I woke up thinking about this story this morning, so it must be time I shared it.
I was at the Triple Crown one afternoon getting a beer, and I saw an old classmate sitting on the back porch. His name is Ray, and I remember thinking to myself that I would go and sit with him. I had always felt sorry for him because he was picked on so badly at school. He was small and slight of frame. He wore glasses and he was mild mannered. So, obviously in our jock obsessed world and our phobic Texas ways, kids started calling him "gay Ray." I suppose these days that wouldn't seem like too much of a burn, but it was a different time, and calling someone gay publically (whether they were or not), was not cool. He was often threatened. I don't remember ever seeing him defend himself, verbally or physically. I don't remember anyone else ever defending him either. I just remember that nickname going on for years and feeling sorry for him.
So I asked to share his table. I said, "Remember me? I'm Molly we went to school together."
He said "Oh yeah, I remember you." And then he told me a story.
"This is weird, but do you remember ...? One day in junior high gym class, we had to run the mile. All the boys in class began lapping you and chanting 'Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow!' as they passed. Then, everybody else passed you too, and they all chanted. It was horrible. The gym teacher didn't even do anything. I felt so sorry for you. I always wanted to tell you I was sorry that happened."
"Oh, uh, no- wow," I stammered, "I had forgotten that."
Like a flash this memory returned to me. Of course, I hadn't forgotten the nick name. I had been "Molly Moo Cow" since fifth grade when John Fontaine had cruelly dubbed me so. (Twice as cruel because before this, I had a school girl crush on him.) I was tall, broad and developing at an astounding rate. The name caught like wildfire, and soon lots of kids called me that. The mile run was three years later and it was still going so...
I had, however, managed to block out that particular incident. I'm sure I had never told my parents for fear of it somehow being my fault and punishable (my life was a closed book), and at the time I only had a tiny handful of friends who probably all saw it. I remembered it now though; feeling sick as I always did when we ran a mile in the spring Texas heat, the feeling like my head would pop off in heart pulsing pain, how I was no longer sweating but dizzy and wanting to barf, and having to stop and walk, like always when we did the mile.
Then here came the jocks and other fit popular boys... chanting. Followed by the others, all picking up the chant. Looking over for help from the coaches to see them smiling. A chorus of voices;
"Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow!..."
It still seems like it can't be real- a movie scene or a nightmare.
Ray and I had grown up together. We weren't friends- didn't eat lunch together or even ride the same bus, but we had quietly watched the other be bullied and tortured. Our hearts were opened up with compassion, and what we ultimately held on to was not the pain we had felt ourselves, but the times we wished we had stood up for someone else.
What would it have been like if I had stood up for and defended "gay Ray'? Would anything have changed if he had come to the aid of "Molly Moo Cow"? Why didn't we stand up for each other, even though we wanted to? I was probably too scared of my own bullies to draw too much attention to myself, and maybe Ray was the same.
I hope that I have grown out of this fear, because just because we're not in grade school doesn't mean there aren't bullies and mobs of assholes chanting. I hope that I have the courage now to stand up for someone else when given the opportunity.
Our compassion for someone can be a mirror. Sometimes, by seeing our pain in someone else's eyes, we can finally accept it as our own, and doing so learn compassion for ourselves.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Friday, March 3, 2017
Transformation
From December, 2016...
These last few months I have been trying to "find myself". I have been rediscovering what it is I might want out of life while working a very few hours at a coffee house. I have been meditating and learning healing breath work, and I have dislodged some deep trauma. I feel it in my muscles and bones, so I do a crap-load of yoga to try and release it. I feel like a washcloth that is being rinsed and wrung out- twisted up to let loose the gunk and then starting all over again.
It's kind of like cleaning out a closet you haven't looked at in a long time; there's no telling what might be in there until you start to drag it all out. There's stuff in there that is going to take you down memory lane, things that no longer fit you even though you keep holding on to them, and bits that you forgot you loved so much. You take it all out and look at it, and the closet starts to make sense, but the room is full of shit now. All that crap is all over the bed and the floor and it's hard to tell how to organize it. You have to decide what goes and what stays. It's going to take time and it has to get worse before it gets better. That is the nature of change and growth.
Hopefully that can also explain what is happening right now in US politics. Apparently there is a lot of shit that is still in our American closet. Many US citizens, turns out, are not only afraid of and discriminating towards the gay and trans community and women (knew that, duh), but racial prejudice is still rampant! The closet has been emptied and we can all see eachother... we can see the racists, bigots and misogynists and ALSO the LGBTQA+ community, the women who won't take shit any more, the witches, the goddesses, and the strong communities of all races. The next generation will decide what stays and what goes from this big closet cleaning.
It's exhausting but every time I think I need to be going to look for some "good job" or trying to hustle some money I just want to go get into the child's pose for an hour and maybe take a walk a read some books and do some writing and I realize the right job is not my answer.
I am trying hard to love myself and it's going to take a lot of practice to get it right. Writing is becoming part of my practice. I have been journalling and working on rough pages for something that may someday become a book. It could feel really selfish to be loving myself in this way, but I am hoping to connect to this human condition of knowing our own mortality and feeling the loss of our friends and family, of realizing the grand impermanence of every day and the gift of every moment, and of the glorious miracle that is consciousness.
These last few months I have been trying to "find myself". I have been rediscovering what it is I might want out of life while working a very few hours at a coffee house. I have been meditating and learning healing breath work, and I have dislodged some deep trauma. I feel it in my muscles and bones, so I do a crap-load of yoga to try and release it. I feel like a washcloth that is being rinsed and wrung out- twisted up to let loose the gunk and then starting all over again.
It's kind of like cleaning out a closet you haven't looked at in a long time; there's no telling what might be in there until you start to drag it all out. There's stuff in there that is going to take you down memory lane, things that no longer fit you even though you keep holding on to them, and bits that you forgot you loved so much. You take it all out and look at it, and the closet starts to make sense, but the room is full of shit now. All that crap is all over the bed and the floor and it's hard to tell how to organize it. You have to decide what goes and what stays. It's going to take time and it has to get worse before it gets better. That is the nature of change and growth.
Hopefully that can also explain what is happening right now in US politics. Apparently there is a lot of shit that is still in our American closet. Many US citizens, turns out, are not only afraid of and discriminating towards the gay and trans community and women (knew that, duh), but racial prejudice is still rampant! The closet has been emptied and we can all see eachother... we can see the racists, bigots and misogynists and ALSO the LGBTQA+ community, the women who won't take shit any more, the witches, the goddesses, and the strong communities of all races. The next generation will decide what stays and what goes from this big closet cleaning.
It's exhausting but every time I think I need to be going to look for some "good job" or trying to hustle some money I just want to go get into the child's pose for an hour and maybe take a walk a read some books and do some writing and I realize the right job is not my answer.
I am trying hard to love myself and it's going to take a lot of practice to get it right. Writing is becoming part of my practice. I have been journalling and working on rough pages for something that may someday become a book. It could feel really selfish to be loving myself in this way, but I am hoping to connect to this human condition of knowing our own mortality and feeling the loss of our friends and family, of realizing the grand impermanence of every day and the gift of every moment, and of the glorious miracle that is consciousness.
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