I know I’m not perfect. I believe that I’m the only one who could really know just how terribly flawed I am. I know every scar and dark secret, I remember every moment of shame and pain I’ve ever felt and consciously caused – and there have been some whoppers AND doozies, and yet somehow, I still manage to love and forgive myself. Despite all potential I have to screw up, I still trust myself to go out in the world and try to make it a better place. I try.
I’ll be honest here, because frankly, I have nothing left – on this particular horizon – to lose. Some “friends” of mine are getting married tomorrow. The groom and I have known each other since before he moved here, and we have helped each other out and leaned on each other in a number of ways since then. We’ve been through some tough, interesting, and festive times, but we’ve never been “close”. I suspect that neither of us, despite outward appearances, are the type of people who easily – if ever- get really close to some people, and that’s always seemed ok. Our respect for each other as oddballs and artists* – and people in need of friends and helping hands from time to time has been enough.

I’ve been looking forward to the wedding for some time. I admit that I had my doubts in the beginning, but then, I’m very cynical about marriage and love, and all my doubts were honestly rooted within myself. They were vanquished partially because of a rare deep discussion that he and I had a month or two ago, but finally completely by seeing them play (music and life) together and watching them make this event happen. I was so happy to finally be able to believe in this, at least in their case. I felt like they’d given me a little gift of my hope-for-true-love** (and for his future and happiness), back. The simple fact is - if I don’t believe in a union between two people, I can’t attend the wedding. I would NEVER celebrate something that I believed was destined to fail just for a free party. Never. I couldn’t enjoy the celebration without being sick. It wouldn’t be worth it.

I’d picked out my dress to match their color-scheme, and planned to give them a gift of a photo-shoot and album. (I hate to shoot weddings for money, but I love to do them for fun. People are always pleased, and it’s a gift that really means something.) I planned to have the day off, and I sent out a note today to his roommate to be sure of the time. Before she even got the note, she called to wish me a happy birthday (I’d put the wrong day on her calendar), and when I asked what time the festivities began tomorrow, she told me that I was not welcome. That the groom specifically asked me not to come.

For one thing, she couldn’t tell me why this was the case, partially because she herself wasn’t completely sure, and partially because it was “his thing”. (I believe it should have also been “his thing” to tell me, especially considering that his bride-to-be told me a week ago that I was welcome and that I could bring a friend. I’m really glad I didn’t invite a guest…). For another thing, she told me this at work, at the circulation desk, while a patron was standing there, and I got the added joy of watching this strange man watch my face collapse into embarrassment and tears while I struggled to maintain long enough to help him and then attempt to rush to the closet so that the rest of my patrons didn’t have to hear and see my sobs.
I stayed in the closet for a while, but I could hear patrons coming in, and so I collected myself enough to try to deal. Just as I calmed myself enough to cope, my friend called back to say that she was sorry and that the reason he doesn’t want me there is because he is afraid that I will embarrass him in front of his family.
This time, I didn’t make it to the closet, and everyone just had to hear and see.

Those of you who know me might wonder what would make this young man worry about such a thing – worry enough to pass this edict and end our friendship forever. I have never in my life been drunk enough to truly embarrass myself and others – not even when I was a teen. I am not coarse, I work in a public job, for the government, and I manage to dress and comport myself well enough every day to please the patrons and powers that be. People treat me as if I am pleasant to be around, and trust me with their children, secrets, fears, wishes and handsome husbands.
I can only venture one guess, and if I am right, then this sickens me.
My friend said that he – the groom - didn’t trust me enough not to tell “certain stories” to his family. I can only think of one story that MIGHT have this effect, the story of the night we met. For one thing, this embarrassing aspect of this story does not involve either of us. We were truly innocent bystanders. It’s a funny story and he and I have both told it to various drinking buddies. The fact that he’s willing to hurt me deeply and end our relationship – as well as my ability to spend time at his house, which happens to belong to another good friend of mine – over the RIDICULOUS possibility that I might tell this – or any other (though this story id the only one I can imagine that he means) story to his Christian, conservative family ON HIS WEDDING DAY, hurts me more than even I can believe.
I have screwed up in the past, I have embarassed myself and others before*** - I assume that we ALL have. But I believe - and I thought that my "friends" believed - KNEW - that I can be a lady and a pleasant and useful addition to ANY oocasion - especially one as important as this.
There are many levels of hurt in this. Our mutual friend did not defend me. The groom did not have the courage and respect to ask me himself not to come, or just to ask me not to tell this – or any other story – at his wedding, and he – nor my friend, or any of our other “friends” had enough faith in me to realize that I would NEVER embarrass him on his wedding day, that I would NEVER attempt to tell a story like this to his family at ANY time. There’s the fact that I will be publicly embarrassed within our circle by the knowledge that I was asked not to come, there’s the fact that I have to live with this shame and embarrassment and self-doubt for a time, and there’s the fact that several friendships and artistic situations that meant a great deal to me will be permanently marred by this.
I’m glad I’ve learned to lose things easily, to just let go, and walk away (if only I could do the same with the hurt, but at least that’s fuel for MY art…). I’m glad that my memory is good enough to bring me the sound of his voice and the vision of his face and hands feeling his music as he played, when I am ready to again, and when I need it. And I’m glad that I don’t have to wonder anymore how some people really feel. More pain and isolation here, but less doubt. So be it.

One more room cleaned out, one more door closed and locked behind me here.

-Sam

*He is truly one of the most amazing people I have ever met. His brilliance and genius would seem unbelievable in the telling. You have to see and hear him to believe him.
The loss of seeing and hearing him play will be the most painful thing of all.
**This is an EXCEEDINGLY rare commodity for me, and I hoard and treasure every scrap.
***Though, again, I thought that anyone who knew me knows that embarassment and crass behavior is my kryptonite.
No wonder I feel so alien. At least i know it's not JUST paranoia.

first, a tidbit for those of you who have been following my road-rants regarding my dangerous trek to work and back )see: july 16 and july 18, for some examples). day before-yesterday, as i was driving home from work (yes, DOWN THE BLOODY MOUNTAIN), my !@#$ BRAKES WENT OUT. yes, lovely. one more nail in the coffin, folks.

in COMPLETELY* unrelated news, i am a subscriber to a lovely service called "the writer's almanac" (thanks, gene!). among other things, they send you a poem a day, and usually you can actually hear it read. it's nice. garrison keillor is a neat guy. here is a poem that i found very... satisfying.


Watch Me Swing

I was the fifth man hired
for the city welfare cleaning crew
at the old Paterson Street ballpark,
Class A minor leagues.
Opening Day was over,
and we raked the wooden benches
for the droppings of the crowd:
wrappers, spilled cups, scorecards,
popcorn cartons, chewed and spat hot dogs,
a whiskey bottle, a condom dried on newspaper.

We swung our brooms,
pausing to watch home runs sail
through April imagination
over the stone fence three hundred feet away,
baseball cracking off the paint factory sign
across Washington Street.
We shuffled and kicked,
plowed and pushed
through the clinging garbage,
savoring our minimum wages.

When the sweeping was done,
and the grandstand benches
clean as Sunday morning pews,
the team business manager
inspected the aisles,
reviewed the cleaning crew
standing like broomstick cadets
and said:
We only need four.
I was the fifth man hired.

As the business manager
strode across the outfield
back to his office,
I wanted to leap the railing,
crouch at home plate
and swing my broom,
aiming a smacked baseball
for the back of his head,
yelling watch me swing, boss,
watch me swing.

-Martin Espada

watch me swing, folks!
xoxox
-samboLEEEENa!


*really. it has NOTHING to do with my current life-dissatisfaction. nothing in the least. not at all.

and the winner is....
SALLIE CORLEY!
now sallie, let us tell you what you've won!

sallie is my new ASSISTANT! yeah! she started work today - YAY, ME! she will be working here part-time, 20 hours a week, and i am so excited. not only do i have some PAID help now (my poor volunteers have busted heiney unpaid for THREE YEARS - and sallie was one of them), but i like her. she is smart and funny and bright and entertaining, hard-working, clean, thrifty and brave... :) she really is creative and a little bit wild, she's a fantastic cook*, she has an artistic spirit, she's funky and fun. not to mention veryvery pretty (ask stewart. :) and veryvery cool. yeah, we like sallie.
it makes me feel good that i have earned some help, that our branch is "grown-up" enough to merit another employee.
these are good signs. things are looking up!
congratulations, sallie - and congratulations to me AND the library. YAY, US!
hip hip, HUZZAH!
hip hip, HUZZAH!
hip hip, HUZZAH!
welcome on board, sallie-lou thelma-jean bobbie-earl! :D

-s (THE BIG BAD BOSS LADY!)

* i swear, that had absolutely NOTHING to do with my desire to have her here! ;) it really wasn't the lemon squares. honest... by the way sallie... when will you be making some more?

My Aunt Sue helped a lot in raising me. She’s kinda’ my “wire monkey mama”. She had her limitations as far as how much she could do for us, but she did as much as she could within those limitations. All the things she did were very special, and went a long way toward making me who I am today. One of her major efforts was to familiarize us with different arts. Some days were painting and drawing days, some days were for crafts, others were opera, ballet, or poetry. Some days we had them all. She also made sure that I understood how special it was to be a girl, how satisfying it was to do good work, and to be thankful to be alive and blessed with my unique and amazing self.

Aunt Sue had someone like that to help her grow up, see the beauty of the outside world, and teach her good things, too. I was lucky enough to know him and be loved by him as well (he passed away when I was 19). Our “Papaw” Joe (he was “Giuseppe deCarmelo Bartelomi*, until Ellis Island) made a big impression on many of us. When I converted to Catholicism at age 15, Papaw Joe became my Godfather. I know that Aunt Sue (and most of the other Aunts) as well as my brother Joe (guess who he was named after) remember him with much love, appreciation and admiration. He was not related to us - he was from Sicily, and his accent was a challenge to some folks until the day he died. Just a few weeks ago, I found out a lot more about how he came into our family (when Sue was a little girl), and it seems very much as if he was dropped into our lives like a guardian angel. He bought land and built a house with his own hands for my grandparents and their children to live in all of their lives. I can’t imagine what things would have been like without him. He gave us faith, new ideas, a broader perspective, warmth, concern, love, and hope for peace in our own lives. Sue recently wrote this lovely “portrait” of Papaw Joe, and she said that I could share it. I’m also happy to share the art of someone so dear and special to me, someone who has shared her art with me all of her life.

“THE WESTWARD PORCH
A Portrait of Joseph Barton
By Sue Kittrell 7/15/03**

He sits there in a padded lawn chair as the sun lowers in the horizon, a small bronze man of Italian origin. His work worn and skilled hands now holding a Mary Knoll magazine obtained through Sacred Heart Catholic Church. He shares it with me and I read St. Paul’s words “in him we live and move and have our being” which is accompanied by a picture of Chinese street dancers.

His culture and intelligence are rich, his imagination and ability far beyond that of the average man. I didn’t know it, but there was a deep affection and love that has only grown over the years, like the beautiful flowers that he grew. I was especially fond of the roses on the arbor he built that arched the front gateway, and the hollyhocks that bloomed in the backyard.

He had a taste for fine things like beautiful cooking utensils for he was an excellent cook, but never usurped the kitchen from Mama. He never drank iced tea sweetened or otherwise; instead he drank iced coffee, and sometimes when it was available, he would have a little wine.
It seems that he knew exactly what would please children as well as others. I know I was always grateful for the flannel-lined jeans and the corduroy shirts and jackets, but especially his Army jacket he gave to me that was the envy of many others of my age.

I am so appreciative that he was a part of our lives, and I hug his memory close, remembering what he said. “When you dream of the dead, say a prayer for them.” So now in my daydreams of him, I say “Thanks Joe, for making our lives good, our memories sweet, and for the desire to pass on those qualities you gave so freely of yourself.

I shall always love you.” -SK-


And I feel the same, about my Sue and my Joes. I hope you all have someone in your life like this.
Much love,
-SL-


*His brothers were Salvatore, Giovanni, Rosario and Tiner(sp?). and his sister was Celeste (seh-LEH-tay) Josephina – my own mother is named Celeste Josephine.
**written on my dad’s birthday.