Stories

Monday, I did actually write.

My style is very much “stream of consciousness”; I rarely pick a topic and sit down and just type precisely what I intended to say. Which is why I have such difficulty writing anything substantial--there is no structure. I just start and see where it takes me. A lot of the time, it actually works out and I manage to piece together enough coherent thoughts for a blog post. When reaching down deep inside my psyche, usually what comes up is fairly tame in nature.

Occasionally though, what I end up writing is too personal. While I strive for as much transparency here as I feel appropriate, there are obviously some parts of our lives that must remain private. The biggest filter I have to run it through is:

Is this my story to tell?

I am a story collector. I love to hear people talk about their lives, their hopes and dreams and interests. I want to know what makes them the way they are, why they believe as they believe and what brought them there. People are so fascinating, and I enjoy getting to know them better. The interconnectivity that weaves all these individuals together fuels my voracious imagination.

So when I sit down to tell the story of my little family, I have to be conscious and respectful that I only tell my truths, my stories.

Michael is mostly fair game as our lives are often completely inseparable for the last decade plus. I try not to speak directly for him; before I post, I always have him proofread and give approval.

The children are a little trickier because while our stories run so parallel, I do actually want to protect their privacy to a certain extent while still acting as a chronicler of times they are less likely to remember independently. It is a matter I handle with as much delicacy as I feel possible while still conveying the principles I am trying to get across.

There are certain subjects that I feel so little ownership over, even as they relate directly to me and inform great portions of my life, that I have avoided talking about them here or anywhere at all.

My biological father--my mother’s first husband--is one such tale. They divorced when I was younger than Tula, and his appearances in my life were so few and sporadic that most of what I could tell you about him would be gleaned from others’ relayed experiences. What I do remember was not wholly flattering, but I can’t imagine my girlish recollections would be entirely accurate either. I imagine the truth lay somewhere in the middle--not a complete villain, but scarcely a saint either, and (by choice) a pieceplayer in our adventure.

I also cannot be persuaded usually to touch politics with a ten-foot pole, a subject which I feel I have less authority to speak on the more that I learn.

Childhood is mostly fair game, as long as I don’t embarrass my brothers and sister (who, as far as I can tell, are wholly impervious to shame), but I can’t imagine it would be excessively interesting to anyone nor particularly relevant to what is going on now. (Unless you find enjoyment in my embarrassment. I was painfully awkward.)

What I ended up writing earlier this week was based on a prompt I found on the Abilene Writers Guild website: First Love.

The wheels in my head began to spin away as I thought about my first serious boyfriend and how little I understood then about relationships and men in general. I ended up writing quite a lot on the subject, starting with what I was raised to believe about love and dating and puberty and sex. There were so many misconceptions that I had, and that ignorance caused me quite a bit of heartache and trepidation, led me into situations I was ill-equipped to handle.

By the time I had reached the end (or as much as I would be able to get out at the moment), I knew it wasn’t something I would be able to share. It was too personal, too exposing, not for graphic content but because it cut too much to the heart of me. I had to get out into the sunshine and fresh air, drink ice water to loosen the tightness in my chest.

My early relationships were not great in the way that all young relationships suffer. He was not a good boyfriend, I was not a good girlfriend because we didn’t yet know how to be better. It is a practice course where everyone involved only stands to be hurt, but we do it anyway because it’s how you learn. No amount of relationship books I read (looking at you, “Chocolate Chili Pepper Love”) could have prepared me to know what I wanted and needed from a romantic partner like finding out exactly what I didn’t. As much as this story was my own, it also belonged to that hapless boy I knew so long ago, and it didn’t feel right for me to put it out there.

The more I thought about it though, the more I felt the point of the prompt, and the more I really thought about first.

My first date with Michael, we sat on the couch in Katie Rogers dorm because I had sprained my ankle falling down to flights of stairs rushing to meet him. It was swelling and purple and didn’t bother me much because this goofball in a Hawaiian shirt was making me laugh.

The first kiss Michael and I shared was halfway between my dorm and his, with all the stars out and the air was cold so he wrapped me up in his leather coat to keep warm.

The first time Michael and I made dinner at his apartment, we had no utensils except for plastic ones stolen from the school cafeteria. After trying several times to flip bacon with a fork that was rapidly melting, we had to borrow one from the married couple next door. That became the only fork we had when we couldn’t scrape together enough money to buy food, little less household items, so we would share it while we ate the very worst tunaless tuna helper sitting together in the only recliner we owned.

Mila the miniature pinscher was our first pet, this adorable, horrible screech-monster we were in no way ready to take care of. We had to take her back to the pet store because we weren’t supposed to have her in the first place, and Michael held me while I cried.

Our first apartment, which we called The Dank with no trace of irony, whose air conditioner went out every year and perpetually smelled like the tacos we couldn’t afford from the restaurant next door, but we were so proud of because it was just ours.

The first time I saw Michael cry, when he saw the sonogram picture of our little gummy bear baby Emerald.  His eyes may have been misty again the first time he held that red-headed infant in his arms and introduced himself as “daddy”.

When the doors of the church opened, the song “Gaelic Morn swells, and I saw the man that makes me so happy beaming because this is the happiest day of our lives. Michael’s grandfather introduced for the first time as husband and wife.

Michael is the story I chose for myself, my first and true love. His birthday was toward the beginning of the month which we celebrated per his wishes as totally innocuous day without note. He’s not big on people making a fuss over him. Personally, I think he deserves grandiose fanfare everyday, this man that works so hard to provide for his disaster-prone brood. The humor and patience with which he handles our oft-stressful, exhausting, chaotic circumstances gives me the strength and courage to keep going when I want so desperately to give up. All day, I try and do things to make his life easier or to make him happy because he is the best part of my day.

For me, it always comes back to him. When I exhumed all of that yucky, personal junk the other day, all I ended up uncovering was thankfulness for the path God put me on that led me to this goofball I married.

I think that’s the better story anyway.

—Andie