Love Comes Full Circle

In a few short hours, my beautiful daughter Julie will marry the love of her life in St Lucia. I wish I could be by her side, to help her into her dress, fasten her necklace, tell her how stunning she looks, hold her close, and then walk proudly with her to Frank, the man she’s always wanted to call her husband. Instead, I will gather with two of my closest friends around an ipad at 2 p.m. where we will join her via FaceTime to witness the ceremony. And for that, I am grateful.

Their story began 25 years ago on a residential street in Queens and as with many love stories that come full circle, it is a sweet one to tell even though there were parts along the way that were definitely not ‘sweet.’ The protective mother in me was more than relieved when Frank graduated high school at the end of her sophomore year and their often stormy courtship came to an end. Seemingly, the only residue from that time was on her wooden bed frame, where she had practiced writing her first name combined with his last name over and over again. Julie Wagner. 

Julie always wanted to be in a relationship. It was of primary importance to her. I used to marvel, silently of course, how she was able to pick herself up when a relationship didn’t work out, tend to her wounds and move on – her psyche seemingly undamaged. This was an area where she and I were very different – I, who fled, terrified, from intimate relationships, was astounded by the relationship resiliency of my little girl. 

Over the years, many young men (and I guess some older ones too) fell in love with my Jule. Of course they did. She is smart and funny, pretty and motivated, kind and generous. She could have married some of them, in fact, almost did marry one of them. I have the cancelled deposit checks to prove it. But something was never quite right. She just couldn’t bring herself to say, “I do.” She knew in her heart that it would be a mistake. And I admire her for having the courage to walk away from some of the guys who were crazy about her. (A couple might actually have been really crazy.) 

Jule and I would joke with each other about the fact that she wished she could take elements of the various guys in her life and put them together to make the perfect one. Elements like this one’s sense of style, that one’s self-confidence, another one’s work ethic, still another’s kind acceptance of her…… Frank’s name would come up during these conversations too. She would say, wistfully, “Of course, I’ll always love Frank.” He hovered around the edge. Always. They were in touch. Occasionally. She’d tell me it was his birthday, or that she’d gotten a text from him on her birthday. Or if they were still together it would be their 7th or 12th or 15th anniversary of their first date. He may not have been officially in the picture, but he was always in her peripheral vision. I did not really take it seriously – their relationship had been quintessential adolescent drama as far as I was concerned.

I knew he was married. Knew he had a child. As I said – he did surface now and again. But then one day, Jule mentioned to me he had called her – something he wanted her opinion about related to a job offer. He was divorced. I was suspicious. Alarmed, even. I told myself, calm down – it’s just a phone call. He had a way of disappearing, and surely he’d disappear again. She called me again. He’d invited her to spend the weekend at his family’s summer place upstate. She was going. My heart stopped. This was serious. Twenty-five years ago, she had longed for such an invitation, and now it was being extended. I kept my tone light, “Have fun, love.” Inside I was fuming, “WHAT is she DOING??” 

The weekend at the summer place was from all reports, magical. I could hear it in her voice – see it in her face. I wanted to shake her. “Jule,” I remember saying, trying to keep my voice even -- “When we had all those talks about the elements of the guys that would go into the perfect man, WHICH PART WAS FRANK??? Where was he in that equation?” I was desperate to protect her. She is my best friend. My munchkin. My Jewel. I love her fiercely. 

She didn’t answer me right away. But a day or so later, she came to me and said she had an answer to my question –“It’s the way he makes me feel, mom. It’s how I feel when I am with him.” 

I couldn’t argue with that. In that moment I understood what had kept her from falling in love with any of the others. Frank was the one she wanted all along. In her heart she knew that. Nobody could compete with him. All those elements that had gone into our collective fantasy of the perfect man -- that self-confident left arm of someone, the sense of style on the right leg of another… they didn’t matter at all. The fantasy man (or lack thereof) had kept her safe and single, waiting for Frank to come to his senses. 

I was in the car with her – the place where we have some of our best conversations – when she told me that she was done – done with her search for Mr. Right. Done with the “find your right partner” handbook. Done with the memberships to ‘eharmony’ - done with speed dating. 

It’s been not quite three years since that fate changing weekend upstate. There was a lot of work to be done. Adolescent air to be cleared. Years of on-again, off-again contact to be sorted through. One cynical mother to be convinced. 

At a recent family dinner celebrating this soon-to-be union, I told him that he’d won me over, that I support her choice in marrying him. I’ve never seen her happier, or more content. I love how she looks at him and how he gazes back at her. He truly puts the sparkle in my Jule. Julie Wagner, that is. The circle completed.

Exposed: Being Seen and Heard

I feel all alone in the middle of my aunt and uncle’s living room. There are a lot of big people in the room, all related to me, but I don’t really know most of them. It is my fourth birthday. I have been given a gift – a large rag doll almost my size with elastic on her feet designed to be pulled over my shoes. Someone commands me to put the doll’s feet on mine. Another command follows, “Come on, dance with her.” What do I do? There is no music and all these people are watching me. I don’t know what to do or how to be. But they are expecting me to perform. Please God who I still believe in, let this moment end. I do not want to be watched.

My fourth grade teacher brings a new machine to our classroom. It is a tape recorder. She commands each of us to speak into the machine as we read a passage in our readers. She plays the tape back for everyone to hear. I nearly die of embarrassment. I hate the sound of my voice and don’t quite believe that it is me. It does not make the same sound as it does to my ears.

I do not want to be heard.  

I sit in 7^th grade social studies and pray for invisibility so I will not become a target. There are already two targets in my class, a boy named Bruce, a girl named Cindy. They have done nothing to deserve all the fun made at their expense by some of the boys in my class. Looking around at everyone else, I calculate that on the misfit scale, I would probably be the next one at whom they’d take aim. I shrink in my seat and bend over my text book looking down.

I do not want to be noticed.

I sit in my 11^th grade English class and listen as my classmates talk and laugh about the party Saturday night at George’s house – to which I was not invited. I tell myself I don’t care, I wouldn’t have gone anyway. I wouldn’t have known how to be with them. They talk over me, ignoring me, not unkindly, just not anything.  I wonder if I have achieved the invisibility for which I have prayed from the God I now doubt.

I sit in a women’s group in my early twenties and find it hard to take my turn. When the timer rings (so no one hogs all the time, as some might) and our charismatic leader with piercing eyes turns her attention to me and commands that I pound a pillow and emote, the real me vacates the premises, leaving the play actor behind to perform on demand.   

There are many similar stories. I recall them with sadness and sometimes detachment, sometimes curiosity. But as my daughter and others of her generation might say, “It is what it is.” Or was what it was.  I know that these tiny events (and they are tiny in the grand scheme) have defined me in ways that are difficult to escape. I am who I am despite multi-year efforts to change that.

Writing from the heart is the epitome of exposure and an act of courage (or foolishness) for someone who aimed emotionally for invisibility and silence for years. I never press “post” without wondering if I’ve said too much or been too honest. I feel pleased when my words resonate with others and am grateful to those who respond from their own hearts and share their experiences. In those moments, I feel connected, heard, and visible in ways that are tolerable and pleasant.  

I emailed a few blog entries to a relative around Christmas. I handpicked some that I thought she might particularly enjoy – reflections about the holidays, an entry about my brother. Nothing that I thought would kindle any fires. So I didn’t see the meteor coming when she wrote me that she doesn’t understand why I don’t write about another relative who “loved you [me] so much, maybe too much.” I started to tremble with something approaching rage. The message I sent back was clear and direct. Do not tell me what or who I should write about. I don’t write to meet your needs. 

                             

Put another way, I will no longer dance because someone has commanded me to dance.

                            

I snail mailed some entries to an elderly friend I’ve known for over forty years. When I was 16, she used to read my adolescent attempts at poetry. She is always interested in knowing what I’m doing so I thought she might enjoy reading some of my current efforts. We used to be quite close but in recent years I’ve kept my distance. I grew up with her pointing out every discrepancy she found in what I had to say.  Even as an adult, she’ll remind me of something I said or thought when I was 19 and demands that I justify any changes in my viewpoint. Frankly, I often just don’t have the emotional strength to endure her questioning. The other day I received a telephone message from her. She’d read my work, some entries two and three times. She loved my writing. So far, so good. But then she said she’d like me to call her back. She wanted me to talk to her about some of the things I’d written.  “When you’re ready,” she said. That sounded ominous. Rewind.  “When you’re ready.”  Every danger antennae in me went on high alert.  My emotional brakes engaged. If she wants to share her story with me, relative to something I’ve written, great, I thought, wonderful. That’s what this is all about.

But I will no longer speak because someone has commanded me to speak.