back on the horse

So we’ve reached the midway point of summer—I’ll forever be on an academic calendar, so for me, summer ends when September begins.  Right now, August is wide open so I’ve got to get busy—the academic job search has drawn to an unsuccessful close so I better try to schedule some workshops, finish a few chapters, or switch gears and try writing a new play.  This week I need to get back on the horse—time to start exercising again, which means I need to shave; after mashing my big toe I finally sat down and took off that chipped bronze toenail polish I’d been wearing all month; if the heat wave’s over, I can start sleeping in my bed again instead of falling asleep in the living room next to the better air conditioner.  I think my hair’s long enough to twist again…it’s a new month; time for a new and improved me…

On Saturday I put a little effort into my appearance; pulled on my black jeans and my favorite purple peasant blouse…walked downstairs, waved to my neighbors while checking my mail and heard, “Eh–you got fat!”  It was Charles, an elderly Caribbean man who used to serve as our building’s security guard.  I love Charles—we’ve had our spats in the past, but we also started a book club and read Dragon Can’t Dance together (a great book by Earl Lovelace).  One of the things we fought about in the past was Charles’ tendency to call women fat—in particular, my FRIENDS as they entered or left the building.  Charles thinks it’s harmless teasing, but it’s entirely inappropriate for any man to think he has the right to police all women’s bodies.  So when Charles called me fat this weekend, I immediately turned to him and said, “What did I tell you about that?”  We started bickering and the postman clucked his tongue and said, “Naw, man–he’s just saying that ’cause you’re pretty.”  And Rosie, another neighbor, shook her head and said I looked “trim.”  So why was that the first thing to come out of Charles’ mouth?  He asked if he could walk out with me, and we ambled to the end of the block discussing his poor health.  He has a heart condition, and like my father, Charles feels he knows better than his doctors; like my father, he’s cutting his pills in half and then has the nerve to complain that the medication “isn’t working.”  I went off: “Do YOU have a medical degree?  Are you TRYING to die?”  “Everybody dead,” was his reply.  “Sooner or later, everybody dead.”  No concern whatsoever for the loved ones who’ll suffer when he dies prematurely all because he wouldn’t follow the doctor’s advice.  I love Charles—I do—but as I headed to the train that day I affirmed my decision not to look for a surrogate father.  My dad died six years ago, and I don’t want a replacement; I don’t want to reproduce one of the most dysfunctional relationships I’ve ever had!  I sort of collect “other mothers”—I do have a number of older women in my life, and I appreciate their wisdom and guidance and advice.  But I don’t need another hard-headed patriarch who’s lovable but quick to criticize.  Once I was sick for three days and so stayed in my apartment; when I finally came downstairs, Charles asked me where I’d been.  When I told him I’d been too sick to leave my bed, he freaked out and started yelling at me—why hadn’t I called down to tell him, why did I stay up there alone?!?!  I appreciated his concern, but it was another “daddy deja-vu” moment…sigh.  There are men out there who know how to communicate effectively; my uncle just sent me a letter in which he wrote, “You are precious to us.”  So let me stop moaning about Charles.  Truth is, I miss my father a lot, even with his wonky ways…had another weird dream last night; I was looking in the mirror, maybe brushing my teeth, and my father was trying to find a place to sit as I talked…I kept looking at him in the mirror, but I did turn at one point to ask him why he always monitored our weight when we were kids—“You got an inch to pinch?” I asked him, and poked his own rather substantial paunch.  I don’t remember what he said, but he seemed remorseful.  I wonder if death is like that at all—like Marley in A Christmas Carol—if we pass on and then linger over our regrets, the things we could have done but didn’t while we were alive.  Maybe that’s what my dream was about—maybe I keep conjuring my father in order to tell him the things I want him to know.  As soon as I reminded him of the “inch to pinch” torment, I thanked him for always cheering me on when I played sports.  He wasn’t there for most of my little league games, but I remember the afternoon he told me I was ready to move from t-ball to softball.  He taught me how to keep my eye on the ball while swinging the bat—and I became quite the slugger!  My dad made me into a fighter; I definitely give him credit for that.  Maybe I need to reread Soldier, June Jordan’s memoir about her Caribbean father.  I have friends who have sworn off Caribbean men, but somehow we just aren’t able to let go…