Hints from Heloise

Yet one more sign of my advancing age is the fact that I read a newspaper every morning, and more and more people find that strange. "You do know you can get it free online," says my son. "You know you could set up your computer so you receive news updates all day long," suggests my niece.

Sigh. I'm old. I like the feel of a newspaper. I like the size of a newspaper. I like the juxtapositions produced by the layout--the ad for the Weight Loss Center up against the headline "Famine Looms in Niger," for example. I like the calming morning routine: separating the sections, lining them up in order of interest (National and International News, State and Local News, People; Sports set aside for Keith; Classified, Business, and Automotive straight to the recycling bin), and settling down a quick read-thru before work, and then coming back for a more leisurely stroll during lunch.

But, I have to admit, that this past year, my "quick read-thru" of those first two news sections has been, well, quick. Really quick. I scan the headlines, moan, feel guilty about not reading more, not doing more, not somehow someway making decent health care available for all--and then I take a huge gulp of hot tea, flip the news sections out of the way, and immerse myself in People. First the comics, I confess. And then a look at the front page to see if I know any of the People, and then, yes, oh yes, Hints from Heloise.

I love Heloiseland. I love a world where every problem can be solved with a quarter cup of bleach dissolved in water or a few rounds in the dryer with a damp washcloth. But I love Heloise even more. I love her enthusiastic, affirming response to every query--"Oh, no problem at all, H.L.! Dissolve a teaspoon of baking soda in a solution of vinegar, dab and pat, dab and pat, and in no time, all that vomit Uncle Ed left on your new sofa will be gone." And somehow, you just feel confident that Uncle Ed is going to be just fine, too. That's the way it is in Heloiseland. As long as you've got your bleach, baking soda, vinegar, and a set of plastic tubs and bags of varying sizes, you can conquer the world. And the world you conquer will be a beautiful place. As well as hygienic and economical.

Heloise's responses to readers' suggestions are the key to Heloiseland. Most of these suggestions are either mind-bogglingly obvious-- "I save those plastic tubs that whipped butter and sour cream come in, and use them for storing leftovers--so much cheaper than buying that expensive Tupperware!"--or just ridiculous in terms of effort vs. achievement-- "Don't throw away those bottle tops! I save them, sterilize them with bleach, flatten them out [I find a hammer works just fine for this step], use my husband's drill to make a hole as near to the edge as possible, and sew them together to make trivets and placemats--so cost-effective!" But Heloise never snorts with contemptuous laughter at these suggestions. Heloise is not like me. Heloise is a Good Person. She welcomes each and every suggestion as yet another contribution to building Heloiseland.

Someday, I am going to be just like Heloise. I am going to be enthusiastic and affirming. I am going to wipe down my counters regularly with a homemade bleach infusion. I am going to spraypaint pine cones for an inexpensive holiday decoration. I am going to freeze homemade cookies in small batches so I always have some on hand when a neighbor drops by unexpectedly. I am going to be a Really Good Person. Someday.

How It Rains

I was walking then-five-year-old Hugh home from school one rainy day. We were about halfway home when he turned to me and said triumphantly, "I've figured out how God can make it rain in lots of places at the same time." Oh, and how's that?, I asked. "He has lots and lots of penises," Hugh said, very matter-of fact, but very satisfied.

For ten years now, every time it rains, an unbidden, entirely unwanted image appears in my mind's eye: the God of Many Penises, pissing in great fountains.

Missing the '6os

I always felt bad about missing the '60s. Obviously as a Woman Facing 50, I was born in 1960, which means I spent most of that pivotal decade absorbed in such trivialities as learning how to walk, talk, use the potty, read, write, and roller skate. By the time I came to political consciousness, well, there wasn't much worth being conscious about. Disco? Detente?

Actually, Saturday Night Fever is truly a great movie and detente an enormous step forward in international cooperation. But it just doesn't have the same zingggg as having danced at Woodstock, now does it?

And then there's the clothing issue. I've got good upper arms, small boobs, and unruly hair. I was born for fringe and frizz and long swirling Indian skirts and braless vests. But no, no, I came of age in the 70s. My hair never conformed to the mandated Farrah Fawcett feathering (by the way, there's a website on "How to Have Farrah Fawcett Hair." Complete with step-by-step blowdrying and curling instructions. ) and I fell off my platform shoes with dismal regularity. The tube top, however. . . oh, the tube top. I was good at the tube top.

But still, being good at the tube top--it's not on par with hearing Martin Luther King give the "I Have a Dream" speech on the Mall or joining the March against Vietnam or Going Clean for Gene, is it?

My '60s inferiority complex explains why, in the early 80s, I felt implicated, indicted, no dammit, downright guilty, when my history professor exploded in frustration and fury one day because I couldn't remember where I was when John F. Kennedy was shot. "But, umm, I was only three," I stammered apologetically. He tore at his hair, yelled, "Augggghhh!! I can't stand it!" and left the room for several minutes. The rest of the class shrugged. What a weirdo. What are you doing this weekend? Anyone got the notes for the next book review? But I, I sat there, knowing I had failed an essential test, one that I desperately wanted to ace, one that I could never pass no matter how hard I studied.

So I'm lecturing on the Revolutions of 1989. And I'm telling my students that the American version of this story, that "Ronald Reagan won the Cold War," is completely parochial, ahistorical, and well, just plain incorrect. We need to focus on the actions and intentions of Mikhael Gorbachev, as well as eastern European activists like Vaclav Havel. And a student raises his hand: "Sorry. But what was the "Cold War"? You mean, like, something in Finland or Norway?"

Augggghh!! I can't stand it!!

Recommended

Doctor's recommendation: to manage menopausal symptoms, eliminate caffeine and alcohol from diet. Right. Just shoot me now.

Through fire, flood, and swarms of locusts

Every spring, Hugh's middle school sponsored an extravagant Grandparents' Day Garden Party (followed, of course, by the annual fundraising campaign, featuring pathetic appeals to all the grandparents who had noshed at the school's expense). Hugh has no living grandfathers and both his grandmothers live too far away to attend. So, in his first year, I substituted as his guest. And no one noticed. I just blended in with all the other old people.

I had no idea what a Big Deal it was for Hugh that I was to be his guest at the Garden Party until that morning after I showered. I walked into my room and on my bed I found, all laid out from blazer to shoes, my Outfit for the Day. When I matter to Hugh, he dresses me.

He never selects clothing that I would choose. On this particular day, the Outfit featured a white linen cutout lace blazer that I had bought only because Hugh was with me and liked it so much. My closet actually features a number of such items--Hugh Items. Tops, belts, shoes, scarves, jeans. . . .all bought not because I thought I would actually wear them, all bought knowing I would probably never wear them, all bought to please Hugh. Plus there are his contributions. The designer handbag that he convinced my sister I had always wanted. (How could I want something that I didn't even know existed?) The designer wallet that he purchased for me with his Christmas money, because he was so embarrassed by the wallet I was using. The boots he decided I had to have.

I'm such a disappointment to him. I've turned out so badly. I've utterly failed to be the Mother he hoped I would be. I'm like the mom who's constantly in detention, who has to go to summer school, who must take remedial mom classes. I am not stylish. I have panty lines. I do not like granite countertops. I hate SUVs. I do not lust after Hummers. I've never really figured out the whole accessories thing. I do not have a long mane of thick straight black hair. I'm mystified by stiletto heels. And Vera Bradley, geez, do not get me started on Vera Bradley.

I love my son. Desperately. Completely. Hopelessly. So I buy the occasional sparkly top or lacy blazer. Penitential offerings. Sacrifices to the gods. Please. Bridge the gap. Fill the void. Oh my darling. For you I'll run through fire and flood and swarms of locusts. In stilettos. And thong underwear.

Out of the Mouth of a Babe

Although the historians' universe remains largely male, in over 20 years of professional life, I've never actually experienced any direct discrimination and very little overt or intentional harassment. Historians are, on the whole, fairly decent folks. Not the best dressers, mind you, and hopeless at parties, but well-intentioned all the same. No, I have no complaints to make, no grievances to file against any individuals or offices. My frustrations focus rather on the systemic maleness of academia, the way the molds all seem to be designed for male bodies, attitudes, and ambitions.

Whenever my frustrations begin to boil over, I turn to the words of wisdom uttered by my niece Hannah in McDonald's when she was about four--

We were in McDonald's on my lunch break. During the summers throughout college and graduate school when I worked as a teller in my local community bank, my sister-in-law Nancy and her kids would often meet me for lunch. On this particular day, we were talking about how great the kids were doing in their music lessons. Pointing a French fry at each kid, Nancy said, "Alex, you can be a cellist in a symphony some day. Anne, you can be a violinist. And Hannah, you can be a concert pianist." At that point, Hannah, a deceptively sylph-like little blonde, gasped in horror, scrambled up so that she was standing on top of her plastic chair, and bellowed, "BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE A PENIS!"

Precisely.

Cafe-au-lait

Fifteen years ago today I was sitting in the off-campus coffee shop grading papers when one of the coffee shop girls came over to tell me I had a phone call. (We're talking pre-cell phone era here.) It was Keith. The adoption agency had telephoned: our son had been born about an hour earlier. We met at home, packed a suitcase, picked up Owen from day care, and headed west to Texas.

Adoption was always an option for me. I had always known I wanted children, but wasn't always too sure I wanted a husband. In vitro fertilization and all that was just developing; I do remember hearing talk of sperm donors and turkey basters, but I just figured if I hit my mid-30s and was still single, I'd adopt.

So, when we tried for a second after Owen and failed, adoption was a no-brainer.

On Thanksgiving week, 1994, after a couple of years of tests and more tests and thermometers and sex on schedule and sperm in a cup and Chlomid, I began calling adoptions agencies. "Are you Catholic?" Click. "Do you have $25,000 readily accessible?" Click. "Is one of the parents over the age of 40?" Click. "Do you have a child?" Click. But finally I hooked up with an agency that specialized in "unadoptable" children.

We filled out the most agonizing form. Would you accept a blind baby? A deaf baby? A baby with AIDS? with spina bifida? With a cleft palate? A child whose been the victim of physical abuse? of sexual abuse? On and on and on it went. We had anguished discussions long into the night. But there was an easy question: Would you accept a child of another race? Duh. Yeah.

We received a phone call almost immediately:
"I just wanted to make sure about one thing here on your application form. You've checked that you'd accept a child of any race. Any race. Is that correct?"
Yes, I said.
"Let me just make sure I have this straight. You'll accept a child of any race?"
Yes, I said.
"Umm, sorry, but let me make sure: are you saying you'll take a black child?"
Yes, I said.
Long pause.
"Well, if that's really the case, I can guarantee you'll have a healthy newborn baby in three months."

But the color nonsense continued. After we hooked up with Hugh's birth mother and the adoption was set in motion, the social worker assured us that after the baby was born, we'd receive a photo, that we'd get to approve of the baby. We were confused, until she explained further. "If the baby's skin color is too dark, if you're just not comfortable with his color, then no problem, you can back out." Keith and I both had the same vision of choosing a baby with those little paint sample cards that you use to select colors for your walls: hmm, coffee, caramel, chocolate. . . ? We told her skip the photo, we'd take the baby even if he came out sporting polka dots.

On February 20, 1995, Hugh came into the world.

On February 21, 1995, we picked him up. Dark brown hair that the nurses had slicked down straight but, when we washed it a few days later, exploded into curls. Huge dark eyes. And the most gorgeous cafe au lait skin. No polka dots.

I assumed that by adopting a baby of a different race, we'd at least avoid any confusion RE the adoption itself--It would be clear from Day 1, to Hugh, and to the world, that he was adopted. I was wrong.

Here's our family: Blond, fair-skinned Me. Bald but once light brown-haired, fair-skinned Keith. Older son Owen who looks like both of us--clearly our biological child. Younger son Hugh, who's bi-racial, black (to most Americans)--clearly adopted. You'd think. And yet, here's the usual scenario: new people meet us. They look a bit perplexed. Finally, one--usually the woman--gets me or Keith aside and asks, somewhat awkwardly, "So, umm, is Hugh adopted?"

After years and years of this, I've become rather snarky. I now say, "Oh no. It's just Keith and I had a rough patch some years ago, so I had an affair with a black man and got pregnant." Then I smile brightly.