Fair Ground

[written in May of '07]

There is something really magical about a traveling carnival. It’s not Disney World glamor. It’s not high society. It’s sticky and noisy and generally mosquito ridden and I love it. Yesterday I took Lucas the minute it opened at 6 p.m. We got our wristbands for unlimited rides (note to self: self, if your son wants to stick to the kiddie rides that your fat ass doesn’t fit on and you only end up riding the tilt-a-whirl twice, stick to the 12 tickets for a lot less money) and I followed my literally skipping son into a whole different realm.

The first day of the carnival feels so new. There’s no trash strewn about, the port-o-johns are still fresh, the air doesn’t smell stale. The carnies at the game stalls start barking right away with their come-on lines and we buy them hook and sinker included. $5 for three basketballs – it’s early and the crowd is thin. My son is cute and I don’t mind the attention so we make three trips back and forth to the car with armloads of stuffed animals, silly hats, bag bombs, and plastic bows and arrows. Our money dwindling, I start joking off the persistence of the old guys working the booths. No, I don’t need a cheap framed picture of KISS or John Cena. No, I really can’t hit three balloons in a row with your worn down darts. No. No. No thanks. Moving on…

Unlimited rides work really well when all your kid really wants to do is walk the funhouse time after time after time. I got to know the carnie running that one pretty well. When I finally drew him away to ride the carousel with me, he gazed longingly back at it and I promised we’d return for more. Dusk falling, the round bulbs lit up the food wagons enticing us with fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, cotton candy spun on cardboard cones, glistening apples red with hard candy, greasy popcorn, and the sizzle of sausage and peppers. Twinkling lights dashed around the perimeter of each ride and speakers blared the latest in top 40. The air was warm and felt clean and together we were happy.

My son is one of those kids that other kids are just naturally attracted to. Maybe it’s the mohawk or his casual way of dress. Maybe it’s his outgoing smile and easy nature. He and another boy were climbing into the dragon coaster – a real thrill ride at 20 miles an hour tops around a 50 yard circle – and the boy climbed into the seat with Lucas although the ride was completely empty. Lucas just shrugged at me and pretty soon they were fast friends. The boy’s father and I stood and chatted (yes, I even start up conversations in grocery store lines) and pretty soon found that we lived very near each other and both boys were the same age and in need of playdates nearby. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged numbers and the promise of meeting in the park in the not too distant future.

The rest of the evening was spent following the boys around from ride to ride. I took some pictures and even remembered to save some. I’m sure I lost a few good ones. But the highlight of the night for me was the swings. They look like oversized baby seats with a bar that slides down and a chain between your legs (I’m sure you can see the attraction here). They revolve around a circle and the momentum takes you higher and higher until you can see the entire park whizzing past your feet. Eventually I gave up looking down and looked up. Wow! The sky was periwinkle and there was a half moon hanging over me 3/4 of every revolution. I reached my arms up as high as they would go, tilted my head back and just breathed. It was a single, solitary moment of pure unadulterated joy – every care let go, the whole universe above me and it felt within reach. Dizzy and stumbling upon our return to terra firma I made my way to the exit as the boys continued on another journey. Even with the incessant mosquito infestation I felt entirely at peace. Life was good. Life was really, really good.

“Goodnight, Mush”

[This is a repost of something I wrote in the summer of '04 before my son sprouted up to my chest and moved into bunk beds and we stopped reading baby books in favor of Harry Potter every night. I repost this to remind myself that he's still a little boy of eight and although willful, he never asked to be an only child of a stressed out single mom and the next time I have the urge to fling his unwanted pasta across the kitchen I need to go sit in that big red chair and just breathe and remember that I love him no matter what.]

We sit on the aging back porch together, my son and I. Curled in our fading red chairs that envelope us like padded cereal bowls. I, with my I-pod, singing softly to Sarah McLachlan and Lucas listening to Schoolhouse Rocks on my old discman with the headphones on backwards — reliving the music I grew up with and swinging his feet to and fro, trying to sing along with words unfamiliar to him.

The thick July air is warm and the gurgling noises from the air conditioner in his bedroom window next to the porch prompts him to announce it must be raining even though he can’t see it. I have to explain twice the source of the noise until he investigates for himself. Satisfied he replaces his headphones and resumes his singing.

The day turns into the gloaming, that hazy period just before dusk settles on our little porch and it is time for my little man to go to bed. He doesn’t put up a fight. His breathing is labored as it has been all day and I try not to betray my concern. He takes his medicine like a trooper, so accustomed to the struggle to breathe. I think about the air today and wonder if the pollen count was high or if the air conditioning was too much for him or if, God forbid, he’s coming down with pneumonia again.

His choice of bedtime movies surprises me as he picks out “Goodnight Moon”, knowing I’ve read the book to him but haven’t seen the DVD. I like it. Faith Ringgold reads a story about “Tar Beach” and I sing along to Twinkle, Twinkle and Brahm’s Lullaby. We hold hands and I listen to his wheezing chest.

When the movie is over I turn off the television and turn to him. He kisses me on the mouth and says “Goodnight mush”. I answer the same and we go on naming all the objects the bunny says goodnight to and rubbing noses and kissing each others’ faces. I ask him if he wants to snuggle and he rolls over, throwing his tan leg across the mesh safety railing. He pulls my arm around him and his breathing calms quickly. I lie there in perfect stillness. All of the tiny irritations of the day erased by this one perfect moment in time. Eventually I get up and know that I must write it down for the next time I step on an errant toy or find that the dog has eaten his forgotten plate of food.

Naked

[written in July of '07, this shall always and forever have a special place here and in my heart]

I had this label. It was large and sticky and I wore it loudly and proudly for 22 years. I bent over backwards not to conform to its connotations or stereotypes but I refused to give it up. I held tightly as a vestige of my refusal to give in to the norms expected of me.

Now I stand naked. You have rendered the safety of that label inadequate. I have no way of describing what I am now. I have consciously eschewed the long standing recognizable and more comfortable name attached to my name. “I’m a lesbian” doesn’t work anymore.

There was some notion that “lesbian” was more accepted. It needed no explanation. I date women. I love women. I tried men. I am…no, was…”lesbian”.

And then you came along. You ripped that sticky, gluey protective outer shell from me and jumped into my heart. You opened me up and with your eyes I saw a world that I never even gave another thought to. I didn’t expect you. Someone who struggled not with being gay but with being YOU. You defy all. There is no way to put you into a neat little category that I can easily explain.

I struggle with pronouns. I know you one way. Everyone else knows you another. You had accepted what seemed your fate. Now you know there are ways around it. You don’t have to live in the box you were born into (no pun intended).

We have grabbed each other and grown into something that burst out of conventional bounds and became something bigger than both of us. I can no longer say “I’m a lesbian”. If the world wants to think I’m gay or look at you and think that I might be straight I won’t bother to correct them.

We are nothing. We are something else. We are love and lust and we bring out desires within each other that we never knew existed. We respond to each other in the most amazing way. We are best friends, lovers, partners, and part of a family. At the altar, what will they say? I now pronounce you Don and Diana. To have and to hold from this day forward. To love each other all the days of our lives.

I stand naked before the masses. I can no longer fit into a nice neat category. No Dewey Decimal system for me. I stand with you and we stand alone. And although we may not fit in – we fit together. Welded into something new and precious and exciting and bold. A sweet discovery that my heart can’t be tied up by gender. I throw off the ties that bind

and stand naked

feeling fully clothed in your love.