A 12 year sentence for someone else’s crime

(This has taken six weeks and a lot of tears to write. Please bear this in mind if it seems a bit disjointed.)

In the series Life, Charlie Crews is a police officer framed for murdering 3 people, a friend/business partner and the friend’s wife and son. Crews spends 12 years in prison of a life-without-parole sentence, released only after DNA evidence exonerates him. He spent much of the time in solitary confinement for his own protection.

I think I know how this feels.

••••••••••

In October 1999, Mom’s divorce from her third husband, Justin, had just been finalized. He was the stereotypical young bad-boy with motorcycle, and for whatever idiotic reason she took up with him in late 1997 and married him on a whim in January 1998. Six weeks in she found out he likes to punch women. In March my daycare had a “spring picture” day, and he gave me a “special haircut” for it, a G. I. Jane haircut. By summer, he was unemployed during one of the best job markets EVER, and she was expected to work 50 hours a day PLUS be his personal slave around the house. Just before Thanksgiving, she caught him fondling me and she snapped. (I don’t remember the touching, I do remember Mom trying to kill him.) Justin ran out of the house when she started throwing kitchen knives at him. I was 4½, not old enough to be a good witness against him, so no charges were filed against either of them, since the police “couldn’t see any knife marks on the walls” even though they were looking right at them. (Mom says being a Tinker employee in Del City or Midwest City has its privileges, especially when Washington is talking base-closures.)

Jake had transferred to Tinker AFB in October 1999 as his final duty assignment before his retirement in October 2001 after 28 years. His first assignment was in Vietnam in 1974-75. He was stateside on leave and transfer when Saigon fell. He almost “took his 20” after Desert Storm, but he stayed on, partially due to what he’d seen in Serbia, people genuinely needing US help against oppressive regimes. He took Tinker because there was an opening here, he would have preferred his native California.

I don’t have all the details of how they first met since they wouldn’t talk about it with me, but apparently something about them caught the other one’s eyes. They had a date in November 1999, then he had to take leave and go back to California. He came back right after Christmas, and they started again.

I was halfway thru first grade at the time, about to turn 7. January 14, 2000, was a Friday, a military pay-day, and after Mom picked me up from daycare, we hit Wal-Mart for groceries and a cute dress for me. Mom said there was a special surprise coming over at 7, and that I needed to be on my best behavior. I know something was up the night before because she cleaned the house thoroughly, and she hadn’t done that since Justin left.

We walked through the front door of our home, and there was Justin sitting on the couch. We discovered later that he busted the back door’s lock. You could feel the chill when he said, “Happy anniversary, dear.” He looked like pure evil. Surely this wasn’t the surprise. The clock said 5:55, so this couldn’t be the surprise. Then Mom started acting weird, all sweet to him but I could hear the anger in her voice. She told me to go to my room while she ‘took care of Daddy,’ but I could feel her trace ‘911’ on my back. She wanted me to use the hall phone to call the police while she distracted him.

She turned me around to send me down the hallway, but I started to walk away she suddenly fell on top of me. He had hit her on the back of the head while she had her back to him. He pointed to a chair and yelled, “Have a seat.” And I did.

He had grabbed her by the back of her work pants and dragged her to the living room floor. Her pants burst open and she fell out of them onto the living room carpet face first. He turned her over and pulled her panties off of her. Then he dropped his pants. I thought he had a snake in his pants, but it was attached to him. “You like it? It’s big, ain’t it? Wait until you see what it does,” he said. He sounded like the Devil off of the cartoons. “Oh, I almost forgot something …,” and he tied her legs apart, one to a leg of the chair I was in so that I had a good look at her “fuzzy patch,” and the other to the sofa leg. And then he rammed that snake into my mother. And she screamed.

I ran for the hallway phone. The buttons made no sound. The normal sound wasn’t coming from it. And suddenly there was a big hand on my shoulder and I was jerked into the wall. Next thing I knew it was 6:28, my head hurt above and behind my right ear, my hands were tied behind my back, and my feet were tied together. And he was still on top of her, ramming that snake into her, stopping every now and then to punch her face.

“Oh, are you back?” He noticed I was awake. “Well, it’s just about your turn for some dick. Would you like some dick?”

I didn’t know what “some dick” was, but from the way he said it, I didn’t like the sound of it. I tried to lean back, but I hit my head on the chair back, the same area that hit the wall just a few minutes before, and the pain was excruciating. He reached for me, he was going to pull me onto the floor …

“You’re not done with me yet, asshole.” Mom was trying to draw his attention away from me. “Don’t you want to get even for me cheating on you? With those WOMEN? They were better in my bed than you could ever ….”

He punched Mom in the mouth to shut her up. She succeeded in getting his attention off me, but now he was hitting her even more.

A knock came at 6:41. I immediately started screaming “HELP!” Someone started kicking in the front door. I was punched in the face on the fourth scream, knocking out 4 ‘baby’ teeth. The front door flew, and there was Jake, with my aluminum T-ball bat that I always left in the front yard despite Mom telling me to bring it in. Justin got up and starting running for the back door. Jake went back out the front door, and caught Justin somewhere between the back door and his car. Jake hit a few “home runs” on Justin’s body, not enough because Justin was still alive.

Justin had cut the phone lines, and since 911 didn’t work on cell phones yet, we had to look up the phone number for the police with Justin hog-tied with our clothesline face-down on the living room. Mom was in the hospital for 4 days, she had to have 7 teeth put back in, she had gynecologic surgery to repair some of the damage, and she had to miss work for almost a month.

I was in the hospital for 2 days for observation, they wanted to make sure I didn’t suffer a brain injury, but the physical damage wasn’t the worst of it. I didn’t sleep while I was in the hospital. When Grandmother picked me out, I dozed off in the car for a couple of minutes, then woke up screaming. I almost caused her to have a wreck. She brought me back to the hospital, and they put me in Mom’s room. When she was discharged, we went to Grandmother’s, but I wouldn’t leave Mom’s side. The rare moments I slept, I would go back to the rape scene. Attempts at sedation made the terrors worse and kept them from waking me, effectively trapping me in the terror. The terrors and the lack of sleep kept me from going to school for 19 months.

Jake and some of Mom’s co-workers moved our stuff out of the rent house. Mom ended up taking the rent house as lawsuit settlement against the landlord, he was the one who let Justin into the house and he didn’t have any kind of insurance on the property. Mom’s lawyer bought her two-thirds interest in the house, he already had one-third as payment for representation, so she didn’t have to make repairs on it.

Jake had a 3-bedroom apartment that was bigger than the rent house, and that’s where we moved next. He said it was the only one available worth living in when he moved here. Mom and I had a room together at first. Everywhere she went, I went. And I wouldn’t go anywhere without her, even the bathroom. Three weeks later, I finally started move around in the apartment without her, and that’s when she could finally go back to work.

She found someone in the complex who ran a little ‘daycare’, but there were boys in there, and I violently refused to go there. Mom eventually found a church whose daycare separated boys and girls, and I spent the next 18 months there every workday. I lost a school year because I wouldn’t go to school, so when I finally started back in August 2001, everyone I would have known was in the third grade, but I had to demonstrate that I knew enough to go to second grade.

During those 18 months, Mom tried to have me seen by female therapists, but there were almost none here at the time. I wouldn’t talk to a male therapist, I’d just cringe back into a corner and cry the whole time. The couple of times I got a woman, I’d get a couple of sentences out, then cry for 10-15 minutes, a couple more sentences, more crying, and never could get whole story out in my own words. And then the next time, they’d disregard the instruction about female-only therapists and I’d be in the corner the whole time again. Mom and Jake gave up on the therapists and went with “patient-directed therapy.” In other words, let her do her own thing until she finally decides she needs help.

It wasn’t my crime, but I served a sentence longer than the perpetrator did. I did almost 13 years, he only did 5. Sure, he’s had an ankle-bracelet and restricted movement for 7 years since his parole, and he’ll have at least 3 more, but he didn’t go without sleeping for days on end and he doesn’t get to spend 20-30 minutes in a night terror unable to wake up without assistance.

Patty was the only ‘therapist’ who took the SIX HOURS needed to hear me out through all the crying, the pain, and the fear from the events of January 14, 2000. Over the past 9 months and with Patty’s help, I finally got to where I can talk to males without thinking of them as monsters like Justin. Before her, I wouldn’t look them in the eye or talk to them unless I had no choice but to. She’s brought me from lost, broken, maladaptive, and dysfunctional to found, almost healed, and almost functional. No matter what happens with us in the future, she will always have a place in my heart. Hopefully, that place will be in the center for all my days.

The next step …

In most relationships there is a progression. You open up more of yourself to the other person dependent on your level of trust and your depth of need/want, hopefully they reciprocate, and hopefully you don’t find you’ve made an awful mistake. In essence, you hand them keys.

Patty received the key to my heart on September 7, 2012. I got the key to her dorm room when I moved in with her September 12. Other metaphoric keys have been traded along the way. But today we traded keys to each others’ vehicles. Yes, it is odd that you’d sleep with someone but you wouldn’t trust them to drive your car. Actually we hadn’t thought about it until Wednesday night, when Patty asked me to get something out of her pickup and I asked for the keys. Judging from the blank look I saw for a second, the thought hadn’t crossed her mind either.

We’re back home from teacher meetings and running errands, including grocery shopping for the week for Mom and getting keys made. Patty’s were easy, but my cars has the ignition-device that requires the $35 keys from a professional locksmith instead of the guy at AutoZone.

So relationship-wise, what’s the next step? If it were legal, I’d sign the paperwork to spend the rest of my life with her. Some people seem to think that someone needs to have their heart broken before marrying so they know how NOT to be. And there’s the “you’re too young” and “you need to see other people to make sure” argument, but I don’t care about that. She’s the only person I’ve been attracted to (male or female), she’s been with me during the ascent out of this prison I built as protection from the rest of the world, and she doesn’t belittle me for gaps in social “knowledge” like others have. I can see now why some girls tamper with the birth control, they think they’ve found a man pretty close to perfect and want to lock him into a relationship with a baby. (Of course that’s when they find out that their attempt to lock him in backfires and drive the guy off, leaving them stuck as single mothers.) A piece of me would be tempted to do that with our relationship, but its biologically impossible.

Unfortunately with wishes, Reality has a nasty habit of rearing its ugly head. To marry, we’d have to move elsewhere. To have children, we’re probably going to have to ask for ‘DNA donations’ of one type or another. To not have to worry about Christians kidnapping our babies, we’d probably have to move to another country. Even now, if I were to wear an engagement ring, I’d be inundated with questions about who the GUY was, and right now we need to keep our lies as simple as possible. Creating a guy out of thin air would be impossible, and finding a young man in the congregation willing to go along with the ruse might be even harder to accomplish.

But I’d rather have my life to be with my Patricia than for my life to be simple.

Exodus International shutting down

For those who haven’t seen the news, or thought it was a story from The Onion, like I did at first, get it straight from the horse’s mouth: http://exodusinternational.org/2013/06/exodus-international-to-shut-down/ and http://exodusinternational.org/2013/06/i-am-sorry/

For those who don’t know who Exodus International was they were a “Christian” organization dedicated to reprogramming homosexuals into heterosexuals, because as you know we “choose” to be unlike 92% of the population and “choose” to face discrimination and bigotry and execution because were just rebels without a clue like that. (Their Policy Statement from July 2009 using the Internet Wayback Machine.)

So does this mean that churches all across the country will suddenly become “gay-friendly”? Will “Christ’s Army” go through a period of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell like the US military did? Segregated churches that are “separate-but-equal“? Will I get to put a rainbow sticker on my car and marry Patty in front of the whole congregation without Jake losing his job? I don’t count on it.

Reading the press release, I see that they’re starting a ‘new ministry’. Using “follow the money” theory, it seems they believe that they could get more funding by changing their stated goals “to reduce fear (reducefear.org), and come alongside churches to become safe, welcoming, and mutually transforming communities.” So this boils down to what exactly? I think it was best expressed by Pete Townshend when he wrote the song lyrics, “Meet the new Boss, same as the old Boss.”

I don’t think they’re actually changing much other than jettisoning a name and the baggage associated with that name, the idea of a “reparative therapy” that ‘fix’ us ‘broken homosexuals’. Yes, I’m broken, but I was broken almost 13 YEARS before I fell in love with a woman. I could be wrong. Maybe this rebranding and reorganizing will help or at least stop the hurt some of us face at the hands of parents who simply cannot resolve their love for their child and a faith that preaches what that child is doing is “sinful”. If even one of our sisters or brothers stays alive because of this change, it’ll be worth it.

With Christianity change? Some churches already have, but I doubt most will. Quoting Russell Moore, president of the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention, from an LA Times article:

I think there’s a tendency to see Exodus [International’s] folding as a parable of Christian capitulation and ethic. That is not what’s happening. Instead what you have is an organization that has some confusion about its mission and purpose…. What is not happening here, is an evangelical revision of a biblical sexual ethic.

This is why I think it won’t be any kind of actual change. They’re still going to go with Romans 1 and Leviticus 20:13. Even the church I attend won’t allow women to teach a “men’s” class, but they’re fine with them teaching a “women’s” class or a “children’s class”. Female members over 13 are “discouraged” from wearing jeans or slacks to church. So no, Patty won’t be flipping my veil at the altar there anytime soon.

Things said to maintain cover

I showed this to Jake before publishing it. He has decided to leave his job at 59½, when he can start raiding the 401k, instead of waiting to 62. I asked him if he was sure about the decision, I didn’t what to crimp their retirement. His answer was, “After the past month, I just sick of their games. You’ve seen their latest ads, how much more moronic can they get? I don’t want to stick around to find out.”

So now I am counting down the days to that day in February 2015 when I can dump the masquerade.

••••••••••

Bobby Phillips, trouble-maker extraordinaire, was giving a smaller boy grief in pre-Algebra yesterday about “being a faggot.” The boy hadn’t gone through puberty yet, so it’s unlikely he’d know himself. I can tell you from what I’ve seen in class and in the lunchroom, he’s crushing on a couple of girls, so I’m inclined to reject Bobby’s “hypothesis.” And that’s where the trouble began.

“And who made you judge, Robert?” He hates that name, that’s why I always use it.

“I know a queer when I see one,” he replied.

I have to diffuse this NOW, before I forget he’s brainwashed into his homophobia and I take his comments personally. He’s wanting me to ask about his evidence, I can see it eyes.

“You do know that most people who claim to have a working ‘gaydar’ are gays themselves, right?” Everyone except Bobby laughed.

“I judge what I see,” was his cold response. And knowing him, I was certain he was devising a means of revenge. And the word ‘judge’ was what I needed.

“In the Sermon on the Mount, what did Jesus say about judging other people?” My question put him back on defense. There were snickers from Bobby’s silence. “Okay, look it up, Matthew 7 and start from the top.”

He didn’t move. “Mr. Phillips, am I to assume that you do not have your Bible today? You do know that the principal …” I stopped there because he reached into his backpack and got his Bible out. “Please stand and read the first two verses, Mr. Phillips.”

¹ “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.² For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.

“So let them judge me, I have nothing to hide!” He was standing so proud, it almost hurt to knock him off his little pedestal.

“Just because you ‘think’ something doesn’t make it so, just like when you try to add both the numerator and denominator when adding fractions. The truth remains that you have to get a common denominator, no matter how hard you wish it to be otherwise. So shall we use the same misconceptions and wishful thinking that you use to judge others?”

He was a bit crestfallen, but he battled back. “Aren’t you judging me now, Miss Sawyer?”

“No, I am stating what I witness in your behavior. Do you have hard evidence, non-falsifiable evidence to back up your claim?”

“Why does it have to be ‘hard evidence’?” A legitimate question deserving a legitimate answer.

“Your claim is a very serious claim, one that could have someone removed from this school or this church if true. One that could also have YOU removed from this school and this church if false because … what does Exodus 20:16 say?”

I thought he was beaten. “The Ninth Commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.” Then suddenly he got new life. “But what about the queers that admit their sin? Can’t we judge them?”

I felt like I was cutting the heads off the Hydra. “Robert, what is the Greatest Commandment?”

“Thou shalt have no other gods before me”?

“Robert, turn to Matthew 22. Read from verse 36 to 40.”

³⁶ “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

³⁷ Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ ³⁸ This is the first and greatest commandment. ³⁹ And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ ⁴⁰ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

“Now Robert, who are we allowed to hate?” I had him this time.

“No one, Miss Sawyer … so what about those people with the sign at soldiers’ funerals?”

“Well, I’m not going to judge them, but comparing their behavior that I’ve witnessed to what is said in the Bible about the behavior He expects of us, it looks to me like they’re not obeying God’s Word. But they don’t answer to me, and if they’re in need I will still help them.”

I had to take a long drink of water to wash the barf back out of my mouth. I so didn’t want to say that, but I had to, or else Bobby and his hate would have won.

••••••••••

During my planning period today, the pastor walked into my room. “I heard you corrected Deacon Phillips’ son yesterday.”

“Reverend, he was bearing false witness against another boy.”

He thought for a few seconds. “Few teachers here would dare correct him. Deacon Phillips has a lot of political pull around here.”

“Reverend, I’ve known Deacon Phillips longer than you have, since 2001. I have faith that Deacon Phillips would rather Bobby take a light smack across ego from someone who’s known Bobby his whole life, who changed Bobby’s diapers in the Nursery, who could repeat back the story of the day Deacon Phillips got that hole-in-one, who lead his daughter Jennifer to and from the water at her baptism. At no point was young Mr. Phillips ridiculed or belittled. I believe at every point I asked legitimate questions of him and backed up the lesson with relevant Scripture. How are we accomplishing our mission if young Mr. Phillips goes into the world without knowing what is in the Word of God and what is its meaning?”

He smiled and chuckled. And then a familiar male voice behind me said, “You would really help the Westboro people?” I turned around, and there was Deacon Phillips.

“Yes, I believe that Matthew 22 and 25 make it pretty conclusive that were are to help our fellow man when we can. No matter what silliness or vileness they believe.”

“Your mother’s stubbornness and your father’s faith and righteousness …”

“Even if they threaten us?” asked the Reverend.

I answered, “Back to the Sermon on the Mount. ‘If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.'”

“And then …”

“Well, like Mom says, you only have two cheeks.”

Both men laughed. “I was wondering when your mother would show up,” said Deacon Phillips.

Then he got serious again. “I’m satisfied with what I’ve seen, both here and the classroom recording. I’ll tell Jake I saw you. Take care hun.”

••••••••••

Patty was probably wondering why I jumped her when we got home this evening. I felt like I needed to bathe in her to wash away the stench from work. Hun, indeed!

It’s hard to believe we’re one-third of the way through the Summer term.

An end to the night terrors?

I haven’t posted this weekend, partially because I wanted some quality time with Patty and partially because I’ve been making actual progress on writing what happened on January 14, 2000. Instead of just sitting at the keyboard crying, I have almost 500 words so far while crying and being comforted by Patty, but I’m still probably 1500-2000 from being finished.

Progress always has its price, and for me it is night terrors. I’ve never been able to wake up from one of these without assistance, and assistance meant I had to make enough noise to be picked up on the sound monitor AND wake up Mom or step-Dad. Step-Dad often could call my name and gently shake me to break me out of it. Mom almost always had to resort to the ice-cold wet washcloth, because she was often also in the terror and her voice coming from both inside the dream and the outside world would make the terror worse. Regardless of who woke me, I’d be up for an hour or so, sometimes the rest of the day, and when I was younger two or three days straight.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, a similar scene to the trauma started out in my head. It had only gone for a couple of minutes until I had Patty’s calm voice from the outside. “It’s just a bad dream.” And that’s all it took to wake me, just her voice. Instead of staying up, I got a drink of water then got back into my favorite spot: my neck resting in the crook of her right elbow and her left arm draped over me just under my breasts. I went right back to sleep, and this time the terror didn’t start again.

For many children, a stuffed animal is their ‘protector’ from their fears of the unknown in the dark, but they eventually outgrow it. I never want to outgrow my Protector from the things that go bump in my mind.

The weekend (finally)

Ah, the weekend. All the tests from Wednesday and Thursday are finally graded. I meet up with Mrs. Grace in-person at 9am to update her on how I’m destroying her classroom and ruining her students. She says I’m doing great, but there’s times I’m not too sure, especially after looking at these tests scores (SHEESH!) Patty is meeting with Mrs. Warren at the same time. After that, we get a weekend together WITHOUT 11 children to babysit.

Tomorrow is military pay day, because the 15th falls on Saturday, meaning world+dog will be jamming into in the stores and restaurants of Midwest City because they have money to spend. Which means once when get done with our professional duties, we’re coming back home to stay. I already have the cookout food thawing and prepared, and I plan to have supper ready just as everyone else rolls home from work.

I’m not sure what the plans are for Saturday, but I suspect we’re going to sit and veg in front of the Netflix, like we’ve been too busy to do since early April. Patty mentioned a show called Lost Girl she’s seen on the Netflix menu, and I’ve seen the name while cruising through DeviantArt, and a couple of other things we’ve read about it make it sound interesting. And at some point Friday or Saturday, I need to call Anita and confirm that I will be coming to their cookout on July 6th. Patty is willing to come along, but I need to decide whether I should tell them she’s coming or not.

Sunday is another cookout, but this time at church. It’s Father’s Day, and Deacon Phillips towed his grill to church this afternoon. Yes, TOWED. As in the grill is on a trailer that is hauled by a pickup truck. Because of having to be in the sun much of the day, Mom and Patty have the vampire-strength sunblock and a backup bottle ready plus hats, especially since they “sunburn in moonlight,” using one of Mom’s terms. I have my SPF 15, and I’ll tan (and slightly freckle) under it. Given Patty’s height and her big hat, they’ll probably have her directing traffic on the food lines, no one could miss her. The past two years, I’ve been on kid wrangling duty, which is usually for older girls to get them some practice. Since I’m teaching this year I’ll probably be given an adult job instead. Mom usually scoops up the side dishes for those in line, that’s where they put Jake on Mother’s Day and that’s probably where they’ll have me on Sunday.

On another note, Mom saw this and thought it was an AWESOME idea, but it was be too much like Pole Position (and yes, I had to look that one up). Plus, it gives great disincentive to those who squeeze through a yellow light, because they’ll have to know that the opposing traffic will likely be peeling out the second it their light turns green.

Father’s Day

For my first 6 years, Father’s Day was a bad joke.

The biological one left just a couple of weeks before my first one. I finally get to hear SOME of the other side of the story during the July 4th holiday weekend when I visit his family. I fully expect an apologist version, including comments about how crazy Mom is. Problem is that she’s even crazier than they think. And yes Mom, I know you’re reading this.

There are two pictures with Lloyd, Mom’s second ex-husband, that escaped her wrath, but you could tell from the look on his face that I wasn’t the reason he was there. Lloyd’s name for me was “Now what?!” and I’d be sprayed with his hatred every time he opened his mouth. And the day Mom said I’d never seen Lloyd again if I didn’t want too, my only response was “good.” And I didn’t.

The only picture of the third ex- is in a folder locked in a file cabinet. Mom verifies his registry on the Oklahoma Sex Offender Registry and one a month calls up his parole officer. He knows she’ll shoot to kill if she ever sees him again, and she won’t care how many witnesses there are, and she said so in court at his sentencing. His parole period ends in August 2015, but he’s a Lifetimer on the SOR, Level 3 Aggrevated.

Jake, the current one, has been the only fatherly figure I’ve had. Forget the superficial stuff, he actually calls me by my name and he’s genuinely happy to see me. That in itself would put him over the others, even if everything I had was a Harry Potter room under the stairs.

Until this summer, I had a microphone in my room so they could hear if I was having a night terror, and often Jake was the one who woke me up. (The job is Patty’s now, but I haven’t had a terror with her.) If Mom was in the terror she couldn’t wake me up, sometimes it worsened because I’d hear her voice from two places, where she was in the terror and his ‘voice of God’ booming from outside.

Jake’s voice was always the hero’s voice, when I’d hear it I knew the terror was over. I thought I was going to college to find a younger version of him, but no one there. Jake said any guy like him would probably have to be at least 30 and did a tour in Iraq or Afghanistan.

He’s still a little unsure about Patty, but then he grew up in the early 1960s. He was 8 was Kennedy was shot. Given all the prejudices he grew up with and the military reinforced, I think he’s doing an awesome job of adapting to the 21st century. Maybe when we’re ready for kids, we’ll get a donation from him, but we’re not there yet.

Growing up, I wished there was some way of making him my father in-full, instead of just step-Dad. He has given as much for me as he has for his biological children, and he didn’t have to. Whenever there’s been a problem, he’s been there. And that’s why I call him “Dad.” Happy Father’s Day.

My love (part 6)

It’s Friday, September 7th, at 12:50 pm. We’ve just got out the the last class for the week.

Patty’s sports friends have less time for sports due to homework and studying, but they’ve got a game at 1 and they’re all hurrying to get there. All I have to do is figure out how NOT to have an anxiety-attack in the next 2 hours. I tried eating at 11, but I was too anxious. The last time my heart raced like this was when I took a puff off of Mom’s asthma inhaler.

I go back to my room, but no one is there. There’s a note from Glenda’s folks about them moving some stuff out this weekend, they wanted to know when was convenient and left a contact number. I called, I said I was heading home this weekend (a lie) so any time was fine. Her mom thanked me for letting the RA know, because Glenda wouldn’t have said a word otherwise. I stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong and asked if they had anything planned yet. Her mom said Glenda and the boyfriend were getting married on Tuesday and moving in an apartment in Clinton on Friday, and Glenda was finishing the semester no matter what. Something crashed in the background, and she said she had to go.

I was surprised by the information being volunteered. In the same spot, my mother would have said it’s none of your (string of expletives) business.

I showered off, knowing that there would be no chance to later. I thought about putting on a touch of makeup, then decided against it. The whole point of this was to expose Patty to the real me to see if she’s smart enough to run away or do the “let’s be friends” thing I hear guys griping about all the time.

It was 1:45, still 75 minutes to go. Maybe I should have gone to the court and watched, then showered later. I played some online. but I couldn’t concentrate. At 2:15, the dorm phone rang. It was the RA informing me that I’d needed to move before the 15th if I didn’t want to be charged for a Single room. She said there was one spot open somewhere, but she didn’t remember off-hand where.

But I knew. If this weekend was successful, I could move in with her and we wouldn’t have to worry about prying eyes, like Amy’s. If not … ugh, I didn’t even want to think about it. If it were a failure, would she be willing to have me as a roommate, knowing that I was sexually attracted to her, I would looking longingly at her face, her legs, her chest, her butt, etc.

My cellphone rang at 2:27. Mom was calling from her cell. Her advice boiled down to: don’t force it, don’t rush it, and don’t lie no matter how painful the truth is. Either she stays or she goes, but let her base her decision on the truth. And get a camper potty.

Mom get off the phone at 2:44. By the time I walked over to the study lounge, it would be close enough to not look desperate. So I head over, and as I turn the corner for her dorm wing, she’s coming out of her room to head to the lounge. “Hold on, my truck is THAT way,” she says pointing back at me. And I could feel that dopey grin on my face, good thing I had an audience of one. “This way.”

Down the stairs, turn right, and there was mid-1980’s Chevy C-10 pickup with back window clings in the corners Picher Cheer, Picher Softball 17, Picher Basketball 17, and Silly Boy Trucks are for Girls. “I put the FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) cling back up before I go home. Have to keep up appearances,” she said. I answered, “I know the feeling. Oh, my cooler is in my car, and we’ll need ice.”

So we drove over to my car, and got the wine coolers. I suddenly remembered what Mom said. “Do you have a camper potty?” Patty just smiled, then said, “I just thought of that last night. Look in the bed.” Sure enough, there was a squat little toilet back there.

“I think we should eat before we get to I-40,” Patty suggested. “Food along the interstate usually sucks.” I laughed, then said, “My Mom says the same thing, and adds ‘its usually whatever was hit recently.'”

Patty laughed so hard she had to pull over. I didn’t think it was THAT funny. “You know what’s sad?” she asked, still laughing. “You’re nervous, I’m nervous, and I bet we have absolutely nothing to be nervous about.” She composed herself, then asked, “Any place in particular to eat?”

I was hungry because I barely ate lunch due to being anxious. Patty was hungry because she barely ate lunch due to playing basketball, a “boys” intramural game as it turned out. We got a “Bag of Burgers” at Braum’s (5 1/6-pound burgers), she ate 3 PLUS a medium chocolate shake, I had 2 with a Dr Pepper.

We got back in the truck and headed east. Patty said, “A lot of guys would have commented by now about me eating like, well, a guy.” I answered, “You’re an athlete with a far higher energy budget than most women. I’M the one who pigged out. One with a banana is usually all I eat.”

Patty smiled, “You don’t seem to have the same prejudices about me that others do. You didn’t assume I was just a dumb jock or an airhead cheerleader. You don’t presume to know what’s best for me just because you’re smarter than me. I wonder what other typical misconceptions you’re going to fail to have.”

“I’m not smarter than you,” I replied. “I’m just faster and more thorough with academic concepts, but you can talk to people, you’re likable, you can catch onto the concepts quickly. You can walk up to Life and punch it in the nose. I have irrational fears, fears of things I understand. I couldn’t make it a week in the real world without a strong support system. Brains don’t matter if you can’t stop crying in the corner.”

I see the concern in her eyes, a look I see from Mom so often. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” She smiled while patting my hand. She plugged in her iPod, and Natalie Merchant’s Wonder came on. “This is a song Mom sang to me as a lullaby,” I said. “But Mom sang it better.”

Patty laughed. “Yeah, Natalie the songwriter is a lot better than Natalie the performer. Kind of like Willie Nelson or Alanis Morissette.” Okay, her opinions of music match Mom’s too.

“You talk about your mother quite often. Am I right in guessing that you spend a lot of time in your early years with just her, no father, no siblings, and no other family around?”

“Yep, she married husband #4 in July 2001. The first one left right after I was born, the second lasted 3 years but didn’t try to be a father, and the third one was divorced while he was in prison. Jake, my step-Dad, was the only one of the bunch who treated me as a human. He and my little brother are the only two males that I can stand being in a room alone with. And to be honest, on that first Thursday of the semester when you asked about partnering in Chemistry as well as Biology, the first thought through my head was ‘I would rather do all the work and let her have credit than deal with a boy.'”

Patty looked a bit shocked. “So … you thought I might have been some dumb jock?”

“You hadn’t said much during that first Biology lab, so I had little to scale you on. Then you said you weren’t a dumb jock. It was like you knew what was on my mind, so I decided at that point you had to know something. And the answer just rolled out of my mouth without me thinking, saying they wouldn’t let you be pre-Pharm if you were stupid.”

Patty just looked down the road, nothing to say. Apparently what I said stung a bit, but I hadn’t meant to hurt her. “Remember how I seemed to be a bit out of sorts after that? That even a couple of the boys noticed it?”

“Okay, yeah.” She sounded a bit suspicious.

“You know that first time that someone smiles at you, a smile that make you feel different than any smile has before? That smile and look they write about in all those sappy stories, the one that goes through you and makes you feel warm inside? That smile that says ‘together we can take on everything and win’ and ‘I want this moment to last forever’ and ‘I believe in you’?”

“Yeah ….” She was actually remembering a smile like that.

“Your smile after I said that was the first time I ever saw That Smile. You had me right then. I had no idea what being in love was until That Moment: Thursday, August 23, 2012 at 8:56 a.m. And you really caught me by surprise because I was expecting That Smile from a boy.”

She needed a mile to process it all, and then a bit further to negotiate the exit onto US 281.

“Ice! We forgot the ice for the cooler!” she said as she pulled into the Love’s. “I’ll be right back!”

I guessed at first that I overloaded her with the Truth. Then I remembered that we didn’t get ice before leaving town. But what an odd moment to suddenly remember that. Maybe she just needed to stop driving so she could process it. Maybe I’m reading WAY too much into it.

She came out of the store kinda slowly, like she didn’t want to come back to the truck. Had I misunderstood her? Had she told Tim what she did just shoo him away? But what about the confrontation with Amy?

She went to the cooler, opened, and dumped the ice over the bottles, and closed. The wind had really picked up out of the north. She sat down in the driver’s seat and handed me a peach iced-tea. And put her hands in her lap instead of starting the truck or opening her bottle.

“Does it bother you that it, that The Smile, didn’t come from a boy?” The hesitation was obvious in her voice, she knew this question was a turning point question, that it would make or break a budding relationship.

“Truth be told, I’m relieved that it did NOT come from a boy. They terrify me.” And I reached over my left hand, but I couldn’t quite get to her right hand. She moved her right hand over to clasp my left hand, and we held hands for the first time on September 7, 2012, at 4:47pm.

“So why do boys terrify you?” she asked after almost a minute of holding hands.

“Let’s get to our destination. It’s for your ears only, and I need to tell it all without a distraction or an excuse to stop.”

Her pickup was old enough to have a bench seat instead of bucket seats. And it had a lap belt without a shoulder strap in the middle. So I unbuckled, scooted over from the passenger seat to the middle seat, buckled that seat belt, and adjusted it. She put her arm around me, and we drove to our camping spot.

====================

It might be a while before part 7 is published. I still can’t get my fingers to type about the trauma. I’m publishing from work, talk about taking a chance!

So what DOES make us different?

This is what I’m going to write because I’m tired of grading papers. That and I’ll be starting my third red pen for the day.

The hard data: 46 chromosomes, 20,000 genes, over 3,000,000,000 base-pairs with about 50,000,000 variations, all combine to make just over 7 billion people, each one unique but still similar enough to potentially breed with the half of the population of the other sex. The fact that we can breed shows some similarity, after all you don’t see half-human half-dog chimeras anywhere.

But how do you make the choice with whom to breed? Just whomever happens to catch your eye? A logical and thought-out plan? Coincidence? Let’s go deeper, why did THAT person catch your eye? Coincidences happen all the time, why THAT one and not another one? How do you pick who you love?

Let’s start by rolling back the clock to pre-agricultural societies. Each tribe often had rules as to whom you could mate with. Some were common across all, like you don’t mate with your ancestors, siblings, or descendents. (Exceptions happen, I know.) Some varied from tribe to tribe, like you could mate with “cross” cousins, the children of your mother’s brother or your father’s sister, but not “parallel” cousins, the children of your mother’s sister or your father’s brother. Some were simple, some were so complicated that an elder had to keep track of who could mate with whom, and sometimes required trading or buying a mate from another tribe because there was no one in your tribe that met the rules.

The idea of not mating with close family members carries over, especially now that we know the genetic basis for avoiding incestuous breeding. Societal pressures from both inside and outside the family have supplanted the tribe elder in telling us with whom we can mate. Instead of tribes, it’s now religions and races and economics and politics and geography that separates us. And yet many of us find mates crossing some to almost all of those boundaries. But who do we find most often for a mate?

Sigmund Freud found one answer, in a Right-Answer-Wrong-Reason sort of way. Over half of the population (exact number not known, I suspect it’s in the 80% range) finds a mate with multiple similarities to the parent of the opposite sex. A boy tends to find a woman with similarities to his mother, a girl tends to find a man with similarities to her father. On a survival basis, it looks like a great idea, your parents got you to adulthood so finding someone similar should get your children to adulthood, right?

Do this occur often enough to make it a “default” situation? I don’t have hard data (grounds for a study?), but the numbers (being my best guess) would seem to indicate this as a default. Since this is my blog and my therapy, I’m calling it the default pending more evidence.

Notice that I’m NOT saying it’s a “natural” situation. Why not? Because I strongly suspect that a pure “natural” situation involves a man raping any woman he can overpower without regard to any consequences or the future. The default situation requires a partnership lasting long enough for the child to reach adulthood, and that partnership often requires consensual sex (or at least willful submission) to help maintain it.

But it’s easy to see how the default could be mistaken for “natural.” It’s hard to imagine a different scenario that would work as well in a pre-Electronic civilization as the default for as long as the default has. It’s easy to see how it was built into the framework of most religions. (The movie Love Is All You Need? paints a working alternative, but it’s still a bit difficult to get the premise to work in a pre-Industrial society, unless the women pulled a Lysistrata at some point and threatened to crash all of civilization.)

But even during the Industrial Age and maybe even before, there were people who didn’t fit the default. The women were labelled “old maids” or “spinsters,” they never married and never had children, and they typically were looked down on because having children was a woman’s purpose, it said so all throughout the Bible. There were men who never married either, like Sir Isaac Newton or Nikola Tesla, but they were typically “too wrapped up with their work to marry” or some other story.

Nowadays, those of us who don’t fit the default have far more options. Because of advances made in the 20th century, we don’t have to hide in solitude or shame just because we want to be ourselves. We don’t have to contort ourselves into someone else’s idea of a proper human being based on 3000 year old lies. And since we no longer have to fit into someone else’s standards, we can better examine how and why we vary from the default with less distortions, helping to better understand how the default came to be.

Mom was raised mostly in a default-type household. Mom broke off the default simply because she wanted nothing to do with men for almost a year out of her disgust for men’s behavior. This would easily qualify as a “choice” to not follow the default. Her first husband was quite a bit like Grandpa both in looks and attitude, except the part about leaving me as an two-month old baby. Step-Dad has some similarities to Grandpa, but not very many. Then again, Mom was almost 30 when she met step-Dad, three divorces and years of internal warfare had changed her imprint of what a mate should be.

Patty was raised in an almost perfectly default-type household, but fourth-born, the only girl, and with brothers 10-16 years older. In her mother’s family, in almost every generation there was a “spinster,” a woman who went to her grave unmarried and childless. Patty’s mother’s older sister was a nurse in Vietnam and died there, but looking back they suspect she was a lesbian. (This may be why her mother was so willing to tolerate Patty’s orientation, even though she calls it a “choice.”) Patty says she’s never been attracted to the boys, they were playmates and friends. She’s always been attracted to girls, but she had to put that aside because of societal punishment if she acted on it. Until I came along. But I’m not much like either of her parents, so imprints are the be-all-end-all of mate selection.

I had no “father” to use to imprint a mate choice. All I had was Mom. And that seems to be what I imprinted. Add a big dollop of androphobia to kill off any potential hormonal override, such as looking for a redheaded freckled-faced guy, and here I am.

Obviously, there’s no way to extrapolate these 3 datapoints to the whole LGBTA community, and other explanations are needed for the T’s (trans).

I suspect that true choice, like Mom’s, only applies to a small percentage (10-15%) for the reasons generally given by those who argue against LGBTA being a “choice”, namely “who would choose to be persecuted?” This group may increase slightly as the persecution lessens, as more people say, “So what if they do choose that? It’s no grounds for discrimination.”

I suspect imprinting on the parent of the same sex is uncommon (10-15%), but somewhat common with lesbians I’ve talked to with a family history of abuse, one-third of a small sample. Once again, I have no numbers, just gut feelings and talking to others in our situation.

So that leaves about 75% of us with something inborn that makes us different. Patty’s seems to have a genetic tie of some sort, but others have no known family history of an “odd” uncle or aunt.

I need more data, not flames.

A Night at the Museum

We got back from spending overnight at Science Museum Oklahoma 40 hours ago, and I’m still sore from sleeping on the floor.

We got to the church at 3. Load up time was 5pm, but I wanted time to get adjusted to driving the 15-passenger van, especially since I was the only one of the group that would be covered by the church’s insurance. Surprisingly, I could actually SEE where I was driving, I didn’t need a phone book to sit on to see over the steering wheel. After about 15 minutes of driving around the parking lot, I was ready to take on traffic once Tinker traffic settled down.

Patty made a dinner-and-snacks run while I was “qualifying” on the van, as step-Dad called it. Jerky, trail mix, drinks, ice for the cooler, you know, camping necessities. Realistically, if anything else was needed, like someone’s “Aunt Flo” making a surprise visit, there was a 24-hour grocery store about 2 miles away and security would have let me out and back in if need be.

During load up, one more kid showed up. He had his money and an overnight bag, fortunately for him we had space on the van and in supervision. (Six children per adult, he was #11 for me and Patty to watch.) All but one of the kids I’ve seen this week either on the court for cheer or in the classroom, the straggler being the lone exception. We had four boys and seven girls, I figure the low number of boys was due to many of the boys playing baseball all weekend.

Patty did something I didn’t expect. Instead of riding “shotgun” in the passenger front seat, she was in the middle of the kids. Looking back, it was a great idea, because she could end any misbehavior a lot faster being in the middle. Chelsea, my study hall regular, took the passenger seat. She asked which way we were going, I said by I-40. She suggested going up NE23rd so we could see the sinkhole at Crutcho that opened up from last Friday’s storms. A couple of the kids up front heard the idea and liked it. “Okay, let me see if I can make the left turn to go north. If so, we go. If not, we’ll have to go by I-40. Deal?” And they agreed. When we went to pull out, we had a clear left turn, so I kept my part of the bargain and we went to see the sinkhole.

Now I didn’t look at it myself, I needed to get the van thru the one-lane of westbound traffic. But Patty gave the kids a rundown of what was visible: two gas pipelines (judging from the warning signs), four telephone cables, and a fiber-optic line. Then she started with the explaining fiber-optic, and she had their undivided attention. She would have had mine too if I didn’t need to drive.

We arrived, and I took the check, the list of kids, and the straggler in first while Patty supervised unloading. The museum had no problem taking his money, they still had plenty of spots open. I got two copies of the schedule and started back out, but Patty already had everyone marching in. We put our stuff in the designated area, and read everyone of the rules, which included “do not run” three times, twice in bold, and once in bold ALL-CAPS. Patty added, “You will be at the 7pm meeting in Science Live, or you will be going home, understood?” And all agreed. “They’ll announce it on the intercom 5 minutes before,” I added, “so be listening. Now get!” And they dispersed.

“They will?” Patty asked.

“That’s what they’ve done every time I’ve been here during the day. And the previous time I did an overnighter here as a junior in high school. How are we splitting the kids up?”

“The division will likely make itself obvious long before lights-out. Do you want first or second half to sleep?”

“Depends, the first two movies they’ll show after Lights-Out will be Night at the Museum I and II. Have you seen them?”

“Actually I haven’t. Okay Marcie, where are the sleepers going to sleep?”

“Probably in the geology area, that’s where it’s darkest after Lights-Out. Think we’ll have a six-and-five split?”

“If not, we’ve have 4 awake and 7 asleep. And they’re not causing problems if they’re asleep. And speaking of problems …”

I turned to see what Patty was seeing, which was Chelsea running up to say that Eddie got on the Puke-a-Whirl (aka “The Angular Momentum Experiment”) and promptly did just that. The museum staff got out the Hazardous Waste kit and Patty helped them with clean up of both the platform and of Eddie, then Patty started showing everyone what Eddie had been eating. I had to back away from the scene to keep from contributing to it. Definitely a study in Grossology.

Eddie wasn’t running a fever, but I still had him change his shirt and sit in the baggage area with a bottle of Sprite and some animal crackers for a bit to make sure it was just the spinning. They cordoned off that exhibit while the Lysol dried.

At 6:55, they did the all-call for the Science Live theater. I made eye contact with Patty and held up 1 finger for Eddie, then went into the CSI exhibit space to see who was in there. I found two more and shooed them out. I saw Patty again, and she turned to make eye contact. I signalled 1 and pointed to Eddie then 2 and pointed to CSI. She held up 5 fingers, so we still had 3 to find. I called out for our kids to gather around me. “Eddie, are you okay?” He nodded. “Then come one over here.”

Patty found a couple of stragglers in the Gadget Trees and Explorazone and sent them my way. One last lost sheep. “You know this place, where should I look?” asked Patty.

“It’s Amanda from Cheer who is missing. Get these 10 in, I think I know where she is.” And I broke the rules and ran. And she was right where I thought she would be, in the gymnastics area on the second floor, tumbling and playing with the babies. “Amanda! Come on! They’re doing the rules and Science Live.”

I think I startled her, but she grabbed her shoes and came along with me.

They reiterated the rules, clarified a couple of points, and apologized for not having the hissing cockroaches as advertised. This brought up groans from the crowd, including a cute little girl (who later told us she just turned 7) who yelled, “No bugs? Ripoff!” in such a cute way that the crowd laughed and aw-ed, but you could tell she was serious. As a consolation, during the live show she got to put her hands on the van de Graaff generator, which promptly made every hair on her little head stick out like pins in a pincushion.

The show ended and everyone left. I stepped out expecting everyone to have scattered to the four winds, but they were all grouped together. “Okay, the IMAX movie starts at 8:30, but there probably won’t be an announcement for it like there was this. For those who don’t know, we walked by the IMAX entrance coming in. And the best seats are the three back rows and the two rows in front of the projector. And use the bathroom before going in, because they won’t let you back in once you’ve left. See y’all over there in 40 minutes.” And then they scattered.

Patty’s voice was behind me. “See, you handled that like a pro, much better than that lab report back in September. I was getting some classroom ideas for stuff to do with dry ice, since you can get that at Crest (a local grocery store).”

The IMAX movie was Rescue, which started off being about different rescue workers (firefighter, coast guard, C-17 pilot, etc.) and their jobs, and ended with being about the relief effort in Haiti. Other than the fact that it was an IMAX movie on the BIG screen, the C-17 pilot was who really caught my eye.

I thought that maybe the “asexual” tag fit me, but now it seems that I’m just really specific as to what attracts me sexually:  a woman with strawberry blonde-to-orangish natural-color hair, freckles on the cheekbones, lighter-colored eyes, and a confident alto-ranged voice. In other words, Mom but without the scars of a dozen or so years of physical, emotional, and psychological wars. A girl with an Oedipal-ish complex, no wonder they never could diagnose me correctly.

Only 5 of the kids were interested in the planetarium show, so I took them while Patty took the other six around the museum. The show was interesting and quite informative, but the presenter made a factual mistake about Regulus, saying it was a red giant like Betelgeuse instead of a blue giant. (There is a difference.) The kids thought the show was awesome, and now those 5 want to go star-gazing out of town sometime this summer. So we’ll need to discuss that with Mr. Ed on Sunday or Monday.

At 10:30, two of the girls were on the Segway track, two were in the Gadget Tree, and three were at the gymnastics area, while three of the boys wandered off to the Wiley Post airplane exhibit, and Eddie was just sitting there staring at the Gravitram, almost mesmerized by the kinetic sculpture. I wanted to sneak outside to the garden with Patty for some us time, but as sure as we did that, there would be some kind of emergency, so we didn’t.

By midnight we had several sleepyheads so we moved bedding around to the geology area. Those with air mattresses started airing them up, others were trying to make their sleeping bags as comfortable as possible. At 12:30, three boys and Chelsea wanted to stay up with the movies, so they loaded up their snacks and headed off.

Amanda asked if I was leading them in prayer. I said, “Pray as you will, this is your time with the Lord, not for me to dictate it.” Say it with confidence and they believe it. I know, its sort of a cop-out, but really it is their own path to make. Besides, why should I steer them toward something that I don’t believe myself? At Lights-Out, Eddie was the lone blue and red in a sea of pink and purple.

Seems like I barely got to sleep when Patty woke me up. It was 3:20 and my turn to take over with the all-night movies.

They were just starting “How to Train Your Dragon” when I got in there. None of the four had made it that far into the night, they were all asleep in the theater chairs, so I didn’t feel so bad crashing out there either. Next time I know, it’s 6:15 and morning wakeup. I had almost 6 hours of sleep and I felt like I’d been up the whole time. I got my sleepyheads up, and we waddled back to the rest of our group, who looked as awake as we were. Breakfast was donuts and milk, so a vote was taken as to stay or head out. No one voted to stay, everyone was ready to go home, so we packed up and left.

This morning in Sunday School classes the kids said they loved it and wanted to do it again. A couple of the girls told Mr. Ed they wanted to go star-gazing, but not as a camp-out, just come back into town late. So I’ll be looking ahead to see if there’s anything more interesting than the August Perseid shower for star-gazing.

Ugh, 5:45am is going to come too soon.