FU, SO (twos-14)

The theme of this post is Fuck Up, Start Over.

I fuck up as much as the next person so I'm not special. However, my tolerance for fucking up has been historically low. Unhealthily low. How you learn to manage fuck-ups is a life skill.

But first, let me tell you about my day: I spilled the cooked rice I was serving to accompany the salmon I was cooking for breakfast (savory for breakfast has been one of adulthood's delightful discoveries.) three times. I had to stop and clean up the floor and countertop three times because I assumed each time that was the last time I'd make that mistake. I also spilled those powdery flakes of Stevia sweetener all over the other countertop twice. My countertops are black. It looked like a dusting of new snow but not as endearing. I'm working on a small sewing project (that must remain undocumented because it's a little gift for someone who may not see it early...I am all about the surprise) that I managed to complete the hard part of (design and layout) only to repeatedly fuck up the easy part (execution). I also dropped my needle for the umpteenth time on a needle-eating area rug. Which meant everything had to stop while I darkened the room and shone a flashlight on a much wider area than you would think a goddamn needle would travel being dropped from 24". Not finding it, by the way, was not an option because this needle is big enough to create a viable piercing. I eventually found it.

Now, you may be saying, "wow, I wish I had such minor problems to kvetch about!" and you would be right. These are the stubbed toe of serious bodily injury problems. They are, however, the incidental things that break a person. The big problems require adrenaline and focus, the little things just pile up and erode you. They are also metaphors.

I am a plodder. Not an attractive adjective but there you have it. When shit piles up, I take a portion of it and begin the slow process of untangling. Actually that's a good metaphor. I will untangle thread/yarn when most people might cut out the snarl and tie the two ends together. It is a impatience-defying act. I haven't always been a plodder. I used to be a crier. A whiner.

When I used to fuck up physically, like falling off a step stool and bonking the hell out of my head, or emotionally, like upsetting someone because I didn't understand/pay attention, or creatively, like failing to come up with a good design solution, I would do a few things. First, I puled like a fucking toddler. Usually this was an internal sulk as I didn't like anyone to have a record of my tantrum. Then, I would fight imposter syndrome or self-flagellation for my stupidity and finally, I would begin the process of starting over. Talking myself out of imposter syndrome and/or stupidity has gotten easier over the years. First of all, I remind myself, you have a proven track record for doing good work and secondly, you are not stupid, so cut that shit out.

Starting over is where the heroics begin. Even if they're small and seemingly insignificant. Starting over is forgiveness, self-confidence and bravery. It is also where the most learning occurs. There is no doubt that we learn more from fucking up than we ever do from doing it perfect the first time. I'd like to think that's not just because the shame of fucking up makes us pay more attention or be more focused. I'd like to think it's not that punitive...and that the process of parsing out a mistake really involves some new insights and sparks new ideas.

I thought that one of the things I'd learn would be how to make fewer mistakes but I'm not sure that ever happens. I may learn not to make that particular mistake again (like the Saint and I have made a pact never to go above the second stepstool step unless the other one is there. That third step is a doozy.) but making rookie mistakes seems to be a thing that never really goes away. I continue to break egg yolks while separating eggs for baking–a task that I have done more or less successfully for 30 years. I have stubbed my toe in a space that I have walked past 300 times, as if someone moved the furniture but nobody did. I have put my shirt on inside out or mismatched my shoes and not discovered it until hours into my work day. I have, at 62, gotten too stoned for simple conversation.

But now, when I fuck up. I find it funny. Unless, it is dangerous. Oh, shit, I still find it funny. Let me give you an example (raise your hand if you've already heard this story.):

I did some contract work for a big company. The kind of company that has a compound where you can drop off your dry cleaning or get a haircut at work. Almost-like-you-could-live-there-and-never-leave-creepy. Anyway, I had a great boss who was on maternity leave. I was also still hustling for other contract jobs and that day I had an interview at Shell for another position. I'd worn a silk blouse and about halfway through the day for whatever reason, I started to perspire (probably undiagnosed peri-menopause) and I know how not-professional sweat-stained silk looks so I crammed tissues into my armpits to stem the tide. My boss needed to send me some work and had her husband drop it off in my office. He's a good guy and we chatted for a few minutes. After he left I glanced down and goddammit if I hadn't forgotten to rebutton my blouse after the erecting the tissue barricade. I had talked to my boss's husband with my shirt open and my bra proudly waving its bosom flag. Years before this, I'd have been mortified. Morti-fucking-fied. But fucking up had become less of an issue by then and laughter had filled in the spaces. A woman with more decorum might not have immediately called up her boss and shrieked that she'd just flashed her husband but I, not enchanted by protocol, told her anyway.

To recap, you gather up all the broken bits, skip the imposter syndrome and self-flagellation, and figure out how to start over. Sometimes that means starting over the next day once you've gotten some perspective and sleep. Sometimes that means sweeping it all in the trash and really starting over.

So, keep fucking up and starting over. It's the human condition and you might as well enjoy it.

P.S. I did it! I wrote 14 posts of 1,000+ words each. I am so proud I could plotz.

cafe con leche, lots of leche (twos-13)

The place where one distinct biome comes face-to-face with another is a place of dynamic change. No wonder borders are so fascinating. And so ripe for academic and cultural study.

I have lived in the place between cultures my whole life. I am not alone; there are so many brilliant books written on first generation vs immigrant, mixed race vs less-mixed-race, mixed-religion homes, etc. However, I think my transitional zone is a bit unique.

ETHINICITY

My first memory of straddling two, and consequently belonging to neither, cultures was about being half Puerto Rican/half Irish.* My surname and my father's darker complexion/hair placed me in the "other" category but my looks, dark hair and eyes notwithstanding, essentially pegged me as white. My father's weird mix of Puerto Rican pride and the push toward white assimilation was transferred to me and my sisters. I didn't learn Spanish and I didn't speak English with a Spanish accent, I just sounded like every other white person in my neighborhood. We ate some Puerto Rican foods but didn't hang out with our father's family that much (see next section: Religion). We didn't sport a Puerto Rican flag or march in the PR parade. We were raised far from New York City's barrios out in the safe, white suburbs.

I studiously worked at studying and speaking Spanish all my life but never came close enough to call myself fluent. I wanted to connect to my Latin roots but I never felt like I could.

My identity was mixed. Cafe con lots of leche.

One of my best friends in high school was a light-skinned, Black-Portuguese girl. We talked a lot about being barely-visible minorities. She relayed a conversation with a friend's mom about me being Puerto Rican. The woman countered with, well, she (me) could pass for French or Italian or anything. I remember this as the first time I consciously realized that being French or Italian or anything was seen as preferable to my actual ethnicity.

RELIGION

And if being a weird mixed ethnicity kid in a predominantly Italian/Irish/Jewish public school wasn't enough, Dad became a Mormon when I was eight years old. Of course, the whole family followed him because that's the way we rolled: whatever Dad did/said was what we all did.

Now, I belonged to a religion that was born and nourished by an enclave of straight white men in the conservative state of Utah. So I didn't fit in with my Catholic/Protestant/Jewish Long Island classmates and eventually I learned that I didn't really fit in Provo's (home of Brigham Young University and reduntantly bland casseroles) homogeneous Mormon culture either.

But I was a true believer. My fervent, nun-like obedience also made me an anomaly among my less religious friends (most of them) and that my religion was Mormon widened the gap. I was the only Puerto Rican/Irish Mormon kid in my class. Each of my sisters occupied the same weird place in theirs (though neither of them was as fanatical as I was).

Our family's adherence to Mormonism also drove a wedge between us and the extended family. I think we might have had more interaction with my father's family had our decidedly un-Catholic, teetotalling beliefs made it difficult to socialize with them or my mother's family.

After many years (and adulthood), my religious zeal petered out and I found myself most comfortable with atheism. And then I moved to fanciest buckle on the Bible belt: Texas. Sigh. Southerners don't love non-believers unless they think they can convert them. Another area where I just wasn't going to fit in.

ORIENTATION PLUS

Around the same time as I lost my faith, I discovered my ambidextrous queerness. A discovery that not only separated me from my family but also, by not picking the gay or the straight team, did not endear me to gay culture either. Not to mention that I had children which was not a way to win queer friends in 1986.

AND I was a terrible faux lesbian. I don't like sports, camping, plaid or pets. I liked art history, design and literature. My Venn Diagram didn't intersect with any of the Saint's softball buddies. And they thought I was "femme" which irritated me no end. I thought I could escape gender stereotypes in the gay community and boy (pun intended), was I wrong.

To add to the challenge: I'm not a fan of monogamy. A concept, ironically, that most straight and lesbian people are in total thumbs-down agreement on. I'm not an evangelist for the cause but I'm also not averse to talking about polyamory. It not often a comfortable conversation, however.

To top all this off, I am big. I am a 3X woman in a size 6 world. I have had to learn to navigate the White, Christian, Straight, Thin world of the 21st century. The judgmental noise from advertising, talk shows and compulsive diet/workout culture is deafening.

BEST OF ALL WORLDS

If this sounds all "woe is me" than I haven't written it well. These are the ways that I have lived between cultures. Just the reality of my life. But I don't feel rejected or depressed about any of it. If anything, my life without religion or religious acceptance is much richer. The fact that I don't fit into a neat gay or straight category is just fine. And the ethnic mix continues to evolve as does our society's acceptance of all kinds of ethnic mixes. I've derived great strength from accepting my physical form. No, more than accepting, I have embraced the largess of my largeness.

I've learned to value not fitting in; it just doesn't bother me anymore. And most of my friends today don't mind all the ways I overlap categories. Besides, our culture doesn't prize purebreds the way it once did. I think embracing my a-typicalness has been a great, healthy journey. I feel more interesting. I enjoy challenging my own and other people's stereotypes. I also find I'm quicker to accept a wider range of people because...well, who the fuck am I to judge? Finally, being open to other people who defy stereotypes has given me a humbling education.

I have learned to move through the world in my oversized body, my barely visible latinx-ness, my non-theism and my queerness. And take up space in all these quadrants whether others are comfortable or not.

* I used to think I was Puerto Rican and Irish. Through the mostly reliable DNA tracing craze I've learned I'm Puerto Rican, Jewish, Northern European with some Native blood and African ancestry thrown in.

scary things (twos-12)

Do one thing that scares you every day. That's the saying. I'm not so sure we need to run towards our fears every day; also the point is not to just face your fear but to attain something valuable. However, two days ago I did something that scared me. 

I had read information about a writer's workshop run by Dr. Roxane Gay, Dr. Tressie McMillan Cottom, and Debbie Millman. I dismissed the idea. Then I reread the information. I fretted.  I reviewed the website a third time. I waffled. Finally, I mentioned it to the Saint, who with characteristic, endearing disregard for details or my doubts, said I should just do it. So I did. 

A year from now I will attend a 2-day writers workshop run by three women who are brilliant and successful. I have no real portfolio. I don't care if I'm published. I have no idea the caliber of writers attending the conference. I've never done anything like this in my life. But, evidently, I'm ready to jump in.

Which led me to think about this. Writing here. On the best of days, my readership consisted of 12 people. Partly because I have stopped writing for long periods of time, most don't even know it's being updated but even when I wrote regularly, I didn't tell many people. This is not false modesty or shyness. I simply don't feel the need to talk to that many people. Especially if it elicits the cesspool of commentary that follow online posts like parade horses trailing shit.

So why bother publishing things at all? That is the real question. Because it makes it real? Because putting it "out there in the world" somehow closes the circuit on standing up and speaking your truth. I am not 100% clear on this. I could just write all my thoughts and keep them on a folder on my desktop. But somehow, that feels like chickenshit. Maybe I just want to leave something behind. Even if only 12 people know about it.

I've always been an essay writer and I like reading essays. However, I love reading fiction but never really felt that I would be a good fiction writer. Maybe I felt too grounded in reality to let myself go. But I find myself toying with short story ideas for the first time. One is even rather sci-fi in nature which surprises the hell out of me. I have a novice writer's fear of writing a thinly-veiled autobiography. Something tells me that all of my initial fears will need to be jettisoned so I can jump in and make the big mistakes.

In a completely different (mildly) scary vein, I went to get my hearing tested. The Saint says sometimes I don't hear her, which of course I don't think is about my hearing, and goddammit if I don't have mild hearing loss. Cataracts, hearing loss, sleep apnea ... I'm sashaying into my 60s with panache. Anyway, the loss is too mild for hearing aids but it seems like that will be a thing at some point.

The oddest thing is that all these "signs of aging" coincide with a period of sparkly rejuvenation. I have not felt this young in years.

Rejuvenate (re•ju•ve•nate rĭ-joo͞′və-nāt″)
transitive verb To restore to youthful vigor or appearance; make young again.

I don't know why any of this surprises me. Life's always been about contrast and contradiction.