Dear Older White Guy,
I was having such a lovely weekend. Truly. Granted it was the first time in ages that I’d been around that many white people for several days in a row. Sure, it was heteronormative, as far as I could tell, but at least “not hostile” to queer folk. Well-meaning and good-hearted, as far as I could tell.
You were a real gem. Kind, vulnerable. Funny, willing to put yourself out there and be teased. Respectful, as far as I could tell.
Then, in the final few hours of the event, you had to go and make that racist joke, for no reason, out of the blue.
I felt my heart stop and my face freeze. Really … did I just hear that?
I did. You didn’t get the reaction you were looking for from the people around you and you went further. I took some comfort that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t laugh and conversation picked up elsewhere.
There is a moment in Marilyn French’s book, The Women’s Room, in which Mira’s “perfect” male partner, Ben, simply assumes that Mira will drop her career and the rest of her life because he has been asked to move to Africa as part of a job advancement. After months of “seeing” Mira as a whole person, his male privilege – so ingrained – simply erases her as an individual and she becomes his appendage. With one sentence.
You “Ben’d” me. You bend me. You bent me.
Heaven knows, I’m not perfect. I’m not proud of the amount of white-classist-racist-privileged-gendered-homophobic crap that has come out of my mouth over the years. I’m trying to pay attention and I know I’ve done a lot of work. But you … you had no idea what had gone wrong in our budding friendship.
I failed in my personal mission of calling people directly on their crap. In that moment, I didn’t want to be the strident judgey person who polices everyone’s remarks. It was such a nice weekend, after all. Strident is a word we only use for women, so I should say I didn’t want to be that strident bitch who polices conversation. So I police myself. I withdrew and stopped investing in connecting with you. I made a choice to not ruin the overwhelmingly positive energy of the weekend. For you and for others, that is. Your remark had already slapped a barnacle on it for me. I spent the next several hours trying to picture how to draw you aside and explain what had happened without making the weekend’s good vibes completely dissipate. I’m supposedly good at communicating but I couldn’t figure this one out. And it is still bothering me.
I’m glad you had a great, amazing weekend with no barnacles. I had a really good weekend with some really amazing parts and a serious barnacle that won’t let go.
I was doing a bit of spring cleaning over the weekend, pulling everything out of a closet. At the bottom of a pile of random “stuff” was Freddie’s electric blanket. In the last year or so of her life, I had put this electric blanket on “low” under her bed and she seemed to appreciate it. After she died, I quickly tossed or donated most of her things except one shirt, one little blanket and this electric blanket.
(RIP Freddie, co-pilot and canine companion for 18 years, 7 months. October 2, 1997 to May 26, 2016.)
It was filthy, I remember thinking at the time, and I didn’t have the ability to figure out how to wash or clean an electric blanket. It seemed a near impossible task to me, figuring out how to clean this polar fleece fabric with wires in it. Like being asked to do some complex calculations in my head. I’ll deal with it later, I thought, and I tossed it into the bottom of a closet. Out of sight, out of mind.
So it has sat at the bottom of this particular closet for nigh on two years. As I pulled it out, I noticed the care label, quite clearly displayed, on the “down” side of the blanket. “Machine wash … dry on low”.
Oh. Not that hard, then. It is all clean now, folded and put away properly in the linen cupboard.
What I couldn’t face, I think, was the cessation of what had become a beloved routine. Freddie needed to go outdoors first thing for her business and I would carry her in my arms and set her down gently on the grass or snow. I’d move the electric blanket, a moisture pad (which was just a precaution between her and the electric blanket), and her bed from the bedroom to her spot by the computer. I’d go back out to see if she was ready to come in. She wasn’t capable of getting very far but she was usually enjoying having a sniff around the grass or snow. She might even bark at some smell or some perceived “thing to be barked at”. Maybe my neighbour Jim would come over and pat her as he adored her, too. I’d come in and I’d get her breakfast ready. Eventually, I’d tuck her into her spot in her bed by the computer and my day could begin.
She went out for outdoor visits several times during the day. Bedtime would come and the routine would run in reverse, with the blanket/moisture pad/bed moving back to the bedroom.
Caring for this elderly creature felt like a sacred duty and it made me oddly happy and serene. It bears mentioning that my relationship of seven years had officially ended Labour Day 2015, after dragging on painfully for too many years. Caring for Freddie was, for me, a nurturing that fed my wounded soul.
Big Dee arrived in my life in late Fall 2015 and, to be honest, he couldn’t figure out why I was keeping this smelly senior around. I think it wounded his pride to know he was, as dog hierarchy goes, inferior to this old girl. In truth, I think it was not a bad idea for him to learn his place. In his mind, I’m sure, he was hoping she’d head off on a long walk into the woods one day and he’d have me all to himself.
I always thought I’d wake up one day and find that she had died in her sleep. That is not what happened. That last weekend, the long weekend in May 2016, she slipped several notches in function, becoming disoriented, seemingly blind, confused. She was no longer herself. It was time, and I had to make that dreaded decision pet owners (owners? parents? stewards? companions?) have to make. It was hard. It was necessary. And I had to be pushed a bit to get it done.
My desk area has changed and a bookcase now stands where her bed was. A night stand has now filled in the spot in the bedroom that used to be hers. Sally has joined the crew now … life moves on. I think the electric blanket was the last piece of unfinished business remaining from that time. I’ve put it away now. But that won’t stop me from glancing over occasionally, as I’m sitting here at the computer, and remembering her little face looking up at me, wondering if it is time to go out yet.