Contemplating My Navel (Personal Blog)

August 1980

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

1980 dice

This past Tuesday, my beloved partner Bob turned 36 years old. Next week Thursday, my adored baby sister Jennifer will reach the same milestone. My two favorite people of all-time made their worldly debuts a mere nine days apart. August 1980 was a hugely important month that impacted the trajectory of many lives for the better.

In between the 2nd and the 11th lies my own birthday number 38 – on Monday the 8th. I often joke that I was born first, therefore Bob and Jenny ought to pull up stakes and find their own months. But the truth is I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t feel lost in the shuffle or stuck in the middle. I’m also not a big believer in destiny but this year more than others, I’m awed by the quirks of timing.

Since meeting and falling in love with Bob, and following our unspoken commitment to remain by each other’s sides, an incidental gift is enjoyed each summer. For a week plus the three of us and our families are afforded the opportunity to give thanks for our own lives as well as two others that fill it with so much joy. Those nine days are a hectic flurry of planning, shopping and well-wishing, but it’s important to sit still for a moment and be in that place of gratitude. To wonder at the happenstance which insists my love for these two sit at the conscious forefront for an appropriate two percent of the year.

Birthdays can be a selfish time. As a woman who in her 20s publicly wore a crown every August 8th, and promoted what I now recognize was a completely obnoxious “Shopping Day Countdown” for friends and family, I know a little something about self-immersion. I’ve grown and changed in so many ways and one of these evolutions is a downsize in celebratory approach. It’s not that I enjoy my birthday any less. Rather I understand that I can’t fete myself in a vacuum. It is the other people who render my existence as fulfilling as it is. Were there no August 2nd and August 11th 1980, I don’t know where I’d be.

Nope. My day is not lost. I no longer carry the resentment of a child who hated sharing parties and presents with her kid sister who, oh by the way, was six weeks early and should have been born in the fall! I am thrilled to have my birthday sandwiched between the arrivals of my own dynamic duo – the comedians, support network and good, kind people who challenge me and everyone around them to do better.

Two nights past, Bob asked me where I want to go, what I’d like to do on my day. I told him the truth. I look forward to Monday morning’s contest between Bob and Jenny over who gets to wish me “Happy Birthday” first. Last year Bob had to wake me at dawn to get the edge. Afterward I’ll go work. In the evening, I’d like to sustain our Monday night routine of grocery shopping with drink in hand (bless you Mariano’s) as we talk and laugh.

There have been years filled with mounds of material presents when all I really wanted was the sort of satisfying, messy normalcy (punctuated by much lovable oddity) I savor every day because of two babies born nine days apart in August 1980. There’s nothing more the world can give me to guarantee health and success over the next 12 months that I wasn’t already gifted 36 years ago this week.

The Face of White Privilege: Mine

Becky Sarwate1 Comment

Boston_Protester_White_Privilege

My childhood was troubled. I grew up in a dysfunctional and dangerous home. When I was 13 years old, I started acting out. As eighth graders at a small, inner city Lutheran school, my best friend and I were queens of the neighborhood hill, even if I felt invisible to the rest of society. We embarked on a series of thug-lite adventures that included stealing hood ornaments, drinking Jack Daniels while playing Truth or Dare with local gang members (not high up in the hierarchy, but still) and shoplifting. Though I certainly asked for it often enough, I escaped any real trouble.

I settled down a bit in high school and did fairly well. But I still skipped class to drink rum pilfered from my dad’s pantry with a new best friend. And after sampling marijuana for the first time junior year, I sat in the backseat with stoned passivity as another pal attempted to drive onto the highway via an off-ramp. No one, including myself, was injured.

During undergrad at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, I was hanging out with a townie buddy at her place when the DEA suddenly burst in to conduct a drug raid. After I was searched and found clean of any weapons, contraband or large amounts of cash, I was allowed to walk to my then-boyfriend’s car and roll away – though I was driving with nothing more than a learner’s permit. Before graduation, I was arrested for two 21st birthday misdemeanors. I was in and out of jail in a couple hours with no incident. After a small fine and some community service, my record was expunged.

In my early 20s, I wrapped a car around a pole at 2:00 am in a rough Chicago neighborhood. Of course, I was under the influence. When the police showed up, my best sober face was used to inform them a tow truck was imminent. The cops never asked me to get out the vehicle. They bid good evening, God speed and drove away. The words emanating from my slurry white lady mouth were satisfactory enough.

All of these episodes are many years in the past. I no longer have any communication with my parents, the first step on a long road to finding the healthy, successful adult waiting patiently in the wings. I’ve had years of individual and group therapy. I have a thriving career, a loving partner and an amazing support network of friends and family. At nearly 38 years of age, I’m proud of the life I’ve built and the opportunities I’ve been given to reach my potential and grow into a leader.

Change the gender and race of my story’s protagonist however, and it plays out in an entirely different way. I’ve been awake to my relative privilege for some time, early biographical roadblocks notwithstanding. I am part of a system that, beyond my parentage, is constructed to benefit, part of a society that mostly roots for my success. I’m a liberal feminist with an advanced humanities degree. I read vociferously. I purposely surround myself with people of different backgrounds and experiences. I want to make the world a healthier, safer and more understanding place for my nieces and nephew. Whatever actions I take must begin and end with listening and learning.

But for a long time, a sort of purposeful forgetfulness took root. I stopped thinking much of my spotty youthful past, except for considering how the events might one day be framed in a memoir. There was no need to dwell. Present circumstances afford the luxury of physical and psychological movement.

Because I am not a person of color. I am particularly not a male person of color. This week especially there’s no hiding from the truth that any one encounter detailed above could have ended in injury, long-term incarceration or death – were I other than a woman with WASP heritage. I’ve been granted leniency in judgment simply by fortune of birth and the benefit of the doubt that comes with it.

And I’ll never let myself forget it again.

#BlackLivesMatter

Missing Friendly Fire

Becky Sarwate3 Comments

Friendly Fire

I sat watching Hillary Clinton’s speech at the Navy Ship Yard in New York on Tuesday night with tears streaming. As a 37 year-old woman who’s followed the career of the former First Lady, Senator and Secretary of State since junior high, #ImWithHer completely. I may have voted for Sanders in the primary (that makes two election cycles in a row with a plurality of quality Democratic options), but come on. To quote another of my political heroes, Vice President Joseph R. Biden III, Clinton’s status as the 2016 presumptive nominee is a “big fucking deal.” This is the first woman EVER to go atop a national ticket. I’m nowhere near as high-profile as Mrs. Clinton but as a career woman and ardent feminist, I know her journey has been filled with roadblocks. She’s not in the Oval Office yet (bring it Trump) but she’s done something historically important. It warranted an emotional release.

Toward the end of Clinton’s soaring address to supporters, I began crying a lot harder. Because I knew someone who would have hated everything about Hillary’s victory, a friend with whom I would have had a spirited debate about moving on from #FeelTheBern to unite the party. Because Trump is the alternative for crying out loud, and though Clinton is an imperfect candidate (as they all are), she’s a proven, pragmatic worker who genuinely cares about the country. He would counter with “Clinton is an evil crook” rhetoric and declare his support for Jill Stein. I would spit the names of Nixon and Dubya. “Misogyny” would be interlaced throughout as both accusation and social commentary. He’d insist anarchy is preferable to another machine leader. We’d probably go a few days without speaking before sheepishly picking up the phone or sending a text.

That’s what should have happened after Clinton’s landmark speech. But Todd died on Memorial Day, six days before I sat on my couch cheering Hillary, paradoxically wishing for the wet blanket he would have enthusiastically offered.

We met on the Union Pacific North Line Metra route in 2010, commuting to the same downtown Chicago office (although not explicit colleagues). I was barreling toward the end of a troubled marriage and near-permanently distracted. As I’ve explained to Bob in recent days, Todd did the initial work and though I’m eternally grateful, I’ll never understand why. Yes we both loved theater, considered ourselves ardent liberals (though he was bitterly disappointed in President Obama – another source of contention) and resided in the same neighborhood. But Todd had roughly a zillion friends as one of the most energetic and likable people in the free world. And me, at least at least then? Pretty much this.

As Todd and I became better acquainted, I learned he’d survived illness, relationship loss and death. Over the course of our six-year friendship, he also recovered from a very serious car accident. Todd didn’t even drive, mind you. He was struck on the sidewalk. Anyone else might have sunk into bitterness at the cruelty of fate. This man had tenacity, spirit and yet counterintuitively, was rather blasé about it. Todd casually and unaggressively knew he was awesome – beaming that certainty at everyone he loved. This made him the best kind of friend – one always there in crisis, with the authenticity to tell when it was time to stop singing the “Big Railroad Blues.”

Todd was a huge Grateful Dead fan and a socially conscious, fun-loving hippie aesthetic infused everything he did. I’ll never know for certain but I think he found my own existential struggles toward inner peace amusing. I’ve made progress but you can’t wash the Type A out of a girl entirely. When my friend felt in need of a red-faced, arm-waving, outside voice volume rant (say, when Mitt Romney made his infamous “47 percent” remarks), he knew where to turn. And though we were temperamentally different, we loved each other symmetrically.

My pal died just a few hours after we enjoyed soft pretzels and cider at a neighborhood German pub. He was feeling great: excited for a boatload of summer plans he’d made, philosophical about a recent breakup and ready for whatever came next (as always). We exchanged affectionate hugs and as we parted, I thought about how glad I was that I was in a place to do more of the emotional work in our friendship. Although Todd carried me over the starting line, over time we walked hand in hand. Once in a while he even did the leaning.

Todd was buried in his home state of New Jersey last weekend. On Saturday June 18, Chicago friends and family will have their chance to gather and celebrate his life. Todd was a super connector, fond of introducing people he loved to one another. As a result, perhaps one of his final gifts, I’m not alone in grief.

But we won’t argue about Hillary Clinton’s candidacy. Ever. And I hate it.

Remember to Let Him Into Your Heart

Becky Sarwate2 Comments

Jude

In February, Bob and I were dealt a cruel karmic slap with the loss of two of our three pets in just a few weeks. The concurrent deaths of Dino, the 16 year-old fluffy kitty and Meko, 80 pounds of Rottweiler warrior princess, ripped a hole through our home and our hearts. Wounds from which we’re still recovering.

I can admit now, with some degree of shame, that my own grief had a few additional layers. I’m a caretaker at heart. And Dino and Meko were notoriously needy – Deans with his numerous food and body temperature issues, Meeks destroying the kitchen, bathroom and/or laundry room at the first hint of a thunder storm. She was also truculent at best with other dogs, her attitude not affected whatsoever by the arthritic hips that made her unlikely to win a fight. She just didn’t give a shit. I miss my girl.

The dual loss of those two complex fur babies left a pragmatic vacuum in my world. On his worst day, Bob is more capable than most people. He’s the one who makes things work and keeps them running. In return I silently move the empty beer bottles to the recycling bin and clean the lint trap in the dryer. And while I always loved all three of our pets equally, it took a long time to discover what use, if any, Jude had for me. Bob and the cuddly, drooly Australian shepherd have been together for eight years. They have their routines and language. Bob, the standard bearer for reserve, shoots beams of puppy love from his inner core directly at Jude. It’s the warmest, most adorable light. But it was hard at that time not to feel like an interloper, an intruder into a perfect dynamic.

These feelings became increasingly painful as I struggled with newfound time – time no longer spent cajoling Dino to eat more or playing defense between Meko and every other canine walking the neighborhood. I resented Jude for the change. Throughout his own mourning process, Bob moved closer to Jude, with the confused, lonely dog reciprocating. And I was bitter. I missed my babies and the only one left had a perfect union with my partner from which I felt estranged. Why was he the one that lived?

With the benefit of time and perspective, it’s horrifying to confront the shape into which I allowed grief to contort me, however temporarily. After several weeks of uneven sleep and a waking gnashing of teeth, a simple idea occurred. Perhaps I could actually try getting to know Jude. True we’d been living together in the same menagerie for eight months, but I suddenly saw that I never gave him much thought. In part because of high maintenance devotion to Dino and Meko, and also yes, because of the perfect circle that Bob and Jude formed without me. If my nature is that of a caretaker, it’s also sharing space with an insidious pride. Missing love for fear of rejection.

Once I realized it was stubborn foolishness preventing a closer relationship with Jude, I made an effort to be more hands-on. Yes, he and Bob have their routines but we can have our own. I concede that initial attempts were infused with sad wistfulness. But with dedicated repetition, Jude and I finally got acquainted. The knowledge and understanding is reciprocal. He learned that I don’t like to be leapt upon at walk and dinner times like Daddy does. I figured out that a certain high-pitched whine means a digestive bomb is about to explode. But I still have time to open the back door because Jude hates having accidents in the house. Minus the dog hair and drool, my pup can be kind of fastidious. He is every bit as complex as his siblings were. I just had to look.

There are activities in which I can engage Jude that were not possible with Dino or Meko. Like taking long walks, sometimes three or four miles weaving through the neighborhood streets that are my past, present and future. On Mother’s Day, I awoke in tears, missing my pets more acutely while indulging in an annual bout of self-pity. It’s been well-documented that my own mother’s love was withheld. But it was a beautiful Chicago day and I wanted to treat myself to a positive experience. I decided to take Jude on a trek to see the only apartment building where I remember living a happy, healthy life with my immediate family.

As we made our way to the corner of Byron and Leavitt in North Center, I saw that what had very recently been a solid, well-cared for brick edifice, was now a huge empty lot. For sale. Sun shining, 80s tunes blaring through my headphones, I wanted to sit down and weep. The positive memories of my childhood were literally a crater. But I couldn’t indulge the impulse. I had Jude with me. Instead I leaned forward on the construction fence and placed my forehead on the metal plate, as if to absorb the good times from the vacant ground by osmosis. Jude sat on my feet with his hairy warmth. It was calming. Exactly the anchor needed in an out of control moment.

Our walks are now a regular feature – my activity with Jude. We wander through parks and I let him drink water from my cupped hands. I know to avoid food wrappers and garbage cans as if they are landmines. My spoiled doggie is still a rescue pup at his core. If it has aluminum foil, he’ll eat first and ask questions later. He knows I like a brisk pace and thus he rarely pulls me toward others strolling with their own pets (though we both know he’s dying to sniff their rears). He’s not just Bob’s dog anymore. There was always room for three in the circle. I just had to let myself join.

From the Mouths of Denver Nuggets….

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

From the Mouths of Denver Nuggets

Bob and I recently returned from a much-anticipated Denver vacation, a city long on the personal list of must-sees. I took copious notes during our adventures with the expectancy of using them for this post in some form. There’s benefits to letting travel exploits steep for a while before finding a “get,” the takeaway that offers more than a short-term imprint and witty anecdote. As higher-level impressions mature, in-the-moment notes can fill in the forgotten details and give the written experience a fuller, more deliberate flavor.

So I’m finding anew. In revisiting our Rocky Mountain excursion and the annotations compiled, some of the convergence between my memory and the marginalia is surprisingly and vividly pedestrian. Sure I remember the beauty of Central Colorado’s vast, open spaces. I treasure the weeklong breach with low-carb dieting that resulted in the best cinnamon roll, bison steak and avocado toast (and here I never knew this was a thing) experiences imaginable. And I’ll never fail to recall the full feelings of contentment that accompanied relaxing with Bob each night on the hotel balcony, watching life happen in the street below our feet.

But this elucidation is the one inspiring the keystrokes, jotted on Day 3:

“Once again I’m reminded that given the choice, I prefer conversation with small children over adults. Their stories are more real, interesting and they actually care if you’re paying attention.”

The catalyst for this observation was a visit to the home of Bob’s maternal cousin and her husband, a warm and welcoming couple with trio of little urchins: three year-old Lilah, and two-month old twin boys named Jack and Hank. A most adorable party. The first trait I noticed and admired in Lilah was her wariness of strangers. It would be inaccurate to label it fear. It’s more of a side eye with an unspoken, “Impress me if you can. I’ll wait. It’s my house and I’ve got all day.” I have a lot of respect for those who come into this world with the preternatural knowledge that people are soul-crushingly boring.

Anyway Lilah’s standoffishness presented a challenge I was more than willing to accept. I started to inquire about her life, noting via her baseball coach father that she’d acted as his assistant that day. She immediately perked up and informed me:

“One of the players had one arm.”

So many questions but I didn’t want to smother the precarious momentum I was building. So I turned to dad and asked for clarification. It seems one of the young baseballers had recently broken an appendage, thus showing up to practice with “one arm.” In a reporter’s quest for facts, I reduced Lilah’s whimsical if no less accurate account to the mundane. Lesson learned and for the rest of the visit, I surrendered and went with the toddler flow. It was a good decision, for I was treated to a variety of utterances like the following:

“If you don’t want me to climb the fence, why are you standing on it?”

“You can’t walk through my house unless I say.”

“I like having my feet in the air.”

Each question and observation struck me as more progressively sensible than the one previous. The backyard fence was constructed with latticework, and Bob’s diminutive cousin was in fact standing on one of the rungs while conversing with a neighbor. The expressed unfairness of Lilah’s own forbidden climb seemed entirely rational. Likewise the aversion to having unapproved guests tromp through the home, as well highlighting the arbitrariness in demanding feet remain on the ground. By the time Bob and I prepared to say our goodbyes, Lilah had become my spiritual guru. The enlightened id.

I met a variety of engaging adults during our Southwestern travels, including members of Bob’s family and a gaggle of absolutely darling hipsters (a satire-free phrase I never thought I’d write). But it’s the assured skepticism of Lilah, so reminiscent of the sassy armor I wore at her age before the work of growing up dulled its shine, which sticks. I don’t need to be a parent or a child myself to appreciate the unvarnished, joyous truth offered by conversations with the wee. They’re my people.