Oh, happy day!

Lest I turn my blog into a hotbed of angst, I will thus post something happy.

Let's talk about my husband. It is true, I am lucky to be married to my best friend (insert "awww" here.) I've known him now for more than 1/2 my life. We met when I was 16, and I am now older than 32 years of age - by more than a smidge. I liked him from the get-go because firstly, he was pretty easy on the eyes. Secondly, he was pretty easy going and laid back. Thirdly, he had a pretty wicked sense of humor. Sure, there's a lot of pretty going on. He's pretty fantastic.

We met in high school drama and on the first day of class my Senior year. He was one of the "new kids" that came to South Mountain High School via the Magnet Program. Yes, I went to a school where they had to import white people. He was an import - and a pretty cute one at that.

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Then we went to Las Vegas 10 years later and got married. Did I mention it snowed in Vegas that day? Oh, well...blog, blog, blog...we've been married for 15 years now.

I'm really not very good at this. Can you tell? Yes, I may have missed a detail or two. Oh yeah, we live on Sesame Street. Seriously.

India Fea

This is one of my "nicknames" from my youth. It means "ugly Indian" and it was a term of endearment (?) from my mom. I had crazy curly hair growing up and it was difficult to manage because not only was it crazy and curly, I also have A LOT of it. For the most part my hair was kept in braids - sometimes one, sometimes two...but always braids. They were to keep my hair tamed. Every now and again I would like to leave my hair down and loose, but it was never a good thing. It would end up tangled and a mess. When my mom would see it down, she'd call me "India Fea." This would shame me into putting it back in braids or at least ponytails.

I actually was terrible at doing my own hair for most of my life. My grandma would help me braid my hair every morning. She would brush it and part it perfectly down the middle for two braids or just pull it all back into one perfectly smooth braid. It was a comforting ritual every single morning. The braids however, hurt my head. Eventually (6th grade) I cut my hair short, but that only made things worse. I had no idea how to do my hair, nor did anyone else. The days of being able to pull my hair back into two plaits were over and now...it was thick, curly, unruly hair gone wild.

I have learned to surrender to my hair after all these years. It's still unruly, but I've learned how to tame it. The funny thing is that my husband actually LIKES my wavy and carefree hair. I've spent so much of my life apologizing for it that it's hard for me to truly embrace it - or believe that it's something to like, rather than endure.

Blog, Blog, Blog...there's gotta be a better word.

Well, here is my blog. I don't quite have the hubris to believe that I have anything worth writing; yet, here I write. Mostly I am struck by ideas and memories that occur out of nowhere and find that I should put them someplace. I guess this is someplace.

What an interesting twist that I am beginning my Blog by contemplating end of life. Not mine, mind you. Well, not entirely. I have a family member whose stepfather is going into hospice today and earlier today I purchased books at a yard sale that have such sentimental value to me, that I am at a loss for words. The books (Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin) were introduced to me in the summer of 1986 by my high-school teacher and mentor, Jim Hayden. Mr. Hayden (aka Jim) died seven months ago and I still find myself stopped in my tracks by his death. Jim [excuse me while I flip back & forth with Jim and Mr. Hayden - it took me YEARS to learn to call him Jim!] was a prolific reader and wrote in his journal every day. He left behind a legacy of living life in a positive light and a partner of 45 years, Fred.

In a way, my story and my life begins with Jim Hayden. It was through Jim's eyes that I was able to see myself in a different way. I was 14 and had lived my life in as quiet and small a way as I could possibly manage. (We'll get to that later) It's hard to describe, but he spoke to me and not at me. Even in my ego-centric teenaged mind I could see that he had a measure of respect for his students, even when we did not always give him the same respect right away. In fact, Jim LOVED to re-tell me the story of my first year in his class, when I got incredulous over the fact that he insisted that I not read my Teen Beat magazine while he was trying to conduct class. I begrudgingly put my magazine away and deigned to listen to his lecture on "who knows what."

To give you a clear picture, the high school that I went to was on the "south side." I would call it the "inner city" but in Phoenix, it's more like the outer city. It's frankly the poor side of town with a high minority population. Mr. Hayden was a gay, white male who was about 5'8" and 160 lbs. soaking wet. Well, Mr. Hayden unbeknownst to him, became my guru. Through my years in high school Jim became my sounding board. I bounced my thoughts and ideas off of him and he gave me his sage advice. What I didn't know back then was that he'd already lived his life as an "outsider." He knew both the strength that it took to be who you were, and the dividends that it pays to know that above all else.

It wasn't until Jim's passing that Fred shared with me Jim's "coming out" letter to his sister. The letter was very frank and took a strength that I am both in awe and inspired by. It is through this letter that I can so clearly see how Jim was able to pull me into my own. All those years ago when I first met him I was a scared and troubled girl and I shared my darkest secrets with him. He did not shirk away or even bat an eye. My acceptance by him wasn't a special invitation, it was just pure and simple acceptance. It was very "Mr. Miagi." However, at that age and time I felt like a complete outsider and an impostor, and his acceptance was everything. This was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship; the loss of which can still bring me to my knees.