Prince of a Man

Kennith Hayes Coates.  A name most of you have never heard.   His siblings called him K.H.; his wife called him Ken and I called him Granddaddy.  He was a prince of a man.

He was a quiet, reserved man.  Not much of a talker.  He was one of the kindest men to ever walk this earth.  He was a man of high integrity, compassion and intelligence.  He valued order over chaos; peace over strife; love over hate and truth over deceit.  He was cut from the same cloth as Atticus Finch.

I have thought a great deal about him lately.  His 107 birthday would have been this past week.

He enjoyed smoking pipes.  He always smelled of sweet tobacco and peppermint.  He had a collection of pipes which he proudly displayed.  Different pipes for different moods.  Some were ornate, some were carved, and some were plain.  They were displayed in a round wooden carousel on the coffee table in their small living room.  It is funny, I think he enjoyed sitting in his favorite recliner simply holding his lit pipe more than he did actually smoking it.

He enjoyed fishing, specifically bass fishing.  He did not own a boat, but that did not slow him down.  He would stand on the bank of a lake for hours, casting, then reeling … casting, then reeling.  He had the patience of Job.  He would wear a straw hat, Bermuda shorts, collared shirt, dark mid-calf socks and lace-up loafers.  Not the most GQ of apparel, but very practical and perfectly my Granddaddy.  He never once came home empty handled.  Today he might be called a fish whisperer.

He taught me to fish. For me, it was a hit or miss proposition.  But anytime I caught a fish he would beam with pride.  Regardless of the size of the fish, if I caught it, it was the “best” fish in the batch and would always be the fish that tasted the best at supper.

He enjoyed gardening.  Every year he had a vegetable garden.  He grew okra, tomatoes, green beans, eggplant and squash.  He always wore coveralls when he worked in the garden.  I am not sure why, but if he walked through the house with coveralls on I knew he was going out to “tend” the garden.    The vegetables he grew were delicious.  I was well into elementary school before I understood vegetables could be purchased at a grocery store.  I thought everybody had a “vegetable patch”.

The only thing my Granddaddy ever financed was the family home.  He paid cash for everything else.  He did not see the wisdom in purchasing things on credit that would not increase in value.  He taught me everything I know about finances.    He believed one measure of a man was not only how well he could provide for his children, but for his grandchildren.  I, at times, have made the mistake of not following his financial advice; which I always regretted later.

He was not a huge sports fan, but he was a faithful follower of the Atlanta Braves and the Dallas Cowboys.  Which was not surprising since they were both considered “America’s” team at the time.  One of my memories is watching the Cowboys play Sunday afternoon football.  I can remember we would look as the scores of other games were posted and we would talk about how mathematically those scores could have been made.  Touchdown, extra point, two-point conversion, field goal, safety.  Whoever came up with the most possible combinations would win.  It was great fun.  I looked forward to every Sunday.

He was a church deacon.  I remember going with him to the church many, many Saturday nights as he prepared communion for the next morning.  There was a kitchen in the basement of the church. He would carefully pour Welch grape juice into the tiny communion cups and put them in the large refrigerator in the kitchen.  The next morning he would arrive at the church early and place the cups in the holders around the altar and cover the altar with a solid white cloth.  The congregation would go to the altar in small groups, kneeling and taking a cup of juice and a communion wafer.  I remember being fascinated by this whole event.  At the time I did not understand exactly what it represented, but I did understand it was special due to the care with which my Granddaddy prepared it.

He had a tiny work space off the one car garage of their home.  He kept this space impeccably neat and orderly.  He used re-purposed clear baby food jars for storage of his screw and nails.  The lids of the jars were nailed to boards that were mounted on the wall.  To access the contents of the jar you unscrewed the jar, took what you needed then re-screwed the jar to the lid.  Every screw driver, hammer, wrench, and plier had a specific place and could always be found in its place.  His lawnmower, as well as every shovel and yard tool, was thoroughly washed after each usage and always looked brand new.

He always had a pocket knife in his possession.  He used it for a multitude of things.  He would cut fishing line, tighten loose screws and open packages.  But most frequently he would use it to cut a slice off an apple and eat it.  I never saw him eat an apple any other way. I am fortunate to still have that pocket knife.

He loved Tabasco.  He made sure there was always a bottle on the table.  I remember how tickled he was when I found miniature bottles of Tabasco.  He thought it was grand he would be able to take Tabasco with him when he traveled or went to a restaurant.

He worked for one of the largest refined petroleum products pipelines in the United States. He retired after 40 years and was given a gold watch.  I remember him receiving the gold watch and the look on his face.  He had a look of pride in a job well done.  Afterwards the watch was displayed on his dresser.  From time to time I would see him pick it up, look at it, holding it gently in his hands.  I often wondered what he thought in those moments.

The only point of contention I can remember between he and my grandmother was he would drink one beer every work night before bed.  He would be in his pajamas, with his back against the sink and I would hear “pop”.  He always kept the light off and drank a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.  I later learned my Grandmother had demanded he drink in the dark, so I would not “see” him drinking a beer.  When he retired, this practice stopped.  To my knowledge he never drank another beer, to the incredible relief of my Grandmother.

I was 28 years old when my Granddaddy died.  I remember taking some of his clothing and putting them in several  Ziplock bags, trying to save his smell.  It was effective in the short-term.  Often when having a bad day or needing advice in a particular situation I would take one of those Ziplock bags, slowly open it and take a deep breath.  Once my brain recognized that familiar smell, a sense of peace would come over me.

Kennith Hayes Coates was a prince of a man and my knight in shining armor.  Maybe I will get his pocket knife out and eat an apple in his honor.

 

 

Enough

When I was young, before the age of 5.  When life was simple.  I spent a great deal of time with my maternal grandparents.   They lived roughly 100 miles from my parent’s home.  I would go to their home for months at a time.  About 4 times a year, my grandparents and I would travel to my parents home.  I would beg to go back with my grandparents to their home after each trip.  Sometimes that wish was granted, sometimes not.

One absolute overwhelming trait of my maternal grandparents was their consistency.  They were consistent in behaviors, reactions, responses, beliefs, love, and compassion.  They were extremely faithful and loyal people.  They were faithful and loyal to each other, their friends and to me.  They were faithful and loyal when it was convenient and when it was not.

I always felt safe with them.  Something about their mere presence made me know that everything would be okay.  With them everything was predictably calm, steady, loving and unflappable.  Both of my maternal grandparents were incredibly dependable people.  Their moods and personalities were stable.  Their actions and reactions were reasonable and proper.  In all the years I knew and loved them, they never once flew off the handle or displayed an ill-chosen response or reaction to a situation or behavior of another.  Likewise, I never observed them raise their voices or speak harsh or demeaning words about anyone.

My grandparents gave me many of my “first” experiences.  They were the first people to love me.  They were the first people I loved.  They introduced me to God, Sunday school and church. They acquainted me with Disney, fairy tales, fishing, Carol Burnett, Lucille Ball, Lawrence Welk, Hee Haw, music, letters, numbers, colors, jump rope, jacks, and gardening.  But more than anything they taught me about human decency.  They often cleaned up, generally during the holidays, the collateral damage of family disagreements and feuds.  Countless times I saw them be kind to folks who were not kind to them.

Without fail, they showed a united front in every situation.  They may have disagreed behind closed doors, but you would never know it.  The loved purely without condition, they supported without descent, they sacrificed without complaint, and they encouraged without reservation.

I cannot over emphasize the vital role the time I spent with them played in who I am today.  Their home was a polar opposite of the home of my parents.  While my parents showed me what I did not want my life to be, my maternal grandparents set an example I longed to adopt.  I did not know it then, but looking back I now clearly see their example was one of sacred authenticity.  They were true to God, to each other and to themselves and concerned themselves very little with anything else.  They each valued the happiness of the other more than their own.

It is their example I strive for in my marriage, my home and my relationships.  I am sad to say I often fail miserably, but they taught me that even in failing I am loved.  It is in that love that I find the strength to get up, dust myself off, accept responsibility and try again after each failure.

They have been gone for decades and I miss them more than I can say.  Some days my heart still aches for the warmth, kindness and unique way they had of making me feel special.  I often wonder what they would think of the path I have taken in adulthood.  Would they be proud of me?  What advice would they give me?

Fortunately, I have found if I sit very quiet and listen intently, I still can hear something my maternal grandmother said to me during our last conversation … “Sugar-foot, angel-baby … you are the most precious thing in the world to me … I love you and nothing will ever change that” … and it is enough.  Enough.

Blame Game

Life is filled with questions.  One of the most pressing questions is why do bad things happen to good people?  Why is it that seemingly good people at times cannot catch a break?  Why do hurricanes, flooding and wild fires cause so much damage?  Why do children die?  Why do car wrecks, cancer, murder, famine and a million other unexplainable and horrific things happen?

Humans have a deep desire to want to blame unfortunate situations on someone or something.    I think in part, because if something can be explained in some way there is hope it can be prevented from happening to them. Blame often gives a false sense of control over situations.

People, both religious and not, tend to throw a lot of blame at God.  God caused this to happen.  God allowed this to happen.  God could have stopped this from happening.  God could fix this if He just would.  God this.  God that.  Truthfully, from time to time I have found myself searching for answers in difficult times and yes at times, I have tried throwing God under the bus.

My family and I have had more than our share of bumpy roads and curve balls over the past six years.  We have had 2 cancer diagnosis; 16 surgeries, with number 17 right around the corner; radiation; chemotherapy; 4 family members die; 3 friends die; 2 pets die; 1 pet killed; 1 chronically ill pet; we have been significantly betrayed on two different occasions by people we deeply trusted; totaled a vehicle; moved twice; been unemployed; experienced family estrangement, had two different family members move in and live with us; had a vehicle broken into; had $8,000 stolen; been falsely accused and had our character attacked; and battled suicide.  During this time period, we have had some people come right out and ask, and I am sure even more think, what my family is doing wrong that would put us in a place to experience all these stressors and losses.

I think consideration should be given to re-writing the narrative of the question.  As humans we often ask “why me” … when difficult, heartbreaking things happen in our lives.  When the question should be what is so extraordinary about me that I should be exempt from these things?  Or in essence, “why not me”.

The truth is bad things, sad things, hurtful things, happen to people because life is messy, life is hard and life is often unfair.  Generally speaking, bad things do not befall people because they are doing something wrong.  Nor is God sitting in heaven zapping people with tragedy because He is disappointed in them or trying to get their attention.

It has been my experience, tragedies rarely have any explanation, much less a reasonable one.   Why does one person survive cancer while another does not; why does one child die while another thrives; why does one marriage survive while another couple divorces; why can one couple readily get pregnant and another struggles with infertility; why are some families estranged and others are not?  The questions are infinite and the answers are elusive.

One of the hardest things in life is desperately wanting answers when there are none.  Sometimes, I believe the best we can do is try to find meaning in or lessons through the heartache.

 

 

 

Living Through Suicide

A 1978 study by Dr. Richard Seiden from the University of California, Berkeley showed that people who were stopped from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge rarely went on to die by suicide.  He studied what happened to 515 people who went to the Golden Gate Bridge to die, but who were stopped by California Highway Patrol Officers.  Of the 515 people whose attempt was interrupted, only 35 later died by suicide in future years.

A year after my brush with suicide, which you can read about here, I have found Dr. Seiden’s evidence suggesting a suicidal crisis is very often temporary, is spot on.  As I look back over the last 12-months, I cannot say life has always worked out as I hoped.  But I can say I have worked hard and am still working to develop healthy coping skills.

Living through suicide looks different for everyone.  For me, looking back over the past year I am grateful for life, even the bad days.  In retrospect, it is sobering to me what I would have missed had I died this time last year.  Small things like beautiful sunsets, delicious cups of coffee, watching my favorite teams win sporting events, feeling a cool breeze on my skin, hearing a baby laugh, experiencing my dogs being sweet, hugs from loved ones, long walks, bike rides, Sunday afternoon naps, garden fresh vegetables, and rainbows after a thunderstorm.

I would have missed laughing with friends, conversations with my wife, connections with other humans, music, movies, art, theater, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, butterflies, birds, flowers blooming, the smell of cut grass, ice cream, Mexican food, soaking in a tub, candles, puppies, sunshine on my face, Spring rains, and good books.

I would have given up the chance to give and receive love, comfort grieving family and friends, encourage those whom are struggling, pray for those in need, or support those being challenged.  I would have lost the ability to be a loving wife, friend, or family member.

Most significant to me, I would have not been here to walk with my wife through her rectal cancer diagnosis and treatment.  I would not have been here to go with her to doctor appointments, radiation, surgery and all the other million things that go with cancer.  I would not have been here to try to make her laugh when she is afraid, sad or in pain or assure her she will make it through this battle and come out the other side.  I would have not been here to tell her how proud I am of her, how much I believe in her, or how much I love her.  I would have missed the chance to support her, love her and to make this arduous journey less grueling.  In essence, I would have missed the greatest honor of my life.

At this time last year, suicide seemed like not only a rational option, but the only option, for ending a period of tremendous pain.  With dozens of small acts, important people in my life helped me make it through that pain and directed me to resources to aid me in learning new, more effective, life-giving coping skills.  I am so grateful to every one of them.

It does get better and life now in some ways is sweeter than it has ever been.

 

 

We The People

I have strong feelings about politics and vote regularly, but generally relegate my political conversations to close friends.  I believe everyone is entitled to their opinion.  I believe voting is a responsibility and a privilege.  I was a registered Republican for 38 years.  I changed to Independent during the 2016 presidential campaign.  While I was never one to vote solely along party lines, I have voted Republican more often than not.  Often, as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I found myself casting a vote for a candidate that would not benefit me personally, but if I felt the candidate was the best for the city, State or Nation I voted for them in spite of personal concerns.   I give this back story and disclaimer because undoubtedly some folks will try to categorize me as a liberal, bleeding heart, Democrat.

I am not a bleeding heart.  I am not a Democrat.  I believe God created every human in His image.  Subsequently, no human should experience tyranny, inequality, inequity and oppression.  If that makes me a liberal, then I will gladly wear the label.

Which brings me to what is on my heart.  The problems we are seeing in our country today … The division.  The bitterness.  The cruelty.  The partisanship.  The hatefulness. The loss of civility.  All of it … is not a Republican problem, it is not a Democrat problem. It is a WE THE PEOPLE problem.

WE THE PEOPLE, myself included, have been comfortable in our homes and lives and have allowed it to come to this.  We have allowed the power of our representatives to go unchecked for decades.  We have consistently turned a deaf ear as things became more uncivil and more outlandish and are now surprised at the venom being spewed by our so-called leaders.

WE THE PEOPLE let the Tea Party say outrageous things and did NOTHING.  We did not call them on their behavior when they tried to replace the constitution with the Bible.  As a Christian, I have a high opinion of and respect for the Bible.  As a Christian, my political beliefs are formed by my faith.  However, the Bible is not the law of the land.  Let me give an example … Murder is against the law, and rightly so.  However, it is not against the law because it is a SIN or is one of the 10 commandments; it is against the law because it is against the civil rights of another’s pursuit of life.  Just because something is legal, does not make it right or moral.  Conversely, because something is right or moral does not make it legal.   Further, the Bible is not the basis for the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence or the Bill of Rights.  In fact, contrary to popular belief, most signees of the Declaration of Independence were not Christian.

WE THE PEOPLE allowed a Republican Congress and Senate to be obstructionist for the 8 years President Obama (whom I did not vote for either time) was in office.  We allowed our representatives to vote NO time and time again, simply because a Democratic President thought something was a good idea.  EIGHT YEARS we let this go on.  During that time, anything that was accomplished in this country was done so in spite of us, not because of us.  Once again WE THE PEOPLE let power go unchecked and we let representatives give themselves pay raises, without raising the minimum wage.  We allowed our representative to vote down equal pay for women holding the same job as their male counterparts.   All the while consistently raising the debt ceiling because there was not a balanced budget.  Our representatives were not doing their jobs and we continued to vote them in office, when we should have fired them.

WE THE PEOPLE have not pressed our representatives to have a balanced budget in 17 years.  SEVENTEEN YEARS!  The last time this country had a balance budget was 2001; when Bill Clinton was President, and Republicans controlled Congress.

WE THE PEOPLE allowed our representatives to refuse to consider a perfectly qualified, moderate nominee for the SCOTUS for 10-months, simply because he was nominated by a Democratic President.  We allowed our representative to refuse to do their job for 10-months and continued to not only pay them, but vote them back into office.

WE THE PEOPLE allowed the murder of 20 first graders at Sandy Hook without a single change in gun laws.  We did not force our representatives to do anything, other than send thoughts and prayers, in response to twenty 6 and 7 year olds being terrified and slaughtered while at school.

WE THE PEOPLE did not press our representatives into action when 9 people were violently murdered inside a church in Charleston while attending a Bible study.

WE THE PEOPLE have continued to vote for representatives who have allowed our nation to sink into a staggering new all-time high debt topping $21 trillion in 2018.

WE THE PEOPLE have allowed our representatives to constantly kowtow to a president who has mocked disabled people, veterans, gold star families, sexual assault survivors, war heroes, and countless others.

WE THE PEOPLE have allowed apathy to become the rule of the day.  Sadly, it is not unusual for 40% to 50% of registered voters to stay home on election-day.  Bad officials are elected by good people who do not vote.

WE THE PEOPLE need to get our heads out of the sand and collectively consolidate our feces before our democracy becomes an oligarchy.

As my friend Amy Courts (@AmyCourts) said … “It’s worth remembering that America has always been sick, we’ve never been well; we’ve always been genocidal, we’ve never been equitable or just.

The progress the Right fears was made via the 13th and 19th amendments, the CRA and VRA  … well, what little was accomplished was summarily and meticulously squashed by Nixon and Reagan, by the Tea Party and Trumpublicans.

There is nothing new under the sun, and yet we’re nevertheless better off.

WE ARE STILL HERE.

WE ARE STILL FIGHTING.

Look to women who fought for my right to vote and have never wasted their voice, regardless of the men who silenced them. Look to Queer leaders who gave their lives for the right to simply exist.

Look to Indigenous Nations who’ve survived genocide by violence, displacement, and cultural erasure and endure still to claim their space and protect our Mother; and to Black Americans who’ve survived slavery and Jim Crow and mass incarceration to be the most educated, creative, and revolutionary thought leaders among us.

The glory is not in the winning but in choosing to build and rebuild every time they bulldoze.

We do the work not because it will ever be done but because the WORK IS INHERENTLY WORTH DOING.

Take heart.

Keep lamps lit.

Burn it all down #ToAshes, be warmed by the flames.

And keep building.”

May it be so …

Pink

Today is October 1st; the first day of Breast Cancer Awareness month.  The day when pink becomes the color of the day.  I remember each October I would walk in honor of a loved one battling breast cancer or in memory of a loved one who had died from breast cancer.  It seemed like breast cancer surrounded me, but was always one degree or more away from me.  Until it wasn’t.

In September 2013 I had a routine OBGYN women’s wellness visit.  I completed the visit with the annual mammogram, we all hate to experience.  Two weeks later I received a call about abnormalities in my mammogram.  This had happened to me multiple times before and without giving it any thought, I went in for the standard “second look”.  Afterwards I was scheduled for a more detailed 3-D mammogram as a precautionary measure.  I remember sitting in the waiting room and telling my wife everything would be fine as long as the radiologist does not want to see me.  About that time, I was called back to see the radiologist.  Damn it.

The radiologist showed me the images and pointed out several suspicious abnormalities and she recommended I see a breast specialist.  I agreed and the referral was made.  Later that same week I was in the breast specialist office and he agreed it looked suspicious and scheduled me for a biopsy, which was scheduled for the following week.

The biopsy table was like nothing I had ever seen.  It was elevated and had a hole for the breast to hang down through and the doctor sat in a chair underneath and with the help of x-ray technology began to take pieces of tissue from the suspicious areas.  At a later appointment I went back to have small metal markers inserted near the places the biopsies were taken.  Marked in the event this particular area was questioned in the future.

At 8:02am on Monday, October 21, 2013 my phone rang as I was getting ready for work.  It was the doctor.  I will never forget him saying “its breast cancer and I need you in my office at 3:30pm this afternoon.  Can you arrange that?”  I stumbled around and said “sure”.

My wife came into the bedroom and looked at me anxiously waiting for me to fill her in on what the doctor had said, which I did.  She stood in front of me with tears in her eyes and said “we are going to be sad about this today and then we are going to get up and fight.”  I agreed.  Not knowing what else to do, we finished dressing and went into the office.

At 3:30pm we arrived at the doctor’s office and he explained the “process” saying the first step would be a surgery to remove the sentinel lymph node for testing, to decide if there was any lymph node involvement.  Explaining that if lymph nodes were involved it had to pass through the sentinel lymph node first.  As it stood, I had two malignancies, both of which were relatively small, with other suspicious areas which had not been tested.  This was complicated by the fact one malignancy was on the chest wall.  With the malignancies being located so far apart a lumpectomy was not possible, so we decided then and there it would be a double mastectomy.  One as treatment and the second as a prophylactic measure.

The slew of doctor appointments began; the hematologist, the radiologist and the plastic surgeon.  I was very fortunate, my team of doctors are rock stars.  I was further fortunate to have personal health insurance that covered everything, since my deductible had been met earlier in the year.

December 10, 2013 was the first surgery, which was the sentinel lymph node removal.  Fortunately, the lymph node came back clear of any malignancies, which confirmed no spread of the cancer outside of the breast area.

December 17, 2013 was the date set for the double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction, a surgery which lasted 15 hours. In a DIEP flap reconstruction my tissue was used to reconstruct the breasts area after amputation.   I can remember arriving at the hospital and being in a mental fog of sorts. I was simply putting one foot in front of the other, smiling and saying everything is going to be just fine.  But deep inside I secretly wondered how different life would be post-surgery.  I stayed in the hospital 4 days and came home to begin the recovery process, as well as the very different post-surgery life.

The tumors removed during the mastectomy showed my diagnosis to be multiple invasive ductal carcinoma, stage 1 grade 2.  The type of tumor was estrogen positive.

In an effort to help myself be comfortable with my wife seeing my new body, which by this time had four and half feet of scars on it, I asked her to aid with bandage changes, emptying the drains from surgery, etc.  She readily agreed, for which I was thankful.  In my mind if she could love me when I was covered with wounds, stitches, blood and drains, certainly she could love my healed, scarred and very different body.

As the New Year arrived, I was still under the care of home health, with surgical drains and wound dressing changes twice a day.  There were binders for DIEP flap protection and surgical bras for drain and swelling fortification.  I was reporting to the plastic surgeon weekly for progress checks.

In one breast a stitch popped and the center of the breast began to have a concave look, much like an extremely older person without teeth.  This breast we named “Grumpy Cat”.  Part of the reconstruction in the other breast had necrosis and we named it “Massive Head Wound Harry”.  The plastic surgeons office referred to me as Grumpy Cat’s mom.

The dead and dying skin on Massive Head Wound Harry had to be debrided, which was the first of nine surgeries in 2014.

By mid-January 2014 I was more independent and was discharged from home health.  It was at this time that I also began a daily regimen of Tamoxifen.  By mid-February 2014 I was finally rid of all drains.  I would stay in binders until the summer of 2014.  My last surgery was in December 2014, when my ovaries were removed.

A total of 11 surgeries in 13 months takes a toll on a body.  I can remember looking at my body, after each surgery and wondering what the people who told me I was so lucky to be able to get new “boobs” would think of the reality of breast cancer.

The reality is nerves are severed when the breasts are amputated.  For the most part leaving the breast area numb.  More often than not the areola and nipple are removed and discarded leaving a scar.  New nipples can be  constructed, but they have no sensation and they are perpetually erect, which women spend enormous effort to hide with padded bras, etc.

In my case, a large area of skin and muscle was removed from my abdomen to reconstruct the breast area, leaving a scar from hip bone to hip bone.  In addition, I have a newly constructed belly button and the lower half of my abdomen is numb.  There are scars from the four drains and from the removal of the ovaries.  The truth is a battle with breast cancer, more often than not, leaves a person with a body that is no longer familiar to them.   It is a scarred body that no longer functions as it once did.  A body that does not have the energy it once had.  A body that aches from the treatment it endured.  A body that will never be the same because the treatment not only kills the cancer, it takes a toll on the rest of the body.

As the body is recovering, the mental and emotional recovery begins.  With every new ache or pain the nagging question deep within wondering if “it” is back.  With every scan and test there is the breath holding until the result is received.

So when you see pink ribbons this month, please remember the upside to breast cancer is not getting new “boobs”.  The upside of breast cancer is the same as the upside of any cancer.   Nothing can help a person prioritize their life like a cancer diagnosis.  Suddenly, what made you angry last week, seems unimportant.  The thoughts that used to consume, now seem petty.  The action by someone that seemed unforgivable last month, seems infinitely small in comparison.  A cancer diagnosis can bring your life back into focus like a new pair of glasses, which beats new boobs every time.

Sexual Safety

Anyone who owns a television, radio or internet knows there has been a great deal of discussion about sexual assault and the #METOO movement lately.  It is sad in the society in which we live this remains an issue up for debate.  Truthfully, there are thousands upon thousands of males who have never been inappropriate with a female in any way.  By the same token, I strongly suspect it is nigh unto impossible to find a female who has never been harassed, assaulted or raped.  Minimally most females have been harassed on more than one occasion.  Further, the majority of those women have never told their stories to anyone and most probably never will.

The reasons behind the silence about these violations are varied.  To someone who has NEVER been violated, they often sound like excuses, irresponsibility, exaggerations, lies, or all the above.  What is often overlooked is there is something that happens inside an individual when they are forced to live in a culture of frequent harassment, or if they have experienced assault or rape.  It is something that cannot be verbalized easily and  is hard to explain.  In a very rudimentary way, a person who has experienced assault or rape or who has been exposed to repeated harassment, views the world through a different lens than people who have not had those experiences.

A profound illustration of this is an exercise my friend Ellin Jimmerson shared from the book The Macho Paradox: Why Some Men Hurt Women and How All Men Can Help by Jackson Katz.  In his 2006 book, Katz describes the exercise …

“I draw a line down the middle of a chalkboard, sketching a male symbol on one side and a female symbol on the other.

Then I ask just the men: What steps do you guys take, on a daily basis, to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? At first there is a kind of awkward silence as the men try to figure out if they’ve been asked a trick question. The silence gives way to a smattering of nervous laughter. Occasionally, a young a guy will raise his hand and say, ‘I stay out of prison.’ This is typically followed by another moment of laughter, before someone finally raises his hand and soberly states, ‘Nothing. I don’t think about it.’

Then I ask the women the same question. What steps do you take on a daily basis to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? Women throughout the audience immediately start raising their hands. As the men sit in stunned silence, the women recount safety precautions they take as part of their daily routine.

Hold my keys as a potential weapon. Look in the back seat of the car before getting in. Carry a cell phone. Don’t go jogging at night. Lock all the windows when I sleep, even on hot summer nights. Be careful not to drink too much. Don’t put my drink down and come back to it; make sure I see it being poured. Own a big dog. Carry Mace or pepper spray. Have an unlisted phone number. Have a man’s voice on my answering machine. Park in well-lit areas. Don’t use parking garages. Don’t get on elevators with only one man, or with a group of men. Vary my route home from work. Watch what I wear. Don’t use highway rest areas. Use a home alarm system. Don’t wear headphones when jogging. Avoid forests or wooded areas, even in the daytime. Don’t take a first-floor apartment. Go out in groups. Own a firearm. Meet men on first dates in public places. Make sure to have a car or cab fare. Don’t make eye contact with men on the street. Make assertive eye contact with men on the street.”

As a female, I daily find myself doing some of these things, as well as other precautions not listed.  I have been harassed more times than I can remember.  I have been assaulted by 5 different males.    Two were rank strangers, one was a brother of a childhood friend, one was a boss and last but not least a family member.  Two of the five violations, I have never mentioned to anyone.  And I have not mentioned all 5 violations to any one person.  The fact that one dates back 42 years, and has remained a secret, in no way diminishes the violation or the mental and emotional consequences it forced upon me.

It is not unusual for an adult male to report sexual abuse by a priest several decades after it happens and people are rightly enraged.  Yet a woman can report sexual abuse by a male decades after it happens and people are suspicious.  Why?  Have females fraudulently accused males of assaulting them?  Unfortunately, yes.  While those cases are numerically low, they have caused great damage to the accused and in many cases have been widely publicized by the media.  These instances are important and should not be minimized. But at the same time they should not be given undue weight as to undermine the true victims.

The National Sexual Violence Resource Center estimates somewhere between 2% and 10% of reported assaults are either false or baseless reports.  A false report is a report of a crime which is investigated and found to have never occurred.  A baseless report is a report in which after investigation is determined the incident does not rise to the level of a crime, but is truthful.  Yet with these reports counted against the total, a staggering 90% to 98% of assaults are reported by true victims.

All reports of harassment, assault or rape should not only be heard, but taken seriously.  Once heard, they should be investigated by a non-biased, independent third-party.  If the violation is founded, then the perpetrator should face the consequences.  If unfounded the reporting person should face the consequences.  However, in all circumstances the alleged victim should be given the dignity of being heard and the perpetrator should be given the dignity of presumed innocence pending investigation; but an investigation is absolutely necessary.

Sexual safety is not a priority in our culture.  It is doubtful it will become the priority it needs to be until men see sexual safety as a basic human right.  It is time for boys to be held accountable for “just being boys” by their male peers.  It is time for males to call out other males for making inappropriate jokes and comments.  It is time for men, real men, to step up and see the generational patriarchy for what it is … a way of life that systematically decreases the value of women.  But for any of this to become a reality, men are going to have to share the power they were born with by essence of their biological sex, with the women in their lives.

 

The Night Time Stood Still

It was twenty days after my 50th birthday.  January 19, 2013 at about 9:00pm.  That was when my adopted mom, Guynell, died.  She had “adopted” me in her heart years earlier when I was in college.  I remember after she died, walking outside on that chilly night, waiting for the coroner to arrive at the home.  I was struck by how large the world suddenly felt and how small I felt in comparison.

My biological family was dysfunctional, hostile and demeaning.  So, when Guynell “adopted” me and became the embodiment of parental love in my life, my heart was overjoyed.  We had a special connection, because she CHOSE to love me, when my mother could not muster anything more than mere ownership of me.  Guynell did not HAVE to … She WANTED to.  For a young female who had been repeatedly told I was the greatest disappointment in the life of my parents, this love was treasured and overwhelming.

She had three biological girls of her own and naturally did maternal things.  She made sure I had a stocking on the mantel each Christmas.  She sent birthday cards, Christmas cards and “just because” cards.  She told me she was proud of me. She was interested in me and my life.  She remembered things that were important to me.  She listened, intent on hearing, when I talked to her.  She gave of herself, her heart and her time.  She was a safe harbor.  She not only told me she loved me, but unwaveringly acted on that love in practical, measurable ways.

To have Guynell as a guide into young adulthood was a game changer.    At a time when I was uncertain of how to be an adult and was grasping for a true north, she became a consistent constant in my life.  Guynell saw her girls, myself included, through a realistic lens.  She knew each of our short comings and she knew our strengths.  In her infinite grace, she focused on our strengths and generally any “ask” she had of us was strength based.  She expected her girls behave in a respectable, kind, honest and Christ-like manner.  However, when one of us fell short, we were met with nothing other than grace and love.  Consequences of poor choices might very well be forthcoming, but we always had her love and support to navigate those bumpy paths.  She always made sure we understood the difference between a disappointment in a specific behavior or choice and a disappointment in us as humans.  We all behaved in ways, at one time or another, she wished we had not; but her love never changed.

She had an infectious smile, a positive attitude and a compassionate heart.  When she took her last breath on that January night, I was genuinely relieved her suffering was over, but I felt so small.  So insecure.  So alone.  It was as if my world stopped momentarily and time stood still.

Being listed as her daughter in the obituary was one of the most cherished honors of my life.

Little did I know Guynell’s death would be the first of many emotional hits coming my way …

Origins

I was born in Mississippi to biological parents who cared for me materially, but were not warm or loving.  I am an only child.  Sad, yet true story, when I was 12, while on vacation, my parents left me at a gas station in Arizona.  I had gone to the bathroom and they did not notice I was not in the backseat when they pulled out.  Did I mention I am an ONLY child?   Who knew supervising a single child at a gas station bathroom in the middle of the desert was so difficult?

I share this, not to paint them in a negative light, but frequent episodes of oversights like this affected me as I was maturing.  My parents are not “bad” people, just self-absorbed people who felt a child was an accessory and not a gift from God.  Their love was always performance based.  By that, I mean as long as I acted the way they wanted or expected me to act they showed love to me.  Any deviation caused shunning, loud yelling and all in all a crappy day.  We are estranged and have been for years.  I do not see that changing.  Oddly, we are not estranged for the reason most people suspect … we are estranged because “I am the most disappointing and ungrateful daughter ever born.”  Ironically the elephant in the room was never discussed … but more on that later.

You might wonder why I refer to them as my biological parents.  Well, first it is accurate.  Secondly, it is because God sent AMAZING loving families into my life who adopted me through compassion into their families.  They were love when no one else would show up and stepped up to the plate and did incredible things for my heart, my mind and my soul.  During those periods, every family became my chosen family and I treasure each of them to this day.  What a difference a willing heart can make.

In the late 1960’s when time came for me to enter school, my parents enrolled me in a Catholic elementary school.  I stayed in Catholic school through the fourth grade.  During these four years I would attend school Monday through Friday and on Sunday I would be dropped off to attend Catechism, then attend the Sunday service at the local Methodist church with my mother.  Needless to say my religious training was multifaceted and often confusing.

After four years of dissention, my mother finally insisted, if my father was not going to a practicing Catholic, she was not going to allow me to continue going to Catholic school.  My father decided he did not wish to regularly attend Catholic mass; subsequently, in the fifth grade I transferred to a local private school.  I wanted to go to the public school with my neighborhood friends, but my parents gave a resounding “NO”.  I did not understand their decision and was sad I was not allowed to attend school with my friends.  To this day my mother will say she supported the decision because the private school was safer during a time of civil unrest and racial tension and my father will say it is because the education was better in a private school.  Both, in their own vernacular, were speaking “code” for a school with only Caucasian students was superior.

I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and life when I was 14 in 1977 at a Billy Graham crusade.  I remember getting out of my seat and walking down those stadium steps to the football field.  As a 14-year-old it seemed like a long walk to take alone.  But I was decided.  I have had many struggles in that relationship for many reasons, but finally have found an incredible peace in knowing and accepting I am loved just as I am.

I knew from the beginning, I was different.  I knew I thought differently. I reacted differently.  I saw the world through a dissimilar lens than most of the kids I knew.  My perspective was unique as early as kindergarten.  As time passed, I realized I had unusual heroes.  My dreams and goals were atypical of those of my classmates.  I came to realize I was a misfit in Mississippi, as if being from Mississippi was not liability enough.

As I entered junior high school, it became painfully, and I do mean painfully, aware to me that I was not in the least romantically attracted to boys.  I had no desire to go to dances, or date, or be a cheerleader, or anything else the rest of the girls wanted to do.  Consequently, I immersed myself in sports and found a world I loved and in which I excelled.

In high school I discovered I was romantically attracted to females. Yes, I am a lesbian (the elephant in the room).   I was a pudgy female who was attracted to girls.  I had zero fashion sense and was attending a Baptist high school.   Not exactly the environment to blossom or question thoughts or feelings.  Consequently, I did not … blossom or ask questions.  During my high school years I was very fragmented.  I made good grades, always making the honor roll … but I was not valedictorian material by a long shot.  I was the classmate the cool kids wanted to sit next to on test days.  Fortunately, my athletic ability provided a small arena of acceptance.

As each year passed, I learned to navigate and hide my fragmentation more effectively.  I made myself fit into the norm.  While I never had a boyfriend, beginning my sophomore year I had a date to each high school event, homecoming, prom, athletic banquets, etc.   By my senior year I had camouflaged myself into a role I became comfortable playing.  I was student body chaplain, most likely to succeed, class favorite, and most spiritual.  I suspect the Baptists would have stripped me of the most spiritual label had they known I was a lesbian.  Not an “active” lesbian, but a lesbian nonetheless.

I never consumed drugs. I rarely drank and never abused alcohol.  I smoked cigarettes, from time to time but never became addicted.  I stored my cigarettes in the freezer so they would not go stale.  The last pack of cigarettes I purchased cost .55 cents and lasted over a month.

I graduated with honors and enrolled in a local junior college, where I obtained an Associate Degree.  While in junior college, my life began to spin out of control.    I was very active in a charismatic church, where in the height of the AIDS epidemic, often taught that gay and lesbian people were an abomination and irredeemable.  I carried a full-time class load and worked part-time.  I met myself coming and going.  I was deeply conflicted about my sexuality, but strangely never doubted God loved me.  Even in the midst of my confusion, it seemed inconsistent with the character of Jesus to damn me to hell for something over which I had no control.  But I had become convinced, from the teaching I had heard, that being a gay or lesbian was a “thorn in the flesh”.   An affliction to be endured and I was just thankful my thorn in the flesh was “invisible” as long as I kept it a secret.

With my life feeling like it was out of control, I desperately searched for something I could control.  I was still slightly pudgy and thought I could stand to lose a few pounds.  I could control what I put in my mouth, so I put all my energy into losing weight.   I was exceedingly successful in this endeavor, so much so that I became anorexic.  I was 5’7” and eventually weighted less than 100 pounds.  I wore a size 5 pants, tucked my sweaters in and wore belts to keep my pants up.  At my lowest point I would break out in hives when walking through a kitchen or smelling food cooking.  My hair thinned, I stopped menstruating and my skin was dry and cracking.  I remember laying out by a pool and pulling the top of the leg hole of my swimsuit and hooking it over my hip bones so I could get more sun.

I remember one year in the midst of this period, my parents gave me a digital scale and weight loss drink mix for Christmas.  I named the scale the “magic machine” and was able to forego the grocery store for months.  My parents never asked if I was sick.  They never mentioned I might need to go to the doctor.  The only conversation I remember about my significant weight loss was my biological father telling me he was proud of me for losing “all that fat”.

As I think back on this now, it was clearly insanity.  But curiously and sadly at that time my life was less chaotic than it had ever been.  This self-destructive behavior continued for several years.

After graduation from junior college I enrolled in a Presbyterian college.  I majored in psychology and Christian education.  I graduated on time, with honors.  During my junior year I entered into my first relationship.  It was a 10-year relationship with a straight woman.  I remember her saying she was not a lesbian, but she was in love with me.  We had a good relationship.  In fact, if I were honest it was the healthiest relationship I had experienced up until that time.  I liked having someone to love, to take care of, to dote on.  It felt very normal to me.  Very comforting.

When that relationship fell apart; I spent 5 years alone, praying and seeking God about being a lesbian.  I wanted His thoughts on what a lesbian should do or be.  Was I really an abomination?  Did I really have a thorn in my flesh to be endured?  I never prayed for God to make me straight, but I did pray “God help me be what YOU created me to be.”  This period ended when I felt God say, “You are as I created you.  You are not broken and you do not need to be fixed”.

So I began counseling with the hopes of finding fun in life again and putting the dysfunction behind me.  Twenty-five years later I am finally able to stand up for myself, love myself and love others.  I have also done a great deal of studying the Bible and discovered it says absolutely nothing about loving, same-sex relationships.  It says plenty about incestuous relationships, sexual relationships with minors or sexual relationships based on societal or economic standings.  But it says not one word about loving, same-sex relationships between consenting adults.  The word homosexual did not appear in the Bible until 1946, and then as it is now, was sloppily interpretated.  Further, homosexuality did not become a topic of debate in the church until the very late 70’s or early 80’s when the AIDS epidemic made it politically advantageous.  Homosexuality, if viewed honestly, is a secondary theological issue.  It is in the same boat as dancing, drinking, smoking, tattoos, divorce and remarriage, etc.  Issues that separate denominations, but in no way separates a soul from God.

Between then and now I dated some wonderful women … and I dated some not so wonderful women.  I dated some women because I did not want to be alone and I dated others because I genuinely cared for them.   I dated a few men, testing the waters to see if I could make it work and I dated a few men to appear straight.  I even dated a gay man and wondered if we could make some type of relationship work.  As you can imagine, the answer to that was a definitive NO.

For the most part, I was searching for a mate whose demons played well with mine.  Not that I was looking for a broken or flawed person.  I was looking for a person who was not totally comfortable in their own skin and had processes to work through, because I had processes to work through.  When all along I should have looked for someone who had the confidence in themselves and love for me to assist me in silencing my demons.

As time passed, a light bulb went off and I finally understood it was far better to be alone than to be with the wrong person.  Within a year of making that decision, the perfect person for me walked into my life.  She did not regularly need me … but she always wanted me.  She found me to be sufficient within myself.  She believed and still does believe in self-improvement, always becoming a better version of yourself.  But she loved and accepted the current version of me without conditions.  She was not demanding in any shape, form or fashion, except in her expectation for transparent and honest communication.  She was careful and patient with my insecurities because she could see my tender heart.  She helped me understand I deserved to be treated in a kind, humane and descent way and proceeded to treat me as such.

We dated for a year, then moved in together.  At the time we moved in together it was illegal for us to get married.  Within a year of same-sex couples being given legal marital rights, we got married.  Two years later our marriage became legal in our home state.  We have a really good life.  It is not perfect, but our marriage is rock solid, we are committed and encourage each other to become better humans.  Equally as important, we give each other room to stumble in the process of self-improvement.  My family is the most important, sacred and cherished human relationship in the world to me.  Somehow, I think that is finally as it should be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oil and Water

I was born in Mississippi, on the cusp of the civil rights movement.  My first trip around the sun began the morning of December 31st.  I arrived to mixed reviews.  The paternal side of my family, convinced I was conceived prior to my parent’s wedding, were primarily thankful I was born 9 months and 7 days after the nuptials.  As their first and only grandchild, the maternal side of the family thought I was a gift from God who completed their world.  My parents viewed me more as a possession or an accessory, and to this day will tell anyone who asks, my greatest accomplishment in life was being a much-needed tax deduction the first year of their marriage.

My parents did not give much thought to being parents, which was clear by the fact I spent the first several months of my life sleeping in an opened dresser drawer and not a crib.  They believed the important things would come naturally, what did not come naturally they would wing and a nanny could be hired for everything else.

My mother stayed with me the first several weeks of my life.  But as time passed, my father gave her an ultimatum; go back to work or be a divorced, single mother at 22.

My parents discovered they had differing opinions on a multitude of things, many of which were important, basic tenants of their personal belief systems.  I imagine this happens with great frequency when two people do not know each other very well.

My father was the “rebound” person for my mother.  My mother had dated a man she deeply loved for 5 years.  When she heard he had supposedly been unfaithful to her with one of her best friends she immediately broke things off with him without discussion.  A few months later, she met the man who would become my father.  They dated for 3 months, became engaged and married three months later.  My maternal grandfather begged her not to marry my father, but my mother is a prideful woman and was convinced she knew best.

My knowledge of this story happened in a rather peculiar way.  I was about 13 or 14 years old and my mother asked me to get something out of her wallet.  I went to her purse, picked up her wallet and began looking for what she needed.  I came across a black and white wallet size professional photograph of a rather handsome young man in a suit and tie.  I asked my mother who the man was and she told me his name; but insisted I not mention him or the picture to my father.  I later asked my maternal grandmother about the man and she told me the story.  When telling the story, she seemed sad.  She said she never believed he was unfaithful, and if he was, he stood accused of only one kiss.  As she shook her head she said he was a good, kind man from an upstanding family.

My parents could not have come from more different backgrounds.  My father was raised as an obligatory Catholic. My paternal grandparents married when my grandmother was 13 and my grandfather was 18.  Until the shock and dismay of their elopement wore off, they rented a small attic space from a man in another town.  My grandmother was later diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic and her husband was a philandering, evil man who taunted her.   Their home, often, was the staging area for shouting matches, derogatory remarks, emotional manipulation and exhaustive monologues about how unfair the world was to them.  They were ungrateful, stingy people with dead eyes who viewed humanity as a commodity.

There were three children born to this union and my father was the youngest and the only male.  My father was a momma’s boy and due to his gender and birth position he was the apple of her eye.  He was an average child by all accounts.  There was nothing in his life at which he excelled.  He did not play sports.  He was not musically interested or inclined.  In a good year, his grades were average and most years he would slide by from grade to grade.  He was tone-deaf, and as such, had a speech impediment which made it hard for most people to understand what he was saying.  I can imagine he was bullied in school for his odd way and peculiar speech.  At the age of 18 he had a full head of gray hair, which added to his unconventionality.  He did not date much, and as the story goes his longest relationship with a female, prior to my mother, was with a woman I later learned was a lesbian.

Due to his lack of interest in college and without any employment prospects, my father enlisted in the Marines.  He was stationed in Okinawa, Japan and to his credit was a member of the color guard.  For those unfamiliar with it, the Color Guard is responsible for rendering proper military honors in parades, ceremonies, funerals, etc. To be chosen for this was an honor and he represented the Marine Corps well.  He never saw combat and to his mother’s delight returned home no worse for the wear, in one piece, physically fit and much more disciplined.

After his discharge from the marines he went to a vocational school, where he met my mother.  He successfully completed this training and received certification.  However, he was toward the bottom of his class, and simply could not make the adjustment from the classroom to the work place.  Consequently, he went to work for the company where his father worked.  He was successful in this endeavor.  He found upward mobility achievable and the salary in the upper middle class range.  He remained in this employment until later in life when he was injured on the job and took early retirement.

My mother on the other hand was raised in a household where her parents were deeply in love, held hands daily until my grandfather died and never let anger rule the day.  Each were more concerned with the happiness of the other than their own.  They married on an Easter Sunday morning, when my grandfather was 18 and my grandmother was 19.

My grandfather was shy and reserved, but an incredibly intelligent man. He did not bear fools or foolishness well.  He worked in the oil and gas business and did well.  My grandmother was the post-mistress (as they called them back in the day) of their small Appalachian town.  I suppose now-a-days they might be called hillbillies.  But they were high school educated, honorable people who knew what loyalty and faithfulness meant.  Their integrity was above reproach.  Family was central to their lives, second only to their Methodist faith.

They tried for over 10 years to start a family.  When my grandmother finally became pregnant they were ecstatic.  Back in the early 1940’s when my mother was born, the father was not allowed in the delivery room and was not immediately allowed in the hospital room after delivery.  To catch a glimpse of my grandmother, my grandfather climbed the fire escape outside the hospital so he could look in the window.  He remained on the fire escape gazing from afar until they let him in the room to see my grandmother in person.

My grandmother had a difficult pregnancy, and it was soon decided she would have a hysterectomy, making my mother an only child.

After my mother’s birth, my grandmother became a full-time mother.  My grandmother was also the caregiver of ailing family members who lived in the family home.  Because the house was full, a couple of days a week my grandfather would ask that my mother be dressed and ready for him to take out on adventures when he came home from work. This soon became a routine my mother anticipated with great eagerness.

My mother did well in school and had a small, close-knit group of friends.  Throughout her school age years my mother battled her weight and was at times picked on because of it.  However, in high school she gained control of her weight and blossomed into a what people often referred to as a beautiful woman.

After high school, she attended junior college and received an Associate Degree.  She then attended the vocation training program my father attended.  She graduated at the top of her class.  She was very successful in her career and by the time she retired, after 35 years, she held the highest position possible in her given field.

My maternal grandparents idolized my mother and thus never made her do anything hard or uncomfortable.  She was raised as a southern debutante and as she matured she refused to relinquish that mentality.  She loved being seen by others as important, treated as extraordinarily special and praised for every infinitely small action taken.  I remember one time when I was about 7 years old we went to visit my maternal grandparents unexpectedly, on the spur of the moment.  They were so happy to see us.  I will never forget they were preparing two steaks for the grill, they had an extra potato to bake and said we would share it all and there would be plenty for everyone.  My mother became infuriated because no one offered to go to the grocery to buy a steak for her.  We got back in the car and drove 100 miles home after visiting 30 minutes.  This type of perceived slight happened often and would send her into a victim tailspin.

My maternal grandparents were incredibly generous people.  Throughout their lives, anytime they felt my mother needed something that was not being provided, they provided it.  One example would be when my grandfather retired, to celebrate his retirement, he bought my mother a dishwasher, so she would not have to hand wash dishes any longer.  They had a way of making everything in their lives revolved around my mother, even when it didn’t.

My parents were married in a large Catholic wedding in a beautiful cathedral.  The wedding party was 24 strong.  I heard it was breathtaking and one of the social events of the spring in the southern town where it was held.  They went to the beach on their honeymoon, accompanied by one of my father’s friends, which always struck me as a bizarre novelty.

After their honeymoon, they returned to their home and quickly began experiencing a flurry of fights, screaming, yelling, innuendos, hurled objects, broken dishes and doors.  My father would manipulate my mother by degrading her and emotionally abusing her.  My mother would manipulate my father by withholding sex.

Inexplicably, the oil and water partnership that is my parent’s marriage has survived, though it has never thrived.  They remain married, for better or worse. There has been suspicion of my father’s infidelity, but it was swept under the rug.  I once asked my mother if she ever considered divorce.  She responded “divorce no … murder maybe”.  To this day, I am still uncertain how to interpret the slight smirk which crossed her face when she said it.