The Song of my People

Barbies we’re THE thing when I was a little Baptist girl growing up in the very red, conservative Bible Belt. I had quite a collection, provided exclusively by my Nannie, and she was one of two favorite and willing and only Barbie cohorts I had. She and my bestie from birth, Jerilyn, would play for endless hours, vicariously living through these socially immaculate little plastic constructs. At some point at least once every other weekend, I would strip mine naked and shove them in bed together. Jerilyn would get upset, threaten to collect her Barbies and go home. I would reluctantly redress my dolls and return them to their red, conservative daily activities devoid of sex, and we would agree that their babies were all adopted, so as to avoid any further nakedness.

In the late 80s and early 90s, ideal American life was wealthy, white, nuclear family-oriented, male-dominated, and we were required to fall in place and love it, or fake it until we did. Growing up, I was taught to care about what other people thought above all else, including my own mental and emotional health. Those Barbies and Kens were what was to be achieved, and we were expected to spend our whole life trying. Thigh gaps were the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Silicone was making a mainstream presence, and it was digging in its heels to stay. We needed the Barbie house, and the Barbie car, and the Barbie measurements, and the Barbie sex life, without actually getting naked and committing the act, of course. We were all set up for failure, and our predecessors knew it in their hearts and souls. It was just impolite and shameful to say as much. So there we all went… trudging off into some impossibly achieved sunset, hoping beyond all hope that the pot of gold really was at the end of the rainbow and that we really could have Carmen Electra’s boobs if we wanted it badly enough (… or maybe that was just me…).

I didn’t witness a lot of successful partnerships in my developmental years, and definitely not ones I wanted to emulate. My conceptions of “healthy,” “desirable” relationships were formed solely from romance novels I shouldn’t have been allowed to read and watching Cinemax after my dad fell asleep in the recliner sometimes at my grandma’s. So what was a fat, Baptist, introverted, intelligent, confused little white girl from the Bible Belt looking for in the holy grail of a forever mate? He must be tall, dark (but white, of course), and handsome (according to society’s standards and not my own of course). Six pack abs and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of were absolutely necessary. He also needed to be rich and build a huge house, pay all the bills, and take his adoring wife on frequent, elaborate vacations. He must be able to expertly repair anything in the house that ever broke, and look amazing doing it. Nice dinners at Ruth’s Chris were a must (… my only frame of reference to a ‘nice dinner’ growing up…). He must be Baptist, from Texas (yankees, meaning anyone originating north of Wichita Falls, was unacceptable), have at least two college degrees, have an incredible, influential job – but also be home every night early enough to sufficiently cater to the needs of his June Cleaver wife and his precious, well-behaved children (exactly two years apart, of course). My perfect future husband and I would craft and garden the weekends away, making plans for our next get-away and smiling lovingly at the mere sight of our wildly intelligent, gorgeous children who got his lean build and my blue eyes…

The only truth that ever came out of my uniformed fantasies were the wildly intelligent, gorgeous children – which is what it is but not even close to the point here. My description of the perfect forever mate was shared by pretty much everyone in my social circle, except for my one close black friend, whose parents made it very clear that she was absolutely not allowed to marry outside of her race. Everything else was consistent for her, as well. We were sitting ducks, waiting for bad decisions and trauma to litter the next several decades of our lives. The next several decades of my life absolutely fell into line and presented more opportunity for bad decisions and trauma than I will ever be able to effectively process before I’m cold, dead and six feet under.

According to AARP, the overall American divorce rate has steadily decreased from its 1981 peak, but has doubled for people older than 50 and tripled for people over 65. In other words, it has decreased for those married couples actively raising kids and doubled and tripled for those couples not actively raising kids. So they question arises: Why divorce after raising kids together and being together for over half of a lifetime? BECAUSE NOW THEY CAN.

Several sources (who knows how reliable… but several) report that over 50% of marriages stay together for the kids. And of course they do. This shit is HARD. It’s hard enough with two active parents and plenty of money and time. But with one active parent who is responsible for multiple kids, the house, the yard, the dishes, grocery shopping and cooking, laundry (ALL the uniforms…), all finances, all bill paying, all cleaning up poop and puke and remembering three people’s medications and when to take them and when to refill them, and… you get the point.

I’ll tell you a dirty secret I won’t post on social media (… and Surprise! Social media is part of the problem here…). I despise the memes that say some variation of the following:

Click on the pic to see the whole thing…

So its about what generation we are from? We just throw people away instead of fix them? Relationships aren’t one-sided. They aren’t designed to be. If the other party just loses their ever-loving mind and gives up, you are responsible for fixing it? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… listen to the following if you never listen to anything I ever say again… it actually isn’t possible to “fix” or “control” anyone. Regardless if you married them, slept with them, gave birth to them or they gave birth to you, you cannot single-handedly fix or control any aspect of another human being. You can beat them into submission emotionally, spiritually, mentally, or physically… which is what is confused with fixing and controlling most of the time… but you can’t permanently alter another part of them ever at all. I do not personally know one human that has entered into a marriage and thought, “Well, if this doesn’t work, I’ll just scrap it.” I wasn’t given a choice. I had to leave and we had to morph into a family of three almost overnight. I’ve never dealt with the grief and loss of my life, hopes and dreams because… well, kids. We still have to get up, make breakfast, listen to them complain about breakfast, get them dressed, listen to them complain about getting dressed, take them to school… and listen to them complain about that. Not half a damn second to stop my head from spinning and heal for a minute. Just go, go, go. Birthday parties, picture money, my week to bring snacks for the team, orthodontists, physical therapy, creative financing (triaging bills). You get the drift. It’s a complete shit show at best.

I live like this. This is my life, and if the truth be known, I’d rather be alone with my children than have someone demonize their perception of a father, husband and man. I’ve been at this for a long time, y’all. Over a decay of trying to just catch a breath and, before I can, being slapped in the face with a fresh wave of overwhelming financial, emotional, spiritual, and physical responsibility.

So while I am rambling more than usual, my point is – we weren’t equipped for this and we are doing the best we can. No single mom asked to be that way in the beginning. We believed in love and happily ever after and fairytales, too, like the ones some of you are living. That just wasn’t our path. We are raising kids alone – kids we created in love and so much hope for the future… only to see it all implode before our very eyes. We don’t have help. No one cares about our crappy day at work or how the kid’s ARD meeting went. Family is lovey but just really wants us to visit a few times a year and generally puts no effort into a relationship. Everyone is focused on themselves because it’s human nature. No shots fired – that just the way it shakes out. From the meager perception of a fat, Baptist, introverted, intelligent, confused little white grown ass woman from the Bible Belt, everything society has fed us is manure. Straight turds. Barbie is bullshit. Putting your emotional health second to someone else’s is bullshit. SO. MUCH. POO.

So what is true and valid and real? Dance parties in my living room. Road trips with just the three of us. Movie nights at home. Pool days with friends. Wine and confessions and straight magic. Venting and crying and talking to Jesus. That’s what. That’s what we have.

One day at a time. Morning by morning, new mercies I see…