A few weeks ago, after a rather rigorous therapy session, I came home in a very contemplative mood. I’d been feeling blocked in my writing for a few weeks, since before Christmas at least, and so I had rummaged through some life events with My Therapist.
We searched my mind’s attic looking for some treasure we might dust off and take to the psychological equivalent of Antique Roadshow. I offered up a few memorable/traumatic/life changing possibilities from the past 49 years, but even after polishing a few of these babies up, nothing really stuck out for either of us.
I came home ready to rummage more thoroughly. I could feel, as I often do when I get introspective, those creative juices welling up. I knew then that even though I wasn’t getting any writing done, I still felt that urge to create, to make something.
I started making books quite a few years ago, as a frustrated writer. And since then, I’ve done many wild projects, even one that compelled me to rip up my childhood bible and turn it into something much more relevant: My views on religion.
I made one book that was an A-Z guide to mental breakdowns and crazy writers. Another one, a gift for a friend, reflected my take on the 12 Steps. Pretty much nothing is sacred when I wield my Xacto knife and my straight edge.
I sat down and started flipping through my new picture book of handmade books—over 1000 pictures of amazing books made by wonderful artists. Every time I thumbed through my book books (weird, right?) I found something new.
This time, a homemade Monopoly game caught my attention. I jumped up (honestly) and ran to the Casa Durberg Art Wing muttering Pamopoly, Pamopoly, Pamopoly. I needed to make my own version of this classic game. So I did. It turned out pretty cool. I’m still working out some strategy details and refining the play, but I played with writer friends last night and we had a pretty good time.
Writing terrifies me–the act of putting my deepest feelings and thoughts on paper and then offering them up to the world makes me ill. At the same time, these same acts invigorate and empower me. This dichotomy resonates with so many other aspects of my life that I just have to hold my nose, squeeze my eyes shut, let go, and brace myself for impact.
Please check out my writer’s webpage: http://pamelahelberg.com where I am practicing overcoming my fears, one small bit of memoir at a time.
My hope is that with time, I won’t have to hold my nose and squeeze my eyes closed, that I’ll be able to participate fully, my senses primed and ready to welcome what comes.
This story belongs to me. Others may write their own.
Well, Dear Readers, last week I got my check for the essay I wrote which is included in the soon-to-be-published anthology from Seal Press: Beyond Belief: The Secret Lives of Women in Extreme Religions. I made a copy of that check (not for fraud, but for posterity) and finally cashed it this morning. I saved one of the dollars, which I fully intend to enshrine on my mantel.
And, if that weren’t exciting enough (!) today I also learned that on April 28 @ 4 p.m. I will be part of an event at Village Books celebrating the anthology’s publication. So, Save The Date! Come and join the party! I will post more details as I learn them.
I cannot wait to read all of the stories in the collection, and I just have to say that I am astounded and humbled to be included with the likes of Kyria Abrahams, Lucia Greenhouse, Donna M. Johnson, Mary Johnson, and Julia Scheeres, writers whose works I’ve admired and desired to emulate.
When I submitted my story for consideration, I had no idea what an amazing collection this would turn out to be, nor do I think I even actually believed the whole project would come to fruition. Thanks to the hard work of editors Cami Ostman and Susan Tive, the dream became reality.
A word about community—none of this would have happened without the amazing support of my writing buddies, my writing group, or my longtime friend, mentor, and altogether wonderful person, Laura Kalpakian, all of whom nourished me with superior feedback and excellent friendship. I have found a rich and fertile writing community for which I am eternally grateful.
Most critically, I’ve had the love and support of The Little Woman, who has given me the space and support to pursue writing. She’s often a writing group widow and her complaints are few. I know she believes in me. Nothing matters more.
I realize this all sounds like I just won the freaking Pulitzer, and really, that’s how I feel. Like I just won the freaking Pulitzer.
Thanks too, to my family, the members of which have provided me with a lifetime supply of most excellent material.
*warning, real names are used. I sincerely hope no one minds.
A couple of years ago, a woman with whom I was neighbors for many years died of cancer, the first death of someone I knew as a friend, the first in what inevitably will become a longer and increasingly more personal list.
Recently, more women whom I called friends at different times in the past 25 years have died. I am very sad for their families, for the women they loved for their children. I cannot imagine the pain of losing the woman I love, of suddenly becoming “a me instead of a we” as one of the surviving partners described her loss.
Each death notice—Betty’s, Joanne’s, Cathy’s — in the newspaper (for that is how I learned of their deaths) has stirred up something visceral in me, and I’ve been trying to figure out what, something beyond the “life is short, appreciate what’s in front of you” cliché. I think we all experience such urgency when someone familiar to us dies too soon and unexpectedly.
My reactions grew increasingly more intense. Even though each of these friendships was situational, they were not without meaning. Each woman was older than I; not older enough to be my mother, but older enough that we came from different generations, enough older that they simultaneously inspired me and (unintentionally) intimidated me.
I saw in each of them ways of being in loving and lasting marriages (though the legalization of gay marriage came too late for most); I saw kindness, exuberance, artistry, and their absences now, too early, sadden me. Even though our lives converged only briefly, we shared a larger community, and even once our paths diverged we occasionally bumped into one another.
I sensed when I stumbled across the most recent obituary, just this past Thursday, that I had a deeper lesson to learn here. I slept on it. I drank over it. I ran on it. I finally figured it out today. I finally realized that one common thread winds through each of these relationships.
My friend Pj. PJ has been the one constant through all of these times these women represented for me. PJ is the one person who has been privy to the ups and downs of more than half of my life. She has seen me grow and struggle and survive. PJ has been there to cheer me on and can be credited with saving my life during a particularly dark time.
I called PJ immediately upon seeing Cathy’s obituary. I didn’t even hesitate, even though we have been on divergent paths the past few years. We’ve grown apart especially in the last year, which is ridiculous because we live less than five miles from each other.
I assumed I’d run into Cathy, Joanne, or Betty again, that we’d see each other at a play or in Fred Meyer, down at the bookstore or in a coffee shop around town where we’d smile and nod and maybe catch up a bit, but I won’t. The chance is gone. I don’t want this sort of disconnect to happen with PJ and me. We’ve shared too much these past 28-ish years—we have history, friendship, genuine caring for each other. We are so deeply connected that we are, in many ways, sisters.
I don’t want to see her face staring up at me from the obituaries, only to realize that the last time we saw one another we just smiled and nodded, too distant to even catch up.
I want our friendship to continue. When we die (and we all will), I don’t want either of us to wonder what we’ve been up the past five, ten, fifteen years. I want to know. I want to be there on the rest of the journey. I hope she wants to be there, too.
I ran 366 miles in 2012. That’s a mile a day for every day of last year (2012 was a leap year, and thus had one extra day). Not bad considering I took most of May, June, and July off for a calf injury. This milestone was not the culmination of any New Year’s resolution or the completion of a goal I had set for myself.
In fact, I didn’t even think about it until near the end of October when my iPhone running app announced I’d hit 265 miles. Hmmm, I thought, another hundred and I’ll have a mile a day (not yet realizing 2012 was a leap year). I started doing the math in my head—that’s a little under 10 miles a week for the next 11 weeks. I can do that, I said to myself, no problem.
Such optimism for a woman who had spent the past 20 years or so convinced her running days were over, and not because I was injured, but because I’m generally lazy. On Saturday mornings as recent as 18 months ago, as The Little Woman and I drove to breakfast, we actually pointed and laughed at all the runners who were out early, rain or shine, running in their spandex, their tight shirts, and toe shoes. Seriously, toe shoes? Hahahaha.
Now, I counted the days left in the year, approximately 70, and once I managed to do some math in my head (harder than it seems), I thought that maybe I could do 100 miles in the next 75 days, if I could manage three and a half miles an outing and three outings a week for the remaining 11 weeks. Then I kind of forgot about it, until the end of November at the Turkey Trot when I realized I only needed 50-ish more miles. I had yet to put up 50 miles in a single month, but I thought I could do it, and how cool would it be to have done a mile a day for a year?
December brought the Jingle Bell Run, which TLW and I committed to early, but that was only three miles, and the month pretty much flew by. Things at work got crazy, and I wasn’t getting out much as I’d come home from work and collapse, exhausted. I pushed myself, but still only managed 14 miles in the first two weeks. No way would I make 50, I thought. Then, I discovered that after a really rough day at work, I could fly through 3 miles, so I went a little longer and soon I was running four miles or more an outing. And my times came down to right around 9:10/mile. I got inspired and recommitted myself to making 365 miles by the end of December. After all, I’d have plenty of time during the holidays, and with time off, I could even run in the daytime.
On Christmas Eve, I ran 3.67 miles. I took Christmas Day off to, uhm, carbo-load and cranked out five miles on Boxing Day. On Friday, December 28, I had about 18 miles left to go. I could do it, I knew now. Just four days to run a little over 4 miles a day. I hadn’t run four days in a row all year. I certainly hadn’t run over four miles a day four days in a row, but it was less than 20 miles.
So on Friday I did 3.64 miles. Only about 12 miles to go. Three days. Piece o’ cake. Saturday was tough and I could only manage 3.77 miles. That’s okay. Two days. Twelve miles. I Can Do It. Then I realized that 2012 was a Leap Year. I had to add an extra mile to my total. On Sunday I did five miles even, and my math skills started to fail me right along with my legs and lungs. One day. Nearly seven miles. Ugh. I’d not run seven miles in one outing all year. But failure was not an option at this point. I’d come too far to quit now. I couldn’t face the new year having missed by a couple of miles what was now a major goal.
I spent the morning sleeping in—I needed my rest. I ate a hearty breakfast—I needed my energy. By the time I suited up and laced my sneakers, it was after noon. I did not feel like running. It was cold out. Snow flurries. Brrr. “Okay,” I said. “You can do this.” I told TLW my probable route, just in case I didn’t come back by dark. “Come find my cold dead body,” I instructed. I headed out. My calves complained, but I ran on. At approximately 1.74 miles I had to stop for a bathroom break—thank god my route included a bathroom (what IS it about running?) I managed another couple of miles and a hill before I had to stop again for a few steps. Another mile. Four miles. I was beat. I stopped my running app and walked to the track. I’d have to finish on the track. I had two and a half miles to go. Ten laps. I could do this. I resumed my running app and took off. I clocked the fastest times of the day going around and around that track. Ten laps took me less than 25 minutes.
I did it. I finished. I ran exactly 366 miles in 2012. Exactly.
Christmas Eve always provokes anxiety in me. For all of the 1960s and well into the 70s, I was the sole granddaughter amongst many grandsons and as such the only target for girly gifts from my well-meaning Mema: dolls, dresses, and purses. While my cousins and younger brother gleefully tore through the wrapping paper to discover footballs, cowboy hats, cap pistols, and baseball gloves, I opened my gifts cautiously, always hopeful that my true wishes would be granted, that my grandmother would see me for the tomboy I was, not as the girly girl she wanted me to be. As the Barbies, ballet slippers, tea sets, and girly frou-frou piled up over the years, I knew better than to be expressively disappointed. Growing up in a conservative Christian household, I learned early that it is better to give than to receive, to be thankful for what I had, and to put others ahead of myself, so I pasted on a smile and gave my thanks with as much authenticity as I could muster.
As the years wore on and the family expanded, my girl cousins finally came along, gleeful recipients of all things sugar and spice and everything nice, and I could ignore my gifts and slip away to play with my boy cousins and their superior toys. They would share their bounty with me, and for many happy hours I wore the cowboy hat and shot the cap guns, threw the footballs around the basement. Still, an uneasiness always settled over me as the holidays drew near, and as much as I looked forward to Christmas Eve at Mema’s, a genuinely fun and spirited occasion where the alcohol flowed freely and everyone sang and acted out a verse in The Twelve Days of Christmas, where we all wore colored paper hats from the Christmas crackers, I dreaded going because I didn’t feel like I belonged.
A sense of Other became my Christmas cloak: fundamentalist Christian amongst fun loving Catholics; country bumpkin cousin among my sophisticated Seattle cousins; and something deeper that I sensed about myself, something I knew set me apart in ways I wouldn’t understand for many years.
So, no surprise then that those familiar pangs rushed back as I navigated our red late-model Volvo into Mema’s driveway for Christmas Eve in 1994. Even though I was 31 and had a family, the anxiety dogged me. I let out the breath I’d been holding during our hour and a half drive south from where I lived with my partner and our two daughters. I pulled on my wide-brimmed purple felt hat that matched my paisley purple dress and smiled through the rear view mirror at the girls, Anna four and a half, and Taylor six months old. They were ready to be sprung from their car seats, their holiday dresses hidden beneath their matching Christmas coats from Nordstrom. I squeezed Sweetie’s hand, both for comfort and for strength, and admired her stylish red wool coat and her fine black leather gloves. I allowed a small satisfaction and confidence to creep upon me. We looked so normal that no one could possibly know from first glance that we were lesbians with two children. I drew comfort from our appearance as we wrested the girls out of the car and arranged ourselves into presentability—straightening rumpled tights, buckling Mary Janes, wiping the spit up from Taylor’s chin and removing her bib, making sure Anna had a firm grasp on Blankie. We each carried a child and marched to the front door to ring the bell.
We knew better than to wait for someone to answer before letting ourselves in. The bell served only to announce our presence before we walked into the sounds and smells of Christmas tradition: cracked crab, singed spaghetti sauce, bourbon, scotch, laughter and conversation, the burble of children’s voices and laughter. Aunts and uncles yelled out greetings or raised their glasses to us as we entered. My mother came to coo over her granddaughters. We collected hugs and kisses as we waded deeper into the gathering, and because we were women, we all finally came to a stop in the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas!” My aunt Betsy said, “You guys look great. I love your dress Pam.”
“Where did you get that hat?” Mema sipped her vodka, the ice tinkling. “I love it!”
“Sweetie!” Uncle David stepped towards us, a glass of red wine in his hand. “Merry Christmas!” He gave her a sideways hug and a peck on the cheek. “How are the girls?”
“Hey David,” Sweetie matched his enthusiasm. “They are great. Thanks for asking! Your girls must be getting big, too!”
I began unbundling the girls, removing their coats, checking Taylor’s diapers for any obvious odors. They both looked amazing, their brown skin glowing against the red velvet dresses, their white tights gleaming, their Mary Janes shiny. Anna’s eyes took on the pensiveness of being in a strange situation, and Taylor’s eyes grew wide, her Surprise Baby look we called it. Since we’d only just adopted her in May, many of my relatives had yet to meet her.
“She’s so tiny! How old is she, again?”
“She’s so dark!”
“Well, yes, she’s African American,” I explained. “She’s just a bit over seven months old.”
“Anna, you’ve gotten so big!”
“Anna! How do you like being a big sister?”
Anna buries her face in the pleats of Sweetie’s red skirt.
“She’s still adjusting,” I say.
“Hey, Pamalamala!” My uncle Mike approaches, the funny guy in the family. “What can I get you to drink? You’re still drinking, right?” He nods at Taylor in my arms. “You’re not nursing are you?”
“Scotch on the rocks sounds fabulous,” I say, happy at that moment to be an adoptive parent, no breastfeeding required.
Anna peaks inquisitively from Sweetie’s skirt. “Pamalamala?” She laughs. “That’s funny Mommy!”
“That’s what I called myself when I was your age,” I explain. “I couldn’t say Pamela, so I said Pamalamala whenever someone wanted to know my name.”
Anna’s brown eyes light up, and some of the anxiety disappears. I want nothing more than for her to be free of the anxiety. Mike hands me my scotch and I relax, happy to be among family on this holiday, grateful for the acceptance from nearly everyone, and even thankful for the forbearance of those who might still disapprove. I am aware they might be masking their disdain with holiday cheer and copious amounts of alcohol. I don’t mind.
Before long, the girls and their cousins hear the prancing of reindeer feet on the roof and the ringing of sleigh bells. The little ones who are old enough to walk, rush to the window hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa. I hold Taylor as she wiggles and babbles excitedly and points to her big sister, eyes wide with anticipation.
“HO! HO! HO!” Santa opens the front door, a pillowcase bursting with presents slung over his shoulder. “I hear there are children here who have been very good this year!
“Sit over here, Santa,” one of my younger cousins points to a wing-backed chair between the fireplace and the lavishly decorated tree. Over the course of the next hour, each child under 18 sits on Santa’s lap and assures him they’ve been nice and not at all naughty during the year. Santa digs in his bag and presents each child with a present, and as they unwrap their gifts, they hold them up as cameras snap and flash. The adults grin conspiratorially at one another, remembering Christmases not that long ago when they did the same. I’ve chosen Anna and Taylor’s gifts carefully, the sting of disappointment still fresh on me.
Once the spaghetti and crab have been devoured, once the platters of cookies have been depleted, once the children have succumbed to the rush of sugar and the excitement of Santa and fallen asleep about the living room, once the adults have exchanged gifts, and had a final glass of holiday cheer, we begin to gather our newly acquired belongings, our coats, the diaper bag, Anna’s Blankie. We whisper our good-byes and carry our sleeping babies to the car and tuck them in to their car seats. After several more forays between house and car, more hugs and kisses, I put the Volvo in reverse and head north, letting out the breath I’d been holding the past several hours.
We had navigated through a family Christmas Eve, our little family of four breaking new ground, the four of us presenting as just another family in spite of our differences. No one else in my extended family had ventured quite this far outside of the norm: being a “married” lesbian mother of adopted multi-ethnic children broke some new family ground and gained not just tolerance, but acceptance. Still, my anxiety and self doubt colored my experience and I believed that the love and welcomes came because we worked so hard to be a normal family, we wore dresses and feminine shoes; we bought thoughtful and not inexpensive gifts; we were fortunate to have beautiful children and dressed them in dresses and lace. We drove a Volvo. I believed that acceptance required stringent adherence to heterosexual norms. I thought that if we were going to be a successful lesbian family, we were going to have to be as non-threatening and as normal as possible.
I was so busy hiding who I was, I didn’t even try to be myself. It didn’t occur to me that my family would love me anyway, and I spent another 10 years figuring it out.
I’ve posted a bit of my memoir on my website, www.pamelahelberg.com. I welcome your feedback–I thought I’d give folks a preview of what I’ve been working on this past year. So far I have nearly 75,000 words.
I’ll be working now on revising what I’ve written and developing a marketing plan.
The little woman just texted me from college. She’s going back to school for a new career and is taking a prerequisite course at the local community college. I am very proud of her, and I know that attending college as a “non-traditional” student can be, uhm, unsettling, scary. Case in point—the text said: Some girl just told me that she likes my hair and wants to wear hers like this when she gets old (italics mine).
I pretty much spit my tea out all over my keyboard upon reading this. I guffawed out loud—I’m sitting in a coffee shop with my earbuds in, pretending to write earnestly, so I felt a little awkward snorting and spewing. Probably not as awkward at TLW felt though.
One of the dangers of getting older is that we don’t always see ourselves as older. In fact, most of the time, in my brain anyway, I’m somewhere between 25 and 30, sometimes even younger, and then I’m brought up short by some child disguised as a barista or a clerk calling me “Ma’am.” And I remember that I have two adult children. Plus I’m in a committed relationship, I have a responsible job, a mortgage, blah blah blah. I just don’t often feel like that is the real me. I feel like an imposter a lot of the time.
Sometimes, there’s no escaping the obvious though, whether it be the telltale wrinkles, the choice to no longer color our hair, or, as is the case for me at this moment, the impending publication of a very personal story. At this moment, TLW and I are beginning our own new journeys, delving inward to find and reveal some inner truths.
The differences between my inner and outer selves has become something of a theme in my writing career. I’m a mere eight months from 50 and just finally feeling secure enough in myself that I can commit words to paper for others to read. For most of my life I have wanted to be a writer, in fact I’ve written so many books in my head over the years, I’ve lost track. I couldn’t ever bring myself to put the words down on paper (not even on the computer) for fear that my inner self would be revealed.
I do have a couple of concrete examples that contributed to this fear—and I know I am not alone in my fear. Writers struggle with telling their truths and sometimes the consequences are, in fact, dire (Pakistani blogger girl for example). The primary message I have internalized over the years is that if anyone were to really know what I think, they would turn away in disgust and alarm. I’ve spent a lifetime living in a giant Venn Diagram, my personal and public lives just barely overlapping circles.
Many years ago I attended a series of personal growth workshops and one of the many useful messages I took away was that having your “circles together” made for happier, more fulfilled life. In other words, we should strive to be our authentic selves. Hiding parts of us results in shame and a sense of alienation. Well, this would be all fine and good if we lived in a utopian world where differences were embraced. Alas, though we are making strides (i.e. the It Gets Better campaign), we are a long way from a world in which we live and let live.
Pulling my circles together has been something of an elusive quest for me. Until now. Now I have an intimate piece about 3100 words long being published in an anthology this spring. April 2. I’m terrified. I’m thrilled—this publication is a dream come true, but I am also quite literally terrified. What will people think? Will my parents be mortified? The rest of my family? What about complete strangers? My kids? Ack.
Maybe I’m just overthinking things. Maybe instead of standing on the edge of a very high cliff waiting to hurl myself to the rocks below, I’m on the precipice of a grand new adventure. Maybe that’s what happens when our circles align and our true selves emerge. We reach new heights, new successes. We stop feeling like imposters in our lives and tell our truths. Maybe we will fly, the little woman and I. Maybe we’ll fly.
Okay, so part of this memoir writing thing that I’m doing has to do with Platform, i.e. putting myself and my expertise out there in Social Media: Tweet, Update, Blog, in short, create a brand. How to market myself so that people will want to buy my (as yet uncompleted and obviously unpublished) book. The whole Platform thing seems to me a little cart before the donkey-, egg before the chicken-ish, don’t you think?
I haven’t written but a few pages. How can I get people interested in me, in what I think or have to say? Srsly. I’ve been trying to blog more regularly, and not always on silly stuff. The more I blog, the more I realize that my interests are so diverse that I can’t imagine pulling them all together into some sort of cohesive whole. I’ve been dreading revamping my Facebook page and shuddering at starting a Twitter account. Like children such creatures must be attended to, fed, watered, patted, changed. Where will I find the time?
I’m trying to pace myself. All of this platform building takes time and energy, time that I generally either spend at work or asleep, energy that I expend all day at work. Writing, is my passion, and so I manage to find a few hours here and there in which to write. Where could I possibly fit in marketing? I don’t want to give up blogging or working on my memoir. Can’t that be enough? When did being a writer become being a marketer? I should have started my book years ago. But then I wouldn’t have a story to tell, would I? Can you feel the stress mounting?
So here I am, blogging and writing, fretting about Platform. And then, one night a month or so ago, as I was scanning my blog stats obsessively (yeah, right, like you don’t), and I realized I may have hit upon a marketing strategy without even realizing it.
I checked out my Google Keywords, the words people had been searching on when they discovered my blog: www.pmbgp.blogspot.com. Turns out my blog audience did not find my blog because of my clever tags– I keep forgetting to add tags to my blogs. Turns out not many people were looking for me by name, because my name was not prominent among the Google search words.
Dear Reader, I named my blog Putting on My Big Girl Panties because I thought turning 50 in the next couple of years warranted that I step it up a notch, you know, be a big girl, become that elusive adult: Put on my big girl panties. Walk the talk. Be a role model and share witty realizations as I react to my world as a mature woman (I can hear you snickering).
Back to the Google keywords. Here are My Blog’s top search strings for the past 24 hours (freshly cut and pasted from my blog):
Search Keywords
Entry
my big girlfriend
gay on girl panties
girl in batman panties
pam helberg blog
pmbgp.blogspot.com
I think I need to work on my platform. Just a bit.
Pamela Helberg 