Stories from my breezeway

Condom Mom Part 2: Condom Grandma

Posted on January 21, 2024January 22, 2024 by Elaine Maly

I gave my two oldest grandsons (15 and 17) condoms for Christmas this year. Not like wrapped with a bow in front of people or anything weird. I just brought them over one day when they were home alone. I wanted them to be able to ask me questions that they might not ask with a parent in the house. But when I presented them each with a box of Trojan value packs, they were nonchalant.

“Thanks, grandma,” they said and stared at their phones. I asked if they had any questions.

“No.”

I asked if they had ever seen one out of the wrapper.

“No.”

So, I did what I did with my son Ben decades ago. “Pay attention” I said and I got a banana from the kitchen, opened a condom, and rolled it down the banana to demonstrate. That made them giggle. I explained that I wasn’t encouraging them to have sex. That I hoped they would wait as long as possible.

“But when the time comes, I want you to be prepared,” I said. “Okay, see you later,” they said.

Recently, I was spending an evening with my 12 year old grandson. We were watching a horror movie, his favorite genre, when out of the blue, he asked, “Grandma, how old were you when you had dad?”

“18,” I said as a look of sheer terror spread over his face.

“I knew you were young,” he said, “but I thought you were at least 20!”

And then he asked, “How did that happen?!!!”

“Well,” I said, “you had that class in school about how babies are made, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but how did it happen?”

“Well,” I said, “did they teach you about birth control? Things like condoms?”

“Dad told me about them,” he said and a surge of pride for my son Sam lit my face.

“Didn’t use one,” I said, “that’s how it happened.”

Bronson just shrugged and went back to watching the movie. Maybe because it was a little less scary than this conversation.

And I vow to continue my quest to make sure none of mine are as unprepared as I once was.

Old Friend

Posted on January 21, 2024 by Elaine Maly

Here we are

With more life behind us than ahead

The struggles of our youth

The challenges of single parenthood

The anxiety over careers

The careful steps into 2nd marriages

Through it all

We’ve lived our best lives

We’ve survived and thrived

Now we sit and reminisce

Grateful to have each other

Not Me

Posted on October 8, 2023 by Elaine Maly

Dogs. Poop. Not me. I’m allergic. But then my grandsons got a dog, a big smelly slobbering lumbering mass of fur. And because I love them, I’ve become the walker of Woodrow the Wonder Dog.

Woodrow is a show stopper. 165 pounds of ambiguous ancestry. Passersby can’t help but comment. “That’s a big dog! What kind is he?”“Are you walking him or is he walking you?” “Hey lady you need a license to have a horse in the city!”

Woodrow is super curious Detective Woodrow sniffs the shrubs for bunnies and squirrels like any dog would. But Woodrow also keeps an eye on changes in the neighborhood. He’s well known by workers engaged in everything from tree cutting to road construction. He especially likes to watch them eat their lunch.

Woodrow is powerful. He could knock you over with a swipe of his tail. It hurts when he steps on your toe In the winter, he’s a sled dog mushing through the snow as I boot ski behind.

But what really makes Woodrow a wonder dog is that he’s a really good listener. He never interrupts or changes the subject. He beams at me with his loving big brown eyes and patiently bears witness to my complaints and confessions.

I pick up his poop in gratitude. Yes, I do.

And Woodrow forgives me for never petting him.

High School

Posted on January 13, 2023 by Elaine Maly

A large Black man yelled my name from across the crowded bar.

“ELAINE? ELAINE MALY? ELAINE MALY FROM MARSHALL HIGH SCHOOL? I’D KNOW YOU ANYWHERE! “

I stood up to acknowledge my living existence. One of only two white women at a birthday party for a co-worker, this was the last place in the world I expected to run into someone from my high school days, let alone someone who would recognize my teenage self through the extra pounds, graying hair and wrinkles.

He walked closer and then took a few steps back. My confusion and a hint of fear must have shown.

“You don’t recognize me do you?” he said.

I tried hard to rewind my brain 38 years but I just couldn’t see anyone I knew in this man.

“It’s me! Johnny Brown,” he said.

I rushed forward for a hug.

“OH MY GOD! DOWNTOWN JOHNNY BROWN!” I said. “Now I see you.”

But I never really knew him. He was familiar to me mostly because he played basketball with some of the boys I knew. And, of course, because he was one of only a handful of black kids in a baby boomer graduating class of almost 1,000. The boys had dubbed him “downtown” Johnny Brown which I assumed had something to do with his basketball prowess.

He offered to buy me a drink and so I left my table of girlfriends and went to stand at the bar with him. I mentioned that once in a while I still see some of the basketball players he knew.

He said that he didn’t. “Do you know what it was like for me to go to John Marshall High School?” he asked. “I had never seen so many white people in one place before.”

“I’m sorry,” was the only honest response I could come up with.

I told him that it’s kind of funny since some of my old high school chums believed that we went to a really integrated school. I guess for Wisconsin white kids in the early 70s, having a few dozen Black kids in the whole school was a new and memorable experience too. We were so self-centered. But then again, how could any of us know what it was like? Even now, can I even glimpse the experience of my Black friends when I move through the world as member of the privileged majority? The real privilege is that I don’t ever have to think about it.

I had a flash back of what a charming and personable guy Johnny was, yet how afraid me and all my girlfriends were to be “too” nice to him. We were terrified that our fathers would kill us if we had been encouraging to him and he did something as outrageous as call our homes or ask us to a dance.

Johnny knew a lot about me. He knew the name of my high school boyfriend and said that he was my first real love. I made a scoffing noise at the thought of that relationship being some kind of legendary romance.

He said that he had met my husband Tom many years ago at a job that they both hated. I don’t remember Tom ever mentioning this to me.

Then again, Johnny didn’t know anything about me at all. He made an offending comment about my having been a housewife for the past 38 years. “I don’t even know a house wife!” I shot back. He apologized but I wondered if he assumed that about all white women.

He told me about how he had only been “caught” once and had a daughter in her early 30s. “She’s really smart,” he said. “On the honor roll all through high school and graduated summa cum laude from college.”

And then he shared that he had been really smart in high school too. He graduated when he was just 16. I doubt that I ever knew that he was younger than the rest of us or that he got good grades.

He told me about living in LA for a time and how glad he was to be back in Milwaukee and that he had his own computer business now.

“I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me,” he said. “I’m 300 pounds.”

“People think I’m fat,” he said, “but I’m not.” And he put my hand on his rock hard python of a bicep.

“And the ‘fro I used to have,” he said while pointing to the pony tail that held his severely thinned hair together. “That was a perm! My mom had to give me a perm so that I could rock that ‘fro. Some of the white guys had better naturals than I did.”

When we exhausted our sparse shared memories, I politely excused myself and rejoined my friends at the table. I could feel his gaze on me and I was glad that I had paid attention to select a flattering outfit that night.

I stayed at the party longer than I intended, resisting the urge to ask him to dance the entire time.

I regret it.

(I wrote this back in 2012 when it happened. I post it today in honor of John whose memorial I attended today. RIP)

German Biker Hospitality

Posted on June 24, 2022 by Elaine Maly

We’re super jet lagged. We don’t speak German. We don’t know what’s going on and it is huge! Like Milwaukee’s Summeriest on acid—packed with people crammed into a dozen circus size beer tents with live bands.

In 1998, my husband Tom and I became empty nesters and we wanted to do something spectacular before one of them moved back. So we booked a trip to Europe. First stop: Octoberfest in Munich!

We make our way to the Spaten tent. There’s a band blaring/screaming, “Alice, Alice, who the f… is Alice:” Young women wearing dirndls are slinging giant glass mugs of beer around. We’re so overwhelmed we don’t know what to do. We finally realize that you can’t just walk up to a bar and get a beer. You actually have to be seated at a table because they don’t want patrons walking around with these giant glass liter mugs of beer. But all of the tables are reserved and the couple of tables that aren’t are packed with people.

I don’t know what to do but Tom says, “Don’t worry. I got this baby.” Oh, okay. He makes a bee line over to a table where there are a couple of seats open but it says reserved. No, no, no I object.. “I got this,” he says.

“Hi, we’re from Milwaukee,” Tom says to the guy at the table who appears to be a biker. Tom happens to be wearing a Harley anniversary t-shirt. We’ve never missed a Harley anniversary event. But this is probably the part where I should tell you that while I come from a long line of motorcycle enthusiasts—a couple of cousins work at Harley, my dad has one, my brother has one, my son has one, my brother-in-law has one, and my uncle has one—Tom and I do not.

Tom gestures toward the empty seats at the table and asks in English if we could sit down with them for just one beer and then we’ll leave. The biker pulls out two chairs as an invitation. We can’t really talk to them and but we do our best, We introduce ourselves, The guy who appears to be the boss tells us that his name is Mike. He tells us that they are from Stuttgart. His girlfriend tells me her name is Peggy. At least that’s what I thought she said, I say, “Peggy, like from Margaret?” Mike snorts and says “No, Piggy. Like schwine,” More snorting and everyone laughs.

After we down a mug of beer, Mike and the gang decide that maybe we could stay longer since their other friends haven’t shown up. We’re all singing loud and off key, “Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!” Half way into my second mug, I really need to pee. But the whole restroom situation in Germany is new to me. I discover that you have to pay to get in. You have to put a coin in a slot. Since we just got here, we don’t have any German money. We’ve been paying for beer with a credit card. I go back to the table and ask the women to help me out with this restroom thing. I squeeze my legs together and gesture to get my point across. They grab me up and sweep me into this women’s room where they are delighted to drop their pants to show me their tattoos. Piggy has a bird of paradise all the way up her leg. They want to see mine. I don’t have any! I’m afraid that not having any tattoos to show off will be a sure sign that Tom and I are faking the whole biker thing but they just think I’m shy.

We have a fun long afternoon/evening with Mike and Piggy and the rest of the crew. As we’re getting ready to depart, my Tom says, “You should come to our house for Harley’s 100th anniversary.” I smile but cringe inside. We are so very grateful that they let us hang out with them but having them visit would most definitely expose us as posers. Tom writes our address on a piece of paper and hands it over to Mike.

We miraculously find our hotel room in spite of the horrible condition we’re in when we leave Octoberfest. The rest of our trip was great.

That was 1998. 2003 rolls around and we remember Mike and Piggy fondly but we’re also relieved that we haven’t heard from them. We had moved in 2001. A week before the Harley Anniversary, we receive a letter forwarded from our old house from Mike that was postmarked over a month before. The letter began with “Excuse me, my English isn’t so good.” He must have worked really hard to write this letter. He reminded us of our invitation. But we are so embarrassed by our charade. It was too late anyway. By the time Mike would have received our reply, the big Harley event would have been over. So the letter went in the fire place and we pretended we never got it. Yet, Tom and I both regret not being able to return the favor of hospitality.

We went to the Harley anniversary event wearing Harley t-shirts of course. A friendly gnarly looking guy standing next to Tom in the crowd asked what kind of bike we owned. Tom said, “Schwin!” He shook his head in disgust and trudged off.

Forgiveness

Posted on June 4, 2022 by Elaine Maly

I had to go there anyway for a meeting. And I knew she was there. On the drive over, I thought about how ridiculous it was for me to still be angry about things that happened over 40 years ago. That maybe now was the time to let it go. To forgive her, my ex mother in law, for not believing me, for not taking my side, for abandoning me. After all, I’ve learned a lot since then and gained an understanding of the pain she had faced, of the environment that shaped her, of loyalty to sons.

I recognized her immediately sitting in a wheelchair alone in a hallway. The same frumpy hairdo and tent like dress. Diminished. Of course I had to tell her who I was for I had changed. My long gray locks and extra pounds camouflaging the young woman I had been. She said that she remembered that I had been married to her son briefly. She asked about my boys and grandsons. She told me how she had prayed to Jesus for one more year and that she worried about her son, my ex. And I understand her mother’s worry. She smiled and thanked me for coming to visit. “Say hello to Elaine” she said.

My Fierce Family

Posted on May 27, 2022May 27, 2022 by Elaine Maly

Bares its teeth and growls at any enemy

Those who threaten our happiness

An unfortunate event

Our own stupidity

We lash ourselves to the ship of family ties

That we have built with trials and tears

With determination and relentless commitment

Stormy seas may batter and whip us

But we are strong enough to weather any calamity

Because our ship is made of mass timber

We are defiance rooted in love

Eric

Posted on April 24, 2022April 24, 2022 by Elaine Maly

I was the best marketing director the Boys & Girls Clubs ever had. I had bill boards all over town. We had positive stories about the accomplishments of our kids and I’d gotten great media coverage when we opened a new branch. I’d received multiple awards from the Boys & Girls Clubs of America for my work.

In 1991, I got a call from one of the major networks. Aha! I thought. That’s how good I am. Now they’re calling me. They told me that they were working on a documentary on education in America and wanted to talk to some teens about their experiences. They specified that they didn’t want any of the honor roll type kids. No youth of the year. Just average kids. They further specified that they wanted to do brief phone interviews with them without me in the room.

That should have been a red flag but I was so delirious with my own power that I agreed. And no one at the Clubs questioned me. They trusted me.

So, I lined up about six kids but the producers of the show told me that none of them were going to work out. I told them that the only kid I had left who would be willing to talk with them was Eric, our youth of the year. He was also president of his senior class at North Division High School.

Eric was a gregarious kid and a great spokesperson for the Clubs. He loved the media attention and always showed up for an interview well dressed with a fresh fade hair cut. I could rely on him to testify to the importance of the role the Boys & Girls Clubs played in his central city neighborhood. He became kind of our own local celebrity.

I didn’t hear anything more about it until Eric called to confide in me that he had been asked to carry a hidden camera in his back pack at North Division High School. Now I was worried. This felt like trouble. Trying to keep my panic at bay, I tried to caution him but he was excited to do it. Eric insisted that he needed to do this because otherwise it would always just be his or any student’s word against a teacher’s word. He wanted to make a difference. He didn’t need anyone’s permission. He was 18 years old.

I called the producers. Left a message. Then called again every hour of the day. They clearly stopped talking to me.

A few months later, the footage Eric collected was featured on Expose’. It showed things like a teacher sitting at the front of the class while kids played dice in the back. Not the kind of documentary I thought it would be. And it wasn’t just Expose’. The story was national news.

The shit hit the fan. The school superintendent was calling the head of the boys & girls club. My colleagues at the branch where Eric was a member made sure that I knew about the pain and suffering this was causing his family.

I almost lost my job. To this day, I don’t understand why I didn’t. I was responsible and I didn’t tell anyone what was happening. My own arrogance at the time astounds me now.

The producers said that they wanted to see what kids see. I get that. It’s valid. We need to let the people who are impacted speak. Tell their truth. Powerful stories can lead to change. But all that this story did was cost some teachers their jobs and make Eric and his family the target of the backlash in their own community. His younger sister had to change schools. She wasn’t safe at North Division High School. Eric moved out of state to go to college. The staff at the Club branch where Eric had been a member no longer welcomed me.

The media didn’t care what happened to Eric after Expose. He struggled for several years with mental health issues. On a visit home he sought me out. He wanted to make sure that I knew he was okay. It meant the world to me to know that in spite of the trauma, he had finished college and was successfully climbing the career ladder in the insurance industry. He said that what happened wasn’t my fault and that he would do it again. He wanted to make a difference. And that he was still grateful to the Boys & Girls Clubs.

A few years later, he was dead. I was told that he was shot while protecting a woman from a man somewhere in Georgia. There was no news coverage of the event in Milwaukee. I learned about it from a colleague at the Clubs who had remained close to the family.

When I tried to google him to create this story, wanting to make sure I had my facts right, the only thing I could find was the news reports about Expose, his life reduced to this one story.

This is the hardest story I’ve ever told. It’s a story about the harm caused in the wake of doing good. I used Eric to proclaim the virtues of the Boys & Girls Clubs. The media used him to tell the story they wanted to tell. I question whether I honor him by telling his story or am I further exploiting him for my own benefit.

I went on to have a long career in nonprofit organizations and storytelling. I believe in giving a voice to the voiceless and that our stories of courage and resilience can inspire change and empathy. But I’ve learned that my first loyalty must always be to the human being. Not the story. Not the organization. Not the media. Not me.