A Life Worth Living

My grandmother passed away this week.  O.K. actually she was my step grandmother.  And more often than not a part of me thought of her as a step grandmonster.  And as funerals usually do, I found myself reflecting a bit… about life and the meaning of it all.  Ruth Broadbent was the name of my grandmother.  And I know one thing for sure about her.  She didn’t like us when we were little.  I don’t know how she felt about me when I got older.  But I know for a fact that when we were little she didn’t like us.  Not that she came up and said I don’t like you.  But when you’re a kid, you can tell.  When I was about 5 or 6, and my brother, sister and I were in Cadiz for our annual summer visit of 2 weeks, we spent one week with Grandma and Granddaddy Walker.  The second week was spent with Granddaddy and Grandmother Broadbent.  Usually, the set that picked us up, got us first; and the second pair delivered us back.  Anyway, it was a Grandma Walker first year.  And the switch over was happening.  Grandmother Broadbent came to help me put my shoes on and I told her that I didn’t want to go with her.  The memory is a bit vague, as I’m older and my memories all blend together.  But I remember it being a bit of a battle of wills.  And I know that she left and I stayed with Grandma Walker.  I don’t remember much in the way of laughter or smiles, but much in the ways of heavy sighs and frowns.  When I got older, much older, I learned that there was also some difficulty between her and my aunt Cheryl.  Though I don’t profess to know what that is…nor do I really want to know.  What I do know is that it wasn’t just my perception that she was a  hard, difficult person to love.  And as I walked into the funeral home, my aunt  Yvonne hugged me and told me she loved me.  And it took everything that I had to not laugh out loud in shocked disbelief.  Perhaps I was at the wrong funeral?  And as I was sitting through the ungodly long music ( I swear it lasted 20 minutes or more), and then the strange merging of peaceful, easy feeling and amazing grace, and then some strange 1970s must have come from a spaghetti western, ballad (at which point, again I was trying not to laugh), it hit me that this was simply a travesty.  I should be overwhelmed with grief.  This woman, though not really my grandmother, was the only grandmother that I had ever known.  And I felt nothing for her passing.  I felt bad for Yvonne, because they were close, and for Sarah and Katie (the real grandchildren), and some for Cheryl, but not for the death or the passing.  And as the preacher began his sermon (in Cadiz there is apparently a no eulogy talk about the person rule if Amy Serrano attends the funeral) and the preacher said that she made good biscuits, country ham, and red eye gravy.  And what a summation of a life that must have been.  What a horrible thing that there was no one to stand up and say more about her.  Even at this late date, I would  have relished an opportunity to hear someone’s positive regard for her.  To hear that she loved, gave, laughed, had joy – even if she never chose to share that with me.  And I sat there wondering why didn’t she like me.  And though I suppose I could have been maudlin and whined about the unfairness of it all…really what was the point.  I had accepted for some 20 years that I was nothing important, and I was already o.k. with that.  Wishing it were different didn’t make it so.  But more importantly, it made me want to work on myself so that at my funeral – which of course no one will attend because they don’t attend my parties when I’m alive, that I’d like for someone to be able to say something more about me than I made a mean pancake (I don’t do red-eye gravy – really grease and water, bleck…).  Of course, who am I kidding…I’m never going to set aside money for a funeral, it’s a waste of funds.  So when everyone comes to Elijah and Isaiah’s house, I hope that someone is genuinely upset that I’m gone, but does not regret my relationship with them (except perhaps Satan from Eleventh Street, she can regret all she wants).  But I’m pretty good with my standing with all others in my life.  And that says something.  I just want to have lived a life that was worth something, to others and to myself (mostly to myself because I can’t do anything for others really).  And if that’s what I walk away with from the stepgrandmonster’s funeral, well then that was  lesson worth learning and I suppose she gave me a gift after all.

Go 25% or Go Home!!!

So, today was yet another FFD (f-in family dinner, newly coined by my nephew Lanny).  It was technically the birthday dinner for Franklin, my oldest son, who has recently turned 20.  He was late (which way made me grumpy).  How can you, if you pick the date, the time, the menu not bother to show up on time, don’t even call to say you’re late until 10 minutes after you are supposed to be here, then arrive saying you didn’t think it was that big of deal.  But despite the 10 minutes of enraged she-devil that emerged when Franklin arrived and came to give me a hug hello like nothing is wrong, that is not the topic.  The topic is the conversation that we had once I calmed down… not all the conversation, just the important parts.

The conversation began innocently enough with Franklin asking me about the movie The Social Network.  He told me how it inspired him and made him want to do well in school.  That he saw this guy who was his age who essentially was so smart, did so well in school, and then had an idea and changed the world.  Which was not at all what I saw in the movie, but that’s neither here nor there.  The important part is that he said in the midst of this conversation something to the effect that I might be surprised, but he’d  had never given 100% or tried his best on anything.  My response was that no, I wasn’t surprised at all.  Which wasn’t entirely true.  I suppose, I was surprised that he actually admitted to such a genuine lack of effort or involvement.  I hear that the first step to conquering an addiction is admitting you have a problem.  I don’t know that such an admission of his personal lack of effort will result in a lasting change, but I was so hopeful.  He talked about watching the movie over and over again and every time he saw it he got inspired.   He was ready to do something, be something.  And for a few moments, I was hopeful and excited with him.  But then the conversation shifted and moved and ended up squarely on the doorstep of his current booty call.  Now he wouldn’t call her a booty call.  He’d call her almost a girlfriend.  He likes her.  And they have sex.  And she wants him to be his boyfriend, but he doesn’t want her to be his girlfriend.  And that being girlfriend and boyfriend today means that you like someone as a friend, want to see them naked and then see what they are all about, to see if you like them or not.  Which placed me firmly in the other generation.  Because I’d figured if you were seeing someone naked on a regular basis, then you should already know what they are mostly about.  I had thought that time when you are getting to know someone was called dating.  And I thought dating came before that.  That was when you tried to find out about someone to see what they were like.  And it was even a chance to take a test run on the seeing naked part.  But girlfriend and boyfriend means that I don’t want to see anyone naked but you.  It means that I think that I love you, or that I do love you. 

So naturally our conversation moved to this girl, Erica.  And the fact that if she’s just his booty call, that I didn’t really want to have to know her.  That you don’t introduce booty calls to your family.  At least you don’t introduce them to my family.  And then I talked to him about not wasting time with someone that you knew you weren’t going to love.  I mean seriously, if you know after a few weeks whether or not you really like this person, if you are crushing on them, or not.  And if you don’t feel that little spark, then being friends is o.k., but why waste time with what you know you don’t really want.  At which point, he told me about this other girl that he kind of liked.  That he felt that she was almost the perfect girl for him.  But he was with Erica.  And I almost lost it.  I mean it was a shake my head and try to see if he was serious kind of moment.  I could not, and still do not, understand why you would stay with someone that you like as a friend, and enjoy having sex with enough, instead of trying to be with someone that you already have a kind of crush on.  Now, if Franklin was a girl, then I’d say that he was suffering from the better to be with someone than be alone.  It’s a common enough phenomena among the fairer sex and lends itself to all kinds of mediocre relationships that go no where and make no one happy.   But Franklin, Mr. All By Myself himself, isn’t really that person.  And it hit me… Franklin is the easy peasy lemon squeezy guy.  He’d rather have something convenient and easy and there that he doesn’t have to work for, than having something wonderful or great that he might have to work for.  He doesn’t go Big or go home.  He would prefer to just dip himself in corn syrup and see what comes to him, he live with whatever that might be. 

To be fair, it’s been a long long time since i’ve been 20 years old.  And when I was 20, I was mired in the uber unhealthy relationship (I was the hag to his fag).  And I have not much room to talk when it comes to bad relationships, because I spent most of that time praying that my fag would settle for 25% himself because that was better than nothing.  It took several years for me to realize that I was settling not the other way around – well that and gay men don’t like beautiful women naked they definitely won’t like fat ugly ones.  But the upside is that I’m older and no how precious time is.  And wouldn’t it be lovely to emerge from those trying years without having totally screwed up your life.  Wouldn’t it be nice to begin a career at the tender age of 23, with little to no debt, self confident and secure in yourself, and with someone who compliments you (not says you’re pretty, but is essentially the jelly to your peanut butter).  Apparently that age old adage that youth is wasted on the young was created and maintained for a very good reason.  So, in the meantime, as Franklin marks time with Miss 25%, while watching miss 90% could be the real deal pass him by, I suppose these are the lessons he must learn… such a shame that it has to be a practicum course rather than a lecture.  The latter, though boring and a pain to sit through, is so much easier in the long run.  If only Franklin only knew how much work he was creating for himself later, he’d probably give a bit more than 25%.