How does it all go wrong?

Last night I was awakened by a man and a woman screaming at each other two houses down. I had my upstairs bedroom window open, and with the expanse of quiet lake outstretched in my backyard, I could hear every word. It sounded like a perhaps drunken argument about the man's infidelities. I just wanted them to shut the hell up so I could go back to sleep. I thought about stepping outside and yelling that at them. But I knew that would just give them an opportunity to direct their anger at me. I listened, hoping they might quickly make nice and indeed, shut the hell up. But after about 30 seconds I knew this argument would only escalate. I was awakened by the woman screaming a string of obscenities at a rather quiet man; after a minute or two, the man started yelling threats.

So, I turned on the light, found the phone book in the pile of books on either side of my bed, and I called the cops. They took my name and number, which made me a little nervous that I'd get located as the narc, but fuck it. By the time I made the phone call, I knew somebody might end up dead. And by the time the police arrived, the woman was pleading with the man. "I can't breathe, get off me!" The man responded by ordering her to breathe. She was crying and screaming. Then the cops announced their arrival and yelled at him to get off her.

Meanwhile, I'm lying in my bed with my heart racing, knowing that I might have saved that woman's life by calling the cops.

Sometimes it's a tough call--figuring out when to step in during someone else's fight. Hasn't everyone who has lived in an apartment--on top and beneath others--had to face this question? Hell, I went walking in the woods near my house last week and I came upon a man and woman on the path. She stood with her arms crossed and head down. He towered above her, shaking his finger at her and admonishing her for something. I wanted to tell him to knock it off. The remote location, the body language, all seemed dangerous to me. But I just walked by, looping back around to listen if things had gotten worse. I couldn't find them again.

I could have clipped him at the knees, yelled at him, questioned them both about what was going on. Why didn't I? Well, I couldn't hear what they were saying. He had clearly placed himself in a self-righteous stance above her. Could it have been for good reason? Doubtful, but possible. I tend to believe no one has reason for arrogance or self-righteousness, but maybe she really fucked up. But does any adult have the right to treat another adult that way?

Still, it didn't seem like my place to step in. Should I have? What should I have done? It took me off guard. And I worried for my own safety. I usually am, but mostly I'm on the lookout for deer--I nearly got trampled by a family of four white-tailed deer racing across the trail after being spooked by the ice-cream man and his incessantly playing "Pop Goes the Weasel."

I have no regrets about calling the cops last night. I heard one of the officers talking to the woman about what had gone on. It sounds like she threw a beer bottle at the guy during some point in the argument. The cop tried to explain to her what a bad idea that was--that egging on a drunk dude is asking for trouble. She raised her voice at the cop and asked if he thought that made it okay for the dude to sit on her chest, or whatever the hell he was doing. The cop said no, but again, tried to explain what part she played in the altercation and how not to get into that situation again.

This is an old, complicated tactic, I think. After working in rape crisis, I bought the line that rape isn't about sex, it's about violence. Yes, but it also uses sex as violence. Getting raped is different than getting smacked around. Different effect, different intent. Both horrible. But I've also heard well-intentioned people trying to explain to women how to dress or not dress, behave or not behave, to fend off rape. Well, that gets a little murkier for me. Yes, women need to be taught to be smart, to not go home with strangers thinking they might just cuddle, to trust their instincts more than they trust what men say to get them into bed when they don't want to go there. But women don't make men rape them. Period.

Should women be able to behave any way they want? Showing up in the middle of the night wearing tight little red dresses, throwing beer bottles, screaming obscenities, making accusations and still remain safe? Yes. But do they? Often, no. So should we all be taught to be accountable for our actions? Absolutely. But what this actually means is where things get really tricky. In this state, the law says a person is incapable of giving consent to sex while intoxicated. So when a couple gets shitfaced and then fucks, who is the perpetrator?

A few weeks ago the Sunday NYT magazine ran a cover story about contraception--about fundamentalist rejection of contraception and its relationship to abortion. It was an incredibly well done piece--deeply historical and complex. I had my students read it and discussion went like this: the women in class had a lot to say; the men mostly remained silent. Then, one female student raised the idea that heterosexual sex is implicitly rape. Good God! I've read all the theory behind it, I get it, but is there any quicker way to shut up a bunch of smart, scared man-boys in a classroom discussion?

This is my problem with the direction the women's movement has taken on college campuses: victimization. Sanctioned victimhood leads to divisiveness full stop. Led by women who have felt like victims their whole lives, young women realize how they've been victimized, and they all get together as a bunch of victims feeling sorry for themselves and angry at a nebulous other. Can someone tell me how this is progress? What about recognizing oppression and then doing what it takes to overturn it, to fight against it, to live with dignity in the face of it? That should look very different than victimization.

But so now what? How does a person keep herself safe yet remain open to deep, abiding love? One must make allow oneself to be vulnerable in order to reap life's greatest rewards. But how do we do that and remain safe? Rely on the kindness of strangers, on caring (and tired, pissed-off) neighbors to call the cops? Rely on the cops to teach us personal accountability?

Where do we go from here?

man bashing

But you won't hear it from me.

I'm getting it from all around. Mostly from badly wounded, scorned, divorced women who--I think--have given up on themselves but cloak it in the straight man bashing. It's bumming me out, man. That kind of "down with love" "all men are after is pussy" "they are not compassionate, thinking human beings" "they all have an agenda" bullshit is so goddamn divisive.

Where is the learning in that? Where is the personal accountability?

Oh if only blame could honestly fall on someone else all the time. How about no blame? Okay, so it's way harder and painful to own up to how we've all fucked things up for ourselves. But then when you scratch the surface and dig deeper, you can figure out that each ruinous date, relationship, whatever you once sought represented a piece of you, showed that piece to you, fulfilled a particular need or desire. Own that shit! Then move on.

. . . so says the girl who has gone on a handful of cheap and boring casual dates since her self-imposed break up damn near two years ago.

Today is HB's birthday. Today and tomorrow. He's a Gemini; don't ask. But that's what this is about. Yesterday I smelled him all day long. And I swear, I didn't douse myself in his cologne. I leaned over the staircase to listen for him downstairs; I was utterly convinced he was in the house. Then at my office, I kept smelling him. Weird. Haunting. Sick, perhaps.

I wrote a new chapter today. The first since my trip to Dallas. It started out being about the day my dad told me he was moving out, and it turned into a remembrance of my early girlhood crushes, including Jim from kindergarten who puked in class, causing me to abruptly love him no more; Michael Jackson and my 7-year-old's personal Thriller fantasy; the werewolf from "An America Werewolf in London"; Brian, the next door neighbor who treated me like a younger brother and then fell in love with another Betty from the block, dammit; and ever-pretty River Phoenix.

For the most part, they were weird creeps. Terrifying and thrilling at once. Nothing changes, do it? So how can I rightfully bash someone else for my choosing him, huh?

Day of Gracious Living

Here at the little institution where I work, a place that likes to refer to itself as "the Harvard of the Midwest", we have a long-standing tradition of calling off work for one day, unannounced until the night before by the student council president, so that we who are so privileged and work so hard may live graciously.

Pffft.

Originally intended to get all the spoiled brats off their duffs and into the real world, the day once meant that students, faculty and staff left the classrooms and offices and got together for a big community project. Volunteering. Building a house. Planting flowers. Stuff like that. Now pretty much everybody goes to the beach and gets shitfaced.

Not a bad way to spend a day.

But not for me. Instead, yesterday I sat wearing a cashmere hoodie under the sun in my backyard and read this. I could. Not. Put it down. I can't figure out why I hadn't read it before now.

Sonofabitch.

I still have serious questions about Capote's reportage. How he could reconstruct so many of those quotes without taping and without taking notes. Now I've got to read this.

And this.

But soon I'll be reading loads and loads of Czech writers. In English. Although I've signed up for a Czech language class. What fun! I'll be expanding my understanding of Czech culture and literature beyond what my high school obsession with Milan Kundera offered me. And I'll know how to communicate more than "Beer, please!" (although knowing just that phrase, as well as "toilets?", in tongues native to the countries in which I've travelled has gotten me very far. Far as I wanted to go, anyway.)

I may have secured a sublet in Prague for much cheaper than I expected. And I have an opportunity to keep it longer than the one month I'll be working. I'm starting to think that may be the best option for me. Instead of flitting off to hard-to-reach islands or Eurorailing it across Western Europe, I might just plan to stay grounded in Prague; do trips from there to Eastern Europe; see new things, new people; position myself to take a lover; and have a hell of a lot of fun. Without spending all the money I don't even have. That'll leave me just enough time to skeedaddle off to the South of France by the end of August. . . .

Is it just me?

Or do posh English boys all seem gay?

I just watched this. And all those menfolk threw off my gaydar. Except for him. But he's Irish, so that explains that. Oh so pretty, although the least pretty among a beautiful bunch of Irish actors making it on the silver screen.

Who knew those boys were both Geminis? Figures.

God help me.

Dallas did not kill me.

But the trip has given me pause.

Here are the facts of the matter:

1. Bono wore a shiny yellow tie with a black shirt and suit to address the World Affairs Council in Dallas May 5. I pulled the press card, got myself a press packet and a VIP invite to a reception following the event. I giddily thought about what I'd say to himself, something I've pondered for a good 20 years. I couldn't figure it out. Luckily, he didn't show to the party. The anticipation was worth it, though. Whew!

He didn't say anything I hadn't heard or read before (one of the hazards of being a shameless stalker-fan). But being in his presence, observing his charm, his charisma was a great education.

2. I visited my hairdresser--the one who took care of me and my fuzz post-chemo. He's sick with all kinds of problems, but still the most loving, caretaking man. Love him! And any radical old queen who has survived growing up Southern Baptist in Plano, Texas and made a life for 28 years with the same partner in the small, oft-foresaken gay community of Dallas deserves props.

3. Ate lots of Tex-Mex. Drank margaritas and Shiner Bock and then made the mistake of sucking down more bourbon than is probably legal. Even in Texas. Drank so much Jim Beam that I fell out of bed, bruised my knee and got rugburn. That shit'll wake you up. Just in time to puke. It's been a long time since I've fallen out of bed.

4. Laughed, cried and fought with BFF. Love her, really do. I must. Cuz she's the only person I know of that I won't fight to a bloody pulp. I just roll over belly up like the dog I am. It's cuz I love her and she's the meanest, dirtiest fighter I know. I can't win with that shit. 'Course, check with her about her version. We have always lived and remembered two separate realities, even though we've always been girls together. That realization will certainly throw a non-fiction writer for a loop. I'm starting to believe there's no such thing as non-fiction. God damn.

And we still manage to have so much fun and laugh so hard we almost pee ourselves.

5. Went back to the hospitals where I was diagnosed, misdiagnosed and treated for cancer in 1994. Started the process of requesting medical records. Saw all those sick and dying kids. Again. Nothing'll light a hotter fire than survivor's guilt.

6. Revisted the old haunts: home, schools, the bar my dad managed when I was a kid, the apartments and houses I stayed in during my weekend visits with him. A lot of strangeness and sorrow there. Still. That bar still smells the same.

7. I ran into the kid who I knew would be my only connection to a long-lost friend the day after I said out loud, "Man if I could find Eric, I know I could find Erin." And then there he was, working in a bookstore I popped into. Crazy. I've got to start aiming higher.

8. Just to make things difficult, I decided to return to the jewelry store where HB bought my diamond ring to see if I could transform it or sell it back to them. Reclaiming that ring is one of my New Year's resolutions. But when I walked in and explained the situation to the skinny armed, tanned, fake-titted, fake fingernailed, big haired, overly made-up, typical North Dallas bitch wearing a diamond the size of her nose, she took pity on me. "Aaaaw. I'm so sorry, honey." See lady, pity is what I don't need from you. Then she explained that the ring doesn't look like an engagement ring as it is and any new design shouldn't look like an engagement ring, either. But that'll be hard with a solitaire diamond. And they can't reuse the platinum. And diamonds are like used cars in that they lose value as soon as you take them off the lot. Whatevers. Why can't the ring look how I want it to look, engagement ring or not? Why does it matter what other people think?

Which led me to the huge realization that Dallas is a place that values what things look like above all else. Has something to do with why the people are so pretty and tarted up and why they drive around in big, shiny cars and wear beautiful clothes and big hair and lots of make up. I like lots of that stuff, don't get me wrong. In fact, in the context of where I live, the folks around me consider me a girly-girl fashionista who obviously cares very much about appearances. But growing up I was a freak. I didn't fit any of the molds. I didn't buy into the importance of making everything seem fine when it wasn't. And most importantly, I've always been more concerned about how things feel and what they mean above all else. I've sought the connection between beauty and truth instead of valuing one or the other on its own. Okay, that might be stretching things a bit, but I think reconciling the two has, in many ways, been my life's work.

Just to take things entirely into the theoretical.

I have, no doubt, been shaped by that culture, the place, the heat, the concrete, the green, manicured lawns, the lack of water, the politics, the dust bowl of the city's soul, my friends and family--those who have never left, and those who have died. But I very deliberately chose to leave. And that may say more than anything else.

I have gone back, and I likely will continue to go back. The place and I get along better now. Demons can become lovers. And I can remain the same no matter where I go.

The Big D

. . . as in Death March. I don't know that I've ever articulated this before, but every time I go to Dallas I feel like I'm going home to die. Especially this time.

I have no parents there anymore; although my very real, consistent, tender and tough family in the form of my BFF/sistergirl does indeed live there still, in a house in which I feel very much at home, with her darling husband and dog and baby-to-be. I will be the most horrifyingly doting, smothering, adoring, wacky auntie that ever was. Mark my words.

So I'm going back, back, back to the hospitals where I was treated for the dreaded cancer that did not manage to kill me. I'm going back to the places where I learned to numb myself, to separate from my body, to trust in my own strength and despise my vulnerability. I'll be looking at it all square in the face.

But before then, and because of my neurotic fear that I might not return alive, I'm tying up as many loose ends as possible around here. I'm spending time telling the people I love how much I love them; I'm seeking resolution with the stupid fuckers who think they love me but nearly destroy me instead.

So I'm embodying a place of deep compassion, but that scares me a little, too. I worry that the closer I get to some kind of enlightenment or self-actualization or whatever the hell you want to call it, the faster Death will come and take me away. I have an irrational belief that each of us has been put here to take care of certain cosmic business, and as I tick off each thing, I wonder what's left. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that I have finished everything or attained enlightenment (God help us all if this is what it looks like), but who knows, really, what the end will be.

All kinds of people attempt to reassure me about things like love and life and death, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. And I listen. I honor other people's experiences and the narratives they tell themselves about those experiences. But mostly it doesn't hold a lot of water for me. It's not that "nobody knows the trouble I've seen." That's bullshit. It's that I'm a journalist who believes in empirical evidence. And I listened to a whole lot of Motown as a kid. I believe what I see, what I experience. And then only half of that.

Yet none of it really explains any of the existential questions. So I'm going deeper. Attempting to anyway. I'm seeking the contours of my own heart. For me that means paying attention to right now and looking back to discover what the path to right now has been.

And then what?

I'll keep you posted.