THICKHEADS,THICKSKINS, HARD-HEARTS

Me: "So,why are you out of school right now?"

Kid #1: "I got suspended, again."

Me: "What for this time?"

Kid #1: "I got into a fight with a kid and told him if he didn't shut up I'd cut his tongue and eyes out..."

Me: "What made you fight in the first place?"

Kid #1: "That guy always starts lies about me--then it gets around the whole school--"

Me: "Like what?"

Kid#1:"Like I threatened to kill someone..."

Me: "Did you?"

Kid #1: "Yeah,but they can't prove it..."

Me: "Would you actually do that? Actually kill someone, I mean?"

Kid #1: "Maybe...like if he really threatened me or my dogs or my family..."

Me: "Did he?"

Kid#1: "Sorta...I mean, I can't really explain it...he,like,just gets on my nerves...we used to be friends but then he started saying shit about me and turning people against me..."

Me: "How so? How did he turn people against you?"

Kid#1: "Just making them not want to be my friends...I don't know...shit like that."

Me: "So this guy stopped being your friend and got other people to stop being your friends and you felt threatened by that?"

Kid #1: "Sorta...I mean we used to do stuff together--like hang out in the woods--or cut down trees and make cool forts and stuff--or have bonfires--but then we got into trouble for breaking down stuff..."

Me:"What stuff did you break?  Whose stuff?  Why did you break it?"

Kid #1:" Just stuff--old stuff lying around...mostly in my yard...my parents stuff...We needed material--for our projects--for making forts and wrestling props and art stuff, like."

Me:"Did you ask permission? Usually it's a good idea to ask before you break apart stuff that doesn't belong to you, first..."

Kid#1:"What's the point? My parents will just say no..."

Me: "So you got into trouble with this other guy for breaking apart 'stuff' that belonged to your parents?"

Kid#1:"Sort of...I just couldn't hang out with him at my house anymore--or go to his house. Then he started getting pissed off and made up stories that I tried to kill him--which were totally untrue!"

Me:"Other kids believed him?"

Kid#1: "Well, kinda. Other kids heard me fooling around and I said like I wanted to cut this kid's tongue out..oh,and his eyes...for making up rumors about me...but, nobody knows I was only fooling around and they can't prove it, anyway.. he used to be my best friend!"

Me:"So that's why you got kicked out of school?"

Kid#1: "No,not really...I got kicked out because the Principal stopped our fight and heard me say I hoped the whole school would blow up with him in it..."

Me: "Your friend?"

Kid#1: "Not my friend, the Principal--and the whole school building just blow up! I hate that place!"

Me: "But I thoght you were mad at your friend--"

Kid#1: "I don't have friends, just acquaintences..."

Me:"What about this kid that used to be your 'best' friend--"

Kid#1: "The kid whose eyes I wanna gouge out? "

Me:"Yes, the kid whose tongue you wanted to cut, isn't he the one you are really angry with--for making up rumors about you ? Why did you want to blow up the Principal?"

Kid#1:" Cause HE stopped our fight..."

Me:"I'm confused about who you are angry with and why you wanted to blow up the entire school?"

Kid#1: "Pretty much I'm pissed at everybody... I guess...I just hate school..."

Me: "But why? You have to have a reason--"

Kid#1: "Why do I have to have a reason?  My whole life's my reason! Nobody gets me...I don't really have friends...my parents are always working--and we still don't have food in the house half the time...my little brothers don't listen to me but I still have to watch them--and my little sisters, too--but how, when they won't listen, anyways?  My big brother hits me; my Dad hits me; my Mom screams all the time--at everybody--and my dog's sick but we don't have vet money, so now, he might die. Nobody really cares...so, what's the reason? You tell me?? Pick one. Just pick one..."

AFTERMATH: some Boston Marathon Bombing thoughts...

Suspect # 2: nineteen years old; younger brother of a radicalized activist; son of a newly converted Muslim; nephew of Americanized and Canadianized uncles and aunts-- who both support him and who remain condemning his actions--obviously shocked and frightened for their families; a teen-ager with feet in two realities: torn by divided loyalties and cultures; a kid who tried to fit in by Americanizing himself for a decade--even changing his name.

Suspect # 2: coolly following his older brother down the street during the Beantown Marathon; carrying a backpack much like his brother's; holding his face upwards, towards security cameras and crowds; a nineteen  year old "bopping" down the street--athletic, clean-shaven, white-hatted normal teen in a sweatshirt and jeans; making phone-calls; tweeting song lyrics; posting to Facebook; showing up at all the usual places, talking with classmates, friends; taking his own photos and sending them into the world.

Suspect # 2: buying a Red Bull and a snack at a convenience store, picked up by security cameras, smiling...

Suspect # 2: killing an MIT cop, with his brother; car jacking a Mercedes SUV and then letting the victim out, unharmed; engaged in a firefight in Watertown using hundreds of rounds of ammo and grenades and homemade bombs against police; being hit by bullets and trying to run away; watching his brother killed and then, hitting the body, as he tries to escape police.

Suspect # 2: pouring blood; wounded; driving a quarter of a mile until he can't drive or the car won't go; bailing from the vehicle; stumbling down the first streets open to him; seeing a shrink-wrapped large boat, shimmering white and shiny in the street-lights in someone's driveway; hauling himself up a ladder, slicing the plastic tarp and dragging himself inside, spurting blood, just like his victims.

Suspect # 2: alone; in pain; bleeding out; left only with a failed attempt at martyrdom; a guilty conscience he must now deal with, forever; the ghosts of his victims; his own, and countless other families he has adversely affected, forever; the loss of his beloved older brother, which he must also deal with, forever; his brother's widow and young child, now fatherless--much like several of his victims--their lives all altered for the worse--by him and his choices--never to be taken back or undone.

Suspect # 2: in the broiling shadow, suffocating for a whole day in that bloody boat, dehydrated, in and out of consciousness, in pain and possibly dying, slowly, the paranoia and panorama of his entire nineteen  years parading before him: what led him to that unholy point of no return? What demons or threats or promises? What pain pushed him to the brink of insanity? What broken hearted dream was unfulfilled--what horrendous pressure or promise of salvation or simply, a better life--was offered? What warping control was inside his head, even as he helped carry-out the murderous last week? Who was with him as he lay bent and bleeding, suffering, himself, in that backyard boat?

Does he even know?

**********************************************************************************


I am saddened and numb, over the events that played out...even as they are overtaken by other tragedies world-wide (yesterday's Chinese earthquake; the Texas fertilizer plant explosion; the continuing wars and famines in Africa; the rising waters of the newest Mississippi floods...the list goes on and on and it is mind-boggling...).

Even as I am frightened what this newest serpent of terror will bring to my country, my town, I am also overwhelmed with how the cities of Boston, and surrounding Boston, came together and flushed out, as a great group of aid, the perpetrators of these  mad killings--or, should we say, the SUSPECTS in these events--for they still must stand trial and be found to be solely guilty.

But there was something in the "celebrations" that spilled out, last night, in Boston, that didn't set well...I understand the exhalations of relief when one can come out of one's home, after being held "prisoner" by the terror and having the enormity of cities actually closed down--closed down!--to contend with. Of course when one is told to "come out come out", there is elation. There is also thankfulness to the first responders who patrolled the streets and searched out the terrorists--as well as gratitude to neighbors who aided each other and actually led police to the "villain". Of course.

Boston is a college town. It was a mild Friday night after a horrendous week. Perhaps that, too, contributed to the overpouring of bodies into the Common? To the waving of flags, the drinking of beers, the screaming and crying and parading down the streets...but there was something that didn't sit right when so many politicians and field officers and "heads" of organizations against terror crowded around the microphones and congratulated themselves and each other at every press conference and photo op..

Did it really need to be played out that way?  Was it re-assuring to citizens to hear these same speeches, for hours, over and again? Something in the fact that it was one, already wounded, semi-conscious, bleeding-out, non-suicide bomb outfitted, nineteen year old, cornered under a boat tarp, surrounded by hundreds of armed sharp shooters, armored bomb experts, National Guard and FBI and DEA agents, among the hundreds of local police and armed forces on site, too, with all the press mongers crowding around, that, at the end, was pathetic...like the hunt for the last wolf alive in Massachusetts...

Yes, this nineteen year old had possibly done horrendous things. Yes, he had held, possibly, (remember, we are all innocent until PROVEN guilty in this country--even the worst among us...)a group of cities hostage, causing the nation a collective panic attack. Yes, he had possibly maimed and killed innocent women and children and men--changing the entire landscape of public events in America. But, he hadn't accomplished this alone. There were other "suspects"--one dead and others, still at large...possibly.

To see the overkill surrounding that boat--a boat the owner had approached, unarmed, and alone, after noticing the blood and the torn tarp, when he had emerged from his house to finally enjoy a cigarette, after being hunkered down, all day, inside--was frightening, in a different way.

My brothers and sister are first responders. I understand what happens when the adrenaline rises and the frustrations boil over. It is even difficult to pull back trained attack animals when they have cornered a suspect. Being allowed "a bite" is often, their only real reward. The fact that this nineteen year old boy was NOT killed, but allowed to finally surrender, is a miracle, for sure. I believe that, too. But it didn't erase the images of the tightening hundreds encircling the boat. Nor did it make easy the cheers and parades and the self-congratulatory politicos on hand so quickly, to stand before the cameras and speechify the events.

A part of my brain kept flashing on the inside of that shrink-wrapped vessel, where a dying teen-ager huddled, alone, facing God- only- knows- what demons and ghosts, knowing he would have to continue to face those monsters, forever hated and alone, as long as he continued to walk this planet.
Or, perhaps, he simply "rested"...pleased at what he had accomplished...sure he would slip away, after dark...

Maybe I am a bloody liberal. Or maybe I am a privileged American who has never had to go to war. Or maybe I am just a high school teacher who specializes in teens who are lost and make poor choices--mistakes that affect them, and the people around them, for the rest of their lives? As I've shared: this numbed out confusion continues...

Whatever this mélange of emotions settles into, we are finally, forever changed.

Again.      

BOSTON MARATHON UPDATE FIRST THOUGHTS

My sister-in-law and her sister were there, at the race, this afternoon. They are okay. On the train, safe, hurtling back here to Gardner, about forty-five minutes away. We were all watching the marathon, on t.v., knowing several runners and friends of runners on the course. Then, cameras covering the finish line: KABOOM!

Seconds later, even as people ran in every direction, runners being pulled from the course, just seconds from crossing the blasted area, some standing dead-stop, in confusion and wonder, a second blast, fifty yards down Boylston St.

Immediately, American Yankees do what Americans do best: deal with emergencies. At our finest when things are at their darkest, common citizens from all over the world dashed into the flames and smoke and bleeding bodies, doing what needed to be done. On camera we see students, runners, family people, tourists, grabbing debris and pulling it away from horrific victims. The press pitched in, though they kept filming and talking. However, people, once they realized that it was NOT a celebratory explosion, but a bomb set down to kill, didn't just run away but ran toward the scene of the crime--to see what they could do to help.

Emergency personnel immediately appeared--first city then state and finally federal officers. Bicycle cops helped lead people down the saturated cobblestoned alleys, past the jammed buses, to safety, to the Boston Common. Runners stayed as calm as could be expected, but then, it hit: exhaustion mixed with terror and abject fear. The sudden surrealistic stopping of the most famous race in America, at the finish line, on a beautiful spring day--do to terrorist attack--or what everyone is assuming is a terrorist attack.

Yes, this is America--it's flagship city of Revolutionary ways and days--under attack, even as it hosts the world's athletes--celebrating the glory and joy of human accomplishment--celebrating the human experience of democracy: old, young, able-bodied, differently challenged, the elite running in the same race as those whose amateur attempts mark a kind personal miracle...For those who seek to tear apart the gossamer fabric of human civilization, these kinds of attacks aimed at gatherings of multi-national, multi-cultural, multi-generational citizens are the most heinous crimes imaginable.

A holiday in my state of Massachusetts: Patriots Day, celebrating the people who have given their lives in the past to create a still-evolving country. Now, it is marked in the blood of innocent children and athletes. Boston is changed. It will recover, as all great cities recover from acts of cowards. But it will never be the same.

And for those whose bodies are blasted away on this spring afternoon: they and their families join the thousands of victims  all over this planet of blood. No  matter who is responsible... the question is always the same: will we never learn?
  

GEEK LOVES

GEEK LOVE is a National Book Award finalist novel by Katherine Dunn. It first was published in 1983, but my sister, Ann, only gave it to me to read a few days ago. (Whatever Ann thinks of me, she knows that, by definition, I'm not a Geek...) Ann shares my utter interest in all things macabre. While I am more into the vampiric, monsters-of-science and alien abduction genres, and she more into holocaust and child-gone-lost sociologic texts, we share a fascination for circus side-show tales. Ann knew I would thoroughly enjoy the darkness of Dunn's GEEK LOVE. Ann was correct.

Not only did the story entertain me throughout the week-end, there was a sense of closure that is sadly lacking in much of today's fiction--the kind of closure that makes a person snap the cover of the book and lean back, smiling. (Or snap the Kindle cover closed, if one possesses a Kindle...). The closest feeling I can compare this experience to is the satisfaction of a warm meal. Perhaps not a full-on clam-bake or Thanksgiving dinner, but at least a meal that is accompanied by smiles around the table, conversation and dessert.

What is it about circus side-shows, "freaks" and "geeks" that calls to some of us? The people peopling these jobs are not monsters. They simply have finely-hewn talents that astonish an audience. Or, they were born wearing their idiosyncrasies on the outside, instead of inside, like the rest of us. Whatever the draw, it is often enough. In Dunn's novel, the twist is that an entire family of  side-show marvels is planned, produced and put to work, by their parents--themselves pretty "normal"--at least on the outside. Through various gene manipulations ( use of controversial drugs; use of a cornucopia of mundane prescription drugs; exposure to everyday radiation for prolonged amounts of time; use of caustic and poisonous cleaning substances; assorted "iffy" activities involving physical stressors; bizarre potions, diets, and not a wee bit of spiritual hijinks), the parents cook up various "differently abled" prodigies--some who only make it for a few hours--others who live full, adult lives. For the members of the familia who are still-born (or barely born), there is the "pickling" in the special specimen jars--insuring a place in the group that will contribute to the well-being of all. How this stew of humanity sets forth on the planet, succeeding and employing others in their path, is the crux of this novel.

My love of the bizarre began at birth. I'm Irish. (Also French and Norwegian, but the Irish was the culture we were bombarded with.) The somber side of "invisible" surrounded us, always. I often prayed to the Unknown (as well as Jesus)--begging to be surrounded by angels and fairies of Light, but never to see them. I was a wuss and I knew it. Accepted the fact. Shared the information. Pleaded for protection, companionship, but never full-on apparition. (So far, for the most part, all parties have honored my wishes.)

Authors such as Ray Bradbury and Stephen King, Nathanial Hawthorne and Shirley Jackson expanded my awareness of the odd. I began to see the psychological monsters, as well as the physical ones. I also began to acquire an appreciation for that which is "different". (I suppose my own sense of "being different" was nurtured through these books--perhaps even expanded.) Later, film entered my consciousness. Suddenly, larger-than-my-life-or-imagination, in full living-color and surround sound, were the strange beings that populated my dreams! Art warped me--or art saved me. Whatever confronted me in my daily ablutions in the bathroom mirror could never compare to what I knew was "out there, somewhere".

Histories and biographies of "freaks and geeks" came later. Access to such texts was hard. Local librarians don't take kindly to ordering titles about pinheads and Siamese twins for adolescents, unless accompanying permission slips are signed by parental units, first. (At least, not in such small towns as Gardner...) Forget that road. I had to wait for college. Abnormal psych and sociological texts, comparative religions histories, a few biology manuals, and I was off and running. Finally, the Universe of the Internet opened us all to unlimited views of the world --inside and out.

You might think that over-exposure would remove the fascination. Not so. At least not in my case. It wasn't a fetish, nor even an obsession that I was nurturing. It was a search for the Unknown among us. I was no different than the cancer researcher or the astronomer or the National Geographic explorer. The more information I took in, or came across, the clearer my over-view became.

As a child, I grew up with "Little People" friends and family. Far more interesting to me were the "Giants" of humankind. As an adult, in the big cities, some athlete-friends and acquaintances filled the bill. In fact, the more people I met, over time, the less "odd" anyone seemed. We were far from the days of the "Elephant Man", at least in the United States. The side-shows forcing children with birth-defects, into the limelight, against their will, was over...at least I believe so. Whatever side-show "freaks and geeks" remained, were now mini-stars, on t.v., in prime-time or major cable stations. No one seemed "odd" anymore--especially if they shared their divorce stories...

Those who chose their occupations of risk found that they had to add to whatever Nature blessed them with--ornamenting the differences or engaging in far more "geeky" behavior. Satisfying the masses was more and more difficult, since most of the masses had smart-phones or lap-top access.
And so, ever-increasing acts of stretching the human--limits have emerged.

The human hunger for "seeing something special" is insatiable. However, it is more than being entertained. Oddities, freaks, special-people with special gifts, even as they have their own reality shows and film-fest appearances, remain necessary. They explore human limitations. They present us with alternatives. They are the constant reminders that Nature loves diversity--not only tolerating anything that is different, but celebrating it. (Demanding it!) These people who dare openly share their gifts also remind us of that which is hidden: the not-so-apparent differences surrounding us all. Invisible worlds top physicists explore, daily. Invisible worlds interacting with us on levels we often can only "feel"--not yet articulate nor understand.

Finally, I think my fascination with "freaks" and the darker side is really a fascination with "Light". How can one perceive the light without its opposite, present?  Belief in a tolerant God is not enough, either. Belief demands a complex, powerful, daring, absolutely luscious, and possibly forever unknowable Creator--who so loves this world that s/he populates it with Mystery--to keep us seeking answers and connection.

After all, what is freakier than the human heart?             

 

 

ABANDONMENT: a love story; finale

In the death-throes of any opera, where the main characters rapidly come to some morbid ends, there is always a tiny ray of hope--something that gives pause in the blood-letting and betrayal. So,too, it goes with love affairs that define our lives. Amid the wreckage and mayhem, something astute emerges.

I have never become involved with a student--even when I was teaching undergrads at age 27--I know,all too well, how unfair it is. I have also never allowed myself a relationship with anyone twenty-years my junior. I don't need adoration. I don't relish infatuation. It has to begin on equal footing. Though each relationship may tilt or tip, at the start, it must be on level ground. There is way too much destruction involved especially against the  younger person, otherwise.

No matter how the younger person argues--no matter how deeply sincere their attraction--nor how powerful their pursuit/seduction ploy becomes--an older lover must resist temptation--especially if the power differential is great: a teacher; a therapist; a coach; a counselor, etc.  The problems increase with each decade of difference between two people--most pointedly if the couple is dealing with one person in their teens or twenties--no matter how "mature" the younger person presents. Though I would have been the first person to damn this "rule of thumb", when I found myself falling in love with someone almost two decades older than me, now, in hindsight, having spent a lifetime of failed relationships and self-doubt, always measuring my wiser self against that inexperienced "younger self", and never having the luxury of closure or apology or even some kind of validation of the good side of our shared experience, I must re-iterate: don't get involved with someone who is old enough to be your parent--or young enough to be your child. Just don't.

O, I know the arguments: a younger lover makes up, in bed, what he or she lacks in resources and experience...a younger lover needs to be brought along, introduced by someone who has greater skills or knowledge...a younger lover needs the financial backing and wisdom of the world that someone older can afford....a younger lover adds energy to the life of the older partner... Perhaps too true--but what doesn't often get spelled out is the long term cost of this inequality-- to both sides. In ancient times, this was a model that might have emerged. However, we don't have enough history written by the weaker partner, to validate the arrangements...For today, however, there is enough evidence via psychological and social studies to warrant my warning. My own experience validates this...

As the older person grows bored of the younger's constant angst/dramas/insecurities (or simple faux pas from lack of experience), nothing reflecting the deeper qualities of the former, rise. Only the worst qualities: impatience;anger;frustration; ennui; sarcasm, or, in the worst cases, rage, begin to emerge in those moments. Jealousy; self-loathing; cruelty; competition; all conspire to create betrayal. The latter becomes shattered, lacking equal tools and resources to attempt repair. The former feels trapped and furious at "being used". It is a relationship of pain, in the end.

Unfortunately, it most often becomes a touchstone for the younger party-- a life-marker one may not easily erase, let alone forget. (Two bouts of serious therapy, a successful Twelve Step life-program, and untold years of "processing" with therapist-friends and cohorts, three published novels with characters "disguised"--and still, certain dates are forever tinged from my first "adult" affair.)

What might have changed this?

The person who should have bravely processed the break-down with me, instead, hid out --denying the relationship ever occurred--creating an illusion of purity and distance that persists to this day. If not for a best friend who was present at the dramarama, I might believe it was all a figment of my imagination and wildchild days. It was not. My friend remains, reminding me that only a life uncovered and owned is a life worth living--and sober.

For the older lover, the experience is filed under "a failed affair"--to be more or less remembered and then, allowed to fade into the past,becoming another "story" to share with close friends on a cold night.However, for the younger-party, too often,if the power differential is great enough,it is a scar upon the heart (and psyche) that cannot fade. It is a seminal experience that creates, or adds to the creation, of the emerging adult.It can never "be repaired" nor forgotten--only learned from, and carried into other relations.

Some will protest--arguing I'm no psychologist--these statements I offer are too broadly painted. Fair enough--I am not a shrink. Not even a therapist. However, I have been forever imprinted with an affair which I cannot shake, can only re-evaluate, own and try to learn from--however slow that education is.

My final abandonment came when I was called back after my first collection of poetry, to give a week of readings and workshops, to my college town. Instead of joy for a friend (or even hidden pride, on some level), my old heartflame put the dog we'd raised, together, into a kennel and the child I'd grown close to, on a plane to visit her grandmother in a far-away state; then proceeded to tell me, over the phone, that if the kid ever learned of our affair, my "ex" would take a gun, and come for me--and then follow it with a suicide.

So much for love in the world of the seventies' academia. So much for love between generations of students and educators. So much for shaping the lives of those who look to us with shining eyes and open hearts, with decades of difference in our ages.

I have not written about this part of my life in any published way that might reveal the person. I am not seeking revenge nor retaliation nor even putting blame on the complications of my adult life. I take responsibility for being in my early twenties--of legal age--being wild and free and feeling as if my heart was the truest map I could follow. I did seduce an older friend. I made the first move--but when rebuffed and left at the mall--I backed away.

I took that message and first abandonment to heart--literally. I swore I would turn off my feelings and remove myself from physical proximity--as much as was possible on that small campus in the dead of winter. My friend took the opposite approach--showing up at my dorm room in the middle of the night, calling me back from the edge of friendship. We were both to blame. So, this is a cautionary tale, even as I have three nieces approaching their early twenties, about to go off to college.

If you have already taken the path into the unknown country of this kind of affair, and you are the older partner, heed, too, the warning. At least have the courage and the clean-heart, to process the ending, when it comes. Don't toss your lover over the cliff, alone, when you've changed your mind or affections. They will take it much harder than you can even imagine--if you give it much lingering thought, at all.

Now, I've written it down.

ABANDONMENT: a love story Part 2

It was the final ERA March, in Washington D.C. I was traveling with a friend, my Heartthrob, and a group of people from Ithaca, whom I really did not know, but who were all committed. Men, women, children, we were on an adventure in history, together, on a bus, going from upstate NY to Washington, D.C., in a single day and night's journey.

It was summer: the worst weather in D.C. (Tropical, without the tropical breezes.) Unsure of what to wear, except that it should be green or white, the tee-shirt and shorts uniform was the preferred garb of the day. When we got off the bus, a sea of human beings dressed mostly in white tee-shirts and sun-glasses, stretched out for miles. Not only from the Capitol Building, but also coming in on every side-street in the city.(We looked, for a second, like sneakered aliens, disembarking from our silver space-ships.)

The Press had predicted a couple hundred-thousand of us. It was summer, it was hot and humid, women and children were less likely to come from far away, or to be actively engaged in a physical protest, etc. Boy, were they ever wrong! Over a million people came to the nation's capital--the first "million person march"--yet, even as it unfolded, the press tried to cover the numbers! (Why?)

Across a green parkway, I heard my name called by a familiar voice: "Minns, is that you?!"
It was Dr. Kate Livingston, my old advisor: brilliant anthropologist, socialist worker and supporter of Indian Rights. She had been one of the reasons I'd committed to Wells College in the first place. (When she quit, because of the politics and narrow-minded views of the college, she had told me NOT to organize any protests or actions: "Some day, we will meet on the street, during a time of revolution--I know you'll be on the right side, Karen!") This was our first reconnection since her leaving the college.

It seemed her vision was coming true! We embraced, after three years of absence, and it was warmer than when we were in class every single day. What were the odds, to bump into her, so far from "home", in the midst of a million protesters? But mysterious, indeed, is the Universe; and so it was.
Immediately, the Flame-of-my-heart was furious! Jealous (even as we were in this on/off point in our relationship), sardonic, cold, my relationship with my ex-Advisor was cast in murky light.

"I just bet she's glad to see you again!" came the first sarcastic remark.

"She's a brilliant person! We're only colleagues--maybe friends--I just admire her..."

"Yeah, I bet you do...seems that the admiration is...mutual..." My Heart-throb walked away from me, blending into the crowd of white-shirted ERA supporters, before I could so much as reply.

I didn't follow.

We were supposed to stay with the group from Ithaca. Our bus was shuttled far from the parade route. When it was time to leave, in late afternoon, we'd be found, as a group, and escorted back, to board. I didn't know Washington, D.C., at that point. And there was only this transformed city in front of me. Taxis, cars, buses--hell, even bikes were having difficulty maneuvering through the crowds. So, I stayed close to the Ithaca Young Socialists sign and its coterie of supporters, hoping my friends would return after their little "side-trip".

Our group waited, trying to find relief in each other's shadows, for hours, until the protest march could untangle itself, like a garden hose. Finally, we were allowed to move into the parade route. It was a glorious sight: the first march in all of U.S. history to feature so many people supporting such a radical (to the conservatives) cause! Rapidly, our group began to chant. I was so full of emotion, my voice carried like a cheerleader! I was thumped on the back, encouraged to go to the head of the group, continue the vociferous call. Soon, the group in front of us, and the one following us, joined us in the rallying cries. (Years later, I've often marched in huge protests: everything from Native rights to anti-racism marches and anti-nuke parades...but that first time in Washington, with a million people on the same page, at that precise moment, together, will always be a peak experience!)

By the time we hit the Capitol steps, my voice was gone--vanished--not even a whisper...

I had never experienced this condition in my entire life! I looked around me for help...Everyone had dispersed when we arrived. Now they were searching out porto-potties and water, or some kind of sustenance. All I could do was to move through the crowd, gesturing like a mute. Luckily, in such a group of people, there was compassion. People actually moved when I tapped them on the shoulder and asked where the water lines might be--in crude pantomime. While it was a bit unnerving, at twenty-one, to be in a city where I knew no one, and couldn't speak, midst a million strangers, and wasn't exactly sure even where I needed to be, I tried to tough it out. Tried not to revert to that terrified five-year-old, lost in a grocery-store, separated from Mom...sigh. (In an era before cell phones or Internet connections, I was a country-rube with limited funds...)

As the day progressed and the brightest speakers emerged on-stage, I kept a close proximity to the public watering spots--and the porto-potties. (Nature doesn't panic...Nature wants what nature wants...). I kept praying that I would recognize someone--or somebody would, me. By now, I knew enough never to leave campus without a twenty dollar bill stuffed into my sneakers, but there was no way to flag down a cab. I wasn't even sure where the buses were parked. I couldn't ask because my voice remained lost. It was clear, my lover had split with my friend, right after meeting Dr. Livingston, and had abandoned me to the young Socialists Party, from Ithaca. (Whether the two of them even marched was debatable.)

I figured, if I couldn't find the buses by myself, in an hour or so, I would need to swallow what little pride I still possessed and find a cop...Ironic, eh? (Long gone were my fantasies of backpacking Europe or exploring Tibet, alone...)

As I wandered through the crowd, a flood of scenes poured through my memory. All of the intense kindnesses; all of the passion; all of the sweet meetings, the gifts, the moments carved between us--which, to me, had defined an on-going relationship. People do not bail out when things get a little complicated, especially not when the relationship, itself, was built from a foundation of complications--did they? But this scenario, of trusting someone enough to travel with them, to an unknown destination, only to have constant dramatic exchange, and then, to be abandoned--especially when it is known that one is the less experienced...Was this a relationship of trust? My Lover had once reveled in being my "Teacher"; celebrating bringing new experiences into my life. I had been sincerely grateful for those experiences--had sincerely tried to share what my youth could offer, in return. (To be dismissed in such a cold way...and by my "friend", too, who was not clear about my secret relationship--what had I done to either of them to deserve this? I never abandoned a friend in an uncertain situation...)

Yes, as an artist, with friends who were also "artists", we needed periods of space and privacy...however, I had never invited anyone anywhere and then dumped them, alone, without a way home--let alone in a different state! This was the second time this had happened...this time, I couldn't even ask for help...

Suddenly, I saw a big sign that stated ITHACA WOMEN'S COLLECTIVE. I didn't  know who they were or what their group was about, but I knew they had to be heading back upstate... I pushed my way to their circle. I mouthed the phrase: I've lost my voice--where are the Ithaca buses?
One of the women smiled.  Thankfully, she recognized me, from the march. She took me to the edge of the park and pointed down the street, to a huge parking lot, filled with all sorts of small-company vehicles. I gave her a quick hug, hoping I wasn't too sweaty, and jogged to the lot.

Never have I been so happy to see a bus! Amid the hundreds, I found two with "Ithaca, NY" placards. The second was the very bus we'd ridden in, on. Already, it was filling up. Better yet, the driver had been running the air-conditioning. Relieved, I fought back tears, unwilling to let anyone know how miserable I was feeling. 

As I entered, someone handed me a root beer and slapped my hand. A quick cheer rose from those inside. "Girl, you were the bomb! You chanted all the way to the Capitol! Go, Girl!"

All I could do was blush.(If they only realized what was in my heart...) Lots of women and men and kids had chanted...Then, at the back, I saw my two, lost "compadres"--seated together, giggling, sipping something from cans.

I made my way to the back of the bus.

My friend looked up, surprised at my arrival:"Hey, uh, we got carried away..."

My Lover added: "Don't lie... the march was hot-- and boring...We peeled off to see the museums...besides,  you didn't seem to need us..."

My friend, her own face beet-red, moved from her seat and offered me the vacancy.

Exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, still unable to talk, not even caring if something was brewing between the two of them, just wanting to get back to New York...to a shower and my bed...to a cool lake evening and other friends who would welcome me and want me at their sides...

I slumped in my seat, for the silent ride home.

I pretended to sleep--as did my friends. (We knew it was fake.) As I was climbing off the bus, back at school, one of the women from the Young Socialist Party, in Ithaca, asked me to be on the local radio show, to talk about the march, later in the week. She gave me her card, and a wink and a handshake. "You were inspiring...seriously...we were all running out of adrenalin in that noon sun, but you wouldn't let us forget why were were there...I'd love to have you on the show. Do you think you can make it?"

I nodded, even as my Lover stood behind me, in the bus aisle. (I knew I'd have to find my own ride...)

The streetlights buzzed in the parking lot. The night air was cool. No one said "bye". We simply went our separate ways, depressed and exhausted.

(More alone than I had ever been.) When would I learn?

Should I have realized, long ago, that this relationship was a doomed ship, just edging closer and closer to the rocks? (Should I have never entered that place of honesty--admitting my feelings, not wanting to pretend that there was nothing between us?) Should I have run away, from the first, and shoved truth down, swallowing what was the most overwhelming connection I had ever had with another human? Who had ever prepared me for this event? We were in a secret alliance--us against the world--together--or so I'd been convinced. There was no one to ask and no one to process the betrayal with...It was all a shadow-play. No records; no shared memory.

Was this the price to pay for becoming "an adult"?

I walked to my room, more alone than I'd ever been. Washington seemed a million miles away.