#124: Much Ado About Justice

 Much Ado About Justice

**warning: here be spoilers**

The Play

Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite Shakespearean play.  In that, I am not alone.  The play itself is an amazing comedic romp with a blatantly dark heart and a brilliant streak of feminism.  A friend of mine who I shall refer to hereafter as “The Professor” (as she does, indeed, teach college courses in theater) has managed to deepen my appreciation of the play, even though I’ve loved it since I was a teen.  Mentioning Much Ado in her presence unlocks lecture mode, and she will happily spend a great deal of time explaining how revolutionary this piece is, in that the core of the central love story involves a man being willing to overthrow the central order of his life out of respect for a woman’s judgement.  

Now, I have my issues with the show, as do many other people.  The character of Dogberry is (in my experience) generally incredibly tedious, and the highest compliment I can give any of the comedic actors that have tackled that role is that they made it tolerable.  More significantly, for my fiery feminist heart, I truly loathe the plot arc of Hero.  A demure, blushing maiden who wants only to be given to some important, handsome man; who is ruined by slander; who’s word counts for nothing in her own defense; and who, in the end, forgives the rat bastard who almost got her killed.  Even thinking about it makes me clench my jaw.

For all that it is Hero’s piteous scenario which gives us the chance to experience the extraordinarily powerful tale of Beatrice and Benedict, it still leaves me with a foul taste in my mouth.  I have always seen Hero’s tale as a bitter pill in an otherwise delightful piece.

Now, with that background in mind…

The Professor told me that I should watch the 2019 Shakespeare in the Park production of Much Ado About Nothing.  She hadn’t finished it yet, but she’d seen about half and was positive it was worth watching.  Not to mention, it’s currently streaming for free on PBS.  So last night The Professor and I, along with our friend The Preacher, had a remote watch party of the production.

There are some things you should know about this production.

The first is that it is set in the spring of 2020.  Now, in 2019 they didn’t know we would be facing a rampant plague, but they were aware of a number of the other things that were staging to be part of this cultural moment.  That’s critical.

The second is that this is an all black production.  That is also critical.  

The show opens at the estate of Señor Leonato, a well to do gentleman, and father to Hero.  The young male characters of the play (the Prince, his brother The Bad Guy, Benedict, and Claudio) are “away at war.”  That is the scene in which we find ourselves.  Many varying productions have chosen to incorporate music into the show, and this one does as well.  Instead of a lilting lute, however, this production begins with the character of Beatrice emerging onto her balcony, singing an a cappella version of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On.  The other major female characters (Hero, Margaret, and Ursula) join in, and merge America the Beautiful into the vocals.  It’s beautiful, and well done, and entertaining.  But, to be honest… I wasn’t sure where it was going.  

That’s also important folks.  I didn’t get where it was going.  We’ll circle back around to this later.

The women finish singing, the actual canonical dialogue begins, and right on cue the messenger comes to let them know that the men are returning home from war.  There’s an exchange in this opening scene that I’ve always disliked:

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

But few of any sort, and none of name.

Now… this production?  They edited a bit.

How many have you lost in this action?

But few of any sort.

That’s it.  THAT.  IS.  IT.  And that’s when I first picked up my phone to text The Professor and The Preacher (because I certainly wasn’t going to talk over the dialogue—not then, at any rate).  But I was too excited to sit on it.  Because the original dialogue?  Well… It’s SUPER CLASSIST!  And very Ayn Rand-ey.  Only the gentlemen matter, and the most important thing is that they haven’t lost anyone “of name.”  It’s very dismissive of the actual, real live men who died in the fight.  But this!  This was so much better!  I was so excited!

The men arrive from war.  They are marching, carrying protest signs.  “Hate is Not a Family Value.”  “Now, More Than Ever, We Must Love.”  “Restore Democracy Now.”  “I Am a Person.”

I admit, gentle friends, I still didn’t get where they were going with it.  I thought it was a clever way to represent war in modern times.  And here’s another important thing that we’ll circle back to later on:  I was so entrenched in my super feminist view of Much Ado, it was almost impossible for me to entertain the possibility of what they were setting up with this opening.

Now, the show was great.  They had a Dogberry that I actually enjoyed.  I mean, within my expectations of Dogberry.  Beatrice and Benedict were by turns amusing and then very serious, in all the right moments.  The choices made by Kenny Leon (the director) and Margaret Odette (the actress ) finally made me actually respect Hero somewhat.  I have always loathed that character, and, at last, here was a production where I could maybe consider even liking her a bit.  Honestly, it was so good, and so well done, and so engaging that, y’all, I straight up forgot the beginning.  It had happened, it was an interesting modern take on opening this show, and it hadn’t grabbed me any more than that.

And then we got to the end.

The wedding party is dancing!  Everything has ended well!  Love has triumphed over slander, and we just know they’re all going to live happily ever after.  It is a raucous, uproarious celebration.

And then the music fades, and police sirens begin in the background.  The Prince calls out:

Formation!

FORMATION!

Hero and Beatrice, fear on their faces, kiss their loves goodbye and the soldiers take up their signs again, holding them high as they march off the stage to go confront the sirens.  I caught my breath, watching the “I Am a Person” sign waving across the stage.

The household of Señor Leonato watch the soldiers go, and they begin to sing.

Lift every voice and sing

Til earth and heaven ring

Ring with the harmonies of li—

And Beatrice’s ringing voice cuts across them all.

FATHER, FATHER

We don’t need to escalate

War is not the answer

Only love can conquer hate

But we’ve got to find a way to bring some loving

Some loving

Here to today.

Oh… What’s going on?

And then, friends, I cried.

The Direction

Y’all, it took me until the final moments of the show, but I finally got it.  If you haven’t yet, let me break it down for you real quick:

The central plot of the show is the story of Hero.  Beatrice and Benedict’s love (which is what the show is mostly about) blooms in that framework, but it’s not the main series of events.  The main series of events are as follows.

A member of an oppressed class (a woman) is going about her business, doing everything she should in life, perfectly within the bounds society has set for her.

A member of the privileged class (a man) makes a false accusation against her, based on very flimsy evidence.

Because of this accusation, she is cast aside.  She is ruined.  She is threatened with death.  Simply because someone in power made a mistake, and assumed they were right, and did not choose to give any credence to the protestations of the oppressed individual that they were, in fact, innocent.

Now… does this sound at all familiar to anyone, in the context of current cultural events?

Kenny Leon took two very brief moments, at the beginning and the end of the play, and that, in conjunction with his use of an all black cast, made me see this play (which I have watched in multiple productions, and multiple times in each production) in a whole new light.

The plot of this story is about oppression.  It is about the damage that can be done when those in power do not even stop to question their rightness.  And it is, to a certain extent, about the fact that only those in power who do not blindly follow their fellows are truly worthy of love.

There are only two men in the play who do not turn against Hero.  One is the priest, a character Shakespeare routinely uses as a voice of benevolent compassion in all his shows.  The other is Benedict—the only male character in the show I have not screamed at, at one time or another.  In fact, it is, in part, the actions of Benedict that keep Hero’s own father from killing her, on the word of a powerful man alone.  

When the sobbing girl has been led from the stage, and Beatrice and Benedict are finally alone together, finally declaring their love, finally becoming united, Beatrice asks her newly declared love to do something for her.  She asks him to avenge her cousin, and kill the man who wronged her.  A man who just happens to be Benedict’s closest companion.

The Professor will tell you that this scene is why this show is so revolutionary, and I do not disagree with her.  Benedict is a member of the nobility.  His entire life is about serving the Prince.  His entire history has been one of privilege.  Not only that, he has been to war with these men.  His own life is inextricably linked with theirs and asking him to kill his friend is not only asking him to wound his own heart but also to cast himself forever from the grace of the Prince, on whom his fortunes depend.

And yet, when he understands how serious Beatrice is, he goes to challenge Claudio.  Not just because he loves her, but because he respects her.  He sees her as an equal.  And when she says that Claudio has wronged her cousin, he believes her.  

Imagine that.  

Y’all, when you strip out the scenes of comedic gold and the improbability of the foibles, Much Ado About Nothing is actually a very great ado about a very critical societal issue that plagues us to this day, and that we are seeing on what feels like an almost weekly basis on the news.  

George Floyd

Breonna Taylor

Atatiana Jefferson

Stephon Clark

Philando Castille

Tamir Rice

Jacob Blake

I can’t even list them all.  I don’t even know them all.  But when the show ended with a raucous party of black people, broken up by police sirens, so that the soldiers had to rush out with their protest signs again, you can bet your ass that the names I did know all came rushing into my mind.  And I finally saw where Kenny Leon had been going with it, from the beginning.

The parallel was there, for anyone to see it.

So, here’s a thought provoking question.  

Why didn’t I see it?

The Reality

Friends, I believe in intersectional justice.  We are not pursuing equality if we only want equality for our group.  That’s not equality.  That’s just joining the high rollers club.

The truth is, though, that comprehensive “woke-ness” is not a thing.  We all have blind spots.  Ironically, sometimes it is our very desire for justice in one regard that can lead us to the most glaring omissions.  I have always been so focused on Much Ado as a feminist piece, I simply failed to ever consider that my favorite Shakespearean play could be applied in a much broader context.  I could never, in a million years, even if I became an accomplished and well-regarded director, have come up with the idea to do what Kenny Leon did.  I had a blind spot there.

I am grateful to this production for removing this blind spot.  

I am not so arrogant to assume that I do not have many others.

There’s a lot of talk in the arts communities about representation.  A lot of people pushing for broader representation.  A lot of people pushing back.  A lot of half measures, where there is only token representation, or systematically under-represented groups are allowed on stage or screen, but only to perform scripts written by white people, in scenes staged by white directors.

This production, in addition to being a brilliant stand alone piece, and in addition to being a new insight into a show I truly thought I knew well, is also an excellent example of why we need the kind of radical representation in the arts that minority communities have been too long denied.  

Humanity learns through the stories we tell.  Even the most factual account holds some thread of narrative, and we absorb those stories, and we learn from them.  And while I had some vague idea of this before, Kenny Leon’s production of Much Ado About Nothing gave me the concrete words to say this:

A group in power can never tell the stories of those that they oppress and overlook.

We need representation because we need to hear those stories.  We need people of color, and women, and LGBT folks, and people from the disabled community, and poor people—we need them telling their own stories.  They are the only ones who can.

I could not have directed this version of Much Ado.  I am white.  I could not tell this story.  Not because I was unwilling, or because I am a bad person.  Because, despite my desire to be inclusive, I could not see that story.  It was too obscured by my own.

But Leon could tell the story.  And I could learn from it.  And that is a blessing. 

And it is a blessing that I, for one, think we need more of.

#123: The Spectrum of Goodness

Okay. Buckle up folks.

It's a fact of the human condition that, however we each individually measure value, we are never as "good" as we want to be. We all fall short.

That's really okay. In fact, it's probably for the best that we all want to be better than we actually are. It's what keeps us trying and improving. We would be stagnate and dull creatures if we didn't want to measure up to a higher standard.

The thing is, for every positive value, there is an opposite value. It's a spectrum, not a check box. You are not strong OR weak. You are not kind OR cruel. You are not generous OR stingy. You--and every person in the world--lie somewhere on a long spectrum that runs between each of these pairs of values.

And, here's the rub, what that logically means is that if you are not as kind as you want to be, it also means that you are more cruel. If you are not as strong, not as rich, not as clever, not as thoughtful as you want to be, then--by the nature of reality--this also means you are weaker, poorer, slower, and more callous than you wish you were.

This is simply fact. It doesn't make you, personally, good or bad. Not being perfect doesn't make you horrible. It just makes you human.

Now, why did I say all this?

Let's talk about racism.

Just like every other character trait, there is a spectrum from "racist" to "not racist". No one is all the way at "not racist." We want to be. We strive to be. We know we should be, because we know it's wrong to judge people based on their color and none of us want to be that kind of person.

And yet, all of us are. None of us makes it all the way to "not racist." And, since none of us is as "not racist" as we want to be, you know what that means.

We're all more racist than we wish we were.

And, frankly, we don't really care to admit that.

Now, admitting you have a problem is the first step to correcting it, right? Whether you learned that from AA or your therapist or a TED talk, we've all heard it and we know it's true. Admitting there is an issue is the first step. But not a single one of us wants to admit that we're more racist than we'd like to be.

Which makes it really hard to start correcting the issue.

Now, I get it. I really do. We want to be good people. And racism is bad. If we're somewhat racist, then that calls into question everything we think about our own inherent goodness, doesn't it?

As I get older, I am learning not to think that way. I am learning to understand that what makes someone a "bad" person is a refusal to learn to be better. When people embrace their negative qualities, when they don't care about their impact on others, when they turn a blind eye to the harm they cause... THAT is when I judge a person as bad.

But, for all that I'm really angry at humanity right now, in the end I have always believed that most people have a shot at redemption, if they want it. And I don't mean a magical cleansing of their soul by an outside source. I mean accepting where they lie on each value spectrum, and trying to move consistently towards the place they WANT to be, rather than the place that they ARE.

If you WANT to be better, and you're willing to WORK to be better, then you're a fine person in my book. No matter how far that journey towards "better" may be for you.

But the first step is admitting that you have progress to make. That there's room to grow. That you're still a little more racist than you'd like to be.

So, as we have all these conversations on racial injustice, and you find yourself feeling uncomfortable, and not wanting to be labeled as a racist?

Let that go.

You're racist. So am I. We all are. And that's not just the white "we" (although for sure, the white "we" has a huge and painful burden to bear there.). That's the human "we." We're racist. Because we're not perfect, and we live in a racist world. If your discomfort stems from not wanting to be labeled as a racist, you gotta let that go.

It's only getting in the way.

#122: Hurricane Walking

I've been backing off my depression meds recently--

Lemme stop there, for the concerned people who aren't well steeped in the "brain drug" lore.  Meds help, but they also can hurt.  Basically every brain medication has a small chance of actually causing the thing that you're trying to heal.  Why?  In lots of cases we're not sure--  

It's super fun when you start to really look at areas of medicine that are not particularly well understood, like the brain. The more you learn, the more you realize that the most educated expert in this field still bears a striking resemblance to the call center IT person reading through a google search with you. 

Good times.

Anyway, back to what I was saying--

--we're not sure, but we do know it's true.  In my case, the 20 mg of citalopram I was taking daily had turned my life into a greyscale.  I was never upset, but I was never happy.  Even things that normally make me joyous had barely any effect on my mood at all, and I hated it.  The level of disconnection I was experiencing was as bad, in it's own way, as full blown depression had been, and I decided something had to change.  

So, once more, with feeling...

I've been backing off my depression meds recently, and it's been good, but fraught.  Having the feels come back is wonderful, but, you know, not all the feels are good.  Not to mention, I am way out of practice at handling my feels.  So I'm trying to remember how to float among these waves, without struggling and going under.

When I was a teenager I was super volatile, emotionally speaking.  I laughed easily, cried easily, got angry easily, and loved easily.  Time, experience, and motherhood taught me to temper all of that, because the more you are confronted with situations where you cannot wear your heart on your sleeve, the more you are forced to learn to hide it.  I don't honestly know how I feel about this life lesson.  It is good that I can handle most of what my children throw at me without breaking down in tears (at least, in public) and it is good that I can check my anger and find its source before starting an unproductive fight.

But it's bad that I feel like I am always in a box.  Always contained.  Always letting just a tiny bit of myself out into the world, and always ready to yank it back in if that small piece of me turns out to be too much.

I am a hurricane trying to feel like a gentle breeze, and it does not feel good to me, no matter how much nicer it is for those around me.

*****

Now, ready for some even more uncomfortable honesty?

Lately, I have been confronting some things that I always knew were true about myself, but that I did not want to be true, and hoped I would grow out of.  Now, at the half way point of my life, I am coming to terms with the fact that these things will not change; that they are fundamentally a part of who I am.  That I can learn to manage them, and handle them, and contain them, but I cannot get rid of them.  I will always be this way.

People who know me often describe me as strong, and capable, and unapologetic in who I am.

People who know me best are aware that, in fact, that is who I force myself to try to be.  That at the center of myself, I am a bundle of insecurities that revolve around my desperate need for love, attention, and approval.

I am a needy, needy person, y'all.  I need to be liked.  I need to be noticed.  I need to be appreciated.

And I kind of hate that about myself.

I dream of running away and becoming a hermit.  Living alone with myself, so that I couldn't be concerned with anyone else's opinion of me.  I'd only have access to my own opinion, and then maybe I'd be able to be who I wanted without worrying about other people's approval.  And then maybe I'd learn that I won't wither and die if people aren't noticing me.

Of course, there's always the possibility that I would wither and die.  We all like to think that when confronted with a situation that can destroy us or forge us into something stronger, that we'll totally emerge as a well tempered artifact, but I try to be honest with myself.

I might just shatter.

*****

So, here I am, a hurricane in a zephyr's clothing, my inner tempest getting stronger again, and I am so scared of what happens if I can't contain it.  Not to me, at least, not directly.  I have always loved a roller coaster.  The lows make the highs more profound for me, and there is no escaping that basic aspect of my nature.  Some people like to walk along steadily, but I prefer to soar and plummet.

Original Watercolor "Mizz Irma" by Gina Fote

That is who I am.

But, folks, who I am is a lot for everyone outside my own head.  I mean, sometimes it's a lot for me, too, but I think I have some natural immunity to it.  I walk in the eye of the storm.  But for the people around me, getting buffeted by the winds of my moods...

It's just a lot.

So, what do I want more?  The need to express my thoughts and feelings without malice, but also without inhibition, is a central part of who I am.  But so is my need to be appreciated, and valued, and loved.

And I am honestly not sure I can have both.

#121: The Terrible Absence of Pain

Recently, when I was talking to a friend about my struggles with depression, I was going through the litany of why my life was fine.  And he looked at me, and said something that really made an impact.

"What you just said are all absences of pain.  Not the presence of good things."

He was right, of course.  The state of my life right now is absence of pain--most of the time.  And don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking absence of pain.  I don't think he was either.  But it's hard to live a joyful life when you don't feel any joy.

I know I am depressed.  I know that's not something in my control, and that it's an actual mental illness.  But I can't help feeling guilty that I can't find the joy in my life.  It feels like a failure on my part.  Like a selfish, greedy way of looking at the world; to want for more joy when so many people are dealing with such agonizing pain.  

I, personally, know of someone who just lost a child.  I would stop breathing if I lost my children.  Why is it so hard to translate the knowledge that my children are whole and (mostly) well into some kind of joy?

I don't know.

I know that, emotionally speaking, my life has been hard for the last decade.  I lost my partner.  I am a mostly single parent.  I moved.  I started a job.  My children have atypicalities that make school hard for one, and almost impossible for the other.  My health has not always been great.

I have taken every meeting at the school.  I have signed every piece of paper.  I have managed every phone call, sometimes multiple ones a day.  I have learned a new industry and a new way of working in the space of two months.  I have rearranged my life schedule and planned alternative after-school plans and tried to figure out how to still do the laundry.  Speaking of which, I have done every load of laundry.  I have done all the dishes.  I have cooked all the meals, dealt with all the dead mice, shoveled all the snow, and taken out every load of trash.  And the weight of knowing that these things are all mine to do--not individually, but collectively--that it is all mine to do--is heavy.

I grew up in a home where there were never less than four adult to share the load.  Sometimes I think wistfully of what that would be like.  Even two would be pretty swell.  But I don't have two.  I have me.  And me is trying her best, but anyone who walked into my kitchen right now would see that some things are slipping.

And yet... there is an absence of pain.  Sure, this is hard.  I'm not trying to say it's easy.  But I have dealt with the children's school issues, and both of them are doing better.  I have gotten the job which will provide me with my own financial security.  My children are healthy, and getting happier.  So why is it that every day seems to be so hard?

I really don't know.

But I do know that I'm not the only one who feels this way.  That this is actually a common problem.  And, in the wake of the past four years, where the nation has seemed a terrifying and out of control place for many of us, the macro crisis of the world at large has sent a lot of us with this very common problem into a tailspin.  

As another friend recently put it... we're struggling.

But we don't talk about it all that much.  We feel shame that we can't find the joy in the simple absence of pain.  We feel guilt that things are hard.  

We really don't want to talk about the state of our kitchens.

And the thing is, I think we need to.  Depression isn't a safe thing to keep quiet.  When it's serious, it can be a terminal illness.  And when it's less critical it can still take a life that ought to be vibrant and full of joy and leech all the color from it.  And worst of all, it spirals downward.  When you're depressed, it's harder to do the things that can pull you out of depression.

So we need to talk about it.  

My friends are a lifeline to me, because they know, and they don't let me slip too far down the spiral.  Not because they can fix anything, or change anything.  Just because they're always there, and they keep reminding me that they care.  It's amazing how strongly knowing that someone else cares can anchor you in place.  But people aren't mind readers, and they might not see that we're slipping if we're too embarrassed to talk about it.

So, I'm going to keep talking about my mental illness.  I'm going (to try) to let go of the shame of the things I keep let slipping--

Seriously.  Those fucking dishes.

--and I'm going to encourage others to talk about it as well.  None of us need to sit in silence when so many of us are in the same damn boat.  None of us need to feel alone in this.  None of us need to make the isolation any bigger.

Hi, my name's Jessica, and I'm depressed.

*the art in this post is from a photo shoot on grief that I did with a friend. 

#120: An Open Letter to Dudes in Trucks

An open letter from a part time pedestrian, on a rainy day, to Dudes in Trucks, with their giant wheels, and their immense insecurity about life;

so very immense

Dear Dudes,

Here we are again.  In the summer I reached out to you to let you know my feelings about your demographic.   Now, obviously, #notalldudesintrucks, but a huge percentage of the catcalls, yells, and general douchey behavior I got while out walking in the warm months came from you guys.  Now that it’s fall, I find we gotta have another chat about your need to take up as much social real estate as possible.

Now, I know that your truck means a lot to you.  You get to climb into that big ol’ cab set up on those big ass wheels and look down on the people around you, in their tiny, fuel efficient vehicles or—more embarrassing still—moved by nothing but their own two legs.  I get that this gives you a warm feeling somewhere in your nether regions.  I’m not trying to take that feeling from you.

But Dudes—my dudes—we gotta talk about the rain.  

Today, for the first time, I learned just how far those giant wheels sling the rainwater they scoop up from the road puddles in their deep, chasm like tire treads.  I learned this not by academic study, but by walking innocently down the sidewalk.  One member of your brotherhood passed me by, and lo and behold, I was wet from the knee down.  

Sort of dirty, too.  

Now, I can enjoy being wet and dirty as much as the next person, but I tend to prefer it to be at a time of my own choosing, not when I’m headed to the train to go to work.

I realize that asking you to drive a more reasonably sized car—for the sake of the environment, if nothing else—would be an infringement upon your right to do as much damage to the planet as you possibly can in your short span upon it.  And I realize that asking you to give up your monstrous tires in the name of “why the fuck does anyone need tires that big unless they are hauling produce across the country in an 18 wheeler?” would similarly be insupportable, since you need them for the aforementioned warm feeling in your nether regions.

But for fuck’s sake, can you at least slow down when it’s wet out, and you’re driving past pedestrians?

Sincerely, 

The woman on the train with very wet legs.  

#119 The Story of How EVERYTHING IS FINE.

Okay, it's very important that we start this story with the following reassurance:

It's important because, at various times over this tale, you are likely to wonder if (a) the house burned down, (b) Elliot is okay, and (c) if I had the state called on me as an unfit mother.

So, I repeat...

EVERYTHING IS FINE.

On with the tale.

Yesterday was my first Friday at work.  For those of you who don't know, I've recently taken a new job.  It's great, I'm super happy with the company, and, more importantly, it has the best working mother schedule in the world.  Most of the time I only have to be in the office every other Friday; when they cater lunch and then have cocktail hour at four and we all play Beat Saber.

Right?
RIGHT?

Bask in the glory.

Anyway, since I was just starting I've had a few extra office days recently, but they always either were scheduled so I could be home around the time the kids got out of school, or someone else was here (for instance, I was down in Boston all day Wednesday, but my mother-in-law was here so that was no big.)

Yesterday was the first day I was (a) in the city and (b) no one else was home.

On top of this (and this detail is critical to the story) Elliot is currently awaiting a new school placement.  So he's at home, being homeschooled until the new placement goes through.

If you're quick, you've realized that this means he was going to be home alone yesterday.

Now, to be clear, I did not just swan out the door without a care.  Elliot has a way to contact me on his computer.  I had also previewed the day with him, set him up with the school work he needed to do, made sure he had set an alarm for lunch time so he'd remember to eat, and put out food for him.  He felt confident, I felt--well--at least moderately okay, and I figured we'd give this a shot.

So I go to work and I'm not really thinking too much about it until my phone rings at 11:30.

Now, this call is coming from Charlotte's account on Hangouts.  (Hangouts is the google messaging app.)  This confuses me because Charlotte is supposed to be in school.  I answer the phone immediately.

"Chaz?"
"NO!  It's me!"  My son sounds slightly panicked.  "I fucked up really bad!"

I die.  In this moment, I am dead.  Something has happened.  The world is coming to an end.  I am forty minutes away from my son and something is horribly, horribly wrong.

He continues.  "I locked myself out of my email account!"

The world stutters and my heart starts beating again.

"Oh."  I say, barely able to speak due to the adrenaline spike that now has nowhere to go.  "Ah, what happened?"

Turns out my dude had tried to fix the ad settings on his YouTube (yes, some of his school work involves educational videos on YouTube) and had, in all innocence, given google his real age, whereupon google had promptly booted him.  He was calling from Charlotte's account because he was locked out of his own account.  I logged in, fixed it, proved I was an adult with the right to do this, and got him set back with his account and told him to leave the ad settings alone.  Crisis averted, right?

Well...

About 90 seconds after I hang up with Elliot, my phone rings again.  This time it's an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jessica, it's Linda."

This is Linda Rosa, the social worker at the school that Elliot used to attend and Charlotte currently attends, calling me (I can only assume) from her personal cell phone.   That does not normally happen.

"Is Charlotte okay?"

"Charlotte is perfect, but I've gotten this email from Elliot..."

My son--my brilliant, problem solving, alternative thinking son--had apparently not immediately thought of using his sister's account to contact me, and had instead logged into his school email account and used it to contact Linda.  According to her his email was as follows;

"Help, I've fucked up really bad!  Please call Mommy and tell her I need her."

I feel like maybe Elliot and I need to sit down and have a chat about how to word things.

After assuring Linda that he was fine and that I had spoken with him and that it had actually been a fairly minor issue, we hung up the phone and I moved on with my day.

Well, I tried to move on with my day.

Three minutes later, my phone rings again.

This time it is the Parker Elementary main number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jessica, this is Chrissy, I'm calling because I've got this email from Elliot..."

Y'all... I cannot accurately describe my emotional state in that moment, but it was a bizarre mixture of guilt over their worry combined with wild hilarity.

Chrissy (the current principal of the Parker) told me that she had heard from (in no particular order) Elliot's third grade teacher, his fourth grade teacher, the Behavioral Analyst, and the old principal, all of whom had heard from Elliot and were worried about him.

I sent them all an email.

Then I contacted my son.

Y'all...

So anyway.  I get home from work yesterday, and Elliot comes bounding down the stairs with a big grin on his face.

"Well!  That was quite an exciting day, wasn't it?"

You can say that again, dude.

#118: Slam Head Into Wall. Repeat.

I've got some furniture I'm selling.  That's not the point of this story, it's just a critical detail so you can understand what is to follow.  In the process of selling this furniture I'm talking to a lot of strangers.  The conversation I am about to relate is with one such stranger, whose name has been changed out of respect for his privacy.

Such sources of drama.

"Hi, Dudebro?  This is Jessica with the king bed."
"Oh, hi!"
"So, I have some unfortunate news.  The box springs were stolen out of the back of my van last night, so I'm calling to--"
"That's illegal!"
"Yes, I know, I'm--"
"Someone went into your car and took your property, that's breaking and entering!"
"Yes, I know.  What I'm calling about it--"
"Have you talked to your husband about it?"

beat

beat

beat

Now, for anyone who knows me even the slightest bit, you will understand that this question pushed the rage button in multiple directions.  For one thing, there's the assumption that I have a husband.  For another, there's the assumption that, if I did have a husband, I would be going to him in order to deal with this.  For a third, there's the fact that once upon a time I did have a husband and, frankly, that's a slightly touchy subject for me.

So I really don't know what to say in cases like these. 

or just a light maiming?

Do I say "Well, I would talk to my husband about it, but it turns out he was a figment of society's collective imagination and the woman he really was is arguably more feminine than I am, so, really, I'm the butchest one around and I'll have to make do?"  Because, let me tell you, the temptation to unload that one and just really confuse the fuck out of them is SO STRONG.

Or do I say, with a catch in my voice, "My husband is no longer with us." and then start sobbing?  Because, I'll let you in on a little secret y'all, some days remembering my husband does actually make me cry.  I mean, mostly I'd be doing it to lay the world's largest guilt trip on this asshole making assumptions, but there would definitely be an aspect of authenticity about it.  And if I have to get the little stab wound of being reminded that I no longer have a partner to help me deal with the difficult shit, then I don't see why I shouldn't spread some of that misery around.

Or do I say, with every ounce of radical Feminist condescension I can muster, "That is an outrageous thing for you to ask.  March your feet to the base of Mount Shame and begin your climb, oh wretched man, and return not here until the wounds of self-flagellation can be clearly seen upon your hide-bound flesh."

SHAME!

Of do I say none of these things, because I do not want to deal with this man right now, I just want to deal with my furniture?

If you've selected that final option, you have, in fact, sussed out my chosen path.

With one little question I was suddenly ass deep in frustrated anger, but hell, I had other shit to do that day, so I simply ground out;

"I don't have a husband."

At the time it truly seemed like the better part of valor, but I had cause to regret my forbearance.

"Oh!  I'm sorry."

It flashed through my mind to wonder if he was apologizing for his question, or if he was saying he was sorry I wasn't married.  Like, honestly, it could have been either.  But I was goal oriented here, so I pressed on.

"Yes, but what I'm calling you about is--"
"  I just meant you've had a B&E.  What you should do it call the cops and report it and--"
"YES."  There was a deep breath in here while I tried to find a way to say what I needed to say without being utterly rude.  "I am completely capable of handling that myself.  The reason I called--"
"You can handle a B&E yourself?"
"yes."
"Oh.  Okay.  It's just my family is in law enforcement."
"Well, what I'm calling you about is to find out if you still want the mattress."
"Oh.  Yes."
"Fine.  Then come pick it up."

And after all that, folks?

He didn't come get the mattress.

motherfucker