Saturday afternoon, my sons and I partook of the Sacrament of Reconciliation (that's confession, for those of you who aren't up on the 'proper sacramental terminology'). And, as he is often wont to do, my priest gave me, as my penance, to read and meditate upon the scriptures for this Sunday's liturgy, which included this passage from Proverbs 31 (vv 10-13, 25-26, 28-31) -
When one finds a worthy wife,
she is far more precious than jewels.
Her husband, entrusting his heart to her,
has an unfailing prize.
She brings him good, and not evil,
all the days of her life.
. . .
Strength and dignity are her clothing,
and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
. . .
Her children rise up and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women have done excellently,
but you surpass them all."
Charm is decietful, and beauty is vain,
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands,
and let her works praise her in the gates.
I won't go into detail on precisely what I confessed, but it was astoundingly appropriate that my penance should include a meditation on the excellent woman whom God has given me for my wife. It's like this entire chapter of Proverbs, which is usually taken as a kind of 'idealized' portrait of a godly wife, was written by someone with detailed knowledge of Molly's life. She really is, and has been since I've known her, 'far more precious than jewels'. And, as I've entrusted my heart to her, she has shown herself over and over to be 'an unfailing prize'. And she has certainly brought me good, and not evil, every day since we've been married.
I know, I know, it's not like this is breaking any new ground here on this blog; I've been singing my wife's praises around these parts from the very beginning. But, when God goes to all the trouble of confirming the message from the Scriptures, and in a sacramental context, no less. . . well, I have to pay attention to it, don't I?
Monday, November 17, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Uh. . . Thanks
Way back when I still worked for my previous employer, an automotive supplier in OurTown, we moved to a new office building which included, for the first time in my own youthful existence, a ‘Fitness Center’. It was mostly just an open area, where folks could have aerobics classes, or other forms of strenuous (or not-so-strenuous) exercise, on the theory that fit employees will work harder and be happier, and cost less in health coverage. The center also contained a large multi-station weight machine, a couple racks of free weights, a few stationary bikes and a rowing machine.
For my purposes, the main feature of the fitness center was the showers. Those enabled me to ride my bike to work during the months when the roads weren’t snow-covered (it was about 5 miles from my house to the office, which I could cover in about 20 minutes), and to do short workout rides on my lunch hour a couple days a week (there was enough time for me to get in about 12 miles, shower and get back to my desk in a little over an hour).
Of course, when I was showering after my workout, lots of other guys were in the locker-room at the same time, having done their own lunch-hour workouts. One group of guys were into body-building – they’d lift weights with the specific goal of building large, well-defined muscles, and they’d spend a fair bit of time in front of the mirror, making sure that all their work was paying off in terms of how buff they looked.
Now, at this point, I should say that, all the cycling I was doing in those days (upwards of 3000 miles/year) was having its effect on my own physique, such as it was. Specifically, my legs got very strong, and chiseled-looking in their own right. Check out any avid cyclist’s legs, and they’re probably pretty tight and ripped-looking. But I didn’t have a ‘Body Beautiful’ by any stretch of the imagination – I didn’t do any lifting, or anything to build up my upper body, or shoulders, or anything like that, and I still had a round gut that was a couple sizes too big. I just liked to ride my bike, and I liked being in good aerobic shape. At least, good aerobic shape for a fat guy.
So one day, having completed my lunch-hour ride, I was drying off after my shower. One of the body-building guys was getting dressed at a nearby locker. As I got dressed to head back to my office, he nodded in my direction, and said, “You got really nice legs.”
Uh. . . excuse me?
“You got really nice legs,” he repeated. “How do you get those?”
Okay, now this was really, really weird. Looking back, even a couple hours later, I suppose I understood that he was just talking out of his body-building focus, expressing admiration for something he was trying to accomplish for himself. But right there, on the spur of the moment, it felt the least bit creepy. Suddenly, I had a deeper, existential understanding of what women talk about when they say they feel like pieces of meat when men check out their bodies. You know, I might even have been flattered if one of the women complimented my strong, manly legs as I sauntered through the gym after my ride. But another guy. . . in the locker-room. . . both of us half-dressed (or less). . . not so much.
I mumbled something about riding my bike a lot, and hurried to get dressed and get out of there, while my body-building co-worker pressed me – you don’t do any lifting, or leg-work? Only cycling?
Yup, just cycling. Well, gotta go. . . big project. . . see ya ‘round. . .
I felt bad leaving him standing there like that, but I’m pretty sure he just turned and started checking out his own legs in the mirror, wondering to himself, “Cycling, huh? . . .”
For my purposes, the main feature of the fitness center was the showers. Those enabled me to ride my bike to work during the months when the roads weren’t snow-covered (it was about 5 miles from my house to the office, which I could cover in about 20 minutes), and to do short workout rides on my lunch hour a couple days a week (there was enough time for me to get in about 12 miles, shower and get back to my desk in a little over an hour).
Of course, when I was showering after my workout, lots of other guys were in the locker-room at the same time, having done their own lunch-hour workouts. One group of guys were into body-building – they’d lift weights with the specific goal of building large, well-defined muscles, and they’d spend a fair bit of time in front of the mirror, making sure that all their work was paying off in terms of how buff they looked.
Now, at this point, I should say that, all the cycling I was doing in those days (upwards of 3000 miles/year) was having its effect on my own physique, such as it was. Specifically, my legs got very strong, and chiseled-looking in their own right. Check out any avid cyclist’s legs, and they’re probably pretty tight and ripped-looking. But I didn’t have a ‘Body Beautiful’ by any stretch of the imagination – I didn’t do any lifting, or anything to build up my upper body, or shoulders, or anything like that, and I still had a round gut that was a couple sizes too big. I just liked to ride my bike, and I liked being in good aerobic shape. At least, good aerobic shape for a fat guy.
So one day, having completed my lunch-hour ride, I was drying off after my shower. One of the body-building guys was getting dressed at a nearby locker. As I got dressed to head back to my office, he nodded in my direction, and said, “You got really nice legs.”
Uh. . . excuse me?
“You got really nice legs,” he repeated. “How do you get those?”
Okay, now this was really, really weird. Looking back, even a couple hours later, I suppose I understood that he was just talking out of his body-building focus, expressing admiration for something he was trying to accomplish for himself. But right there, on the spur of the moment, it felt the least bit creepy. Suddenly, I had a deeper, existential understanding of what women talk about when they say they feel like pieces of meat when men check out their bodies. You know, I might even have been flattered if one of the women complimented my strong, manly legs as I sauntered through the gym after my ride. But another guy. . . in the locker-room. . . both of us half-dressed (or less). . . not so much.
I mumbled something about riding my bike a lot, and hurried to get dressed and get out of there, while my body-building co-worker pressed me – you don’t do any lifting, or leg-work? Only cycling?
Yup, just cycling. Well, gotta go. . . big project. . . see ya ‘round. . .
I felt bad leaving him standing there like that, but I’m pretty sure he just turned and started checking out his own legs in the mirror, wondering to himself, “Cycling, huh? . . .”
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Zebra Dreams
All our kids have played middle-school basketball, from 5th through 8th grades, starting with 1F, and down to the present day, with 6F being in 8th grade. 7M is in 5th grade, so he’ll play this winter (our middle-school girls play in the fall, since the small Catholic schools that form a league together, mostly only have one gym, and it’s hard enough to try to schedule four teams’ practices in one gym; eight would be impossible).
A couple weeks ago, 6F’s team played a game against a team from a school across town, one of whose players was the daughter of Tom Izzo, the Michigan State University basketball coach (such are the occasional perks of living in the shadow of a Big Ten university; several years ago, 3M played a few games against Nick Saban’s son. . .) Coach Izzo came to watch his daughter, which created a minor buzz in the ancient, inner-city gym (for the most part, people let him watch his daughter in peace, but everyone was aware of his presence, you can be sure). The game was played, 6F’s team lost a close game (neither she nor young Miss Izzo scored any points), and we packed up to head home.
On the way home, Molly mused, “How do you suppose the referees felt about calling a game in front of Tom Izzo?”
I had to laugh; it hadn’t really occurred to me to wonder about that, but it was funny to think about. For these middle-school basketball games, the referees are usually young-ish guys in their 20s, maybe even college kids, who are paid $25/game, usually for two games. They get way more than their share of grief from parents who are convinced their offspring will be the next incarnation of LeBron James, or Candace Parker. But it might be the tiniest bit more intimidating, mightn’t it, calling a game where one of the parents in the bleachers has coached in four Final Fours, won a national championship, and been T’d up by the very best, on national television. . .
A couple weeks ago, 6F’s team played a game against a team from a school across town, one of whose players was the daughter of Tom Izzo, the Michigan State University basketball coach (such are the occasional perks of living in the shadow of a Big Ten university; several years ago, 3M played a few games against Nick Saban’s son. . .) Coach Izzo came to watch his daughter, which created a minor buzz in the ancient, inner-city gym (for the most part, people let him watch his daughter in peace, but everyone was aware of his presence, you can be sure). The game was played, 6F’s team lost a close game (neither she nor young Miss Izzo scored any points), and we packed up to head home.
On the way home, Molly mused, “How do you suppose the referees felt about calling a game in front of Tom Izzo?”
I had to laugh; it hadn’t really occurred to me to wonder about that, but it was funny to think about. For these middle-school basketball games, the referees are usually young-ish guys in their 20s, maybe even college kids, who are paid $25/game, usually for two games. They get way more than their share of grief from parents who are convinced their offspring will be the next incarnation of LeBron James, or Candace Parker. But it might be the tiniest bit more intimidating, mightn’t it, calling a game where one of the parents in the bleachers has coached in four Final Fours, won a national championship, and been T’d up by the very best, on national television. . .
Monday, October 20, 2008
Had a Wonderful Time; Wish You Could've Been There
Well, this past weekend was the Great Midwestern Blogger Gathering of 2008. Which is pretty grandiose-sounding, for 13 people getting together in a pub, and assorted other evening festivities. 2amsomewhere gave his account of the Saturday evening activities, so I'll try not to duplicate too much of what he said. For my part, the bottom line is, that Molly and I had a great time meeting and getting to know everybody, just a little bit.
Last week, 3M offered me tickets to the Michigan State-Ohio State football game (he has season tickets; must be nice); both teams were 6-1 heading into the game, and my Spartans were entertaining thoughts of possible bigger and better things than we've recently been accustomed to. But, I declined the tickets to be with my blog-friends. So, I hope you all feel very special. When I told FTN my dismay at having to forego the game, he consoled me by saying that, heck, they'd probably lose by four or five touchdowns. By the time we left our hotel room, they were already behind 21-0 at the end of the first quarter. So, I could relax and give the gathering my full attention. Still, I hold FTN personally responsible for the five-touchdowns-plus-a-field-goal drubbing that we eventually took. (*sigh*) (But seriously, that's a pretty impressive gift of prophecy, dude. . .)
I'll start by saying that it's going to be a little bit difficult, at least for the next little while, to stick to protocol, and remember to use people's blog-names, and not slip up and call FTN 'Engelbert', for example (because, well, 'Humperdinck' is just so, you know. . .) So, if I screw up, y'all can just sort of discreetly let me know via e-mail, and I'll go back in and add your cell-phone number. . .
The group, once we were finally all together, consisted of FTN and Autumn, RS and Therese, Taja and Brady, Drama, Fusion, Trueself, BJ, the aforementioned 2amsomewhere, Molly and me. I thought it was very brave of the non-blogging spouses to come along, since they've been talked about in what might be considered to be embarrassing detail, from time to time. I was pretty sure that anyone who'd ever been to my blog would be eager to meet Molly, just because, well, I try to put her in a positive light. Which is, honestly, pretty easy to do. But I've thought for a while that Autumn has to be the most misunderstood person in our corner of blog-space (not, to be clear, because of anything FTN has ever said, but extrapolations made by other folks from what he's said). And, I've got to say that I'm pretty sure now that I was right. I mean, heck, we even talked her into flashing her tattoo. . . Honestly, the two of them are a really sweet couple, and complement each other in some really good ways. Molly thanks you, by the way, FTN, for introducing her to Snakebites. Um, and I thank you, too, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
We occupied our booth at the pub for close to five hours, having a relaxed good time, telling stories and joking with each other. Calls were placed to faDKoG and XH, and the phone passed around the table (and I apologize to both of you that I'm not quicker on my feet than to say anything wittier than, "Uh, hi; how are you?). Molly was eager to head to the 'gay-friendly sports bar' for some karaoke (and just the concept of 'gay-friendly sports-bar karaoke' has my head spinning just a little bit), but we wound up heading to a game/arcade/pool place that was a shorter walk away. I got to watch Therese and RS kill zombies, while Molly and Drama had a long conversation upstairs. We walked around Monument Circle, which was pretty cool (OurTown doesn't have anything nearly that cool), and then headed back to the hotel, where we gathered in FTN/Autumn's room for Guitar Hero and American Idol. I'm on the recovering end of a cold, so my 'Idol' rendition involved much more cracking of the voice than I'd have hoped (and trying to keep up with the streaming lyrics to 'Satisfaction' got a little challenging once or twice). (And, no Beatles in a 'karaoke' game? Are you serious?). And I'll say that, unless you like to be thoroughly humiliated, you do not want to play 'Guitar Hero' with Autumn. . .
We finally got to bed about 2AM (and I suppose that, technically, we were 'somewhere', but that's a different blog entirely), but Molly and I still woke up early enough for our Sunday Morning Tradition before Mass (she even packed her Silver Anniversary Outfit special for our trip, which added a nice celebratory touch to the festivities).
RS had done some research, and found a Tridentine Latin Mass not too far from our hotel, so we joined them there, which was a wonderfully rich experience.
The group gathered again at a nearby park on a beautiful Sunday morning, for some more relaxed conversations, played with Taja's puppy, and took pictures of each other, in various combinations and configurations. A few of us caught lunch together at the mall food court, and then we headed home. (Molly and I had a minor adventure on the drive home, which I might post about sometime in the future).
As I said, we really enjoyed the time. It was very cool to meet the people behind some of the blogs I read - to get a sense of faces, gestures, tones of voice, and all those things that we miss in a text-only environment. It was a pleasure to meet each and every one of the folks there, even the folks whose blogs I've not visited terribly often. And I appreciate the effort that everyone made to be there (especially RS/Therese and Fusion, whose travel involved airplanes).
Thanks to FTN for being The Organizer, putting the bug in everyone's ear, making the pub reservation, and even doing quite a bit of legwork on hotels, and such. And thanks to 2AM for being our tour guide for the weekend.
One more time, with feeling - we had a wonderful time with you all; it was a pleasure. . .
-------------------------
Add October 21 -
I'm the least bit curious - those of you who were there, what did you think of Molly? I know I put her on a pretty tall bloggity pedestal, but how did you think the reality compared with the picture I've painted?
Last week, 3M offered me tickets to the Michigan State-Ohio State football game (he has season tickets; must be nice); both teams were 6-1 heading into the game, and my Spartans were entertaining thoughts of possible bigger and better things than we've recently been accustomed to. But, I declined the tickets to be with my blog-friends. So, I hope you all feel very special. When I told FTN my dismay at having to forego the game, he consoled me by saying that, heck, they'd probably lose by four or five touchdowns. By the time we left our hotel room, they were already behind 21-0 at the end of the first quarter. So, I could relax and give the gathering my full attention. Still, I hold FTN personally responsible for the five-touchdowns-plus-a-field-goal drubbing that we eventually took. (*sigh*) (But seriously, that's a pretty impressive gift of prophecy, dude. . .)
I'll start by saying that it's going to be a little bit difficult, at least for the next little while, to stick to protocol, and remember to use people's blog-names, and not slip up and call FTN 'Engelbert', for example (because, well, 'Humperdinck' is just so, you know. . .) So, if I screw up, y'all can just sort of discreetly let me know via e-mail, and I'll go back in and add your cell-phone number. . .
The group, once we were finally all together, consisted of FTN and Autumn, RS and Therese, Taja and Brady, Drama, Fusion, Trueself, BJ, the aforementioned 2amsomewhere, Molly and me. I thought it was very brave of the non-blogging spouses to come along, since they've been talked about in what might be considered to be embarrassing detail, from time to time. I was pretty sure that anyone who'd ever been to my blog would be eager to meet Molly, just because, well, I try to put her in a positive light. Which is, honestly, pretty easy to do. But I've thought for a while that Autumn has to be the most misunderstood person in our corner of blog-space (not, to be clear, because of anything FTN has ever said, but extrapolations made by other folks from what he's said). And, I've got to say that I'm pretty sure now that I was right. I mean, heck, we even talked her into flashing her tattoo. . . Honestly, the two of them are a really sweet couple, and complement each other in some really good ways. Molly thanks you, by the way, FTN, for introducing her to Snakebites. Um, and I thank you, too, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
We occupied our booth at the pub for close to five hours, having a relaxed good time, telling stories and joking with each other. Calls were placed to faDKoG and XH, and the phone passed around the table (and I apologize to both of you that I'm not quicker on my feet than to say anything wittier than, "Uh, hi; how are you?). Molly was eager to head to the 'gay-friendly sports bar' for some karaoke (and just the concept of 'gay-friendly sports-bar karaoke' has my head spinning just a little bit), but we wound up heading to a game/arcade/pool place that was a shorter walk away. I got to watch Therese and RS kill zombies, while Molly and Drama had a long conversation upstairs. We walked around Monument Circle, which was pretty cool (OurTown doesn't have anything nearly that cool), and then headed back to the hotel, where we gathered in FTN/Autumn's room for Guitar Hero and American Idol. I'm on the recovering end of a cold, so my 'Idol' rendition involved much more cracking of the voice than I'd have hoped (and trying to keep up with the streaming lyrics to 'Satisfaction' got a little challenging once or twice). (And, no Beatles in a 'karaoke' game? Are you serious?). And I'll say that, unless you like to be thoroughly humiliated, you do not want to play 'Guitar Hero' with Autumn. . .
We finally got to bed about 2AM (and I suppose that, technically, we were 'somewhere', but that's a different blog entirely), but Molly and I still woke up early enough for our Sunday Morning Tradition before Mass (she even packed her Silver Anniversary Outfit special for our trip, which added a nice celebratory touch to the festivities).
RS had done some research, and found a Tridentine Latin Mass not too far from our hotel, so we joined them there, which was a wonderfully rich experience.
The group gathered again at a nearby park on a beautiful Sunday morning, for some more relaxed conversations, played with Taja's puppy, and took pictures of each other, in various combinations and configurations. A few of us caught lunch together at the mall food court, and then we headed home. (Molly and I had a minor adventure on the drive home, which I might post about sometime in the future).
As I said, we really enjoyed the time. It was very cool to meet the people behind some of the blogs I read - to get a sense of faces, gestures, tones of voice, and all those things that we miss in a text-only environment. It was a pleasure to meet each and every one of the folks there, even the folks whose blogs I've not visited terribly often. And I appreciate the effort that everyone made to be there (especially RS/Therese and Fusion, whose travel involved airplanes).
Thanks to FTN for being The Organizer, putting the bug in everyone's ear, making the pub reservation, and even doing quite a bit of legwork on hotels, and such. And thanks to 2AM for being our tour guide for the weekend.
One more time, with feeling - we had a wonderful time with you all; it was a pleasure. . .
-------------------------
Add October 21 -
I'm the least bit curious - those of you who were there, what did you think of Molly? I know I put her on a pretty tall bloggity pedestal, but how did you think the reality compared with the picture I've painted?
Monday, October 13, 2008
I Get a Little Highbrow (With Help From My Friends)
This is probably as close as I’ll get in this blog to political commentary. . .
-------------------------
Choruses from ‘The Rock’, by T. S. Eliot
VI
It is hard for those who have never known persecution,
And who have never known a Christian,
To believe these tales of Christian persecution.
It is hard for those who live near a Bank
To doubt the security of their money.
It is hard for those who live near a Police Station
To believe in the triumph of violence.
Do you think that the Faith has conquered the World
And that lions no longer need keepers?
Do you need to be told that whatever has been, can still be?
Do you need to be told that even such modest attainments
As you can boast in the way of polite society
Will hardly survive the Faith to which they owe their significance?
. . .
Why should men love the Church? Why should they love her laws?
She tells them of Life and Death, and of all that they would forget.
She is tender where they would be hard, and hard where they like to be soft.
She tells them of Evil and Sin, and other unpleasant facts.
They constantly try to escape
From the darkness outside and within
By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.
But the man that is will shadow
The man that pretends to be. . .
-------------------------
Choruses from ‘The Rock’, by T. S. Eliot
VI
It is hard for those who have never known persecution,
And who have never known a Christian,
To believe these tales of Christian persecution.
It is hard for those who live near a Bank
To doubt the security of their money.
It is hard for those who live near a Police Station
To believe in the triumph of violence.
Do you think that the Faith has conquered the World
And that lions no longer need keepers?
Do you need to be told that whatever has been, can still be?
Do you need to be told that even such modest attainments
As you can boast in the way of polite society
Will hardly survive the Faith to which they owe their significance?
. . .
Why should men love the Church? Why should they love her laws?
She tells them of Life and Death, and of all that they would forget.
She is tender where they would be hard, and hard where they like to be soft.
She tells them of Evil and Sin, and other unpleasant facts.
They constantly try to escape
From the darkness outside and within
By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.
But the man that is will shadow
The man that pretends to be. . .
Monday, September 29, 2008
It's Personal
Yesterday was the 19th anniversary of my reunion with my birth-mother. . .
-------------------------
Sometime when I was in college, the realization dawned on me that, as an adoptee, I had been somebody’s ‘unwanted pregnancy’ once upon a time. And in the fullness of time, that became one of my strongest motivations to search for my birth-mother – I wanted to thank the woman who had carried me in her womb for nine months, and seen me through to the beginnings of my life in this world.
Along with that realization, I came to realize that, all things considered, I was probably fortunate to have been born before 1973 and Roe v. Wade. I had never particularly staked out a firmly-held position on abortion (My younger self was probably mostly ‘pro-choice’, without having given it much thought), but once I understood that, had I been conceived in another time, I would have been a pretty likely candidate for abortion (white college women abort roughly 98% of their ‘unwanted pregnancies’), the question took on an entirely different, and personal, aspect.
I recall a conversation I had with my birth-mother some time after our reunion. She was talking about her life as a pregnant-and-unmarried woman in the 1950s, and how difficult it had been for her, and she said something like, “I just wish I’d had the choices that women have today.”
Um, excuse me? You realize, don’t you Mom, that the ‘choice’ you’re talking about wishing you’d had, is whether or not to kill ME? I mean, we’ve had a really, REALLY happy reunion, and both of us are glad for the opportunity to know each other, and our respective families. If you had exercised the ‘choice’ you’re talking about, none of that would be even a remote possibility. You might still wonder who I’d been, but without any possibility of ever knowing. . .
She understood. Not that she was wishing that she’d aborted me; only that she’d felt so trapped when she was pregnant, and wished that she’d had anything at all she could have done about that.
Now, I could understand how trapped she felt. Frederica Mathewes-Green has written insightfully about women who “want an abortion the way an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg”. And I get that. I have the utmost compassion for women who are pregnant when they don’t want to be. My daughter was one of those women, just a couple years ago. And I wished there was something, anything, that I could do to make it easier for her. . .
But, back in 1955-56, that was ME in my birth-mother’s belly. Not a clump of cells, not a faceless ‘fetus’ – it was me. And if my birth-mother had had an abortion, it was me who would’ve died.
And the ripples go out from there. My adoptive parents might’ve adopted someone else; who can say? But they wouldn’t have adopted me. My classmates and friends and Little-League teammates could scarcely be said to have missed me – how do you miss someone you never even knew existed? – but something of the life we shared together would never have happened. Molly would most likely have married someone else (I mean, she’s an amazing woman; how could she not?); but she wouldn’t have married me. And our children would never have come to be – her children, if she had any, would be someone else entirely. . .
And so it goes. In fact, those of you who were born after 1973, have you ever wondered how many children who would have been your friends or classmates or Little-League teammates, were never allowed to be born? What music was never made, what literature was never written, what cures for which diseases never came about, for want of the men and women who would have done those things, but were never born?
My point here is not to guilt-trip any woman who has ever had an abortion; my heart absolutely goes out to those women, for they, too, have had violence done to them. I only hope to put a more ‘human’ face on the question, and encourage anyone to think of ‘unwanted pregnancy’ not so much as a ‘problem’ with an easy technological solution, but as something real, and human, and flesh-and-blood. And life-and-death.
I don’t think my birth-mother is terrible for wishing she’d had more choices available to her (honestly, on one level, it’s easy for her to say; she’ll never bear the cost of having chosen otherwise). No, I actually think she’s pretty cool; as birth-mothers go, she’s definitely one of the best, and I am as happy as I can be that we’ve known each other these 19 years. I understand how trapped she felt 52+ years ago, and I absolutely appreciate, and am utterly grateful for, the sacrifice it was for her, for me to be here today. It’s personal for her in an entirely different, but analogous, way to how it’s personal for me. And I understand that.
But I have to tell ya, it is a strange, strange thing, to be told by your mother that, as much as she loves you, she wished she’d had the choice of whether or not to kill you before you were born. . .
-------------------------
Sometime when I was in college, the realization dawned on me that, as an adoptee, I had been somebody’s ‘unwanted pregnancy’ once upon a time. And in the fullness of time, that became one of my strongest motivations to search for my birth-mother – I wanted to thank the woman who had carried me in her womb for nine months, and seen me through to the beginnings of my life in this world.
Along with that realization, I came to realize that, all things considered, I was probably fortunate to have been born before 1973 and Roe v. Wade. I had never particularly staked out a firmly-held position on abortion (My younger self was probably mostly ‘pro-choice’, without having given it much thought), but once I understood that, had I been conceived in another time, I would have been a pretty likely candidate for abortion (white college women abort roughly 98% of their ‘unwanted pregnancies’), the question took on an entirely different, and personal, aspect.
I recall a conversation I had with my birth-mother some time after our reunion. She was talking about her life as a pregnant-and-unmarried woman in the 1950s, and how difficult it had been for her, and she said something like, “I just wish I’d had the choices that women have today.”
Um, excuse me? You realize, don’t you Mom, that the ‘choice’ you’re talking about wishing you’d had, is whether or not to kill ME? I mean, we’ve had a really, REALLY happy reunion, and both of us are glad for the opportunity to know each other, and our respective families. If you had exercised the ‘choice’ you’re talking about, none of that would be even a remote possibility. You might still wonder who I’d been, but without any possibility of ever knowing. . .
She understood. Not that she was wishing that she’d aborted me; only that she’d felt so trapped when she was pregnant, and wished that she’d had anything at all she could have done about that.
Now, I could understand how trapped she felt. Frederica Mathewes-Green has written insightfully about women who “want an abortion the way an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg”. And I get that. I have the utmost compassion for women who are pregnant when they don’t want to be. My daughter was one of those women, just a couple years ago. And I wished there was something, anything, that I could do to make it easier for her. . .
But, back in 1955-56, that was ME in my birth-mother’s belly. Not a clump of cells, not a faceless ‘fetus’ – it was me. And if my birth-mother had had an abortion, it was me who would’ve died.
And the ripples go out from there. My adoptive parents might’ve adopted someone else; who can say? But they wouldn’t have adopted me. My classmates and friends and Little-League teammates could scarcely be said to have missed me – how do you miss someone you never even knew existed? – but something of the life we shared together would never have happened. Molly would most likely have married someone else (I mean, she’s an amazing woman; how could she not?); but she wouldn’t have married me. And our children would never have come to be – her children, if she had any, would be someone else entirely. . .
And so it goes. In fact, those of you who were born after 1973, have you ever wondered how many children who would have been your friends or classmates or Little-League teammates, were never allowed to be born? What music was never made, what literature was never written, what cures for which diseases never came about, for want of the men and women who would have done those things, but were never born?
My point here is not to guilt-trip any woman who has ever had an abortion; my heart absolutely goes out to those women, for they, too, have had violence done to them. I only hope to put a more ‘human’ face on the question, and encourage anyone to think of ‘unwanted pregnancy’ not so much as a ‘problem’ with an easy technological solution, but as something real, and human, and flesh-and-blood. And life-and-death.
I don’t think my birth-mother is terrible for wishing she’d had more choices available to her (honestly, on one level, it’s easy for her to say; she’ll never bear the cost of having chosen otherwise). No, I actually think she’s pretty cool; as birth-mothers go, she’s definitely one of the best, and I am as happy as I can be that we’ve known each other these 19 years. I understand how trapped she felt 52+ years ago, and I absolutely appreciate, and am utterly grateful for, the sacrifice it was for her, for me to be here today. It’s personal for her in an entirely different, but analogous, way to how it’s personal for me. And I understand that.
But I have to tell ya, it is a strange, strange thing, to be told by your mother that, as much as she loves you, she wished she’d had the choice of whether or not to kill you before you were born. . .
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Our Flashy Wedding
Molly and I went to a wedding this past weekend. The bride was a friend of ours, a woman a couple years older than 1F, who is also a birth-mother of a six-year-old boy (her son, and his adoptive family, were at the wedding, and it was a personal highlight for me to meet them). Her willingness to share with us about her experience of birth-motherhood has been wonderfully helpful to us through 1F’s experience. And I think she has appreciated hearing about my experience with my birth-mother, as well.
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Of course, I have many memories of our wedding day. I remember washing my car in the morning, more to kill a couple hours until I had to be at the church, than because my car was so dirty (this ‘what to do until you have to be at the church’ question is a major one for grooms; I’m given to understand that brides don’t typically find themselves at quite such a loss for how to fill their mornings. . .)
Once I arrived at the church, there really wasn’t all that much for me to do. All my groomsmen showed up in a timely manner, my brothers took their places as ushers, and I just took some chill time in the sacristy, as the guests started to arrive.
About a half-hour or so before the wedding was supposed to begin, my head-usher, a guy I’ll call ‘Tom’ for purposes of this story, with whom I’d shared a house while I was in grad school, came into the room where I was relaxing, a concerned look on his face. “Ummm. . .” he began. (I don’t know; it just seems to me that your head usher coming to you a half-hour before your wedding, saying “Ummm. . .” is probably not a good thing). “Ummm. . . there’s a retarded guy out in the parking lot, exposing himself to the guests as they arrive.”
I just stared at him, blankly.
“So, what do you want me to do?” he asked, as I contemplated the image of my grandmother being greeted in the church parking lot by a retarded flasher. The fact that it was a Catholic church parking lot is probably worth noting, because my family is not Catholic, and some of them, possibly including my grandmother, held less-than-flattering opinions of Catholics and Catholicism.
“Huh?” I replied, quickly grasping the gravity of the situation.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tom,” I replied, with all the mellowness I could muster at that point, “I asked you to be my head-usher so I wouldn’t have to think about stuff like this. I’m sure you can figure something out.”
For a couple seconds, he stared back at me. “Right,” he finally said, and hustled off.
I’m told that the police were called, and our flasher friend was relocated away from the church parking lot before too many of our guests’ retinas were seared with images of his genitalia. The wedding proceeded without too many further glitches, Molly and I were well and thoroughly married to each other, and the rest, as they say, is history.
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We like to tell young couples planning their weddings to not be too concerned that everything goes off perfectly, because every wedding has something that goes not-quite-according-to-plan. I was at a wedding once, where the bride’s veil accidentally caught fire when it brushed too close to the Unity Candle (a quick-thinking Maid of Honor averted catastrophe in that case). At another wedding we were at, the Best Man passed out cold, and spent most of the wedding being attended to by a doctor off to the side of the church. Those are both pretty good stories, and good examples of What Can Go Wrong at Your Wedding.
But our story of our wedding flasher always makes their eyes get real wide. “And besides,” we always tell them, “if things go really wrong, you’ll have a great story to tell. . .”
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Of course, I have many memories of our wedding day. I remember washing my car in the morning, more to kill a couple hours until I had to be at the church, than because my car was so dirty (this ‘what to do until you have to be at the church’ question is a major one for grooms; I’m given to understand that brides don’t typically find themselves at quite such a loss for how to fill their mornings. . .)
Once I arrived at the church, there really wasn’t all that much for me to do. All my groomsmen showed up in a timely manner, my brothers took their places as ushers, and I just took some chill time in the sacristy, as the guests started to arrive.
About a half-hour or so before the wedding was supposed to begin, my head-usher, a guy I’ll call ‘Tom’ for purposes of this story, with whom I’d shared a house while I was in grad school, came into the room where I was relaxing, a concerned look on his face. “Ummm. . .” he began. (I don’t know; it just seems to me that your head usher coming to you a half-hour before your wedding, saying “Ummm. . .” is probably not a good thing). “Ummm. . . there’s a retarded guy out in the parking lot, exposing himself to the guests as they arrive.”
I just stared at him, blankly.
“So, what do you want me to do?” he asked, as I contemplated the image of my grandmother being greeted in the church parking lot by a retarded flasher. The fact that it was a Catholic church parking lot is probably worth noting, because my family is not Catholic, and some of them, possibly including my grandmother, held less-than-flattering opinions of Catholics and Catholicism.
“Huh?” I replied, quickly grasping the gravity of the situation.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tom,” I replied, with all the mellowness I could muster at that point, “I asked you to be my head-usher so I wouldn’t have to think about stuff like this. I’m sure you can figure something out.”
For a couple seconds, he stared back at me. “Right,” he finally said, and hustled off.
I’m told that the police were called, and our flasher friend was relocated away from the church parking lot before too many of our guests’ retinas were seared with images of his genitalia. The wedding proceeded without too many further glitches, Molly and I were well and thoroughly married to each other, and the rest, as they say, is history.
-------------------------
We like to tell young couples planning their weddings to not be too concerned that everything goes off perfectly, because every wedding has something that goes not-quite-according-to-plan. I was at a wedding once, where the bride’s veil accidentally caught fire when it brushed too close to the Unity Candle (a quick-thinking Maid of Honor averted catastrophe in that case). At another wedding we were at, the Best Man passed out cold, and spent most of the wedding being attended to by a doctor off to the side of the church. Those are both pretty good stories, and good examples of What Can Go Wrong at Your Wedding.
But our story of our wedding flasher always makes their eyes get real wide. “And besides,” we always tell them, “if things go really wrong, you’ll have a great story to tell. . .”
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