Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (24 page)

Nope. I can't think of any personality traits
that require a penis or male gender-identity.
What about
statistics? Studies show that boys with no male role model grow up to
be all kinds of horrible things.
But is it possible that the
statistics are flawed? Let's just go on a mind-adventure, here. Is it
possible
that, under the
stress of this ever-present idea that women can't teach boys how to
be men, it is not the lack of penis or role-model that creates the
problem but the lack of confidence? It is a bit like going into a
game with everyone telling you that you will fail and you will lose.
That can shake your confidence, right? It might make you act in ways
you normally wouldn't.
Maybe this is why some women are serial
daters. Trying desperately to find that male role model because, you
know, she's gonna ruin everything with her lack of penis and
penis-appointed character traits, she introduces her kids to a host
of less-than-suitable men. Perhaps if she felt like she was capable
on her own, she wouldn't feel the
need
for the men in the first place, resulting in her creating high
standards for herself and finding the
right
man only – not just
a
man.
I didn't feel the same panicked insecurity when it came to
my girls. Wouldn't they need a male role model just as much?
I
poked too many holes in this Truth. I didn't have anything to replace
it, necessarily, but I certainly found enough wrong with it to set it
aside and try to come up with a new, experimental Truth to replace
it.
I thought about what traits it took to be a “good man.”
Honors his word, follows through, protects those who can't
protect themselves, speaks up when there is injustice or
discrimination, takes care of his responsibilities, communicates his
thoughts and feelings effectively, has healthy outlets for his
stress, etc.
These are, really, just the traits it takes to
be a good
human
. There
is nothing about this list that reads “
penis
necessary.
”
And
there were plenty of role models among our family and friends who
embodied these traits.
By me repeatedly “making sure”
Jack knew there was a male role model coming, not only was I
assigning a gender to his activities – his two sisters were
happy to build bows and arrows with him, why weren't they enough –
but I was also telling him he was different and things were going to
be harder for just
him
...not
the girls...just him.
I'm saying, “Since this will be
harder for you, I'll bring in reinforcements.”
That is
unfair.
It is well-intended and it is subversively
damaging.
I was
making
him needy and self-pitying. I was creating a need that may or may not
have been there.
I decided, as an experiment, to back the
hell off. And made sure I pointed out honorable traits in all of our
friends and family, to him and his sisters, without attributing them
to gender just to see what would happen.
And slowly but
surely, he grew into his little Self. He started speaking up for
himself more and apologizing less. He expresses himself clearly and
openly. He stands up to the shit-head little neighborhood boys when
he needs to and helps his little sister when he needs her. He doesn't
do this because it's what “men” do. He does it because
it's what people should do. Period.
I love parenting hacks, I
tell ya.
And as an aside, this seems to work well with my
girls, too. To quote Jaya, the oldest:
"I hate stupid
tween memes with kids whining about their parents being divorced and
having no male role model. I have tons! Nikola Tesla, Peeta, Stephen
Hawking, The Doctor from Doctor Who, Sherlock, G-Dragon, Beast,
Spiderman, Jack Skellington, Tony Stark, Michio Kaku, Neil deGrasse
Tyson. Quit being victims, you bunch of punks. You embarrass me."
And
speaking of kids...
My
kids are really good at sensing when it's time to be a unit.
When
I first first became a single mom, I explained to everyone that our
little family was even more like a community.

They
had jobs now and in order to afford the perks of our community, they
had to contribute to make things go smoothly.

I am the Mayor. And the mayor doesn't pick up trash and heal sick
people and work the cash register at the grocery store in her town.
That's what the people in the community do. The mayor makes sure they
have a good life for all that hard work and makes all the big hard
decisions.

So anyway, the house is wrecked and I have a
paper to write. I ran all over town today and I am tired. I took a
short nap and just got up. I can hear all kinds of hustle-bustle in
the living room. I thought they'd be asleep by now.
Instead all
three kids are busying themselves with cleaning the house. They are
just chatting away about whatever kids chat about, and unloading the
dishwasher, and picking up the living room, and cleaning the
bathroom.

They just
knew
the community wasn't going
to function well without the house being clean so they just got to
it. I didn't have to ask them. They didn't feel the need to inform me
so they could get credit and praise. They just knew "okay, mom's
occupied with important grownup stuff so let's do this so she has
less to do."

I'm not the kind of humble person to say "I
don't usually like to brag about my kids...." because I
do
like to brag about my kids. They've been through some upheavals, and
instabilities, and been in some hostile environments, and
less-than-functional environments, and they're really some relatively
well-adjusted and cool little mofos.

And I don't have any tangible accomplishments
except for them so I'm just gonna say it:

That's some damn fine parenting right there.

The Bridge – October 2013

I have spent the better part of the last year
trying to build a community of single parents to act as a support
group to each other. Initially, my heart and home was open to any and
all.

If you were struggling, I'd find food and
clothing and childcare and shelter and furniture for you. But I have
since learned that nothing is that easy. I've had to turn my back and
cover my ears a little.

If you need to join the tribe, you gotta cross
the bridge.

I was high as hell on the movement I'd become a
part of. Thanks to Facebook, single moms across the nation were
connecting. Like
really
connecting and supporting each
other. It had become my dream and life's mission to create a
non-profit organization that connected single parents for co-housing,
collection of goods, saving's circles, childcare share, and offer
classes on car care, budgeting, parenting strategies.

I was going to make sure that single parents
could parent alone with
dignity
, without help from the
government and without the condescending pity or resentful vitriol
that so many of us deal with. I've mentioned it before but we were
really doing some shit. Like
big
shit. Moms were moving in
together, shipping stuff across the country and even outside of the
country. Some serious community magic was happening.
But...

That single mom I helped a few months ago?
I
was friends with her on Facebook and, although she didn't go back to
her ex, it was clear her priorities were skewed. It seemed she was
more interested in having fun and reclaiming her lost youth than on
getting her life together.
That was a little disappointing. I'm
still glad we helped her, because she was on fire. But I'd be lying
if I said I was satisfied with her progress.

That wasn't the only disappointment, either.
I
also learned that it doesn't matter how idealistic or crunchy or
well-intended a group of single parents are, people are still people.

I was a member of two online groups for single
parent support. Both had aspirations of high connectedness. Both
touted a spirit and environment of non-judgment. However, at the same
time as if the drama gods were working overtime, both groups imploded
and people revealed themselves.
My local group was taken down by
good intentions, hypersensitivity, and emotional anaphylaxis -
initiated by two women who are not even single parents and both of
them are my two closest friends.
The national group may still be
operational but some drama unfolded over women judging each other for
dating or screwing or something. I don't really know and didn't care.
The group had ceased to serve me. I no longer felt like I could
relate. My ex is not in my life causing courtroom drama. My children
are far out of diapers.

Eventually a group of women, having confused me
with another woman, created an offshoot group of which I became the
topic of judgment and gossip. Bless their hearts.

All the glitter was gone. The truth revealed.
A
crunchy group of women is still a group of women. And for some
reason, no matter how connected to our higher selves we want to
believe we are, we still revert to middle-school politics in groups.

No matter how flat you make your pancake, it's
still got two sides. I think this is something Dr. Phil says but it's
a good analogy and it applies.
I love all my friends deeply.

But when trading sob stories, it's best to keep
in mind that there are stories not being told and stories not being
heard. There are involved parties who are not present. No matter how
much you think you know someone, you
don't
know them. You just
don't. And that's when things get really hairy and really
complicated. There is a shift in character and values when people are
under extreme distress. And for some people, it feels like deception.

I don't think
it's
deception so much. I don't feel like anyone lied to me to get
something out of me. I don't feel like anyone has purposely withheld
information from me. But I do feel that people can't be expected to
make rational decisions while the Universe is sticking needles under
their fingernails.

When helping desperate people you accept a
certain amount of risk. You accept that this person may turn on you -
because they are desperate. Or they may use and use and use and never
give back - because they are desperate. Or you may give and give and
give and they will never help themselves - because they are
desperate.

They are not conniving or shifty or sly. They are
hurt people under stress and therefore cannot really be trusted to
treat your love with the precious gentleness you think it deserves.

Also, eventually, everyone needs to cross the
bridge.

I used to think my single moms and I were like
survivors of a plane crash that landed in the ocean.
We hang
desperately onto any piece of debris, with our babies clinging to our
backs, gasping for air and watching out for sharks and praying
someone comes to get us soon. But then, two of us decide to hang onto
each other so we can take turns resting and neither sinks into the
water. A third offers her makeshift bail bucket. A fourth joins and
offers to paddle. And by pooling our resources and strengths we
survive. But that's only half of it.

By working together we reach land. We walk
together through the treacherous jungle evading wild animals and
flesh eating bugs. We come to a deep canyon, a rickety bridge the
only way across. On the other side of the gorge is a thriving
village. They yell to us that there is plenty of food and plenty of
shelter. If we make it across we will thrive. We just have to cross
the bridge.

So some of us do.
We throw our kids on our
back, adding weight and making the task even more dangerous. It's
dangerous. It's unsteady. We tremble. We sweat. We cry. One wrong
move and we fall to our death, taking our children with us. But we
focus on the encouraging voices ahead and we will our limbs to move
us despite our fear - leaving the untamed wild behind us. And having
crossed we embrace each other and celebrate. We take our places at
the fire. We warm ourselves and our children. We fill our bellies.

And sitting by the fire, we notice that our
numbers are smaller. Not everyone made it across. We have left some
behind.

They are at the gorge, paralyzed with fear.

They pray that Tarzan will vine-swing in to
rescue them.
Or
They are angry that we left them behind, and
shout curses at us.
Or
They scream for help and want us to
come back over and aid them across.

But we can't. And it's not because we don't want
to. But we've already done it and we can't risk our lives for them.
They
have
to do this alone.

We're on the safe side with open arms and a hut
and some coconut water and a seat by the fire waiting patiently,
hollering encouragement, or angrily barking instructions on how to
safely cross.

And sometimes we have to watch as the tigers
consume them before they get the courage to move, or we watch them
succumb to famine, or we watch them hesitate a little too long
causing the bridge to give, allowing them and their children to
tumble and perish.

And we feel helpless but there is nothing we can
do.

Some days I wish I could grow wings and grab all
these women and carry them to safety.

But I don't have wings and I've already dragged
them panicked and gasping from the water to the shore.

And now it's time for my children and
me
to learn how to forage and build fires and huts and fish
and hunt so we can pull our own weight in the new village.

And we try our best to be grateful for our
survival and push down the nightmares of those we lost on the bridge.

Fuck Up

I fucked
up
.