Soapy Shades of Gray
Recently I became embroiled in one of those classic Face Book arguments. You know the kind. Person A reads news story that upsets them. Person A makes displeasure known through a political status update. Persons B, C, and D agree with person A, then person E comes along and demands that person A admit they are wrong, wrong, wrong! Persons B, C and D respond with disbelief than someone could disagree with what is so clearly the “Truth” (capital “T”, intentional). Meanwhile Person A has gone to the grocery store and returns 110 posts later to find friends that range from college chums to local pals to cyber friends embroiled in a heated and emotional argument as well as multiple private messages from both sides of the debate asking “what is UP with your friend? “ If you haven’t guessed it by now I was person A. Good times.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t post anything political on Facebook, it’s just asking for trouble. But sometimes I can’t help myself. There are a few things I feel deeply and passionately about: women’s rights, access to health care, marriage equality, better education for our children, social justice. Ok, that’s more than a few things but you see what I mean. You see, I was raised in a household that prized political conversation and dialogue and with parents who taught me to stand my ground and speak up for what I feel is right, but to always be respectful of others’ opinions. Before the age of Facebook I was a regular on the debate boards of iVillage and Yuku where I was regularly schooled by some seriously smart women and savvy debaters – many of whom have gone on to be cherished ‘real life’ friends. And I live in New Hampshire, where political dialogue and debate is practically as much a part of our way of life as mud season and summer days on Hampton Beach. So it’s fair to say I know my way around a good political argument. But this most recent one (or two) on Facebook was different. On an Internet message board you may be clashing with someone who is just a screen name to you. In real life you may be debating someone you know well. You can read his or her expressions and body language and manage to have a great discussion without being personal or hurtful. But on Facebook, everyone is thrown together. The college friends, the former co-workers, the cyber buddies, the family members, the people who you went to kindergarten with for heaven’s sake. All arguing a topic on your ‘home page.’ Think about it. What would it be like if all those people were suddenly in your living room? As my daughter and her friends like to say, it would be “that awkward moment when” everyone you’ve ever known in your entire life shows up on your doorstep. And then you’re suddenly in the position of explaining to your friends on one side of the issue why you have friends on the other side of the issue and vice versa. Frankly it’s exhausting.
During the aforementioned debate that was sparked by one of my status updates, I interjected a few times to remind people to be respectful and polite even while disagreeing. After all, my friend on one side of the argument doesn’t know the deeply personal experiences that formed the opinion of my friend on the other and vice versa. But I know them both, and even though I may actively be disagreeing with one of them, they are both friends I cherish. To say that things got uncomfortable for me was an understatement. At one point, in an effort to explain that life is not always clearly defined, I tried to make the point that it is mostly “so many shades of gray.” Except I was typing too fast and autocorrect was in overdrive and my reply was changed to “life is soapy shades of gray.” Soapy shades of gray. This might possibly be the first time autocorrect has provided a writing prompt.
I’ve spent time exploring these shades of gray lately with some surprising results. A few months ago I ranted to a friend about someone who was very publicly on the opposite side of an issue very dear to my heart. Turns out she knew him and within minutes had emailed us both suggesting we get together. He instantly agreed and offered to meet whenever it was convenient. It was time to put my money where my mouth was. And I was frankly skittish. I wasn’t sure I was tough enough to actually meet and sit down with someone about whomI had an admittedly strong and not at all positive opinion. But my friend assured me that we would get along and that he was a great guy and that speaking one-on-one was a much better way to air my concerns than shouting at my computer screen. But still I wasn’t sure. I stalled. I hemmed and hawed, and ignored the invitation for weeks. But then something in me made me return the email and before I knew it we had a plan to meet for coffee. I figured we’d meet, we’d talk about all the ways we differed on this very important subject, and that would be that. What I hadn’t figured on was how much we would have in common, how nice he was, and how much we would enjoy each other’s company. Oh sure we talked about the “big important issue.” We talked about it a lot. And nearly four months later, we’re still talking about it. We still don’t agree, but that’s almost beside the point right now. I no longer see him as just “guy who is opposed to big important issue” and I would like to think that getting to know me has given him a new perspective on the “big important issue.” And now our conversations are just as likely to be about good restaurants, theater, our families, or the joy of a really good cupcake. Our friendship is unexpected, it’s funny, and it lives inside that soapy shade of gray that makes life so interesting.
This admittedly strange new friendship has taught me a great deal about the danger of seeing only the issue and not the person behind it, about snap judgments, and angry outbursts. And out of respect for this friendship and a few others I’m blessed with, I’m trying very hard to stay away from the inflammatory language that marks so many Facebook tirades. Do I still get angry? Of course! I get very angry and I get more than a little scared. But ranting to my computer screen and forwarding a meme isn’t going to fix anything. I have learned from my own missteps and my own hurt feelings how damaging words can be. We are not “liberrullllls’ or “repugnicans” we are not ‘”stupid progressives” or “greedy conservatives.” We are people and like it or not we’re all in this together.
Now, I know it’s a big tempting cyber world out there, and that it is still deliciously wonderful to post something from Huffpo or Fox to our Facebook pages, so post away! But there’s more to the conversation than that. Here’s my challenge. Find someone on the other side of a big important issue, and invite them out for coffee and listen to them. Really listen. You may not change their mind, they may not change your mind, but who knows? You might make a friend where once you only saw an enemy.
The Yo Yo
About six or seven years ago I had a conversation with a woman with whom I had a somewhat difficult friendship, a conversation that has replayed like a tape in my memory banks ever since. (For you kids that would be like a MP3 on my internal iPod). We had just discovered we had a mutual acquaintance, someone I was just starting to know, and my friend said “you know a few years ago she lost SO much weight and now she’s gained it all back and then some. I just don’t understand how someone can do that, I mean, once you’ve lost it why would you ever gain it back? I just don’t get it!” Loaded with judgment and scorn and a bit of the smug satisfaction that comes with knowing your arrow has struck the bulls-eye, her comment stung and I whispered, “because it’s hard.” But, lost in her rant, she didn’t hear me. The irony of the fact that the comment came from someone with her own substance abuse demons was not lost on me. What I should have done was tell her that a struggle with food and weight is every bit as real as a struggle with alcohol or drugs. That those of us for whom food is the drug of choice face our dealers not on shady street corners but at dinner parties, and barbecues, at meetings where bagels or cookies or sandwiches are spread out in an array as tempting as the glittering bottles of the local bar. What I should have done was ask her how she could judge another person that way. What I should have done is remind her that she was talking to someone who has trod the well- worn path between weight loss and weight gain and perhaps she should be more sensitive. But I kept quiet. For at that moment I knew what was happening to my own body, then a year or two out of a great weight loss and new level of fitness. The fat was coming back, creeping back in with every bite of brie and glass of wine, with every morning that I slept in instead of working out, and with every lick of my treasured chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cones. The fat was coming back. The yo-yo was on its’ way back up the string.
For the past couple of years I’ve chronicled the story of my weight with jokes, self-deprecating humor and with a whole lot of defensiveness, but I knew my day of reckoning was coming. So this fall I finally bit the bullet and did something I never do. I looked at myself in the mirror. A full-length mirror. Without the benefit of clothing. And I looked long and hard. Then I looked at photo after photo of me from the summer and instead of looking at the family and friends with me, or the scenery surrounding me, I looked at the rolls of fat, the lumpy thighs, at the way my face seemed puffy and bloated. I thought about the cute summer dresses I can never wear (What? It surprises you that I look at catalogs of cute summer dresses?), and the roles I’m too fat to play and I faced it all. And I took a deep breath and plunged once more into the weight-loss breach with Kelly by my side.
That was sixteen weeks ago. I know this because at our Weight Watcher meeting this week we were given our sixteen week “Stay and Succeed” charms for our key chains. You’re green with envy aren’t you? Sixteen weeks and 28 pounds into my weight loss escapade (I flat out refuse to use the word journey) and I’m actually excited over the tchotchkes. Oh how the chubby have fallen. And yes, you read that correctly. I have shed twenty-eight pounds from my oversized frame, my rock star wife has shed thirty. And yet, tonight we looked at each other and burst out laughing… “who’d have thought we could lose this much weight and still be fat?” Kelly said. And it’s true. I love the well wishes of my friends, I love the kudos, and goodness knows I love the support, but the fact of the matter is, I’m not even half way there. True, I’m leaving the realm of obese and corpulent, but I have to lose another fifteen pounds to get to where I was just considered “fat” and another twenty after THAT to get to where I was when I was “slightly overweight.” If I get really ambitious I can try for another ten to get to the tippy top of what is considered ‘healthy” for my height and weight. Now I know you were told there would be no math, so I’ll add it up for you. That’s a minimum of sixty-five pounds and an ideal of seventy-five. Mother of God, seventy-five pounds. But that’s fine I own it. All of it. The size 20 pants and the XXL sweaters, the up and down look of judgment from the naturally thin colleague, the need to immediately put on my elastic waist flannel pajama pants when I come home from work, the sarcastic comebacks and pointed jabs I make at the accomplishments of my exercising friends (because after all it’s so much easier to mock than to face what’s in the mirror), even the two-year old comment that still stings from the woman who told me I got ‘too much support for being fat” and after all it really “wasn’t that complicated to just eat right and exercise,” and most of all the desire to just make it all go away with a really big bag of Sour Cream and Onion Ruffles. Yeah I own it all. Finally.
In some ways being back counting points and obsessing over how much one cup of cereal is feels comforting and familiar and I’ve settled into my routine of individually-sized servings of snacks and saying no to the weekly office pizza gathering. But there is one thing that’s making all this even more bearable… and that’s my wife. Because, let me tell you, if you too have run up and down the yo-yo string like I have, and if you find yourself once again facing the scale and saddling up for the weight loss ride (how’s that for some mixed metaphors?), then I highly recommend doing it with someone who makes you laugh. Because what keeps me going back to those deadly meetings every week isn’t the “tips on responsible snacking!” discussion or the “Bravo!” stickers, or even the key chains, it’s hearing Kelly unleash another brilliant one liner and watching a room full of people fall under her comic spell. When one earnest participant recently declared Fiber One bars a ‘treat,’ my wife responded with “only for your colon!” Forget the local open mike night my friends, comedy gold is happening at our Monday night Weight Watchers meeting.
Look, I’ll never be skinny. I’ve known that since I was eight years old. And honestly I don’t really want to be. A skinny Katie would be really weird. Thin isn’t in my future but maybe healthier and happier is. But for now I’m just trying to get through to the next weigh in, get that next little charm for my key chain, and keep that yo-yo from running back up the string.
Wish me luck. I’ll need it.
Cracks: Where Faith and Life Collide
Last week I attended mass. This is not an unusual occurrence for me. I was raised Catholic, attended a Catholic college, and am raising my daughter in the Catholic faith. She altar serves, and has sung in the choir shares my deep and passionate belief that praying to Mary for divine intercession can indeed work miracles. In fact, having her is what brought me back to my faith after years away from it. The birth of that tiny red faced, inhumanly loud creature shook something in me that sent me back to the familiar cycle of baptisms, first communions, Christmas pageants, and long-beloved hymns. When my mother died, having Liza by my side as we navigated her services was a blessing. To this day if the hymn “Here I am Lord,” is sung at a mass we exchange looks and, more often than not, a tear or two as we remember holding each other tight and crying through it at my mom’s funeral. Returning to mass with her as a child in the early days of my divorce was at times difficult, but as the years went on it grew to be something that I looked forward to sharing with her, a quiet moment in a busy weekend to reflect and pray. A time to beam at her singing in the choir or hold my breath when I watched her swing her ponytail a bit too close to the altar candles, a time to recapture the close community feeling I had as a child in the parish of my youth.
As I sat in the pew waiting for mass to begin last Saturday, a dear friend joined me, a woman whose children go to school with and perform in plays with Liza. I adore this family and treasure every moment we get to spend with them. We have a tendency to get too chatty together, even in church, and she leaned over and asked if Liza was attending Religious Ed classes. Now, being the admitted slacker mom that I am, this is something that completely passed me by. For the years that Liza attended Catholic school this was taken care of as part of the curriculum. Now that she’s in public school I have to make sure to enroll her in classes at church so she can stay on track to be confirmed in a few years. But when my friend asked this innocent, utterly normal, mom question, something surprising happened. I cried. Well not full-blown tears but my eyes welled up and I had to look down and swallow very hard. Taking a shaky breath I whispered. “I have to confess something. I’m…struggling with the church right now.” A look of surprise, then understanding crossed her face and she asked, (already knowing the answer) ”because..?” , “Because it’s so vocally against….,” I started. “…You,” she finished. I nodded and managed a weak smile. “Are you ok?” She asked. And instantly my mask was back in place as I laughed and made a joke, “oh sure… it’s fine…it’s all fine… you know, so much fun being a gay married Catholic these days!”
Frankly my reaction surprised even myself. For the past eight years I’ve been very good at reconciling being gay and being Catholic. As a matter of fact I got more flack from my gay friends for being a practicing Catholic than I did from my Catholic friends for being gay. When Kelly and I got married we had a civil ceremony not a religious one, and other than driving my rainbow-stickered Jeep to mass, and my dykey haircut, there’s really not a lot that could identify me as the gay mom in the pew on Saturday afternoons. And one thing I love about my parish is that the people I know there, who know I’m gay, are so welcoming and loving and never ever question my presence at communion. It’s a delicate balance but one I felt I was managing. Until lately, when I began to notice the cracks.
With more and more states becoming battle grounds in the right for marriage equality and the recent Primary bringing a whole crop of Republican Presidential candidates to town, the Catholic Church as a whole has become more and more vocal in its opposition to gay marriage — to my marriage. Now of course this is nothing new, but it’s getting harder and harder for me to ignore it, to pretend it’s not there, and to just go to mass and pray to Mary as I have always done. When cardinals and bishops compare gay pride parades to the KKK; when the Church pours money and efforts into blocking marriage equality legislation in Maine (successfully), and New York (unsuccessfully); and when I sat in the NH State House a year ago to testify against repealing our successful marriage equality law and had to listen to a spokesperson from the Diocese of Manchester – my diocese – testify about how gay marriage would destroy the institution of marriage, the cracks in the foundation of my faith g0t bigger and bigger, and I began to feel as though I was living a lie. I’ve been out of the closet for years now, yet am I really ‘out’ at church? What would my parish priest (who I like tremendously) do if he knew that other than being the mom of that kid with the great voice in the choir, I was married legally to a woman? Would he bar me at the steps? Refuse me the sacraments? When I die will I be allowed a Catholic funeral mass? Would Kelly be recognized as my wife at my graveside? (Yes, I know that’s grim but when you come from the cancer family you think about death a lot) I don’t know the answers to these questions and sometimes contemplating them is just too painful. But I do know this: divorcing my love of my faith with the politics of my church grows harder and harder, and the cracks between the life I live and the faith I love get wider and wider.
I do want to make one thing clear. This is not an opening to bash my faith. This is not an opening to tell me I should become Episcopal, or Unitarian, or any other welcoming faith. This is not an opening to tell me that God doesn’t exist anyway. It’s not that I don’t invite debate and discussion, I do, but through the years I’ve thought about all of those things and debated them with some of my smartest and kindest friends. Right now, none of these options are right for me. I have deep respect for my friends of different faiths and do envy them the ability to live, serve, and pray openly in their churches of choice. But my mother instilled a love and veneration of Mary that sustains me every single day and attending a church where her presence is not celebrated in the same way would feel empty. And honestly at nearly 46, I’m just too old to church-jump. So what do I do? Honestly I don’t know the answer. For now I’ll continue to take Liza to mass, continue to pray daily to Mary for guidance and direction, and continue to hope against hope that someday my Church will come to love me as much as I have been raised to love it. I have hope that even if I don’t live to see that day, maybe Liza will. In the meantime, I’ll pray, and sometimes I’ll cry, and I’ll continue to jump over the cracks.