Category Archives: things we don’t want to talk about

Use-value

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A friend posted an article about the experience women have getting older (http://www.refinery29.com/2016/09/121633/stacy-london-style-aging-story?mc_cid=1bcdc9acf6&mc_eid=9566b5b4f4), and also on non-traditional lifestyles for women. It’s just a little bit unfocused, declaring at one juncture, “Sociobiologically speaking, in caveman days, if we could no longer bear children our use-value dropped sharply and inevitably,” then, at the beginning of the very next paragraph, “What’s so bad about growing older when it’s revered in almost every society except ours?” Still, as an older … middle aged … woman who has gotten through most of her adulthood unmarried, unpartnered, and certainly unchildrened, I snug right into this demographic, even if my love of consistency and lack of fashion sense leaves me with an eyebrow raised at the article.

It brings out the right note of ambivalence for me. I never intended this path, but here I am, and truly, while it has a generous share of lonely, there are some very nice things about where I am and who I am. As the article says, you can’t imagine being 47 when you are 27. Maybe even those who ended up exactly where they expected to be get to this point have to reimagine their sense of themselves.

Articles like this bring all the niggly little questions up. I wonder if I should continue to take the occasional (surely it is only occasional) selfie or to ask friends to take photos of me, and then post those photos on social media. There’s that nagging doubt that perhaps I should apologize for the grey hairs that are appearing in my eyebrows, the lines appearing on my face, especially those in the middle of my forehead, my slightly crooked front teeth, my stomach, and all the other physical imperfections.

Seriously? Not a bit, but I do have to admit my own inner critic often has a lot to say on those topics, especially as I begin to see age creep into my face. Even when I recognize it’s ridiculous, getting beauty culture out of my head and that inner critic to pipe down is often tough. For women, being wanted and being worthy are so intermingled with being pretty. (see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0). Even when we know better.

While we’re at it, this.

Cecil the Lion; Hunting and Conservation

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“If we want wildlife to be around for future generations, we have to understand that that wildlife has to have a value. If it doesn’t have a value, especially in the continent of Africa, it is going to be gone.”

“Living next to a black rhino is a nightmare.”

When the whole Cecil the Lion thing blew up, I kept quiet, not wanting to have the Wrath of the Internet (or of even just my friends) come down on my head. But I thought the dentist was being demonized without good reason. Surely he shelled out $50,000 for a hunt because he wanted a legal hunt. If anyone is to blame here, surely primary blame should be on the professionals he hired.

Today I’m gathering my courage and posting about this, because yesterday I listened to a Radiolab episode on this. Twice.

You may find hunting detestable. You may think it is in conflict with conservation. But I want to ask you how much money you have given to conservation this year? In your lifetime?

The least you can do is listen. Listen to this.

Or download from Radiolab and listen later
The Rhino Hunter on Radiolab.

Quick Trip

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When I was in my teens, maybe even into my 20s, maybe even beyond that, at every wedding I went to, I wanted to be a bridesmaid, to wear a pretty dress, to carry a bouquet of flowers. I never was, not until this weekend when I became a maid of honor at the ripe old age of 46. The bouquet was pretty, I was glad to support my friend, but somehow the experience wasn’t quite as exciting as what I had imagined at 17.

Bouquet

I got to see a few friends; I didn’t have a lot of time to try to see everyone. I also didn’t have the energy. I had breakfast with one last friend that last day before going home. I took some anxiety medication at breakfast. I think I might have almost shed a few tears in the airport. I knew when I moved out here that it might take a while to adjust, to make friends, to feel at home, but somehow I thought it would be easier than it is.

Last year was so hard, and I am dreading this academic year because of it. It’s got to get better, except that a wise person knows that things can always get worse. I will keep putting one foot in front of another. I won’t promise to do my best, because I don’t think any of us knows what that really is — if you do your best with one thing, in particular, it would be impossible to do it with at another at the same time.

I can promise to make an honorable effort at the things I am charged with. I will hope to start to feel like I belong, and like I am making a positive difference here.

One thing I try to teach my students about is grit — how to hang in there with a difficult problem, rather than giving up. This is my opportunity to have some grit.

Maybe some gratitude would help too. I will have to make a list for myself this day, and maybe try to make lists of the things I am grateful for more regularly too.

Radio Silence

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Finally, the day comes for me to break radio silence. My last post was on February 5, titled “Are you okay?” and for a while, the answer was mostly no. I know I haven’t gotten that answer back to yes. Maybe it still is mostly no. But I recognize that it isn’t helping me to avoid doing things, like writing here, that just plain give me a sense of satisfaction.

It’s also hard to address an absence. Yes, if you are a friend of mine, I would be glad to hear from you. On the other hand, I don’t want you to worry. I’m not drowning, and I don’t need a rescue. Honestly, lately, I’ve been a not-so-great friend, I’ve been doing far from my best job at keeping in touch with people that I care about. That, too, is a symptom; one that I need to work on changing.

I think these depressive funks we all get into tell us that we do need to change something. Or several somethings. Having been through a year of big changes, it is hard to face more, and it is also hard to figure out what exactly to do. Some problems take time to solve. Some problems you cannot solve, you can only run away from them.

How do I get started doing things? I know to break big tasks into smaller tasks and do one small step at a time. I know the coping strategy of setting a timer for 5, 15 or 30 minutes and getting serious for that small amount of time. The harder it is, the smaller the time period you pick. I still feel myself dragging my feet, sitting and web browsing rather than typing, opening up computer code, scheduling tasks, unpacking, cleaning, chore-doing, etc. Sometimes I can even drag my feet on going to bed.

I’m looking at this post, and I’m not satisfied with it. And you know what? Satisfied or no, it’s complete. I’m about to hit publish, and I hope I can take some satisfaction from that.

Are you okay?

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Yes. No. Yes. I learned a long time ago that when you don’t know the answer to that question, the answer is no. No, I’m not not okay in a way that requires you to do anything about it. But I’m not okay in the sense that I feel far from all right.

I dealt with my students today. I thought I was pretty light on them, all things considered. The first registered his protest but managed to be polite about it. The second, treated much more leniently, cursed at me. We were done at that point. He can talk to my department chair about it. I don’t have to take that from him. I don’t have to take that from anyone. And if he goes in with that to the chair, I’d be willing to bet that he’s going to land in more trouble than he was bargaining for.

Of course, little does he know that I consulted my chair every step of the way through this, from when I first saw it, to deciding what to do about it. I didn’t bother to tell him that.

Dealing with people is hard. Feeling their emotions (especially when they are being blasted at you) is hard. Having to make unpopular decisions is hard.

It’s also my job. To determine what grade a student earned. To determine when something looks fishy and requires a sanction. It doesn’t matter how much integrity or fairness is brought to that process; someone’s going to get angry at you for an outcome that they don’t like. Angry at me.

On the most part, I think I can deal with this, but lately, it’s been too much. Over and over. At something I used to feel like I was good at. And maybe I still am, but I no longer have my reputation preceeding me. The default expectation for female is often pushover, and when it isn’t, that quickly flips to rhymes-with-witch. If, especially as a young woman, you aren’t being called a certain name on occasion, you are probably being far too easy. Or you have a lot more finesse in dealing with people than I do.

It doesn’t feel good. Not one bit. Part of me wishes I could cry about it, but that’s not coming up and out of me. I just … don’t feel okay. No, there’s nothing you can do about it. I don’t need you to help. I don’t need rescuing. I just need to do my best to push through the rest of today, and then to get through tomorrow, and then get through the next day. I know that things come together, then things fall apart. That’s the natural cycle of being. Persevere through this stage, and things will get better again. They’ll get worse again after that, but no sense in worrying about that now. I have enough worries at the moment.

Dogs and responsibilities and consequences

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I’ve been thinking about dogs today. About their owners/keepers. About my Dad.

I think the guy with the dog that ran into my fellow hiker, and who then was reluctant-at-best to leash the dog after she got injured is now removed from the hiking group. I think that’s just. He didn’t come back to help us carry her down. While I’m not a fan of leaving dogs in cars in Texas in the summertime, we aren’t in Texas. It was a cold day; carrying a person down the trail is a hard job even for a sizeable group of people, and the dog could have been left in the car.

That makes me think of my father and the dogs in his life. He had a lady friend with a Boston terrier. I think he liked her better than the dog, but maybe it was a toss up. The Boston had a rough childhood with older dogs that beat up on him, and his attitude toward the rest of the canine world was, “it’s me or you, and I’m getting my licks in first.” He’d attack any other dog without provocation.

Dad would still let him off leash. I know Dad paid several ~$500 vet bills because of “accidents”. He still couldn’t bear to keep the Boston on a leash.

Later, he had another friend with another two dogs, and Dad loved these dogs too, taking them for walks, and again, he couldn’t bear to keep them on a leash. Until one day one of them ran out into traffic, was hit by a car and killed. Dad was sorry, but sorry in the sense of saying so, not in the sense of doing something about it.

I loved my Dad, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t always respect my Dad or like my Dad. To this day, thinking about this makes me feel sick in my stomach. And sad, deeply sad, because I just don’t understand it.

Sad, too, because I realize that one of his legacies is that I have never had a man in my life who has had my back. When the going got tough, I took care of it. I took care of us. Or I took care of me. I shut up and dealt. I didn’t like it, but after all, in my world growing up, men are never responsible for anything. They may be “sorry”, but they aren’t sorry. If I don’t toe the line, if I complain, if I insist then I nag, and I become a harridan like my mother. Since that’s the last thing in the world I want to do, I put up with a hell of a lot of shit.

A hell of a lot of shit.

I wonder if there were good men in my life, and I didn’t recognize them at the time. Or if I picked the best of what I had available to me (after college, never exactly a glut of suitors).

I wonder if I’ll ever find someone again. If I do if I’ll find myself again putting up with a hell of a lot of shit. Whether I will tell it to take a hike. Whether I have finally changed enough that if I let him in my life, that it will be better. If I will ever again find anyone at all.

I try not to focus on loneliness. On feeling unloved. None of that gets you anywhere but a pity party. Focus on the love you want to give, not the love you want to get. It works better that way. But days, some days, today, all of this tastes like ashes, and I want what I wanted, what I still want, and I know I will never get it, and I will have to make do.

And tomorrow I will wake up and make do better than anyone has ever made do before. But tonight, tonight, I am sad for all that was, and for all that is, and for all that will not be.

Dear Dad

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Dear Dad,

I should have written you earlier this week, and I’ve been reminding myself and carrying a card around for a few days looking for time. Turns out it really wouldn’t have mattered if I got that letter out first thing Monday or not; you died this morning or last night — I’m not quite sure which. I hope it was quietly in your sleep without fear or pain or stress.

That letter that I didn’t write would have been in transit during the holiday season. I can’t quite imagine that it would have gotten to you yesterday, and I am sure it would have made my sister sad to see it arrive tomorrow. Maybe it is all just as well.

I feel numb today. Stunned. Even though I expected this; there’s a time when you know it is coming because someone keeps getting ill, and that’s been you these past few months. I am glad you hung on so that I could visit you one last time before the holidays. I sent you a holiday card right before Christmas — surely that arrived within the past few days.

This has been the strangest New Year’s Day. Walking in a dream. Between the reality that was yesterday, and the one I face tomorrow.

Losing a parent is hard. With the second one, you know you are looking mortality right in the face, and it smirks at you and says, “You’re next.” I can’t even muster a reaction to that today.

Goodbye, Dad. You will always be my Dad. And I will always love you because you’re my Dad. Now that you are gone, I can look back at what was the last good day, maybe a year and a half ago or longer, in the spring, when you were awake and lively and talkative, and I took you out into the garden. I remember the next day you were conked out and I couldn’t wake you to eat lunch or even say goodbye to me. I realized that moment was precious when it happened. I hoped there would be another. We are out of moments.

And I am sad.

I love you Dad.

Identity

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Before I left Spokane, my friend said to me that he hadn’t realized how much of his identity was tied up with his wife. When she passed away, and as he’s dealt with his grief, he’s had to examine his concept of who he is and what he wants. This is no easy task.

I don’t know that I said much in reply aside from offering sympathy. I won’t claim to be an expert at this one, nor have I had a major grief, like his, to deal with.

Every time I’ve had a relationship end (my, I’ve had a lot more of these than I ever wanted to), I have had to adjust my sense of self. It is easier because I’ve spent a lot of time alone — then I know who I am when no one else is around, and I am mostly returning to this after a relationship ends.

What’s been harder for me is letting go of the things I wanted to be, but will never become. The one that hurts the most is that I will never be a parent. If I can’t find the husband, it makes it hard to have the child. I was never willing to go at that solo. Eventually, I got too old. 45 is pretty definitive. There are days when 45 is pretty hard to take.

There’s all the self-questioning that I can’t quite stop. I should have gone further into online dating. Sooner. Many boyfriends I should have broken up with sooner. I should have dropped the hard shell of defensiveness from my childhood sooner, and softened up. I should have been wiser about people, as if I could have just had the realization that when other people treated me poorly that this is not a reflection on my worth sooner.

We can regret, but we cannot change the past. We can only go on from here.

When we depart from the standard story, or any story we’ve told ourselves for a long time, it takes adjustment. I’m still trying to figure out who I am, as a 45 year old woman, aging more quickly than I’d like, without a family, without a significant other, with an anxiety problem that is fortunately not troubling me much at the moment, and, right now, in a new place without any friends or close friends to lean on.

We need more stories for women. More for men too, but I know less about that. I have female friends who are childless and happy with that, but I can’t think of many stories where that is the outcome for women. It never was an option in any of my happily ever afters. So I have no view of what this should be, even looking at my friends and trying to see through their eyes.

The only thing I’ve figured out is that you have to concentrate on the love you can give, not on the love you wished to receive. That is the path to happiness, but it is not easy to travel it.

One thing I hope is that I find honor and integrity, grace, generosity and kindness, warmth and caring, and lots of love freely given to others in who I am, whoever that may be.

When is enough enough?

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I had a phone call with our Chief Diversity Officer, and I went and had a visit with the Dean of Faculties today about why I am leaving my current university.

I feel an obligation to do this and do this well. I know nothing is going to happen because of what I say. I just hope to make it easier for the next person. But dredging up all that stuff makes me sad. I never feel like I say the right things. It was a hard day.

This evening ended with a visit to my book club. One member is in human resources, and told me that the university will never change unless I file a complaint with the EEOC or another external enforcing agency. And I can see her point and logic, but forgive me if tonight this was just too much. I’m doing my best here to try to do right by everybody, to speak my truth, to tell the right people. And this is still not enough?

Truth is I think she’s right. Truth is I’m not enthused about what is asked of me. Truth is I worry about repercussions hurting me, even though I’m soon to be gone.

Maybe that’s all just excuses for not wanting to delve into things that bother me and make me sad again.

A friend tried to remind me of all the things that have gone right lately. But I’m not in the mood for that. Tonight I give myself permission to be sad. Tomorrow is another day, with a new set of challenges. I will have to buck up for them. Tomorrow, with renewed strength, I can think about this again.

Meanwhile I am sad that I am leaving. Sad that there wasn’t a better outcome here. Sad that I didn’t have the right words to say, the magic words, to make things right. Sad to leave my home and my friends behind.

If that seems ungrateful for all the good things that I have had happen, tonight, so be it. I am truly grateful for the good things. But I am also very very sad about a lot of things too.

Being Different from Everyone Else

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Last post, I mentioned my atheism. This is something that sets me apart from the vast majority of my friends and colleagues. It makes people uncomfortable. This is no surprise; when religion teaches that unbelievers are evil and horribly mistaken, where religion gives comfort to those in pain, when many believers disbelieve for a time because they are angry with God, what is a believer to think of another who rejects the faith?

When I was 10 or 11 years old I had a friend ask me why it was I believed in God. I had never considered this a question before. I think many people never consider the question unless they are angry and in pain — i.e. mad at God for some circumstance. For me it was just a completely new thought, an entirely reasonable thought, and I spent a long time with it. I have spent the last 34-35 years thinking on this on and off. When I was younger, I asked this of the adults around me, and I certainly didn’t get a satisfactory answer. I asked my parents, the preachers and teachers in the church, and I didn’t get a satisfactory answer. I read the bible, and I didn’t find that convincing either.

For a while, as a distressed teenager from a troubled home, I tried to follow the prescription of religious friends. To ask for faith and faith would be given to me. I asked, I prayed, I read the Bible some more, but the harder I tried, the more I learned, the more doubt filled my mind. Faith was not given to me. Again, I turned my critical faculties on the question of the existence of God, any God.

The arguments for atheism made a lot more sense. And let me say to those who are reading this who believe. I believe in exactly one fewer god than you do. Why don’t you believe in the Greek gods, or the Roman gods, or the Hindu gods or any of the rest? What makes the one you believe in special is usually that you were raised in that church or are surrounded by that culture. Think of all the gods you have rejected, and remember, I have rejected just one more.

Some say we need God to explain the existence of the universe, but I’d reply by asking why don’t we then need something to explain the existence of God? I stop one step earlier in the process that these believers do. The argument about intelligent design also did not do much for me; yes, there is much about the world that is complicated and elegant, but to claim that this must be created an intelligent designer is to fail to understand fully the theory of evolution and the power of small changes over long periods of time. There are other arguments. I will spare you even a short review of them. I am sure you can go find more information if you are curious.

Another thing. We certainly don’t see any God influencing our day to day life — though some people like to claim they’ve seen it or seen miracles — I believe that people are often experts at fooling themselves and seeing what they want to see. Even me, and I try to be diligent on this issue.

I’ve been in the minority for most of my life with this lack of belief; having other people disagree with me on this point is hardly upsetting. I don’t always like what others say — when people claim it takes faith to be an atheist, that just gets my dander up. The burden of proof is on the person asserting the positive. I am not asserting a positive. When people wonder whether I have a moral code, I have to often bite my tongue in the course of employing it.

I wonder how people can believe what some of the crazy things that the Bible and churches teach, yet be otherwise rational human beings. I am sure they think the exact same of me! One thing being in the minority teaches you is just how rude it would be to express that thought aloud. And unproductive. People that I do respect believe these things. They have reasons I do not understand. It is not my job to convince them, it is my job to live my life authentically and to celebrate when I see others do the same, even if their way is different from mine.

My favorite character from literature, my heart’s favorite at least, is Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan from Lois McMaster Bujold’s works Shards of Honor and Barrayar, collected in the single volume Cordelia’s Honor. While a religious person might ask “what would Jesus do?” my question is “what would Cordelia do?” Cordelia is definitely a theist. I am definitely not. Sometimes my respect and love and admiration for this fictional character is what reminds me that we are all different, and what helps me see, just a little bit, of the perspective from the other side.

It is never easy to go against the flow. My integrity demands this of me. You may not agree; you may want to argue. Please keep in mind that I have, indeed heard it all before. More than once. I hope you can try to respect that, as I also try to respect your beliefs. We won’t always succeed, but at least we can be civilized about our disagreement.