A PERSONAL STORY OF CHOICE

 

            Thirty-three ago, almost to the day, I made one of the most profound and challenging decisions of my entire life. I was pregnant, unmarried, emotionally immature and unprepared, Catholic and confused.  I was enrolled in a local community college, but had not yet earned my college and law degrees. Even though I was on the pill and in a committed relationship with my baby’s father (who I’ll call Bob), our love was still fresh and new, and relatively untested. I wasn’t sure if I could rely upon Bob to be there for me or our child.

            I was very lucky in that Bob and I discussed this matter very openly and honestly. He wanted the baby, and said he would be there as a father, regardless of the long-term status of our union. What he said next I realize now is one of the greatest examples of respect that I’ve ever experienced. He told me that, even though he wanted this baby, he would defer to me to make the final decision because it was I who had to carry and deliver the child, as well as assume a lifetime of responsibilities, limitations and physical and emotional changes that he did not have to experience. I will always respect and love this man as a true friend for being so far ahead of his time, and for honoring me with such human decency and respect.

            After much talking, crying, praying and contemplation, I made my choice. I called Planned Parenthood and made an appointment to terminate my unplanned pregnancy. Even though I felt emotionally and morally conflicted at times, I was not certain that I could provide my child with all the things that I didn’t get, and that contributed to the family dysfunction that I had lived in all of my life. I did not want to share generations of dysfunction with this new being, and didn’t think I had anything else to offer to a child. I didn’t want my baby to have the kind of childhood that I had had, and since I did not know at the time how to see past it, I thought the most responsible thing to do was to save this child from the abandonment and abuse that I had suffered; a fate that seemed to me, almost inevitable. This is why I was on the pill at the time, a fact that I felt justified the therapeutic abortion.

            In talking to the people at Planned Parenthood, I never experienced any kind of pressure to choose one way or another. There was only a profound professionalism and compassionate tone that made me feel safe and unashamed. This was a very empowering experience for me.

            When the day came, however, I found that I this was really not the right choice for me, in this particular circumstance; and not out of guilt or shame, but rather because of what I had learned in the process of examining all my choices. I had to have enough emotional courage to admit that I was not alone. I knew I would need help, and this would invite emotional intimacy with others, especially my baby; and that maybe it was time to open my heart, which especially at that time, was very closed and cold.

Moreover, I realized that, since Bob had demonstrated his unwillingness to impose something so permanent upon me, perhaps I should consider his wishes more carefully, and give them more weight than my insecurities and dysfunctional history. By going through this very personal, emotional, and life-changing process, I learned a lot about myself, and especially about my partner. In so doing, I came to realize that my fears for this child needn’t become reality; and that we could create a new reality for our new family.

 I am glad I changed my mind. But you see, it was my choice, my decision to take all the emotional risks necessary to become a mother. And those in my life who loved me, supported me in my leap of faith.

When I picked up the phone to cancel my appointment, my voice was breaking and I almost burst into tears. I was barely able to say the words, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep my appointment today,” as I spoke through muffled sobs. I will never forget the response I received from the woman on the other end of the line. I could actually hear the compassionate and knowing smile in her voice. Yes, she understood and wished me and my baby well, from everyone at Planned Parenthood. She also reminded me that they would always be available for any present and future needs I may have, and invited me to call anytime I needed them.

Fortunately for me, I have never again needed or used the services of Planned Parenthood. I have no idea who the women were who talked to me on the phone, but I do know that they made a lasting impression on me, and the memory of their professionalism and compassion sustains me still.

I share this story because I think it is important for women who have had abortions, or even thought about having one, to honor ourselves and one another by releasing us all from any sense of shame for exercising our legal choices, regardless of what choice was made. I think it is also important for Americans to understand that being pro-choice is not about promoting sex with no consequences. Many women have conceived while using some method of birth control. Other than abstinence, no method is fool-proof.

But even if a pregnancy is the result of carelessness, the consequences are visited most profoundly, directly, immediately and eternally upon the woman, for an act of both partners. Accordingly, it should forever be her right to choose what is appropriate for her own physical person. Our bodies are the first and most sacred of all that we will ever own. I share this story as an example of one fortunate woman who, at a very confusing time in her life, was surrounded by people, especially her mate, who never questioned this very basic fact of life.

It is unbelievable to me that these sacred choices are now the topic of political fodder once again! How did we get here? This is something I thought that we could all take for granted by the time I became a grandmother. And yet, here we are again.

I was blessed to deliver a healthy, beautiful son, who is still the first delight of my life. And he is now the father of a beautiful son. I have shared this story with him for several reasons. First, I would not want him to hear this story from anyone else because it is not a secret and I am not ashamed of exercising my legal right to choose. I don’t want him to be afraid or ashamed of any part of his life, or how it came to be. He knows he wasn’t planned, but he was not an accident either. He was wanted and welcomed and loved every day of his life.

But the most important reason I tell my son this story, is to honor his father and his courageous, yet empowering surrender. I want him to be proud of his father, who has always wanted him, and assumed most of the responsibilities of raising him as I pursued my education. I want him to know of this personal example in his own life, of how to respect and honor women.

I asked permission from my son and his father before posting this story. It is their story and their privacy too. Even though Bob and I are long since parted, I am glad for all that he brought to my life, most especially our son, our beautiful baby, who we chose to bring into this world together. For all of our ups and downs and learning curves, we will always be family. And that is a very good thing.

I chose to have a family. I chose to open my heart. I chose to take this risk and take on the responsibility of parenthood. I am not a perfect parent. Who is? But, parenthood was something I chose, not something imposed upon me by fate, or by a society still largely governed by men. Men who, unlike Bob, cannot see past themselves enough to respect the women of this country to make the choices they see fit regarding the most personal and profound aspects of our lives.

I will always support Planned Parenthood because I will always be grateful to this organization for being supportive and compassionate at a time when I needed it most. And I will always be grateful that I was afforded a legal choice that was respected by those close to me, as well as my community. I want my granddaughters to have this same choice. I hope they don’t have to fight for it still, when they become grandmothers.

THE BITTERSWEET HARVEST OF GRIEF

 

            I am not myself lately. October 30, 2012, will mark the 6 month anniversary of my mother’s death. It will also be just over two months since the death of my Uncle John, who was my hero ever since I was a little girl. His widow, my Aunt Bertha is recovering from surgery on the brain tumor that was found several weeks before my mother got sick. She is doing well, even though she has suffered tremendous loss, and is almost 90 years old. October 10 is the 24^th anniversary of my older brother’s death.

            Almost exactly a year before my mom died, I lost one of the best friends I’ve ever had since I was 19 years old.  A few months prior to that, one of my two cats got sick and subsequently had to be put down. Within a few weeks, the other cat died, I think, of sheer loneliness. Even though they were not from the same litter, I got both of them when they were just kittens, and they were best friends. They were my best friends too. Before I got married, they used to sleep at my head and feet. I was always careful moving around when I woke up because I didn’t want to accidentally kick one of them.

            In the midst of all of that, I also lost a couple of good friends I had made along the way. I am also now estranged from my brother, the only other surviving member of my family of origin. In the past few months I have come to realize that I really lost him a long time ago. I love him so much it hurts, and I know that he is simply not the same person I knew as my first best friend. We were babies together. But now I realize that he let me go a long time ago. I guess holding on was too painful for him for too long. We both grew up amidst a great deal of trauma and violence. I fear the darkness has overtaken him, and he chooses to stay there. I can’t be there with him.

            So here I am. I would be foolish to think that I am alone because I know that I am not. First and foremost, I am loved by the most wonderful son to ever walk the face of the earth, and the most brilliant grandson known to man. I live with my husband and our beautiful black lab, Maggie, whose unconditional love and forgiveness sustain me daily. I am not alone, but I am an orphan now. It really isn’t like the end of a chapter in a book, it is the end of that whole book.

            I’ve lost people before now, but somehow, grieving my mother’s death is an incorporation of all the other grief I’ve ever experienced. Pardon the pun, but it is the mother of all grief, in all ways imaginable. She held all the memories. She saved every card or letter written to her. I have been going through some of them and remembering. Remembering people, places, events, pets, friends, school, church. Everything.

            I am a very different person than my mother was. I have a professional degree and license that have freed me from many of the demons of self-doubt with which our entire family has struggled. She didn’t drive and was often very reclusive, yet could be the life of the party in the right moment. She had a certain a gleam of joy in her beautiful brown eyes that I will never see again. She often drove me crazy, but she was also such a delight to be with because she was unabashed in her insistence on celebrating life. Even through all of her hardships, she had a great big smile that seemed to mock the hard times, especially in photographs with her family. It was as though she was saying to life, ‘I’m going to be happy anyway!’

In many ways, I have surpassed what dreams she had for me, and I know that she was proud of me, as only a mother can be. As she watched me overcome obstacles that were just too great for her, I hope that she felt some release from the bondage of all of her fears. Now that my son is an adult, I know the sense of relief she had when all of her children were on their own, working, getting educations that she could only dream of, and making our way in the world.

            As I mourn her, and her first-born, on this cloudy October day in LA, I am grateful for the distance between my origins and my life now. And I am grateful for the foundation, the hearth, that my mother created, that I so often took for granted. As difficult as this day is for me, I am grateful for everything, and I am left to wrestle with the emotional juxtaposition of loss and love and memory.

            You see, for me, grief is just another form of gratitude; for we do not miss those people or things that do bring some goodness and joy into our lives. My mournful tears are another way of saying thank you. Thank you to my brother, who was the best teacher I ever had. Without the foundational learning I got from him, I don’t make it to UCLA. Thank you to my Uncle John, my war hero, who served as a male role model in a fatherless home. Thank you to my dear friend, Leo, who loved me always and unconditionally, from a time when I really didn’t have it together. Thank you to my cats, for their warm bodies and sweet companionship. Thank you to all the many friends I have outlived to this point. Thank you for loving me.

            And most especially, thank you, Mama, for everything – my life (which she saved by carrying me out of a burning building), my education, and your constant interest and faith in me. Thank you for all the turkeys you cooked, for teaching me how to cook, for all the sacrifices you made so that I could have – a new dress, a doll, a book. Thank you for last Christmas, when you shared the good memories of your wedding day, December 23, 1950; and how the three surviving members of our family had a very merry little Christmas in the home that you bought with your divorce settlement money. Who would have known that it would be our last one together? And mostly, Mamacita mia, my chapita, thank you for the hearth -- not just a home, but a hearth – that you created for us, to share and to pass on to my son and his family.

            As I prepare for the upcoming holidays – Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years’ Day – holidays that were always celebrated at our house, albeit pretty modestly; I am filled with both dread and joy. This is my first holiday season without my mother, and sometimes I think that I will be swallowed whole by the grief-monster that lives inside my soul these days. But I now realize how challenging and scary her life was at times, and I see her as my role model. I hear her telling me, “It’s okay, Mi’ja. It’s okay,” and I know that if she could face her challenges with her limited resources, financially and emotionally; then I can go on from here. There will be a cornucopia of tears and laughter in the coming months as I celebrate with the people and dogs that I love. For the harvest of grief begins and ends with gratitude.

           

 

M. Irene Daniel

October 10, 2012

 

 

The Afternoon in Autumn

THE AFTERNOON IN AUTUMN

The afternoon in autumn

Is often still and deep

Even children’s laughter

With wisdom, seems to speak.

 

The long and lingering shadows,

Getting longer by the day,

Remind us that, like summer,

All things will pass away.

 

And in that somewhat sacred space,

Between the light and dark,

The warming glow inspires us

To be, to leave our mark.

 

A child, a tree, a manuscript,

Hard-fought battles won,

What will be remembered

When the day is done?

 

Someday I’ll be gone from here

No longer moved by fall

Joy and sorrow become one

Or you have not lived at all. 

 

                                                                        M. Irene Daniel, 2012

WHO SAYS THE DEBATES DON'T MATTER

WHO SAYS DEBATES DON’T MATTER?

            It seems that many voices in the media are downplaying the importance of the upcoming presidential debates, claiming that voters don’t make decisions based upon debate performance. Indeed, even the candidates are attempting to create lowered expectations of their respective performances. Why would these candidates warn voters not to expect too much, if there was not already an expectation in the mind of the American voter?  While I agree that debate performances matter most when they tend to reinforce an already existing perception of that candidate, I disagree wholeheartedly with those who suggest that these televised debate performances do not significantly influence voters.

            Let’s look at some examples from my own lifetime, starting with the Kennedy-Nixon debates of 1960, the first nationally televised presidential debate. Those who heard that first debate on the radio thought that Nixon outperformed Kennedy, while those viewing on television gave the win to Kennedy. Nixon, now famously, refused make-up, and his perspiring 5 o’clock shadow was uninspiring. Kennedy, on the other hand, sought out tips from his, then brother-in-law, actor Peter Lawford. He understood the power of performance and perception, and how reality can be manipulated to produce the desired perception. He was, after all, the son of Joe Kennedy, movie producer. Some still say that it was style over substance that gave Kennedy the advantage, but what style and charm he did have; as well as the ability to understand unspoken communication and use this understanding to maximize his potential.

            It was, again, a masterful performance, by a trained and skilled professional performer, that created the image of a strong and self-confident Ronald Reagan, versus the somewhat beleaguered image of President Carter. Although, intellectually, Reagan was no match for Carter, it is not always about being the smartest guy in the room. It is a performance, and the debater who outperforms the other does so, not by intellect or charm alone, but by being able to understand, and deliver, the whole package – intelligence, wit, charm and confidence.

            My favorite, and in my opinion the most distinguishing and revealing, moment in presidential debate history, came in 1992, during the Town Hall style debate between President Bush and challenger Bill Clinton. This debate also reveals yet another key ingredient in assessing debate performances, and that is the format. Different people have different styles that work better with certain formats; and Bill Clinton’s style fit this format like a glove, with his folksy and familiar, yet professionally credible, charm and above-average people skills. First of all, there was President Bush’s very telling gesture of looking at his watch a couple of times, suggesting that he was dying to get out of there. But the most game-changing moment in a presidential debate that I have ever witnessed was that moment when a young woman asked both candidates how they had been personally affected by the recession. This is where the silver-spooners are clearly at a disadvantage, when it comes to understanding the everyday lives of middle-class, mainstream Americans.

            President Bush looked dumbfounded, as he seemed groping for words and finally said, “I don’t get it.” I was actually stunned that a man of such sophistication and decades of public service could not come up with something better at that moment. But that was only the beginning of the end. When Clinton’s time came to answer, I could almost see him lickin’ his chops. First, his body language was 180 degrees to that of H.W. Bush, as he repositioned himself to move closer to the inquiring mind that asked the question. Then he lowered his tone of voice and spoke directly to the young woman, explaining how he understood the pain people were experiencing, and how he knew most of the people in Arkansas who had lost businesses. His answer, in all ways that perception can be measured, was an absolute grand slam! I remember watching this whole thing transpire with my mouth gaping open, as I said to myself, “Bush just lost this election.” In less than 10 minutes, President Bush, a man of considerable intellect and experience, destroyed his chances for re-election. I don’t think he ever recovered from that one question.

            So, who says the debates don’t matter?  Why would 60 million viewers tune in to something that doesn’t matter? Why would networks and advertisers give the viewers this opportunity if it didn’t matter?

            I think these debates this year will matter more than ever, especially with the advent and proliferation of social media, which can send zingers and bloopers across the universe in an instant. Sometimes, like that debate in 1992, a moment is captured and frozen in time before another, and overriding image can debunk it. And we know that the twitter-verse will be working overtime, exchanging perspectives and images, and influencing whomever they can. I’ll be watching. I can hardly wait to see what history is made this year.