February 13, 2002: living on the coast
I spent a long time yesterday talking with various people and with Chris about stuff, and doing a lot of thinking about things. I do feel better about the entire thing, which is a relief.
I had to remind myself that I knew the consequences of my actions when I made this decision, to finally give in after three years of being pursued. I knew there was a huge chunk of my public identity that would dry up and blow away like leaves; I knew that with dating guys comes the assumption that you're straight. (Or that, well, "you're finished with your phase now, dear.") I knew that instead of a good example I'd be ammunition for the other side, who insist that lesbians simply haven't met the right man yet. How are they to know that it's so much more complicated than that? Will I ever be able to hold his hand without feeling the need to apologize to the movement that I've betrayed so completely?
But that's okay. I can be, for all real purposes, straight. I mean, I know I'm still queer, I know that 95% of my nature is inclined towards women, and I can still be a quiet voice of reason. I'm unlikely to ever be comfortable in a queer group again, and i'm unlikely to go to any of the poly group things that I used to go to. (Okay, I'll still go to Gaia Consort concerts. Heh.) And, yeah, no more Wet Spot.
There's other work I can do with my life. I can still write, even if I'm now no longer a lesbian poet and instead just a plain poet. And...umm...well, okay, that's about it.
But I'm going to stop explaining. I'll retire to my comfy little closet and shut the door, and not get crushes on girls any more. Well, I won't get crushes on boys, either. But I'll concentrate on working with and being happy with what I have, instead of pining away for what I don't. I'll enjoy the concequences of my decisions.
I've been celibate before, and this is nothing more than a strange kind of celibacy. I'll take it a day at a time, avoid things that remind me of my old life, and let time pass.
Maybe someday seeing women holding hands won't make me cry any more.
Just remember, you can live without just about anything that's not necessary to sustain life.
"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean--tame?"
"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties."
"To establish ties?"
"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."
"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think she has tamed me . . . "
"It is possible," said the fox. "On earth one sees all sorts of things."
"Oh, but this is not on the earth!" said the little prince.
The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious. "On another planet?"
"Yes."
"Are there hunters on that planet?"
"No."
"Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?"
"No."
"Nothing is perfect," sighed the fox. But he came back to his idea. "My life is very monotonous," he said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . . "
**
And he went back to meet the fox. "Goodbye," he said. "Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.
"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."
"It is the time I have wasted for my rose---" said the little prince so he would be sure to remember.
"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . . "
"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.
--From The Little Prince
Do other people feel this sadness, this grieving, when they get involved with their life partners?
It always seemed to me so hard and so sad to leave behind one's joyous freedoms for the everyday toil of a relationship with someone you will never completely understand because you're seperated by the yawning gulf of gender. I often wondered this when I watched my parents and my parents' friends. The men always seemed so content, and the women always seemed so bored, so restless. The men dozing in front of the TV while the women cleaned up and spoke in low voices, the men puttering around with cars or grills or hammers and the women drinking coffee together and laughing about the shortcomings of their partners. The men going skiing while the women went shopping. My father getting my aunt Glenda drunk as a skunk while the other aunts muttered and picked at their slices of wedding cake.
It never made any sense to me. And as I'm embarking on my own version of their relationships, it still doesn't make any sense. In one sense I was ready for this, have been ready for a life partner to come along for years, now. I just wasn't expecting that partner to be male, with so many experiences and beliefs that are very different than my own. I know him better than pretty much anyone else on the face of the planet, and yet he is still a stranger to me much of the time.
That was what bothered me the most about the relationships I grew up around. These were married couples that were obviously strangers to one another. They proved to me that you can sleep next to someone for twenty years and still not *know* them inside and out.
They fought. Oh, they fought. They fought about stupid things, about important things, and I wedged myself in the space between my bed and the wall and covered my ears with my hands. You can be with a man twenty years and still disagree about things, which I hated. When I grow up, I thought, I will only marry someone I agree with enough that we never fight. [I was seven, okay?]
I'd broken that cycle, I thought. I was so relieved when it turned out I liked girls more than boys. I was happy because now I'd never have to reprise my parents' relationships ever again.
Spoke too soon, I guess.
So here I am, picking my way yet again through the mire of the legacy of my parents, trying to pick out the best parts of straight relationships while avoiding getting stuck in the same stupid gender roles. In a lot of ways this is much, much harder than being queer, having to deal with this huge heavy legacy hanging over my head. Yeah, I might be killed for being a lesbian, but then I don't have to hear my mother's voice coming out of my mouth ever.
I just have to remember that I am stronger than my mother, and that if I work really hard at it and stay awake I *can* forge an equal partnership with Chris. I have to believe that. I have to believe that I won't fall into the same self-destructive patterns that my mother has, that I won't hate myself as much as my mother does.
I have to beleive it. and I have to stay awake and keep challenging both myself and him.
