Dad

Being my mother's daughter, I don't give my dad nearly enough credit, or enough attention, when it comes to telling stories. This isn't fair, because my father is anything but an absentee dad. It was his fortune/misfortune to marry a woman who was bigger than life and whose charisma, humor and life force inadvertently made him pale in comparison. He was always well aware of this, and I think he handled it well. But today is Father's Day, so I'll tell the best story I can think of about my father. It's 100% true, and it's my favorite story about him because it illustrates not only how impractical  he's always been, but how generous and good-natured he is.

When I was 5, my mother instructed my father to take me out shopping for shoes. Shopping for us had always been my mother's thing but, on this day, she had her hands full with my older sister, and she was very pregnant with my soon-to-be younger sister. It was a Saturday, and Ma wanted me to have a new pair of shoes for school on Monday. School shoes. Nice, solid Mary Janes that I could wear to school, during an era when little girls wore dresses and tights and shoes - never sneakers - to school.  They should also be shoes that I would be able to wear to birthday parties.  Ma and Daddy weren't poor, but they just managed to keep their heads above water. Money was not in unlimited supply, and a new baby was on the way.

I should mention here that I was born pigeon-toed, and had been forced, for several years,  to wear a heavy, metal splint attached to my shoes during the night. The problems with my legs and feet also meant that all of my shoes, until I was 4 or so, had to be custom-made by an orthopedic shoe-maker. Now that I was past the worst of my leg and foot problems, my parents were free to buy me off-the-rack shoes, but continued problems in this area meant that I could only wear very well-made shoes. Cheap shoes were very painful and didn't offer the support I needed. (I never completely got over these problems, and still have to be very careful about what I wear on my feet.) Sending my dad out to buy me shoes was a real leap of faith on my mother's part, but she knew she could trust him to get me the best shoes money would buy. One thing my dad has never been guilty of is being frugal, especially not when it came to shopping for his children. 

So, Dad and I walked to the subway station and caught the F train into the City. First, we had to go to 34th street, so he could get money from the bank. This was 1972 - long before ATM machines and direct deposit. We had to rush into the city, so he could cash his pay check before the only Bowery Bank branch that had Saturday hours closed at 1pm. We got to the bank, waited on a long line, and finally deposited his check and got some cash. My mother, I think, expected that we'd walk over to Macy's, which was just down the street, and where there was a very good shoe department. My father had other ideas.  We got back on the F train and headed downtown.

"I know a really good shoe store," he told me, "We'll find just the thing for you."

We got off the train at West 4th street. Greenwich Village. The Village in 1972 was nothing like it is, today. Back then, it was still a bit of an untamed, Bohemian place. Emerging from the subway station, it felt like we'd arrived in another country, where there were falafel carts, hippies in full feather, and amiable drug dealers who thought nothing of approaching a man with his little girl and asking if he'd like to buy some hash.  Also music. The Village was all about music. Guys playing conga drums and acoustic guitars in Washington Square Park, the sounds of The Rolling Stones, Simon and Garfunkle and Three Dog Night coming from the many records stores and head shops along 8th Street. The smell of incense. The entire neighborhood was a feast for the senses. 

"It's not far," Dad said, "Let's see if I can remember where this place is." 

We spent what felt like hours - but was probably really 20 minutes - walking around, looking for the shoe store he was so determined we find. After several false starts - nope, it wasn't on 8th street or 4th street...no, MacDougal was all wrong - we ended up right back on 6th avenue. The store, it turned out, was just a few blocks up from where we'd gotten off the train, not a few blocks down.  I feel pretty confident, 40 years later, saying it was on 12th street. 

When we got there, I tried to read the sign. I was only 5 years old, and not really reading yet, but I knew my alphabet. The letters on the sign didn't mean anything to me -the words they spelled didn't look familiar. I looked up at my dad.

"What does it say?" I asked.

"You don't know Swedish, do you?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Well, those words are Swedish for 'shoe store,'" he explained, looking as if he knew this for a fact. I believed him. 

We got up close to the window and looked at the display. There were lots of clogs. Clogs were big in 1972. Most of the shoes were for grown women but, on the left side of the display, was a small selection of kids' shoes. I saw just the type of shoes my mother was expecting: t-strap Mary Janes made of leather, with tear drop eyelets by the toe. They came in black, dark blue, and oxblood. I was just about to ask if I could get the oxblood (I'm sure I didn't know from "oxblood" at 5 -  I would have asked for the red) when I spied something in the back corner of the window. A pair of leather hiking boots. Children's hiking boots. The leather was the color of caramel. The soles were made of thick rubber. The long laces were red-and-white candy-striped. They were beautiful. I looked up at my father and found that he was looking at me, smiling. 

"Those are nice, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah." I answered.

"Wanna try them on?" he asked.

"Can I?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure." he answered, and we went into the shoe store. 

A minute later, a thin, blonde woman was lacing up the boots she'd just put on my little feet. The leather felt even better than it looked. It was soft to the touch. The padding around the ankles was thick and rich. The red-and-white laces looked so much more beautiful from up close. 

"How do they feel?" my dad asked.

"Really good," I answered.

"Get up and walk around in them," he said, "you know how sensitive your feet are."

I got up and walked up and down the carpet, stopping to look at my feet in the mirror, and admire the boots. They were the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

"They comfy?" dad asked me.

"I don't even feel them!" I answered.

"You're walking pretty straight in them," he said, "Do you want them?"

"Can I?" I asked, taken by surprise. Being able to take these home and keep them, forever, had never even entered my mind.

Dad turned to the blonde woman, who stood next to him.

"How much are they?" he asked.

"Fifty dollars," she answered, adding, "They're imported."

I didn't know a lot about money, but I knew that $50 was a lot. 

My dad didn't miss a beat.

"Can you put her old shoes in a bag?" he asked the blonde woman and then, looking at me, "You can wear them home." 

The whole subway ride home, I stared at my new boots. I stuck my short legs straight out in front of me and just stared. Everything about them made me happy. And they were mine.  I don't think my dad and I did much talking during that subway ride, but I remember looking away from the boots and finding him smiling down at me.  When we got home, it was a different story. We walked in the front door and climbed the steps up to the third floor, where my very pregnant mother was in the kitchen, cooking. She didn't look up from the stove when we walked in, but called out, "How'd it go? Did you find anything?"

I ran into the kitchen. I'm sure my smile was a mile wide. My mother looked down at my feet. She then looked up at my father, who stood behind me. She wasn't smiling.

"What are those?" she asked.

"Her new shoes," my dad answered, "They're Swedish."

"Those aren't shoes, Hector. They're boots. Hiking boots." 

"They cost fifty dollars, Ma!" I blurted out.

My mother's eyes opened wide.

"They what?"

I didn't understand her reaction. How could anyone not love these boots?

"You don't like them?" I asked.

My mother somehow managed to smile. I now know how difficult that must have been.

"I do like them," she said,  sweetly,  brushing my bangs away from my eyes, "They're beautiful boots, baby, but you can't wear them to school."

Looking up at my dad, she asked, no longer smiling, and not sounding very sweet, at all, "Did you seriously pay fifty dollars for those? She can't wear those to school, Hector. What can you have been thinking?"

I looked up at my dad. The look on his face was one that I've since come to know well. I call it the "shit, now I've done it" look.

"These are the ones she wanted." he said.

"She's five years old, Hector. Of course she wanted them. That doesn't mean you had to buy them. Especially not for fifty dollars. I've never owned a fifty dollar pair of shoes in my life. That's more than her prescription shoes used to cost. I can't believe I can't even count on you to do something as simple as buy a good pair of Buster Brown shoes."

"Well, what am I supposed to do, now?" my dad asked.

I looked up at Ma. I could feel my heart sinking.

"Do I have to give them back?"

My mother sighed.

"No, baby," she said, "you can keep them." Then, looking up at my dad she said, "There's no way you can return them, since you let her wear them home."

"So..." my dad said, "that's that, right?"

"No," Ma answered, "That's not that. The baby still needs shoes. Not boots. Shoes. So don't get too comfortable. Take her out to Buster Brown and get her a pair of good, solid Mary Janes that she can wear to school on Monday."

"Right now?" my dad asked.

"Right now." Ma answered. 

My dad and I headed down to the Buster Brown store on 5th avenue in Brooklyn, where he let me choose a pair of red Mary Janes.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

Aunt Weedy

Louisa May Alcott is one of my heroes. Smart, funny, talented, brave. Also a staunch feminist who was mad as hell, and not afraid to say so. I think there's a lunchbox waiting to be made.

This Alcott quote, from a letter she wrote to a friend in 1873, is as powerful and relevant today, as it was when she wrote it.

"I believe in the same pay for the same good work. Don't you? In future, let woman do whatever she can do: let men place no more impediments in the way; above all things let's have fair play, - let simple justice be done, say I. Let us hear no more of 'woman's sphere' either from our wise (?) legislators beneath the gilded dome, or from clergymen in their pulpits. I am tired, year after year, of hearing such twaddle about sturdy oaks and clinging vines and man's chivalric protection of woman. Let woman find out her own limitations, and if, as is so confidently asserted, nature has defined her sphere, she will be guided accordingly - but in heaven's name give her a chance! Let professions be open to her; let fifty years of college education be hers, and then we shall see what we shall see. Then, and not until then, shall we be able to say what woman can and what she cannot do, and coming generations will know and be able to define more clearly what is a 'woman's sphere' than these benighted men who try now to do it."

If the idea of women having control over their own lives - and their own futures - makes sense to you, check out A Is For.... If you can swing it, donate a few bucks. The women who run this project need public support to keep it going.

The Last Outing

At a certain point, my mom ran out of things that she needed or wanted. Choosing gifts became difficult, until I remembered how much she loved music, and started getting concert tickets - something she'd never really treated herself to. I sent my parents to see lots of different shows - I even got them tickets to see Chris Rock in 2009. My dad thought he was a little vulgar. My mother absolutely loved him. My mother's favorite performer, though, and the person I sent her to see most often, was Johnny Mathis. She loved Johnny Mathis. His songs figure prominently in the soundtrack of my childhood. Because she loved him, I was raised to love him. I love him, still. I was happy to send Ma tickets to see Johnny any time he was in town because, as I've said, she'd never treat herself to something like that.

One day in early 2010...probably around March, Ma called me at work. This wasn't unusual. We spoke every day. On this day, though, I could tell there was something she wanted to talk about. After a few moments of beating around the bush she said, "Oh, look at that - you know who's coming to Tampa soon? Johnny Mathis. He's got shows here in April." So, that was it.

"Ma," I said, "I wish you'd said something sooner. I'm really broke, right now. You know I'd love to send you, but I can't swing it."

"Oh," she answered, "Don't be silly. I wasn't asking for tickets, I was just noticing that he's in town soon, is all. I've seen him so many times, already."

"No, seriously, Ma. I really am sorry. If you'd let me know a few weeks ago, I could have figured something out, but I'm flat busted, right now."

"Don't worry about it, and don't apologize. I don't want you running up debt. It's nothing. I'll catch him next time he's in town." she said.

When the conversation ended a few minutes later, I sat there, thinking about my mother, and all she meant to me. One of the reasons that she'd never treated herself to things like concerts when I was growing up was that she always put us children first. She never went to concerts or plays, but we always had books, clothing, food. She always managed to scrape together what we needed for school trips and book fairs - even during the leanest years. I got to thinking about all the crap I spent my money on - eating out, pay-per-view movies, magazines. Crap I didn't need.

Fuck it, I thought. Brown bag it for a month and buy those damned tickets.

I got on the phone and called the venue. The woman I talked to didn't sound very hopeful about my prospects, "Johnny Mathis always sells out fast here, you know...and this is just a month away. I'm afraid there aren't any good seats left."

"At this point, I'll take what I can get. If at all possible, I need a wheelchair-accessible seat, because my mother has a disability."

The woman's voice brightened up, "Oh, well, in that case, you're actually in luck. I do have one accessible set-up available. It's up high, but it's got a sweeping view: front row of the upper balcony, right in the center. No obstructions. And it's kept on reserve for wheelchair users, so this really is your mom's lucky day."

I ordered the tickets, and called Ma.

"Oh, Lana," she said, trying to hide the obvious pleasure in her voice, "You shouldn't have done that! It's really not a big deal, and I know you're low on cash."

I laughed, "Ma, you and I both know you mentioned the concert because you were hoping to go. And I've been trying to figure out what to get you for Mother's Day, anyhow, so consider it an early Mother's day gift. You and dad go, and have a great time, ok?"

Ma was in bad shape, and had been for a long time. Degenerative bone disease had made a wheelchair necessary. She lived with severe and chronic pain. 90% blockages of her arteries slowed her down in every way. End-stage renal failure made dialysis treatments the center of her life, and left her exhausted all the time. Chronic asthma made it difficult for her to breathe. Diabetic retinopathy had rendered her legally blind. Going out - other than for a simple drive or shopping trip, or to medical appointments - was just something she hadn't done in months.

To be honest, I forgot all about the concert, until I got home to a ringing phone one evening in April. I recognized my dad's cellphone number on the caller ID. I picked it up, in a panic. That number always scared me, because there was always the very real possibility that it was my dad with bad news about my mother. In fact, several times in the last three years, calls from that number had pretty much ALWAYS been bad news about my mother...calls to say that she'd tried to walk, and taken a bad fall. Calls to say that her speech was getting slurred, and that the doctors were sure she'd suffered a series of mini-strokes. Calls to say that I'd better book a flight and come out, because things were looking grim. During those years, I'd taken last-minute flights down several times after such phone calls, every time expecting to say goodbye. Every time, though, my mother had rallied, and made a remarkable recovery. Like that one time, when I flew to Tampa, and took a shuttle directly to the hospital, and set up camp on a recliner next to her hospital bed, where she lay suffering from infectious pneumonia. She was going to die, that's what they told us. The nurses brought me slippers, a pillow and blanket, and even a toothbrush and toothpaste, and let me move into the hospital room, so I could be there for her when she passed. She was so weak, so pale, but she was still herself. Her speech was labored, but her mind was as sharp as ever. We talked late into the night. When she got tired of talking, I set her up with my Ipod, so she could listen to the Chris Rock comedy album I'd downloaded for her. If she was going to leave, I wanted her to leave laughing. She lay there, listening and laughing, until we both fell asleep. In the morning, I thought my eyes must be playing tricks on me. She looked rosy. Her eyes looked so clear. She was wide awake and full of energy. She ate her breakfast with relish, and chatted away without struggling for air. An hour or two later, one of her doctors came in, talked to her, listened to her heart and lungs, peered at her chart, and said, "Your mother seems to be clear of infection and there's no water in her lungs. I had to come see for myself after the nurse alerted me, because I saw her just yesterday morning and, to be honest, I wasn't very hopeful for a recovery of any kind, let alone one so dramatic. I don't want to jump the gun, but, if she's still like this in 24 hrs, she can go home." And home she went. That was only one of many times that she got the best of the grim reaper.

But I digress. On this evening in April, when I got home to that phone call, I was relieved to hear my mother's joyous voice on the other end. She sounded so happy, and so full of energy. There was a lot of noise in the background, so she had to shout for me to hear her.

"It's intermission," she yelled, "We're having the greatest time! The seats you got us are incredible - front row of the balcony, right in the center. Even with my bad eyes, I can see everything on the screen, and Johnny sounds great - the best he's ever sounded! We're having such a great time, I just had to call and tell you."

My dad, who is usually a glass-half-empty guy, and who hadn't wanted to go to the concert, at all, got on the phone. He, too, was beaming. "I'm so glad I didn't get your sister to take Mommy, tonight. We're just having such a great time. Johnny sounds the best he ever has and, Lana, I can't remember the last time your mother looked so happy. It's been ages since she's gone out just for fun, and this is such a great show. Did she tell you how perfect our seats are? Have to run - intermission is ending!"

When they got home, hours later, Ma phoned me, again. "The boys looked so shocked when we got home," she said, "I don't think they remember the last time I got home so late, or so full of energy. I feel like my old self, again. Even your father had fun, and you know he never likes to admit he's having fun."

That was in April. Ma died on June 30th. The call for me to make last-minute travel plans to say goodbye were not in vain, this time. And, in fact, I didn't make it in time to say goodbye. She left us while I was somewhere in the air, trying to get there for one last laugh with her.  That's the way she wanted it, though. Nothing was left unsaid between us and, in fact, I spoke to her several times on the phone before my flight. The last thing I told her was that I loved her. But she knew that, anyway.

The day after my mother's struggle finally ended, I sat in the passenger seat of my dad's van. I felt battered. We'd just left the funeral parlor, where dad had left it to me to make whatever arrangements I thought my mother would have wanted. I knew exactly what she'd wanted, actually. It was one of the things we'd discussed that night in the hospital, two years before. As we drove away from the funeral parlor, the silence was deafening. My dad and I have never been anywhere near as close as my mother and I were.  We love one another, but there's always some awkwardness there. The silence made that awkwardness even more pronounced. Just as I was trying to think of something to say, he said, "The last time your mother really went out was to that Johnny Mathis concert. Remember, you got her tickets for Mother's Day? That was a perfect night. She was so happy, and had such a great time. We both did. We had fun together for the first time in years, and she didn't even seem sick, at all. I'm so glad you got her those tickets. I'm so glad that was her last outing, because I can't remember the last time I'd seen her so happy. She was her old self, again, for one whole night. I'll never forget it."

Happy Mother's Day, Ma.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

The War On Women: Business as Usual

I keep reading about the war on women that's happening now in America. It's awful, what's happening - government trying to take control over women's health, sexuality, reproduction, and freedoms. I hate it. But it's nothing new.

I've written a lot about my maternal grandmother, Celina, but I've never written about Jovita, my father's mother. Jovita was as different from Celina as possible. While Celina was bright and witty and full of joy, Jovita was uneducated, somewhat shy, and she had very little humor. This isn't to say that she wasn't a good person: she was, and she treated me well. Her life, though, was full of pain and tragedy. One of her earliest memories was of her father being murdered on the streets of San Juan, Puerto Rico. A terrible thing for a child to live with, and, in many ways,  it set the tone of her life.

Jovita moved from Puerto Rico to NYC with her little boy - my father - in 1946. She was a single mother, when that was not an acceptable thing to be.  She made her son the center of her universe, and worked at whatever she could find, to keep him fed and clothed and healthy. Usually piecework at factories, or cleaning homes and offices.

In 1963, my parents met and married, and my mother became friendly with her mother-in-law. One day, when my mother mentioned that she needed to see her gynecologist, Jovita revealed that she'd never been to such a doctor and had, in fact, never had a gynecological exam. My mother was shocked. She advised Jovita that it really would be a good idea to have an exam, and to start having them annually. Jovita agreed to go to my mother's doctor, Dr. Seissman. A few days later, my mother took her mother-in-law to the gynecologist for her first exam. My grandmother would have been in her 60s.

My mother waited in the waiting room while Dr. Seissman performed the exam. A few minutes later, my mother was called in to translate. Jovita, you see, only spoke a few words of English. My mother entered the examination room and found my grandmother sitting up, looking confused, and Dr. Seissman looking equally bewildered.

"Carmen," she said, "please ask your mother-in-law when she had a radical hysterectomy, and why it was performed."

This was news to my mother. She'd never heard about Jovita having had such major surgery. She asked Dr. Seissman if she was sure of this.

"Yes," the doctor answered, "I'm absolutely sure. She has no uterus. Nothing, at all. And it looks to have been done quite a while back. I'd like to know why this was done - does she have a history of cancer?"

My mother asked Jovita about it, only to have Jovita reply that she didn't know what a hysterectomy was, and that she'd never been sick in any way.  My mother asked her about menopause, and Jovita answered that, a year or two after my father been born - when she was just 30 - all the woman in her neighborhood in San Juan had been ordered to a government clinic. She'd been seen by a doctor, and told that she'd need to have surgery. The reason for the surgery was never explained to her. Her permission was never asked for. She hadn't been sick. She'd been ordered, by doctors sent by the U.S. government, to have surgery. They were doctors. They were with the government. Of course she trusted their judgement. The next thing she knew, she was recovering from this mystery surgery that had left a large scar. The doctors told her not to climb stairs or lift anything heavy, and that she would be just fine. They hadn't told her anything else. They hadn't mentioned that her periods would stop, or that she'd never be able to have another child. They hadn't mentioned that they'd ripped her uterus out in a government-sanctioned effort to keep the women of Puerto Rico from breeding.

After her recovery, my grandmother noticed that her monthly period never returned.   She assumed her "change" had come early, and never connected this to the mystery surgery she'd been forced to undergo.She was just about 30 years old.

My father's mother was a simple woman. She never had the chance to go to school. She was a functional illiterate who could read and write her own name, and little else. She'd been raised to respect and fear authority. When a doctor, let alone a government doctor, told her she needed surgery, there was never any question about what would happen next.

What happened to Jovita was not an isolated incident. She was only one of thousands - possibly a million - women n Puerto Rico that this happened to.  It was part of a large-scale government eugenics program that continued in Puerto Rico well into the 1970s. It was part of the very war on women that seemed to be on hiatus for a while, but now seems to be back in full force.

I'm not writing about this to point out that this is just business as usual, and that there's no point trying to change it. I'm writing about this because it breaks my heart that my grandmother was victimized in this way, that her most basic rights were violated like this. I'm writing about this because it's 2012, and we're dangerously close to seeing this sort of thing happen AGAIN. Forcing a woman to be sterilized is no different than forcing a woman to carry to term a pregnancy that she doesn't want. They're both assaults on more than a woman's body, but on her personhood.

The people who say that the "war on women" is just a dramatic contrivance of the left are denying their own history. My mother made sure to tell us Jovita's story because we must make sure that story never be our story, too.  Hell, no.

It Begins At Home

Recently, a young woman I know reached out to me for help in coming out to her friends. I hadn't even known that Cath (not her real name) was a lesbian. I really hadn't given it much thought. I like Cath but I don't know her well. At 20,  she's someone I think of as a "nice kid." I was touched that she chose me to talk to about something so important, and that she wanted my advice and support. Not only is our relationship more of an acquaintance than a friendship, but I'm not in any way an expert on this topic. I'm no longer young.  I'm not a social worker or counselor. I'm not someone who's experienced any significant struggles in this area.

What emerged, as Cath told me about her situation, was that her parents know she's a lesbian, and have known for a while. She disclosed to them years ago, assuming they'd be fine with it. Cath's parents, you see, are very liberal. They have lots of friends in the gay community. They've advocated for the rights of homosexuals. They raised Cath with the idea that people are people, and that homosexuality is just as normal as anything else.  In fact, Cath was born and raised in San Francisco, where her parents always took her to the annual Pride parade.  So, when Cath - then in her late teens -  disclosed to her parents, she did so with the expectation that she'd have their full support.  Sadly, this has not been the case.

Cath's parents did not take the news well, at all. Now, several years later, they're no closer to embracing who and what she is...no closer to supporting her as she prepares to disclose to her peers. Let me make this clear - Cath's parents are decent people. They love their daughter. They support, in theory, the equality of homosexuals to heterosexuals. They just don't seem very good at coping when faced with theory becoming a reality within their own family. They want to know where they went wrong. They want to know if they should have raised Cath differently. They've witnessed, first hand, how difficult life can be for homosexuals, and wonder why their child has "chosen" such a difficult path to tread. They are not bad people, but they are cliches. I hate to say it, but these good people are not being good parents. They're certainly not being friends to their daughter, when that's what she desperately needs, right now from them: friendship.  They probably don't realize it, but their lack of support is actually a rejection. And their rejection of who and what Cath is has undermined her self-confidence. She tested the waters with her parents - her nearest and dearest - and they blew it. Instead of finding the waters warm and calm, her parents' initial reaction and continued rejection has been as cold as an Alpine lake. This is one of the reasons she's turned to me - someone she barely knows - for friendship and support.

This morning, I woke up to this story, about a father who contacted a radio show, upset to discover his daughter may be a lesbian, and the radio show host suggesting that the father have one of his friends "screw her straight." Somewhere in America, some idiot father is getting advice from a shock-jockey, instead of sitting down and assuring his gay kid that she'll always be his kid, and that he'll always love her. Somewhere in America, some animal is suggesting rape as an antidote to female homosexuality.

This upsetting story made me think about Cath. While her parents are not fundamentally bad people, they're behaving badly. Their rejection has had a profound impact on her. They need to step back and realize that this is not about them, that Cath didn't open up to them because she wanted to punish them, or send them into a 4-year exercise in self-pity and self-absorption. She opened up to them because she thought she could count on them to be there for her. Sadly, they've failed her. They've failed her so badly that she's finally turned, after years of just quietly living with her parents' rejection, (Cath tells me her parents doubt she's really gay, and expect she'll "snap out of it" soon enough) to someone who is practically a stranger for friendship and validation.

I like Cath. I'm happy to be a friend to her. As I said, though, I'm not a social worker or a counselor. More importantly, though, I'm not a parent. I'm not Cath's parent. In her frustration, this young woman has turned to me because she likes what she knows about me and figures I won't insult her or question her decision to start coming out to her friends. And I won't. But I'm no substitute for a supportive parent, and a young person in this position who has parents shouldn't have to look for surrogates.

This stuff is supposed to begin at home, and it's not charity.

Being There

A few days ago, I got back from visiting family. It was a great visit, but a difficult one. It was my first time visiting since losing my mother. Life without my mother has been so hard, at times. I don't mean to get all dark - I'm actually very happy in my life, right now - but there are moments when I don't even know how I manage to get by in a world without my mother. She loomed large for me.

While visiting, I spent a lot of time with my nephews. Their parents are going through a pretty messy/nasty break-up. Their dad - a man I always loved as a brother - has decided that a break-up with his wife means a break-up with his children. The children he was always so close to. The children who he always said were his best friends. The youngest child - my beautiful, 6 yr old nephew - can't understand why his dad never calls, never picks him up for visits, anymore, and doesn't respond to the many phone messages he's left him. In his six year old mind, he's done something to cause this, and there really is no way to let him know that nothing that's happened is his fault.

There's no way to explain to a six year old that the father who was always such a great guy has recently turned into a self-centered asshole who is more interested in pissing off his ex-wife, than in loving his children.

Witnessing what this abandonment has done to this precious boy made me think about my own parents. I adored (still adore) my mother. She was my best friend. When I think about why losing her has had such a profound effect on me, the reason is ridiculously clear: I miss her because SHE WAS THERE. She was there for me. Always. Every day. She offered unconditional love and support. She never walked away. She always answered my calls. I knew, absolutely, that I could count on her. That's it, and that's everything. She was always there, and now, she isn't. Of course there's a huge, gaping hole. When I made mistakes, she was there. When I was obnoxious, she was there. When I needed bailing out of situations, she was there. When I did anything that warranted recognition, she was there. When I was sick, she was there. When I woke up in the morning and needed someone to talk to over a cup of coffee, she was there. When I said I was in love with a woman and was going to move to the other side of the planet to build a life with her, she was there.

I am not saying that we never argued, or that we never got on one another's nerves.

I'm not saying that my mother was a saint.

If anything, I'm saying that she was so very human.

What I'm saying is that she was there. She didn't walk away. She didn't turn her back on me, ever. She was always there, and I always knew she'd be there. I could count on her to be there for me. Because real parents don't leave. They just don't. I'm 45 years old and, if my mother were alive, today, she'd still be there for me. I was so blessed, for so long, that not having her makes me ache.

It's natural for a 45 year old to ache like this. A six year old isn't supposed to. A six year old shouldn't have to ask himself what he's done to make his father leave. A six year old shouldn't be having dreams about telling his dad not to cut into a friend's birthday cake, and then having his father walk away in anger over being denied a slice of cake.

You probably won't read this, but in the slim chance that you do: Be as mad at my sister as you like. Hate her, for all I care. Call her whatever names you like. But, be a man, when it comes to your kids. Be there, asshole.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

Suspicious Minds

These are two two of my nephews:

Nic is six years old. He looks up to his oldest brother in a way that it would be fair to call a form of hero-worship. Derrick is 15. He's good natured, goofy, and funny. He's a really sweet big brother to Nic - very affectionate, always looking to do something nice for the baby of the house, and very protective of the little guy who always wants to tag along. If Derrick gets interested in something, Nic follows suit. Derrick loves to skateboard and is very good at it. Nic is frustrated because, at 6, he can't really do much with the skateboard he convinced his mother to get him. When Derrick gets new sneakers, Nic wants the same kind. Nic, who has naturally curly, fleecy hair, demands his hair be kept short, because that's how Derrick, who has course, African hair, wears his. 

One day, Nic was talking to his mom - my sister - and said, "I can't wait until I get older, so I can turn black, the way Derrick is. When is that going to happen?"

My sister was filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. How wonderful that her sons shared such love for one another! But, how sad for Nic that, try as he might, he couldn't will himself to be more black. Nic and Derrick have different biological fathers and, while our side of the family is of mixed race, we tend to come out with light skin and silky hair. It's the same with Nic's biological father. Derrick's biological father, on the other hand, is 100% African American, and Derrick takes after him, physically.  Nic is too young to understand that being black or African is not just about the color of a person's skin. He's too young to understand that, yes, he's also part African, but his European traits seem to have emerged triumphant in the genetic lottery. All he knows is that his idol is his handsome, good-natured, dark-skinned, nappy-headed brother. He wants to be everything that Derrick is, in every way. 

Why am I thinking about this? Because of another handsome, dark-skinned, nappy-headed boy named Trayvon Martin.  

You see, my nephews live in Florida. In a predominantly white, gated community. Derrick is 15. In the last few years, he's come to enjoy some of the independence that comes with being a teenager. He can, for instance, get on his bike and ride off to the candy store alone. He does this often, because he's got a thing for Red Bull and chewing gum. The kid is just crazy for Red Bull and chewing gum. He's old enough to usually have pocket money, and this is often what he spends it on. 

He is a black boy, living in a white community. In Florida.

He bikes or walks back and forth from home to the candy store all the time.

He's immersed in skateboarding culture and can usually be found wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

Trayvon Martin could easily have been my nephew.

What happened to Trayvon Martin could easily happen to Derrick.

And just look at him. Doesn't he look suspicious? Do you trust that face? 

My nephews are not disposable. Their lives mean something. Children of color should not be treated as so much collateral damage.  Trayvon Martin was a human being. Somebody's son. Somebody's friend. He mattered. He had a future. I wonder if there's some younger sibling or cousin or friend who looked up to Trayvon Martin the way Nic looks up to Derrick? Where does this tragedy leave that child? How does one explain to a little kid how unjust the world can be? It's impossible, because we adults haven't fully come to terms with it, ourselves.  

Get good and angry about what happened to Trayvon Martin.  I know I'm furious. And Heartbroken.

Because he mattered. Because he could have been your son, your nephew, your big brother. 

What are words worth?

Tom Tom Club said it best: Words are stupid, words are fun, words can put you on the run.

Rush Limbaugh used the word "slut" to describe a young woman who had the audacity to speak up about the healthcare needs of women with gynecological conditions requiring hormone therapy, and the walls came tumbling down.

Consider it a clarion call, I say. Words have power, but human beings have more power. Isn't it high time women reclaimed and re-appropriated this word? The LGBT community has successfully re-appropriated "dyke," "queer," and, to an extent, "fag." Feminists took back "spinster." Why can't American women do the same with "Slut"? How about we start owning the word, and not shy away from it? How about we take it on as our own, so it can never be used against us? How about a million of us wear t-shirts that say "SLUT" and show up outside of Rush Limbaugh's workplace? Or maybe just wear them around our own corners of the world to make a statement.

Peace Train

Last Saturday, I woke up to a truly sad private message on Facebook. My good friend, Cheryl, wrote to tell me that her boyfriend, the love of her life, David, had died suddenly. One minute he was there, playfully asking her if she loved him...the next, he was gone. Just like that. A cough, a loss of breath, and that was it.

David, Cheryl and I all went to the same small, elite high school, where we we all knew one another and formed tighter bonds than anyone from any other school I know. Maybe, as Cheryl has said, it's because we were considered "special" kids - square pegs who'd finally found others like us. Maybe it was because, unlike most high schools, Hunter ran from 7th grade until 12th: six years of togetherness.  Or maybe it was because most of us had been uprooted from our bridge-and-tunnel neighborhood friends and forced to take long rides on the subway, every day, to the upper east side of Manhattan, for the privilege of attending what many consider the finest school in America. For whatever reason, Hunter College High School alums are a rare breed. We stick together. We have school spirit. Most of us remember those years with great fondness.

I didn't know David very well in high school, but I liked him. That he and Cheryl -who is one of my favorite people: smart, funny, original, genuinely good and generous - found each other and fell in love, 20+ years after high school was over, made me like him more. He made her happy. They made each other happy. And they deserved it. Thanks to Cheryl, I got to know David a little better during the last two years or so. He made me laugh.

This is what I do know about David:

He was gentle
He was kind
He loved music
He was a teacher and a librarian
He had a sense of fairness that made him fight for the underdog: kids, union members, the LGBT community, the poor....
He was funny
He was a single father who clearly devoted himself to his daughter
He was very much in love with my friend, and showed her the respect and admiration she deserved

David was only 44. He and Cheryl only had a few years together. It's not fair. But the one good thing to come out of this, if that's the right way to phrase it, is the revelation that he and Cheryl didn't waste time. They didn't leave things unsaid. Two years may not sound like a lot of time, but it's clear they made the most of it, and never missed an opportunity to appreciate one another, to enjoy each other not just as partners, but as friends, to be kind to one another. They laughed a lot, and didn't waste time on pettiness. And, thank God, they were together when he died.

He died too soon, but he died in the presence of the person who changed his life, who he loved more than anything, who made him happy.

Few of us will experience the kind of relationship David and Cheryl had. Few of us are open to that kind of partnership...to taking that much of a chance on life. Time slips by, and we find we've missed the boat. I'm so glad David and Cheryl did take the chance and didn't miss the boat. I only wish it had been a longer trip.

So long, David.  I don't know if you liked Cat Stevens, but this song is joyous, and makes me think of how happy Cheryl has been since you entered her life, and of the journey you've embarked on. Peace, brother.

Why Whitney Matters

If you haven't yet heard about the passing of Whitney Houston, I'm guessing you live under a rock. In any case, if you haven't heard, you must not have internet access and, so, you're not reading this.

In the 24-or-so hours since this somewhat shocking news broke, I've seen two camps emerge online: there are those who have been posting links to Whitney Houston videos, photos and articles...and then there are those who take pleasure in making jokes about this sad news and/or saying things such as, "A lot of people died, and she was just some addict that none of us really knew...what's the big deal?" That's actually a reasonable question, in some ways. I didn't know Whitney Houston. Never met her. I don't even own any of her albums. (I'm old enough to have to admit that I may have had a few cassingles, back in the day.) And, truth be told, I'm not a huge fan of addicts, in general. I've been related to enough of them, seen enough people I cared about turn into assholes via addiction, and been exposed to the worst aspects of addiction via many years of working in the not-for-profit sector that I'd be more than happy to never spend ten minutes with a drug addict or alcoholic, again.

That said, the death of Whitney Houston leaves me with great sadness and, if I had to identify with one of the two camps, I'd go for the former. I'm not on a posting spree of Whitney videos, but I actually do care that this happened, even though I never met Whitney Houston. 

First off, the argument that we didn't know her is a silly one. We live in a time and place where the celebrity phenomenon creates some pretty damned convincing illusions. One of these is the illusion that the very famous are practically friends of ours, almost family. Like it or not, we're happy when our favorite actor gets an award. We cheer on our favorite athletes. We anticipate the birth of our favorite celebrity's baby, and wonder what name the baby will be given. And we grieve when an actor, writer, singer, or other celebrity we've come to care for passes away. It's a part of how the world works, these days. To deny it is just silly.

Second, and more importantly, Whitney Houston's death speaks to a whole lot more than some woman I never met coming to a premature end. It speaks volumes about women's roles in the modern world, and how far we have yet to go. In this way, her sad end is very much like the sad end that Princess Diana suffered, and here's why:

Whitney Houston was talented. 

Whitney Houston was beautiful.

Whitney Houston was rich.

Whitney Houston came from a close-knit family.

Whitney Houston was well loved on a global scale.

All this, and yet, she still did two things that we often associate with low self-esteem: she entered into and stayed in an abusive marriage for many years, and she became addicted to drugs.  And this is what is so heartbreaking to a lot of us, especially women: that someone so gorgeous and talented and loved....someone who seemingly had everything going for her didn't - couldn't - love herself enough to make choices that were in her own best interest. We loved her from afar, and it's inconceivable to us that she couldn't love herself more. 

We didn't know her, personally, but we watched her go from being a gorgeous, talented teenager, to a mere shell of her former self, whose gift - her amazing voice - was destroyed along the way.  That, in itself, was sad enough. To find out that her life, itself, is over, is truly heartbreaking...especially when one considers the efforts she finally did make to clean herself up and try to build her career, again. If you're anything like me, you were rooting for her to make a comeback. 

And, so, yes - Whitney does matter, and some of us do, indeed, care. If this is the way it can end for someone who seemingly had the world in the palm of her hand, what does that say about the chances an ordinary girl or woman has in this world? Or an ugly girl? Or a girl with no talent? Why is it so damned difficult for girls and women to love themselves, and demand the best for themselves?  

If it drives you nuts that some of her fans are going a little hog wild about posting her videos on Facebook, keep in mind that they're probably trying their damnedest to remember her as she was, when she was at her best.  Not just her most beautiful (but, yes, surely that) - but when her voice was so amazing, when she was great to watch, when we looked forward to her next song. Who of us wouldn't want that for ourselves, after we're gone?  Before she was a hot mess, she was a woman and a singer.  Is it so wrong to want to remember that?