Enchantē

I went to a conference in Dallas a few weeks ago. It was held at the Intercontinental Hotel, which is OK as far as upscale hotels go.

Standing outside having a cigarette (yes I know it's a nasty habit and yes I'm going to quit again but right now that isn't important!), another woman from the conference was out there with me. Nobody I knew, one of the vendors. She was from Boston.

A man approached us, an older gentleman. He had a nametag on, I think his name was Rene, definitely French. He must have been about 65 or 70 but he was quite attractive for a man his age, wearing a suit, and he also had a button on his lapel that said "Travel is Good!". He introduced himself to us and started talking. He worked for the hotel chain and his specific job was to travel around the world to all of their hotels, and encourage businesspeople to travel instead of having virtual meetings. Nice French accent, which I love. He was quite charming, I thought, and even though he was pitching us his hotel's travel philosophy I was happy to talk with him.

What was funny was the completely different reaction this other woman had to him. She didn't think he was charming; she was looking at him kind of like he crawled out from under a rock. Like he was ruining her day. It wasn't like he accosted us, we weren't even engaged in conversation with each other when he approached us. He was so friendly and so delightfully French, I was just enjoying listening to him talk, but she was clearly NOT enjoying him at all. She finally, and not very gracefully, said she had to get back inside and left. I thought she was pretty rude and was glad to see her leave.

We stood outside talking for probably ten more minutes, I found him utterly engaging and very interesting. He told me a joke, I can't remember what it was but he made me laugh. I finally had to get back to the conference sessions so I took my leave of him, and as I said goodbye he made sure to tell me that he'd be in the hotel for the next few days and he hoped to see me again. I didn't run into him again while I was there, though it would have been nice to have a drink with him and talk some more, he was so friendly.

Enchantē, Rene. Travel is good!

8 Years Ago Today

Eight years ago today, I was stepping out of my Manhattan hotel room into a picture perfect morning. Walking to catch the subway and thinking about how much I love New York City. For this city girl, NYC is the ultimate and I was loving every minute I had left there.

Eight years ago today, I sat on the subway on my way to my new job's offices a few blocks away from the World Trade Center. The train stopped, the doors didn't open, and then...it sat there. Grumbling from the New Yorkers, what the hell is the problem, we gotta get MOVING here! The conductor's voice comes through the speakers and says we're not letting anyone off or on at this stop, there's been a bomb threat. The train will continue on to it's last stop, the Wall Street Station, and let everyone off there.

Adrenaline rushes through me, that "fight or flight" instinct that says "Get the hell out of here" but you can't go anywhere because you're on a locked train underground. Then I see that the New Yorkers around me are so unimpressed, I hear mutterings, "A bomb threat, what else is new?", so jaded and unconcerned and so I calm myself. Breathe. Try to relax.

Eight years ago today, I emerged from the subway at the Wall Street Station stop. We could smell the fire before we got up to the street, and as we came out of the subway, a snowfall of paper fluttering down from the sky. Looking up we can see that one of the towers of the WTC is on fire, a gaping hole pouring smoke and billowing paper out into the sky. My heart clenches as I realize that there are people up there who went off to work just like I did this morning, marveling at the perfect day; they got to work, talked to their coworkers on the way to their desks, got some coffee, sat down at their desks...and now they're dead. I can't stop watching the burning tower. At this point it appears to be a tragic accident, and there's lots of speculation about what it could be since we can't even see that there's a plane lodged in the building.

I start walking toward where my company's offices are, though I'm a little lost because I'm not sure which way Broadway is. By the time I get there, the second plane has hit and suddenly people are running past me on the street, away from the World Trade Center, there is panic because now it hits us...we are under attack. From where I am on Broadway I can't see the WTC, too many skyscrapers between us, but it is right there a couple of blocks away. My mind went blank after that second plane and the ensuing panic...I had no idea what to do. Instinctively, I knew that what I wouldn't do was go into any tall building. So I stood out in front of the building that my company's offices were in. Stood there, not knowing what to do, overwhelmed by the feeling of panic and shock that was palpable because we ALL felt it. Collective despair. I hope to never feel that again in my entire life.

I stood there, trying to call my boss up on the 14th floor of the building from my now useless cell phone. No phones, no transportation, no idea what was going to happen next. I wanted to tell him I was ok, I was outside, I couldn't come in because...well, because planes were hitting tall buildings and I just couldn't. Couldn't get into the elevator and endure the ride up 14 floors, put myself willingly into a skyscraper that was, as they all were in our minds, a target.

There was a front entrance and a back entrance to the building. I walked through the building from the front entrance and out the back entrance, and dear God please help us, there were the twin towers. There were people jumping, unbearable to watch as people chose certain death over what was happening up there. I turned my back and wept, I felt it was disrespectful to watch them falling, a voyeur...but it was also too much for me to handle.

I'm not a New Yorker, I was supposed to fly back home that day. I knew nobody except the coworkers I'd met just the day before when I arrived, I had just started this job and was there for some training. As I stood there, I saw one of those coworkers I'd just met come outside, she was going for coffee. So surreal to me...how can people go for coffee? She saw me, asked me what I was doing down there, urged me to come inside with her. I said no, I'm fine, please just tell Dave I'm fine and I'm going to go to the airport and go home, I can't come upstairs. Reason was not with me, there was no way to get anywhere. She finally was able to convince me that I would be safer upstairs, got me into that elevator. Thank you, Jasmine...for all the horror of that day, you saved me from being trapped on the street when the North tower fell not five minutes later.

Upstairs on the 14th floor, I am floored by the fact that everyone is working as if it's just another day. I am not a person who falls apart, but I sat down in my boss's office and lost it for a minute. Didn't they know what was going on? But you couldn't see, from inside the office because of all the buildings and being only on the 14th floor, the WTC. There were no TVs in the office. And New Yorkers are tough, the WTC had been bombed before and life went on. You don't stop what you're doing just because the WTC is on fire. But it kind of broke me, coming from downstairs to see the "life goes on" scene being played out.

My boss left me alone to gather my composure, you know men don't know what the hell to do when women cry. I sat there, and suddenly I felt and heard this rumble. For a second I thought it was the building air conditioning kicking on, but then it got louder and stronger and louder and stronger...indescribable. The entire office panicked, people jumped up from their desks. I ran out of my boss's office, I am sure I yelled something, I kept going out the door to where the elevators were. The entire time, the rumbling and shaking is going on and on and on, and we don't know what it is. We just know we have to get out of there. People start pressing the elevator buttons and I yelled at them not to go in the elevator, opened the stairwell door and started down. Fast. Everyone followed me. I don't think it took us five minutes to get down those 14 flights of stairs.

In the lobby. It's plate glass, doors and walls, and it may as well have been midnight because outside it is black. Black, thick, choking smoke and dust, what is it? What happened? Building security locked the doors, front and back, and all I could think was how can they do that, how will people get in, there are people on the street, HOW CAN YOU LOCK THEM OUT?!? And lock us in, too...because that smoke and dust was pouring into the lobby through the cracks and I thought, the bomb didn't get us but we're all going to suffocate in this goddamn lobby. I remember seeing one of the guys from the office, a coworker...a big black guy who to me at that moment represented some sense of security, how we fool ourselves. But he reminded in some small way of my husband, my new husband, we'd been married three months by then...and I wanted to lay my head on his chest and wail. I think I asked him what we were going to do and he said "It's going to be ok". And you know that it's really not but hearing the words helps somehow, helps me calm myself. Because this isn't the time to be falling apart and weeping and wailing.

We just waited, it must have been about ten minutes. Suddenly a guy from building security told us that the building was being evacuated, we would have to leave, go out the back door. From fearing death by suffocation in that lobby to being told we have to go out there...go where? It's faded from pitch black to gray outside, you still can't see, and they are herding us out the back door. Surrounded by people, I have never felt so alone in my entire life.

I stepped out into the aftermath of a 100 story building collapse, it looked like nuclear winter. Dust hung in the air, debris thick on the ground. I was wearing contacts and I knew immediately that within a minute or so I wouldn't be able to see, so I flicked them out of my eyes as I walked. I had one of those small packages of Kleenex in my purse, I put one over my nose and mouth because you could feel that dust every time you took a breath going into your nose, your mouth, your lungs. Saw other people walking without anything to cover and gave them Kleenex. We didn't talk, what was there to say? Just walk, get away from here, and the police and firefighters on the street to tell us where to go because it was like walking in a thick, thick fog, you couldn't see. I wish that I'd hugged one of them, said thank you, but we were too traumatized to do anything but go in the direction they told us to go. They were so brave that day. They are our true heroes.

As we get further from the WTC, the air begins to clear. We are walking and I'm looking up at the skyscrapers on all sides of us and the fear is like a living thing. Any one of them could come tumbling down at any moment, blow up, there is no safety and we know it now. We get to the waterfront, where the fishmarkets are, and the fishmarket workers are holding out their hoses to us so we can get a drink of water, they want to help. A drink of water from a dirty hose has never tasted so good. We lock eyes, say nothing...nothing needs to be said.

We come to the bridges, people are streaming across the brigdes, a wave of humanity. I am terrified for them as they walk across because what if they blow up the bridges? I want to yell at them not to go that way but they live over there, it's the only way to get home. I follow them with my eyes instead, pray them safe though I doubt my prayers are heard.

I walk and walk and walk. I have a little map of Manhattan, I keep looking at it, asking people along the way if I'm heading in the right direction to get to the Empire State Building. My hotel is there and even though I'd checked out, I left my luggage. I was going to pick it up on my way to the airport after I went to the office. After a few hours of walking, I finally arrive at my hotel. I walk into the lobby and the manager says "We're closed, they're closing a five block radius around the Empire State Building". I am spent, I don't have the energy or will to go anywhere else, nor any idea where else to go. I tell him that I just walked from the WTC, that my luggage is here, and that unless he kicks me out, I'm sitting right here in the lobby. The hotel reopens within minutes; I go to the front desk and ask for my room back. The clerk says "The rooms haven't been cleaned yet", and I have no idea what to say to that. I said, please just give me back the same room I had, I don't care if it's clean. They do.

I close the door to my hotel room. I fall on my knees beside the bed, wailing. I call my husband, who I could see while I was walking kept trying to call me but I couldn't answer because phones didn't work, and he doesn't answer. I leave a rather hysterical message because I need to talk to him, I need to get home but there is no way to get off Manhattan. I turn on the TV and watch the mayor, I am numb. I am able to get online and contact my friend Julia, who lives in NJ, who'd brought me into the city Monday morning. I'd stayed the weekend with her. She was supposed to be at the WTC this morning but thank God she was not. She pours strength and love over the instant message screen to me, we make a plan for me to get back to NJ the next day.

I get to NJ. I finally give up waiting for the airports to reopen, rent a car, and drive back to Houston. I will save the aftermath for another post...thanks for reading if you're still here. Never forget.

Innocent Questions

There are certain questions I never ask people, out of a wish not to invoke pain. I never ask anyone when they're going to have kids, so many people struggle with infertility and anyway, what business is it of mine? I also never ask if people have kids...you don't know what someone else's circumstance might be. I just don't ask those kind of nosy questions, people volunteer information if they want you to know.

I went to get my hair done the other day. Going to the salon is always uncomfortable for me, I don't have a regular stylist since we've moved so much the last few years. I'm friendly and outgoing, can carry on a conversation with almost anyone. But once in a while, you get a hairstylist that you just don't connect with, and it makes the whole enterprise awkward. I like to be able to talk to the person who's putting their hands on my head. This is the reason I usually only get one haircut a year...at the point when I can no longer stand my long, shaggy hair and pick up the scissors myself.

The stylist was a very friendly woman that I'll call Mina. She was from Iran. I can always tell when people are from that part of the world, probably because my father's parents were from the Middle East, I'm half Middle Eastern, and I spent my childhood around people from there. She laughed at the hatchet job I'd done on my hair that morning, and promised to fix it.

We were talking while she cut my hair, and I don't know what possessed me to ask the question I never ask, but it popped out of my mouth before I knew it. "Do you have children?". No, not yet, she said. I couldn't believe I'd asked it, wanted to kick myself, what the hell?!? Then she said, "I have a daughter in Iran, I haven't seen her in many years but she is 18 now and I will be able to see her soon." There it was...the very reason I don't ask those type of questions, and remorse flooded over me for causing her pain. "I'm sorry", I said, "I can't imagine how hard that is for you."

Mina said no, she was glad I asked, and continued talking about her beautiful girl she hasn't seen in far too long. How her husband divorced her, and took her child away. How he has never allowed her to even speak to her while she was growing up. How in Iran, women lose everything when they get divorced, the children always go with the father because they are property. How she doesn't miss Iran at all, that she would never go back there for anything. The whole time she talked, I thought how brave she is, how much heartache she must have endured all these years that she can talk to me now about losing her daughter without tears rolling down her face.

At some point in the conversation, I apologized for bringing up so painful a subject, and Mina said no, I'm not sorry. She said she never tells anyone about her daughter, all these years, but now she knows that she will see her soon, she's glad to talk about it. She's glad I asked the question. And I'm glad that she felt she could talk to me, a stranger, about something so personal and painful. I hope she felt better after telling me about it. I know I felt privileged that she shared it with me. Godspeed, Mina's daughter. Your mother has been dreaming of this day for a long, long time. Can you imagine having your child ripped away from you like that? I try to think of it and it's unbearable to imagine...living it? My mind doesn't want to go there. And anyway it's never happened to me so there's no way to imagine it, really.

I'll see her again soon, I promised her I'd come back and let her color my hair. Honestly, I color my own hair but I want to see her again, talk to her, maybe we'll become friends. I guess I'm glad, this one time, that I asked her a question that I normally never ask.

Drive-By Racism

So I wonder how many of my white peeps can relate to being blindsided by other white people's racist comments? I gotta tell you, it's getting kind of tiresome that in the year 2009, when we've elected a black man to be our president, I'm still dealing with those of you who think it's ok to make racist comments as long as there are no black people around. What the hell, fellow white people? And the LOOK you give those of us who don't appreciate your lame, "I'm among white people so I feel like I can let my inner racist out of the closet" attitude when you get busted because OOPS!, I'm married to a black man and I have an interracial child. Like I should have warned you I'm not "one of you" before you spoke. I'm not part of the "we're all white people here" sister/brotherhood, and in fact I am positive that your ranks have dwindled significantly in the last 20 years or so. But obviously y'all are still out there.

Listen...be glad that I told you I was married to a black man the very minute you made the first comment. I could have let you go on and on, digging yourself ever deeper into that hole of "We're both white so I can say what I really think about so-and-so dating that black man". I took pity on your ignorant ass and very casually said "Oh, my husband is black" as soon as you WENT THERE.

I thought about letting you ramble on just to see how far you'd go, but honestly...after a lifetime of listening to racist nonsense, I just don't want to deal with you people anymore. Why can't you move on and realize that it's not ok for you to express those racist sentiments? And while you feel "ambushed" by finding out that your racist remark was not appropriate (like we white people who are part of racially blended families should wear a sign so that you racist people could know this before you open mouth and insert foot), how do you think we feel to know that people with your attitudes are still clinging desperately to them? You could be my child's teacher, my next-door neighbor, my coworker. You hide your antiquated attitude in the closet and only trot it out at certain moments when you feel "safe". I'd be a lot more comfortable if you would just be openly racist, maybe a sign on your front lawn so that I could decide whether I want to live next door to you or not? Because we're moving next weekend and while the neighborhood looks nice, I'm always wondering if I'm going to get a nasty surprise in the form of a neighbor or two who thinks that I've gone against "nature". I don't think it's fair that I have to worry about this anymore, but hey...I give people the benefit of the doubt. For the most part we're all playing nicely together. You just reminded me last night that STILL, in the year 2009, I can be among friends, having a few beers and a great time, and then BOOM!...some asshole will explode the racist stinkbomb in my face.

I hope you remember this from our interaction last night...that I didn't call you out on it, though you deserved it in my opinion. That I casually told you that my husband is black before you could continue with your line of racist commentary, and graciously continued our conversation even though I'd have rather not talked with you anymore. I didn't try to make you feel stupid, I could see that you knew you'd said something inappropriate and I allowed you your clumsy recovery without any confrontation on my part. You know why? Because I know how racist attitudes change, after a lifetime of hearing this stuff from white people.

One person at a time. I'm very patient...but I hope some of you who do this stuff read this and reconsider the next time a racist thought pops into your head. BEFORE it rolls off your tongue, please. Most of us don't want to hear it.

No Crying At Work!

I've been a working woman for a long, long time. I actually started working as a teenager and have just never stopped. I got lucky in my 20s and stumbled into a career option that has allowed me to advance to where I am now, which is a supervisory position in one of the world's biggest, multinational companies. I know we're in the era of everyone believing that Corporate America = evil, thieving bastards, but honestly, let's all get over it and admit that we live in a capitalist society, and big corporations do a lot of good in the world. Because we do.

But that isn't the subject of this post. The subject of this post is crying at work. Crying! At WORK! I'm sorry, ladies, but if you are one of those people who loses it and bursts into tears when something goes wrong at the office, or when you get upset about something and you just don't have the guts to bring it up at the time it happens, you have got to get a grip on your emotions. Because crying at work is, in my book, a no-no. That kind of stuff is what let men hold us back from positions of authority for a long time. Now we're in positions of authority, but we've still got these women who do the crying thing when they have to confront you on something. Well guess what, crybabies? We women aren't going for it either.

I never understood why men consider crying to be a form of emotional blackmail until I became a manager and had women working for me. Oh my gawd. If you are upset with something I said or did, and I'm not even aware of that, you're going to need to tell me in a reasonable way about it. Standing at my desk going on and on about something while barely controlling yourself is not going to get the issue resolved. It's going to make me wonder what on earth is wrong with you that you can't just say what you mean without bursting into tears. And if you're that upset, you need to politely request that we go into a private room and talk about what's bothering you, not stand at my desk quivering with rage and unspilled tears, raising your voice to me. All I see in that scenario is "out of control female, what the hell happened now?".

I'm sorry but the rules are no crying at work. Unless someone is injured or sick, or a tragedy has happened...situations that may actually call for tears...there is no crying at work! We don't see men crying when they get pissed about something at work, we see them very calmly handling the situation without drama or TEARS. Tears in a work setting for no good reason tell people that you're emotionally unstable; that you can't handle pressure; that you can't handle conflict in an adult manner; that you aren't able to speak up for yourself but let things simmer until you explode into a ball of tears and emotion all over a coworker. That, my fellow working women, is emotional blackmail. Don't do it if you want to get ahead in your career.

And please don't do it to me and expect to get tea and sympathy. What you'll get is a meeting where I ask you to please try not to fly off the handle in such an emotional way. And if in your teary-eyed meltdown you have somehow tried to put the blame on me for your feelings, you'll also get a manager who will have a hard time trusting you, and may start keeping a written record of our meetings so that I can defend myself if you one day decide to report me to HR for being "mean".

No crying at work! Period!

It's Not You...It's Me

"When you're dreamin' with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part
You roll out of bed and down on your knees
And for a moment you can hardly breathe" - John Mayer, "Dreaming With A Broken Heart"

I heard this song the other day, and I was transported immediately back to a time in my life when this was what waking up was for me. For days, maybe it was a month or more...it seemed like eternity. Doesn't your crushed and bleeding, broken heart always feel that way? It will never end, this pain will always be right here with me, every breath and every thought, the tears come at unexpected moments throughout the day and what is the point in loving if this is how it turns out every time?

The pain and hurt was constant, but when I fell on my knees every day, sometimes more than once a day just to get through, I didn't pray just for my heart's desire, for us to be back together. I prayed for strength, for peace to get through the days. I prayed that if we really couldn't be together, if that isn't how things were supposed to ultimately be, that we would both be happy no matter what happened. I prayed for the ability to accept whatever happened. I prayed that we would both find the strength to stop behaving in the ways that had led us to where we were...apart. I didn't just pray for what I so desperately wanted, I prayed for both of us.

All that sincere praying, though, didn't stop me from calling and paging him in the middle of the night, just to see if he was home alone, if he would call me back...I wanted to know if he was hurting, too. I had to know if he cared enough to pick up the phone when I called, to call me back at 3am even though I knew it probably annoyed the hell out of him. I could hear it in his voice when he'd answer the phone, or when he'd call me back after I'd page him, but I didn't care. It was proof that he might still love me and I couldn't stop myself from grasping for it. It kept me going, and it broke me down at the same time. I was a mess. There's another John Mayer song that perfectly describes who I was then. Who I still am in a lot of ways, sometimes. Sometimes I feel like the pain of not having what you needed as a child never leaves you...I have no patience for bad fathers. I despise them, actually. They leave so much carnage in their wake.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f38Ne96R3iE&feature=related

When I think back on those days, I marvel that he put up with me. Not that he was perfect, it wasn't all me that got us to that breaking point. But I didn't believe until I was past 35 years old, and really until we got engaged, that someone could really love me. Love ME, who I am, even the parts that aren't pretty. So pretty often, I acted like someone you couldn't love...sometimes I still do. Sometimes I hate the way I act, hate that even now when I know why I snap and push him away and act like a perfect bitch, I still do it. If I can figure out why I am the way I am, and I think I did that a while ago, why can't I not be the way I don't want to be so often?

Working on that one. Thanks for hanging in there with me, love of my life. You are the best husband I could never have even dreamed of, because I didn't ever think I'd even be married. You remember I told you when we met that I didn't really believe in getting married. I do now.

Walk With Me

Well I'm sure the whole blogosphere knows it by now, but on the off chance that there are a few people who read me that don't know, Maggie has a new blog. It's a blog for, by, and about the survivors of domestic violence and it's called Violence Unsilenced. Go check it out, and if you have your own story to share, Maggie would love to hear from you.

Domestic violence and sexual abuse hits way too close to home for far too many of us. One of the most important things for someone who's in an abusive relationship to know is that there are resources available if and when they decide to leave. To know that they CAN change their lives, if they just take that first step of leaving someone is there to walk alongside them. To know that there are safe places to go, somewhere soft to land and regroup.

The Houston Area Women's Center is one of those places. On March 7, I'm walking in the Race Against Violence to raise funds for their very worthy, and unfortunately, very necessary, cause. I'm trying to raise $1,000.00 for the center, and I'm asking my friends and everyone I know to help me get there. Because whether you know it or not, you very likely know a woman who needs a place like this. You know a woman who's been hit or kicked or punched, threatened with murder, called a whore-slut-bitch...you know a woman. And she needs a place like this. So we all need to make sure that there are places like this, for when it's enough and they can see their way clear. You can click on this link to go to my fundraising site, and donate directly to the center. How easy is that?

Thanks for caring, thanks for donating. It means more than you will hopefully ever know.