Dear Friend of a Facebook Friend
Dear Friend of a Facebook Friend:
I said I wouldn’t do it any more, but I did. I commented on a political post on Facebook and when you responded, I engaged. I knew I shouldn’t– my stomach hurt when I read your comment, and my heart raced as I typed my next question. “Why are you so angry?” You assured me you were not, called me a “typical liberal, making accusations when you don’t get your way.” You assured me you were just stating facts and told me to “keep my opinion to myself.” You called me a “snowflake,” told me to go sing “Kumbaya,” called me “sweetheart” and told me that you despised the party that I represented. Besides, you said, you were bored at work and it was “fun” bantering with me.
I should have stopped the conversation, should have stepped away to take my morning walk, should have breathed deeply and let it go. But the night before, I had watched a documentary about a Muslim woman interviewing men from the alt-right and it affected me. The men she interviewed were, by and large, lonely, sad, and sheltered. It made me wonder–in the age of rapid and world-wide communication technology, why have we stopped listening to each other? Just listening to understand, not to argue. I stopped commenting on Facebook posts months ago when I realized it is not the place for productive conversation. It is a place where people shout at each other, double down, dig in, and insult people they’ve never met. It is a place full of assumptions, with a layer of anonymity that allows people to say things they would never say face to face. That morning I wondered–if I could just engage you in conversation, would you keep insulting me? So I asked you where you work. You responded, again, with anger– you didn’t want to get to know me, sweetie, so I should stop asking “stupid questions” like where you work. Then you told me “God Bless.” Then you apologized for calling me sweetie, because you didn’t want to hurt my precious feelings again.
I apologized too and said I didn’t want to hurt your feelings either. I called you “sugar pie” and maybe that showed you that I have enough of a sense of humor that I was not melting under your “banter,” because you continued the conversation. You told me you needed a new job. You told me your son was going to the Arizona border to be a border patrol officer. You told me an officer was killed there recently by an “illegal.” You told me you weren’t worried for him– that you “couldn’t be more proud.” I said “I wish him luck.” And then I went to work.
Later in the day, I checked Facebook again to see if you had commented more and I found all my comments were gone. Your comments were gone. You were gone. I looked you up by name, and your profile was gone. Blocked, I assume. You blocked me. Which is fine. But why? Are we at such a place that my engaging with you– trying to be human with you in spite of your insulting, demeaning “banter”–scared you? Did you think I was trying to change your mind? Turn you “liberal?” Did you think I was a Russian troll?
All I can say is, it makes me sad. I know, I know….sadness is a soft, liberal “snowflake” kind of emotion. You probably think I’m weak. You will probably tell me to go back to my “safe space” and cry. I know being strong is important to you. But I truly am sad that we Americans have lost our ability to talk politely to each other. I’m sad that we have so much distrust for the “other side” that we won’t listen any more. I’m sad that a gesture of kindness is perceived as a threat.
I’m sorry that I scared you, sugar pie. God Bless.
The Way You Thought It Would Be
One piece of advice I read right after my husband died was something along the lines of “Get used to the idea that your life is not going to be the way you thought it would be.” As the years go by, I am realizing more and more how difficult that advice is to carry out. I think I’ve got it– I think I’ve accepted it–and then I find myself adjusting again, letting go of more, and thankfully, opening up to what “not the way I thought it would be” might look like.
When Anson died, I foolishly thought the next chapter of my life might be better than the previous chapter. Anson had struggled with stress, anxiety, and alcohol dependency, and we had struggled financially for 10 out of the 21 years we were married. I envisioned myself meeting a man who was financially and emotionally stable, who would make a good role model for my children and create a new, adventurous life with me filled with travel and cool adult children and grandchildren. We would get married and create a big, beautiful Brady Bunch family and take a picture every summer at our beach house on the Cape with all of us wearing blue. I wanted a new family that I could insert myself and my kids into so we could just keep cruising forward through life. After dating for a few years and having some six-month or longer relationships with a couple of men, I realized that this dream was not likely to happen. I don’t move in the same circles as men who own beach houses on the Cape. The men I do feel comfortable with come with their own challenges and problems. I had to accept the fact that my new chapter will be better in some ways, but there will always be trade-offs. As my sister once said, “it won’t be better, just different.”
It’s been six years now that I’ve been processing grief and dating. There have been years of feeling lonely, hurt, and sad, and longing for a positive, healthy, nurturing relationship to balance out the loss and pain. I’ve tried five or six online dating sites, and wow, there are some “interesting” people out there. I see my friends and relatives navigating their own relationship terrain and I realize how hard the struggles can be. “Not better, just different” has slowly morphed into “actually, it could be a lot worse.” There are men out there who have harder problems than Anson had. And there is no doubt that being single is far healthier than being in a bad relationship. My daughter works so much that it is very hard to see her, and my son has told me flat out that he doesn’t want to meet the men I date unless I’m sure it’s really serious. Maybe I won’t find a man who will create a new family with me– maybe I’ll find a man who never had kids of his own or who doesn’t earn as much money as I do and can’t afford to travel with me. Maybe I’ll travel by myself or with my sister. Maybe my future partners will be polite to my children, but that’s all. It’s not going to be the way I thought it would be.
Now my son has moved out, and it’s just me and the cat living in this four bedroom home. I so badly want to sell this house and get out of the burden of lawn mowing and shoveling. Every day, I am more tempted to just rent for a year to see what my next move will be. I have been on one coffee date in the past six months. But I have an amazing group of friends through my dance community. They are all younger than I am. Most of them are immigrants. They talk about traveling and living in other places– two years here, three years there. Maybe I’ll do that– rent an apartment, take a year off from teaching to go abroad and teach English, be a nomad for a while. Maybe I’ll have lovers and friends who are 15 years younger than me and my kids won’t even know about it. Maybe I’ll be a cool middle aged woman who’s traveled the world and been on all kinds of adventures. Maybe, if my son and daughter ever decide to have kids, I’ll be that quirky grandma who visits for a few weeks in the summer before heading off to another country to explore. Maybe someday I’ll settle back down with a head full of interesting stories to tell.
Who knows? It’s not going to be the way I thought it would be.
Every, Every Minute
Last night at a dance, a friend of mine asked me why I hadn’t been out lately. I knew I would hear this question– I had been dancing only once since February and here it is mid-May. I told him it was because I had been feeling more and more lonely at dances and after them. Of course, he couldn’t understand that feeling as dances are social events and because he is married, so he dances and then goes home with his wife of 35 years. I tried to describe the odd loneliness that comes from being single at 52, being hit on by married men or men much too young for me, and he told me I should consider it a compliment that men find me attractive. Then he said what many of my married friends have said to me: “If something happened to my spouse, I don’t think I would even bother with dating. I’d be happy to be alone.”
I said this too once, to a single friend of mine. I regret saying it now, although, at the time it felt true to me. That idea– that after 35 years of marriage he would be happy being alone– falls into the same category as “You don’t need a man,” and “Aren’t you lucky to be able to do your own thing?” Well intentioned sentiments, but they miss the mark for me.
First of all– I know there are true introverts in the world who relish their alone time. I like some alone time too. And maybe there are people in the world who truly don’t want to live with another person for the remainder of their years on earth. Could be. I’m just not one of them.
Secondly, as a person fascinated by social psychology, I know that we are social creatures. We like contact with other humans. Solitary confinement kills our souls. This is not just a matter of personal preference, this is who we are as a species. To tell someone “You don’t need a man” is true– I don’t need a man to complete me or to make me “valid” as a human being– but it ignores the basic instinct that I have as a hetereosexual woman to be in contact with a mate. I won’t pretend that I don’t have that drive.
And lastly, what bothers me about people’s well-intentioned admonitions is this: I don’t think married people understand what it means to be alone for years at a time. I don’t think people can fathom what it means to come home to an empty house day after day after day after day after day. Not just for a week or two while your spouse is away on a business trip, but day after day after day stretching out with no end in sight. In my world, the sweetest four words I can think of are “How was your day?” If I could just hear those four words every day– how rich I would be!
Last summer, my dance teacher asked me to dance with him at “Third Thursday”–a street party in our city that happens every summer. I was thrilled– not only would I get to dance on stage, but we would be promoting our new dance group and maybe inspiring people to take up salsa. There was a live band playing, and several of the people from our class danced in the streets while Alan and I danced on stage. Other women came up and danced on stage with him too, and then we all joined in a conga line and wove through the audience and around the street picking up willing spectators as we went. It was exhilarating– the band fed off of our energy and vice versa, the audience cheered for us and smiled, we had a blast and people were impressed by our skills. After the performance, people from our class stood around and talked with the members of the band and each other. Alan’s whole family was there– his wife and four of their kids, including their new baby. His aunt and uncle were visiting from Spain as well. We talked for a few minutes and then the kids started tugging on Alan’s hand and asking for food, so the whole family set off together looking for dinner. The other students from class found their significant others in the crowd and two by two, they wandered away. I found myself standing in the middle of the street alone as the next performers set up on stage. Should I walk around Third Thursday alone? I wondered. I went half a block up the street looking for a food vendor, and then felt awkward, so I turned around and went to my car. I drove home feeling a wave of loneliness building. What a blessing to have someone who you can turn to and say “How did I do?” or “Did you see that??” To hear someone say “You were awesome! You did great!” Such a simple exchange.
How many people notice those exchanges as they happen? I’m often reminded of the line from “Our Town” when Emily goes back to a normal morning from her childhood and watches her family interacting. She says to the Stage Manager: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?” He responds: “No. The saints and poets, maybe–they do some.” Well, I am definitely not a saint and I am sure I lack the patience to be a poet, but here again is one of the gifts of grief– to appreciate those small, every day exchanges and niceties that so many people miss or take for granted. To my married friends, I say this: You may not be able to help me find a partner in life, but please–at least–as a favor to me–be grateful. Realize life– and love–while you live it– every, every minute.
Husband Stealer
I have a vivid memory from the year right after Anson died. I was returning home from a trip, riding in the airport shuttle back to long-term parking. The man next to me was leafing through a folder of papers with the Duke University logo at the top. My brother-in-law had recently started teaching at Duke, so I asked my seat mate if he worked there. “No,” he said, “I’m writing a proposal for them for my business. We moved down to Durham a few years ago. We really like it, my whole family. We had been in New England for years, and it’s nice and warm down there.”
After a few pleasantries, our conversation ended–typical traveler talk. But what struck me and stays with me was the repetition of “we” so clearly and almost awkwardly. It’s a conversation I think of often as I try to decipher the responses of men I interact with. It’s as if, when a man sees a woman without a wedding ring, alarm bells go off and they become deer in the headlights.
In one of my favorite documentaries, “The Science of Sex Appeal,” psychologist Martie Haselton refers to studies showing that men tend to overestimate women’s interest in them, unconsciously trying to avoid a missed mating opportunity. Understanding this evoltionary tendency is all well and good intellectually, but the real-time effect of this behavior is…..bewildering, at best, and downright hurtful at worst.
On the bewildering side, there is the young man who posted a picture of a cougar on his Facebook news feed after I complimented his sense of humor. Seriously? Did he honestly think that one compliment was a sign of my desire to ravage him with my deadly claws?
On the hurtful side, there is just the unending feeling of loneliness that comes from striking up a conversation with an adult male and having the “we” shield thrown up immediately. Or the completely out of context comments about how lucky they are to be married to such a wonderful woman. Then there is the response of women, who seem to think that any conversation with their husband is a sign that I’m going to break apart their marriage. I am not that woman. Why do I need to say that so often? There are men out there who want to cheat– trust me, I’ve met my fair share. I wish all of the married men who have propositioned me could testify publically to my refusal to be that woman.
Widows are human, and as humans, we need social contact. We need to talk to people– male and female. We also need to know we are still attractive. And we are capable of limiting it to just that– just the acknowledgement that we are still interesting to other people. Relax, ladies and gentlemen. I’m not a husband stealer.
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