiritual teachers as they seemed to look into my soul and were about to either give me comfort or completely destroy the fabric of everything I had built my life on. I still want to run every time I see that look. It always means that nothing is what I think it is and that everything is about to change.
What she related to me, to the whole class, was like a roadmap for everything that happened to me later. I won’t tell you just yet what she said. I will say this though: it left me with an even deeper longing and the promise of what could be that took years to come to fruition. Also, I have to say that people focus so much on the attainment of something-a physical object, a relationship, a situation- never ever considering the implications of actually getting it. Getting it is just the beginning.
In January of 2004 I had a terrible kidney infection. My activities were limited to lying down and sitting up at the computer. I had been writing or rather trying to write on the regular basis and it wasn’t going well. Being sick meant that I couldn’t even blame my lack of writing on being gone all the time. Nothing of any value was coming out at all although I was writing volumes in emails and discussion groups. I was spending copious amounts of time on this new network I had discovered called Tribe.net. I joined discussion groups called “Shut Up Hippie” and “Alpha Female” and “Bad Ass Bitches with Guns.” I had never seen anything like this on the net. There were a ton of artists and writers on the network writing day and night witty repertoire about hemp and the wearing of sandals and patchouli. In the middle of the fever and the pain I was having a good time.
Having people, men in particular, to verbally spar with made it easier to write again. Granted, much of it was tainted still with the scorn and contempt of a woman who has too many cats and has taken far too many painkillers, but something was being done nonetheless. Maybe, I thought, what I needed was a regular opponent in these verbal games to ‘write against.’ So I started clicking through the yahoo online personals and I wrote my own ad. The Title of the ad was, “Lemons Don’t Make Good Flotation Devices” and was a five page relating of my Devil-May-Care attitude and love for motorcycles and backpacks and the creation of impromptu sculptures made out of white bread on the living room coffee table.
Then I came across the ad that changed everything. Truthfully I didn’t fully read it. If I had read it I never would have written to him because he specified that he wanted to date someone who didn’t want kids and it wasn’t particularly funny or interesting. But the picture, wow, the picture. He had red hair and I love red hair. I thought he was gorgeous and I knew it was wrong to answer the ad because he was not in my league and wasn’t going to be interested in me. But the title of the ad was “As you wish,” from the Princess Bride. The Princess Bride was one of my all time favorite movies. It had also, I was quite sure, contributed to my inability to realistically find a suitable companion. I was always looking for a Wesley.
So I wrote to him:
Greeting Earthling,
My name is Jacqueline. I have decided first emails are worse than first dates. Down with all first emails! That’s the first thing to go after the revolution. After that it’s the soccer moms. Down with the soccer moms! I live in an area infested with soccer moms. I used to like SUVs until the soccer moms tried to create the illusion for themselves that they weren’t soccer moms at all but these really cool chics that drive SUVs and go offroading every weekend. They aren’t fooling anyone. I digress…
Contrary to popular opinion I do not suffer from multiple personality disorder. Wait! Who said that?! Nevermind. Anyway, I’m just this weird chic who lives in the valley. I have a degree in English, almost finished a degree in Art, was working on a Masters in something else but recently dropped out to write a book and homeschool my kids. I am 35 like you and I have three kids! Three kids, good grief! It always freaks me out when I say it. If you run now, I don’t blame you. Actually the oldest one is off on her own now. She’s 18. Eek, now I really feel old. Then I have a 12 year old (who swears I am absolutely ruining her life because I’m too traditional (I know, is she serious? Me, traditional?) and an 8 year old who is the light of my life. All girls unfortunately. If I had known they’d be so beautiful I’d have spent more time at the shooting range.
Thank you for being a geek. I think that’s really hot personally.
I know a few people who have had the by-pass surgery. My sister-in-law just had it last year as a matter of fact. Everytime she sees me she tries to convince me. I’ve never agreed to do it though because my make-up would put me at risk for cardiac arrest after the surgery. I’m glad that it went well for you though. Some people seem to be a lot happier afterwards.
I’m sending you a few pictures of my artwork, because I’ll show anybody I can manage to stop in the street. Email me if I haven’t scared you off or you can call me at your convenience.
Jacqueline Moreno-Garcia
Despite the insanity he actually wrote me back:
Jacqueline,
Okay, first things first, how did you know I was from Earth?? What gave me away? Second let me just point out that you have the coolest name, ever! Truthfully that’s the name of a foreign exchange student I fell madly in love with my senior year in High School. It was tragic, though, because I didn’t admit how I felt about her until the day she left for Luxembourg. That’s when she admitted that she felt the same but knew it would never work because we couldn’t leave our home countries. Then the orchestra music reached a raging crescendo, waves crashed on the beach, the blood red sun broke through the clouds, and somewhere in the distance a mountain lion hacked up a massive hairball.
First emails, evil, got it. Soccer moms, scourge of the Earth, unholy and deceptive contagion that must be eradicated. Check. Viva la revolucion!
Did you say kids? As in more than one but less than a crowd?
Well, that’s just fine. I think I need to be serious for just a moment. Jacqueline, you’re an educated, single mother of three beautiful girls and dedicated to doing what’s best for them. That’s something to be extremely proud of, not ashamed of. If a man doesn’t find that admirable AND attractive then, I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong with him, not you. Needless to say I don’t have much respect for my testosterone crazed brethren who have given the male gender a bad rap. Sometimes I feel like I spend most of my time, when I first meet a woman, just trying to exorcise the ghosts of boyfriend’s past.
Geek=Hot. Therefore, Night=Day, Black=White, Up=Down…yeah it’s the beginning of Armageddon. Excuse me while I crawl under a lead tent and wait for the flash.
Well, the bypass was my only option left. My weight was definitely killing me so the risks were worth it. I’m definitely glad that I did it and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I do miss being able to eat normally, sometimes, but then I remember that I can buy clothes at the discount clothing places and I’m the cheapest date in the world. So life without all the food isn’t so bad…
I LOVE the artwork. You’re very talented, no doubt about that. I would love to see and experience more. I’m sure that your art is very important to you and you get a lot of praise because of it, but it’s not who you are. That’s who I’m interested in getting to know more about.
Were you trying to scare me off? If so, I’m not sure that it worked. In fact, I think it may have backfired on you. I’d like to call you tonight, if it’s not too much trouble. Until then, m’lady, take care.
Jodie Bass
I sent him my phone number and he did call me. Within five minutes I had the conviction that he was the nicest guy I had ever met and that I could never ever talk to him again. My style with people was mainly to be blunt with my feelings and opinions. Growing up with an Irish father and a Mexican mother gave me far too much passion for every idea that popped into my head and a flashpoint temper that was constantly burning bridges between me and the rest of humanity. I was a loner, not by choice, but because I was a pain in the ass.
Jodie, on the other hand was kind, loving, and polite. Unfortunately, he also reminded me of other men that I had been with who couldn’t handle my personality and who wound up in the end being emotionally devastated. I liked him so much. He wasn’t just smart and funny, he was brilliant and quick. It’d never work. I knew it instantly.
