My sister called to tell me to watch a film that reminded her of our father. Today I watched it. Last Chance Harvey. It was the story of a man making a transatlantic trip to his daughter's wedding to take his place as father of the bride. When he arrives, he is confronted with the reality that the festivities around her nuptial celebration are no salve for the scars that his absence mislaid on his relationship with his family.
My mother walked my sister down the isle. The following year, my father attended my college graduation from a distance as the rest of my extended family accompanied me in full entourage fashion from one ceremony to the next and so on. At that time, I had long before stopped inviting him to celebrate my milestones. But, I hadn't given up, or given P.O. [his initials] his last chance. Not until he abruptly picked up and moved back home, leaving his third wife and another daughter behind.
This installment of Datin' is an introduction to a series of September stories that helped move me past last chances in a psychoanalytic-kind-of-way -- everything and everyone has their moment.
I remember a youth leadership retreat the summer after my first year in college when a bunch of friends got together for a weekend in the mountains to reminisce about high school and dish about freshman year. On a midnight run into the nearest village for a nostalgically familiar trip to Taco Bell, my autumn beau from senior year asked me something that I have yet to hear or ask any of my more recent past lovers: "What happened to us?"
I distinctly remember articulating for the first time, confessing to the entire car--some of us children of divorce, others of single mothers, a couple with solid nuclear fusion--that my relationship with my dad had a lot to do with what happened to us. We'd spent the weekend trying to save the world, sorting out the lot of political and social themes that were defining our generation. Yet, while flirting shamelessly with "Ms. What If" and "Mr. Remember Me," this particular iteration of the concept of us is one that hadn't made it into our formal discussions and brainstorming sessions. Dealing with our personal struggles, required us to share a level of self-awareness that many of us even still have yet to reach. As for what happened to D-Nice [because he looked so much like him] and me specifically, sometimes the answer is clear, others not so much.
We had great fun together. We talked for hours about our days and nights. He was an only child; he and his mother against the world. He didn't speak much about his father; he lived somewhere in Texas. He adored and respected his mother; I admired that about him. He was one of my first deep connections; though, I'm not sure if I would call it chemical. I can barely remember him making a single move. He'd make motion, drawing me in with his intense intellectual gaze and with his deep darting eyes. The way he spoke, his activist's diction made me long for his plush lips to press mine with the controlled urgency that he used to emphasize his talking points. One. Moist. Pillowy. Touch. Alas, nary a stray hand [or lip] landed above or below my belt. As a disclaimer, I was no fast girl. My high school friends can attest to this. I was looking for a special "first" and did a fine job keeping the panties on lock. This, of course, was not so obvious to my suitors; there was no reason for D-Nice not to make some kind of move. I took it as no game and gradually stopped calling...making plans...flirting. It didn't occur to me that his absent father had anything to do with us at the time. Neither of us could connect anything about our missing male parent to our what happened story until that moment in the car. I took the first step.
I remember the words clearly: "I think I believe that men are disposable." If I was not getting what I wanted from a man, I'd just trade him for the next. Always a somewhat even exchange--which is part of the attraction and defect of these deals--but new nonetheless. The next, "September."
This is what I now describe as September's linger.
The ninth child born on the ninth day of the ninth month, that is P.O. Peter Pan was born under the same sun; so too are a string of lovers and flirtations in succession over the course of several years in my adult life. When I noticed the trend, I could not help but to ask myself why. Their names are different, their places near and far, but all of them may as well be named P.O. based on the outcome of the relationship. This particular September story, he loves me knot No. 22, aka the Whisperer, helped me get closer to why than I had gotten since the midnight run to Taco Bell.
I met him in July and thought he was handsome.
He called me in August. We met again in September.
The Whisperer was easy to talk to and we connected fairly fluidly; there was another "September" in the wings for me so slow and steady was not a problem. One winter afternoon, I got a call that placed him and me squarely in the "friends" zone. The Whisperer was going to be a father. My first response was, of course, "I didn't know you were in a relationship." And I had asked from the beginning. He loves me knot No. 1 taught me that lesson. Turns out the spring break-up came with options and the ex had a put plan that he played well into helping her to exercise. The short of the long is that they broke up because she wanted love and marriage and most urgently, a baby carriage. He didn't. At least not with her at the time. Somehow he found his way back in her bed. Et voilà. A son is born. He shared that this was difficult for him; he needed a friend. Since that is where we were anyway, that is what we remained-- until the following spring.
Somewhere along the line, the Whisperer must have decided that he wanted more with me. So he called much more often. Made plans more regularly than ever. And we became "flirting friends," the type of friendship that whispered possibility. It was perfect. I got some needed attention. He got to pick up where he left us before the call. It was fine for a while. Before brunch with the girls and via news from the grapevine, another "flirting friend" was revealed; and, the Whisperer was much more settled with is "double life" than was intimated in our interactions. I allowed him to share at will his co-parenting challenges, thinking that I had the full story. He had a complicated real estate situation that placed him in his son's mother's apartment during the week and in another state in his own home weekends [I could even verify this having visited him in his "own" place]. I probably should have guessed that there were new developments in their relationship when he started spending more weekends locally. When in our conversations, he began offering less and less about her, his son, their lives together. The grapevine revealed that he and his ex where once again in the same bed. It was easy for me to let go of possibility with him by then. His situation was far from ideal. However, the new intel didn't bother me so much as a statement he once made. I was telling him a random story and asked a question to which he answered, "Haven't you noticed that I don't ask many questions?"
This was true. He asked enough to get information and stay engaged. And ladies, there-in is the secret language of "box builders." They trade stories, not necessarily to exchange details but to own their own reality. They hear you; rarely are they listening. They round boundaries giving an illusion of shared connections. But, their technique is never completely foolproof; and trust, there are no possibilities with box builders. As we take these September journeys, I will eventually reveal how and why.
For now, the question on my mind was -- "What took me so long to figure it out?"
Show a girl you don't care and she'll chase you; show a woman you don't care and she'll replace you...
In retrospect, I was much more woman about these things way back when than I've been on occasion as a "grown-up;" I equated men not giving me what I thought I wanted with them not wanting me--not caring, like P.O. Hence, dismissed.
Conversely, the girls had a tendency to put in more work "chasing" what or whom they thought they wanted. I guess that practice made them much better off as women; many of my friends figured out long ago what they wanted and how to get it. The knowing, is what I've found is the most complicated part of my struggle. Maybe I never asked more about his intentions because I was afraid to face my flaws? Afraid to admit to myself that as clever a girl I am, the mystery of men bewildered me. With P.O. I was conditioned not to ask questions. He never managed to answer the one's that I did ask so I managed to "figure out" what I thought was the deep stuff. For some cosmic reason, it usually worked in my favor--maybe something about all those nines. But, increasingly I was failing. September's linger was the indication, and the reason finally came to me in a whisper.
Somewhere along the line, the Whisperer must have decided that he wanted more with me. So he called much more often. Made plans more regularly than ever. And we became "flirting friends," the type of friendship that whispered possibility. It was perfect. I got some needed attention. He got to pick up where he left us before the call. It was fine for a while. Before brunch with the girls and via news from the grapevine, another "flirting friend" was revealed; and, the Whisperer was much more settled with is "double life" than was intimated in our interactions. I allowed him to share at will his co-parenting challenges, thinking that I had the full story. He had a complicated real estate situation that placed him in his son's mother's apartment during the week and in another state in his own home weekends [I could even verify this having visited him in his "own" place]. I probably should have guessed that there were new developments in their relationship when he started spending more weekends locally. When in our conversations, he began offering less and less about her, his son, their lives together. The grapevine revealed that he and his ex where once again in the same bed. It was easy for me to let go of possibility with him by then. His situation was far from ideal. However, the new intel didn't bother me so much as a statement he once made. I was telling him a random story and asked a question to which he answered, "Haven't you noticed that I don't ask many questions?"
This was true. He asked enough to get information and stay engaged. And ladies, there-in is the secret language of "box builders." They trade stories, not necessarily to exchange details but to own their own reality. They hear you; rarely are they listening. They round boundaries giving an illusion of shared connections. But, their technique is never completely foolproof; and trust, there are no possibilities with box builders. As we take these September journeys, I will eventually reveal how and why.
For now, the question on my mind was -- "What took me so long to figure it out?"
Show a girl you don't care and she'll chase you; show a woman you don't care and she'll replace you...
In retrospect, I was much more woman about these things way back when than I've been on occasion as a "grown-up;" I equated men not giving me what I thought I wanted with them not wanting me--not caring, like P.O. Hence, dismissed.
Conversely, the girls had a tendency to put in more work "chasing" what or whom they thought they wanted. I guess that practice made them much better off as women; many of my friends figured out long ago what they wanted and how to get it. The knowing, is what I've found is the most complicated part of my struggle. Maybe I never asked more about his intentions because I was afraid to face my flaws? Afraid to admit to myself that as clever a girl I am, the mystery of men bewildered me. With P.O. I was conditioned not to ask questions. He never managed to answer the one's that I did ask so I managed to "figure out" what I thought was the deep stuff. For some cosmic reason, it usually worked in my favor--maybe something about all those nines. But, increasingly I was failing. September's linger was the indication, and the reason finally came to me in a whisper.
As is usually the case in the movies, Harvey's happy ending is life changing. He realizes and accepts the role that his choices played in his reality and moves to remake his life anew. P.O. and our relationship are making a transition, but I am certain that his happy ending will be checked by our collective linger until he is willing to bring himself to answer all those questions that passed us by.
As for me, I accept that come friend or foe [and in my case more than likely both], I will always make space in my heart for September's stars, moons and mystery.
Until next September...
September 2009
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