To Dream the Impossible Dream

Posted on by Elaine Maly

Never ever had anyone suggested I was college material until I had to visit my high school guidance counselor after Christmas vacation my senior year to inform him that I had to graduate early because I was pregnant.  Even though I got really good grades, I had never met with the counselor before. So when he said, “Too bad, you could have gone to college,” I wanted to scream.  “Now you tell me!!!” 

My family never uttered a word about college either.  As a kid, my family would drive by the fairy tale like campus of Mount Mary on the way to grandma’s house.  On one occasion, I asked my dad if I could go there someday.  His reply was, “If you get a million dollars.”  College was only for rich kids and certainly not for girls like me.

Fast forward—I’m 22 years old, a single mom with a three year old and a baby on the way. My divorce pending.  When my welfare case worker quietly said, “Elaine, you seem pretty smart.  Have you thought about going to college?”  My jaw dropped to my knees.  

She gave me a card for the Equal Education Opportunity Center.  I called the next day and made an appointment.  With my rambunctious three year old Sam in tow and my protruding belly thrust out before me, I met with a friendly woman who didn’t bat an eye.  Yes, she said college was possible for me.  She would help me start the paper work for what was called a Pell Grant.  A fabulous federal financial aid program that provides money to undergraduate students with exceptional financial need.  I certainly fit the bill.  But I figured it was maybe just for things like CNA or secretarial training.  But I wanted more than that.  So I asked, “Could I go to Mount Mary?”  And the answer was yes.  I literally skipped back to my car. 

Still worried about the potential for crippling student loans, I considered my options.  I got a sitter and drove to UW Milwaukee for an information session. It was disastrous.  I couldn’t find a place to park.  I got lost looking for the right building.  I checked out the day care but it was so far from so many of the buildings on campus.  I got lost again trying to find my car.  This wasn’t for me.

I thought about capitalizing on the secretarial skills I had acquired in high school by going to MATC to become a legal secretary.  I called and they abruptly told me the program was full and they were not accepting any new applicants. 

Finally I made an appointment at Mount Mary. I pulled out of the gravel driveway of my apartment building in my shitty old Corvair full of expectation.  Just a few miles away, I coasted into the majestic tree lined driveway to the campus of grand arched buildings.  The heels of my discount pumps clicked on the marble floor.  I had dressed for the occasion in my fancy black maternity bell bottom pants and a sky blue pleated top in a ridiculous attempt to hide my belly.  Surprisingly I easily navigated my way to the correct office where I met with a middle aged nun in a full habit who seemed happy to see me and assured me that they had many “nontraditional students” on campus.  When I worried aloud that Mount Mary would be too expensive even with the Pell Grant, she assured me that there were many other private grants I was eligible for and that she would help me.  Then she gave me a tour.  The day care was just a room in the basement but it was lively and safe.  And I knew I could be with my children in a heart beat if needed. And perhaps most of all, I was lured by this sheltered space only for women.  No douche bags in sight to distract me from my goal.  

The next step was a career assessment and aptitude test which suggested a major in public relations.  When the nun explained what public relations meant, I didn’t have a clue, and showed me the course list—communications, journalism, management— I was sold.  

Ben was born on June 26, 1978. My divorce was final on August 22nd. Sam turned 4 on September 1st.  My first class at Mount Mary was on September 5th. 

Here are my favorite memories:

Early Days

On the first day of class, I hung out in the hall waiting for the bell to ring.  I thought it would be like high school.

In the first week, I commented to another student that I was surprised to see so many girls wearing slippers to school.  She informed me that they lived in the dorm.  “What’s a dorm?” I asked.  When she explained, I was flabbergasted.  “You can live here?”

In the second week, I almost died of embarrassment when my boob leaked leaving big round wet circles on my sweater. My classmates stared in horror.  I needed to get better at pumping.  

In the first month, I met Janiece.  A woman my age who was in some of my classes.  Her student job was working in the day care.  We got to know each other and soon we were having lunch together out on the lawn with Sam and Ben.  Janiece became a life long friend.    

Classes

In one of the first classes of a required philosophy course called Man’s Search for Meaning, the professor was trying to get us to think in philosophical terms.  He asked, “Why does the baby cry?”  I know all about this so I raised my hand.  “His diaper needs changing.”  No.  “He’s hungry.”  No.  “He needs to be held and comforted.”  “Yes, but why?” asked the professor.  Janiece raised her hand and said, “It’s the malevolence of the universe?”  “Yes, that’s right,” said the professor.  I was dumbfounded.  

In another class, I don’t recall what it was called but there was a section on child development.  Again, “I’ve got this,” I thought.  I’m living it.  So, I didn’t bother to read the text book or study for the test.  For questions like at what month does a baby first crawl, first walk, and say their first words, my answers were all at least a month earlier than the correct answer.  Apparently my kids are geniuses!

I got a D in tennis!  Evidently I never figured out how to score correctly or got all the rules straight.  And one time I actually tripped on my racket going out to the court.  Lowest grade I got.  It lowered my almost straight A grade point average considerably.  Dang. Maybe I could have been valedictorian. 

In another class, it might have been called TV Production, I produced a video of me doing a yoga class just like on PBS.  A+! But the most memorable event from this class was a field trip to the nearby medical college which allowed us to experience their professional TV equipment. “Look it’s a dick,” one student exclaimed as the rest of us rushed to look over her shoulder at the monitor. The medical college technician snickered.  Douche bags are evey where. Our chaperoning nun went into a tither and the class was abruptly ended.

Best of all, in my Interpersonal Communication class, we were required to start a personal journal.  I reread it now with tears in my eyes, grateful that I have this account of what was going on in my head and heart complete with the teacher’s encouraging comments in red ink.  Journaling became a life long practice.  

Sam and Benny

My boys loved going to “Mountain Mary”  as they called it with me.   

Sam was a curious kid.  He wanted to touch and smell everything.  He held dandelions up to his nose.  And he was super friendly.  Saying hello to everyone we passed.  So one day when he was four, as we were walking through the little tunnel that connected buildings on our way to day care, we crossed paths with a nun riding in a motorized wheel chair her veil flowing.  “Wait! Wait! Wait” shouted Sam.  The nun stopped to indulge him for a few minutes.  Sam felt the tires and walked around the wheel chair to inspect it.  “How does this work?”he asked the sister.  And she indulged his curiosity by showing him how the lever made it go forward and back. And then to my horror, she let him move it forward and back.  I had images of the poor elderly nun crashing into a concrete wall. Sam jerked the lever forward and back a little but nothing tragic happened.  I will never forget the kindness of that nun.  

At home one morning at our apartment, I practiced a presentation for a class, while toddler Benny sat in his high char slurping cereal.  Benny fell dead asleep his face in his bowl.  Back to the drawing board.  

We had a class field trip to the Milwaukee art museum.  Only problem was that children weren’t allowed to stay in the day care if you weren’t on campus.  But the kind nuns told me that I could just take little 18 month old Benny with me.  Sam was in kindergarten by that time.  So, great idea.  Just take my toddler along.  The other students helped me get Benny’s stroller on the bus and I held onto him tightly through the bumpy ride.  He enjoyed it immensely,  Laughing and babbling.  But when we got inside the museum, it was another story.  Perhaps overwhelmed by the malevolence of the universe inside of the cavernous galleries, he waled and screamed his head off.  He kept kicking off his shoes until I didn’t bother to replace them.  He was such a distraction that I had to take him into another room missing the majority of the tour.  On the return trip, Benny just sobbed in my arms.  As we departed the bus my classmates awkwardly clunking the stroller down the bus steps, a nun pulled me aside and said, “I’m so sorry.”  But all is forgiven.  I’ve had dozens more trips to the very same museum in my life.  None of them with Benny.  

And then there was the time that I went to pick Benny up from the daycare room and everyone was laughing when I got there.  Three kids including Benny were on the floor swirling some liquid around and having the time of their lives.  The two caregivers were hunched over in tears.  “What happened?” I asked.  Through snorts of laughter they explained that one of the kids knocked over their juice.  And when they went over to clean it up, another kid tipped over their juice.  She said, “And then Benny poured his juice on the floor and got down on the floor to join the fun!”  

By the way, I packed his snacks and labeled them so his little bottle said “Benny Juice,” which a newbie day care staff once wondered what Benny Juice was.  Don’t you know?  It gives you super powers!

Graduation Day

I graduated suma cum laude in 1982, just four years time with minimal student debt.  Dad didn’t attend.  He went fishing.  But my grandmothers, mother, and boys attended.  I was so proud of myself!  Later, my parents had a big surprise celebration for me in their yard.  Some of the nuns came!

In Summary

Attending Mount Mary was the pivotal decision of my life. I am thankful not just for the career my  Mount Mary education launched for me, but for the sense of self and the confidence found in the embrace of a circle of women.  

I regret that I don’t remember the names of my specific teachers except for Suzanne Walfoort who taught a communications class.  She was an amazing role model and someone I felt comfortable sharing my doubts and fears with.  (Years later I met her sister who happened to be married to a friend of my husband.)  I would like to thank all of my professors as well as all of the nuns in financial aid and administration for their kindness and unwavering support

I am also overjoyed by Mount Mary’s accomplishments. When I was Executive Director of the Women’s Fund, with our support they started the Women’s Leadership Institute which continues to flourish.  More recently, I was able to tour their incredible new facilities—a retirement community for nuns and older adults next to a dorm where women can live with their children complete with a shiny new day care!  Yes, you can live at school!

When I gaze upon the surviving blurry photos from that time I feel that sense of immense joy all over again.  It wasn’t easy.  I worked really hard.  But I really did achieve the impossible dream on that fairy tale campus .  I had the “courage to reach the unreachable star.”

This is my life?

Posted on by Elaine Maly

I had a flash back the other day.  I was remembering how it felt to suddenly become an adult.  At 17 I was living at home with my parents, going to school, working an easy part time clerical job, and doing a few jobs around the house like peeling potatoes and keeping my room clean.

And then at barely 18, I was married, caring for a new born, and living in an apartment. It was like whiplash.  I had a tiny human to care for who pooped in his pants and puked.  There was endless laundry, meals to prepare, and bills to pay.   My new almost 19 year old husband was as clueless as I was. He mostly stayed away. I made daily calls to my mom.  How do I change a diaper?  How do you make a meat loaf?  How do you clean the bathroom.  How do I write a check? 

One evening, while cleaning up after dinner I just had this overwhelming sense of despair.  I am going to have to do this everyday for the rest of my life!  How do women do this?  The only thing that consoled me was the thought that at least no one tells me how many cookies I can have.  

I had that same feeling today while doing the dishes.  I’ve been a grown up for over 50 years and I’m kind of sick of it.  Is there no end to this?

And then I glanced at a painting in my kitchen the artist called, “Que? (What?).”  I acquired it years ago.  And yes, this is my life.  Yes, adulting has it’s advantages.  I have traveled far and wide, I’ve had a career that I’m proud of.  I have grand kids that bring me great joy.  And I eat as many cookies as a I want. But the maintenance part of being an adult still kind of sucks. 

The artist is Jessica Kritzer.

High School

Posted on 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 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 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.  

Eric

Posted on 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.  

Utopia

Posted on by Elaine Maly

In August of 1996 a group of friends invited me to attend the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival.  I’d heard them talk about it the year before and it sounded fabulous.  The idea of taking a 4 day break from the patriarchy was very appealing.  However, my husband, feeling a little insecure about me trapsing into the woods of Michigan with lesbian friends, asked for three promises—no nudity, no tattoos, and no sex with women.  “Why go?” I joked.  

It took me all but 30 minutes after setting up camp to relax into it.  It didn’t even seem weird to see a woman wearing a fancy garter belt contraption and stiletto heels high stepping through the woods.  Or to see a parade of semi clad red heads.  Or to see bare chested women with scars from mastectomies.   Everything was okay.  It was like girl scout camp only way better. 

The music was awesome.  I was introduced to bands like Dar Williams whose “When I Was a Boy” song brought me to tears; Tribe 8 who pretended to separate men from their penises with a chain saw;  and 7 Year  Bitch introduced me to the Riot Grrrl scene.   But my absolute favorite was the Murmurs, the lead singer tearing up as she sang about domestic violence in  “Sleepless Commotion.”  It was all so wild and yet gentle.  I saw a 70 year old woman float like an angel above the hands of the crowd in the mosh pit.  Her long gray hair draping down as she held her cane on her chest.  

And OMG the percussionist Ubaka Hill!  It felt like her drumming had summoned these tribes of women from around the world.  I danced with the masses like a cave woman wearing nothing but my blue skirt and body paint.  

There was respect for the land.  No beer cans and cigarette butts littering the woods.  There was cooperation.  Every attendee had to work at least three shifts.  You could be part of a stage crew, you could chop and stack fire wood, or work in the kitchen tent.  I chopped 250 pounds of cabbage and shucked corn into a kiddy pool with five women from around the world,.  

Everyone was cared for.  There was ASL at every stage.  There were quiet zones and rowdy zones. There were AA groups and NA groups.  For the first time in my life, I was in the minority as a heterosexual.  And there was a support group for that.  

For me, the festival was hyper stimulation paired with profound relaxation and spirituality.  But the overwhelming feeling was one of incredible safety.  It felt like a long luxurious exhale.  

I kept two of my promises to my husband.  I didn’t get a tattoo or have sex.  I attended the event for two more years.  

Wikipedia says that “Michfest” or some version of it spanned from 1976 to 2015—almost 40 years.  There were more than 5,000 women there each of the three years I attended on “the land” in Oceana County. There were years when 10,000 women attended.  There’s a lot of speculation about why it ended.  It might have had to do with the controversy of including trans women.  So even this utopia was flawed.  But maybe we can never achieve Utopia if we exclude anyone. Even people with penises.  Except people who are assholes.  Maybe exclude them.  

(I recently told this story at an Ex Fabula story slam. The theme was Utopia. I didn’t think I had a story and then I remembered my precious days at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. Ex Fabula is Milwaukee’s local story telling group.)

Update: And now you can hear my story as told on the Ex Fabula stage on Riverwest Radio. https://www.riverwestradio.com/episode/ex-fabula-0068-eutopia-stories-part-2/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michigan_Womyn%27s_Music_Festival

Not Lost

Posted on by Elaine Maly

“Let’s review,” I’d say. And grandma would say, “My husband is still alive and we have three children.  You gave me the picture on the wall. It belongs to me and not anyone else.” Every visit with Grandma at her assisted living community concluded with my correcting her revised life story and calming her fear that someone was angry that she’d stolen that cheap print of a sunset.  She’d lower her gaze in shame. I would cry on my way out the door. She had been my pal as a child. We shared a love of books and she encouraged me to write. Later, through the trials and tribulations of my teens and young adulthood, I could always depend on her sympathetic ear.  And now I felt like I lost her.

But it wasn’t true.  Keys, hats, and umbrellas get lost.  You might get lost in the woods, in an unfamiliar city, or lost in thought.  You might lose your hearing, your patience, or your sense of humor. People with memory loss aren’t lost.  They are who they always were.

If only I knew then what I know now.  I’ve learned that it’s on the play field of imagination where we find our loved ones.  All of the parts re-emerge—the mischievous child, the caring grandparent, the fun-loving friend.  We only need to put aside our own inhibitions and join them.

As a TimeSlips facilitator, I look forward to jumping into that play field of imagination with reckless abandon  At an adult day center, we talked about the tooth fairy and how she comes to collect baby teeth from under a child’s pillow. “That’s not what happens,” said Alice. “When you lose a tooth, the tooth fairy comes to get it and brings it to someone who really needs it.”  

I feel like the fairy.  I get to bring something that many thought was lost to people who really need it.  My heart is full of joy.

But it’s harder with people we know.  There’s a shared past and an established pattern of communication.  Before Grandma’s dementia, our conversations were about family history, the progression of my career and the antics of my children.  

My husband’s friend, Carmen, has early onset Alzheimers. Tom has lunch with her most Tuesdays.  They’ve known each other since they were teens, so their conversation typically migrates to the exploits of their youth.  Carmen increasingly fakes it. She stares off into space and says, “Oh sure, I remember that.” And Tom feels embarrassed for her.  But the day Tom brought her home and they discovered a dead raccoon in her backyard, everything changed. They called him Clarence and talked about how he might have ended up there.  He had a wife and a dozen children. Clarence was out getting some time for himself when he came upon his arch nemesis, a wild coyote named Silver. Silver bit him in the neck and Clarence climbed the fence into Carmen’s yard to try to escape. “His wife is really going to miss him.  How on earth will she support all of those children without him?” They laughed and laughed and the light in Carmen’s eyes shone bright.

I wish I could do my time with Grandma over again.  I wish that I had been able to make the shift either grilling her about her health or reminiscing to imagination.  I wish that when she told me that she was a widow and had seven children, I would have asked her to tell me about her deceased husband and their lives together.  I should have conspired with her to remove that print on the wall that worried her so and restore it to it’s sacred place at the Guggenheim museum. We could have created a story that would have delighted us both and strengthened our bond.  We would have been pals again.

(You can learn more about TimeSlips and making meaningful connections through imagination at timeslips.org)

 

 

 

What Could Go Wrong?

Posted on by Elaine Maly

It was Labor Day weekend, the last weekend in a summer full of outdoor adventures with my grandsons.  Twelve-year-old Noah and I headed up north to go white water rafting.  It was my idea.  I’d gone rafting dozens of times.  Who cares that the last time was almost 30 years ago?  What could go wrong?

We arrive at the meet-up spot near Pembine.  Our guide, Derek, fits us with life jackets and helmets.  Along with the other 6 rafters, two women and four men, we board the bus with our driver Bill who takes us to the launch spot on the Menomonie River.  We rafters chat a bit on the bus and I learn that only two of them had ever been rafting before and it was a long time ago.

The first section of the trip is just flat water and Derek uses the time to review the safety instructions and practice paddling in unison.  We all listen carefully.

The next section is class 2 rapids which I now know means “some rough water and rocks, some maneuvering.”  Only a basic skill level required.  Yahoo!  We got wet.  Everyone was laughing.  We give a high five salute with our paddles.

The next section is class 4 rapids which I now know are waves, rocks, sharp maneuvers, a considerable drop; “exceptional” skill level required.

Off we go.  Derek is calling out paddling instructions.  But the people paddling on the left are paddling way harder than the people on the right and we smash straight into a giant face of rock.  The force bounces us into a ricochet which catapults me into a backward summersault out of the raft.

My helmet pops off and I’m trapped underneath the raft.  “Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.”  Oh dear, this is bad.  I was really, really scared.  After a death defying amount of time, the raft and I drift  apart.  But now I’m going down the “considerable drop” all by myself.  Whitewater crashes over my face.  It feels like what I imagine waterboarding would feel like.  I thought I was going to drown.

Noah is screaming, “Grandma!  Grandma! Grandma!”  When you are over 60, you think about death now and then and you think, yeah, I’ve had a good life.  I’m okay with death.  But not today!  Not fucking today!  Not like this.  This would really suck for Noah.  I can’t have Noah’s last memory of me be this!

Derek is shouting “nose up, toes up” at me. He’s yelling at the rafters to paddle hard and they finally get close to me.  Derek reaches over and grabs me by the shoulders of my life jacket.  “One, two, three,” and he hauls me into the back of the raft. The bottom of my suit falls down to my knees. I’m face down, bare ass up.  As I wriggle around to pull my suit up and find a more comfortable postion, Derek says, “Sorry ma’am.”

We get through the rest of the rapids and glide to the river bank.  No one is laughing.  “Grandma, are you okay?” says a wide-eyed Noah.  I say, “I’m fine,” even though my heart is pounding out of my chest and my hands are shaking.  Derek is wild-eyed and wants to know if I hit my head anywhere.

We hike a little way to rendezvous with the bus driver.  Bill greets us with. “Wait until you see the video!  Some of you are really going to want a copy.”

Video?  What video?  I forgot about the video.  Bill had been perched above the falls recording.

I rationalize it away.   How close could he possibly have been?  Plus, the mishap was in the back of the boat.  Only Derek saw it.  I tell Noah about it just in case and he thinks it’s funny but he’s not concerned.  “They would probably fuzz it out anyway,” he says.

Back at the meet-up spot, everyone gathers around a small flat screen to view our exciting journey.  Sure enough, there it is.  My big white ass for the whole world to see.  Noah nods his head and says, “Oh Grandma.”

The two other women in the group realize how awkward this is and yank the men away.  I threaten to stalk anyone who buys the video.  Noah consoles me, “It’s okay Grandma.  It’s not that bad.  Everyone has a butt.”

I give Noah a big hug.  I’m so very grateful that our memory of this trip will be this really funny embarrassing thing that happened and not something horrible.  He tells me that rafting was the most fun he had all summer.

(The live recorded version of this piece aired on WUWM on 1/6/17.  http://wuwm.com/post/ex-fabula-adventures-children)

 

Our Anniversary

Posted on by Elaine Maly

Tom and I were married in 1989.  On the eve of our wedding a friend asked him how he felt about getting an instant family.  My boys were 11 and 15 years old.  He replied that it was going to be great.  “The hard part of raising kids is already over.”  He figured they were practically grown.  And the boys loved him.  They even invited him for a sleep over.  “Mom has a really big bed.”  They told me that they liked the idea of having a man around the house full time.  At least that’s what they said.  A few short weeks after our brief honeymoon, we discovered just how difficult becoming a family was going to be.

They turned on him.  They complained about everything and the “You’re not my dad” line was practically on an hourly rotation.  Ben, the 11 year old, took me aside and said that he didn’t think it was working out.  “Why?” I wondered.  “I don’t like the way he makes eggs,” was the only thing he could come up with.   Sam, the 15 year old, just stayed out of the house as much as possible mostly at the local skate park.

And Tom, who was the only child in his family, was not used to having competition.  He was cranky.  About noise, especially boy noise early in the morning.  The sound of them slurping cereal made him insane.  And he didn’t like sharing special snacks.  Or having to compromise on the TV schedule.  I was constantly negotiating the tsunami of two pubescent boys with the thunder clouds of a spoiled child .  It was ugly.

And it got worse.  Sam would disappear for whole weekends at a time on vague skateboarding missions without adult supervision.  When Ben got to high school he became a chronic truant and found a new hobby spray painting everything in the neighborhood.   Tom suffered through a bought of depression.  I spent countless months on projects I invented in the basement and went to counseling.  We even took separate vacations.  And in the mean time, we managed growing responsibilities at work.  Our marriage was being tested everyday.

Little by little things started to sort themselves out.  Sam turned 18 and cashed in all of the savings bonds his grandparents had given him and went off to travel the world as a professional skateboarder.  Four years later, Ben started his carpentry apprenticeship and moved out of the house.  Excited empty nesters, we booked a romantic budget trip to Europe!

And then in year 10 of our marriage a letter arrived by certified mail.  It was from the Catholic Archdiocese of Milwaukee.  It said, “We regret to inform you that while you are married in the eyes of god, your paperwork was never properly filed with the State of Wisconsin.”  It went on to explain that we had a year to file a special form called a “delayed certification of marriage.”

Stunned, Tom made us a drink and we reread the letter together a dozen times.  What did it mean?  Was it a “get out of jail free” card?  How strong was our commitment to one another?  How would we feel if the letter had arrived a few years earlier, in the midst of the firestorm that was our family life?  Since there was no urgency and we were busy with work, we decided to just think on it for a few weeks.

And then the Journal Sentinel came out with an article.  It said  that during a period from roughly 1988 to 1990, the church where we were married failed to complete the necessary legal paperwork.  The reporter discovered that the issue was uncovered when a woman who had also been married during that period, applied for a passport in her married name.  When the government informed her there was no person with that name matching that social security number, the shit hit the fan.

I didn’t change my  name so it never came up when I got my passport for our trip to Europe.  But we’d been filing joint tax returns the whole time.  This was difficult to understand.

The article also cautioned people affected by this mishandling of really fucking important paperwork, that it was not a “get out of jail free card.”  Looks like a marriage, smells like a marriage.  The untangling of any union would require time in court.

Tom made us a drink and we discussed our course of action.  Together we decided that the letter was really a gift.  That we could take our time, the whole year allotted to us, to think about the years that we had survived, our lives as they were now, and the kind of relationship we wanted going forward.  We established a weekly date night.  We found new interests in common like visiting art museums.  We rekindled our friendship and passion.  We went on vacation with my adult sons, mended fences, laughed about the years that we had survived together, and truly reconnected.

Weeks and months went by and soon we were coming close to the deadline.  With five days to spare and the signatures of two witnesses who attended our wedding, we filed that delayed certification of marriage form.  We finally became the family we wanted.  The rest will be easy.

This month Tom and I celebrate our 28th anniversary.  Or maybe it’s technically only 18.