Maybe 18 is too Early, Maybe 30 or 40 is Too

Yesterday was my first class of the UGA grant writing certification course I decided to take. I've thought about learning grant writing for a long time. It always appealed to me because you need both the brain and the heart. I am a whole mess of both. It's rated one of the top five in the country. I am up to the challenge.

I was asked if I'm a veteran. No. But my father was a Vietnam veteran. And then that banana moment of near-vulnerability. I have no idea what my eyes said. What my face said. All I know is that moment of pity. When I tell. Goddammit, I hate that moment. That moment is why I don't tell. And it wasn't even the whole thing. I just said "rather tragic personal experiences." The whole room made that sound. I'd die happy without that sound ever again in my ears. I think that is why I ended up here, in this place I belong. In the same way people hollowly pity me, they thank these men for what they've sacrificed. Except it's hollow without being there. I never say that what killed my father was a war he didn't believe in. The war that took him from me three and a half decades later. A killer called only by a color, but given a name as if it he were really human. The Agent. I guess some might call him Agent Mustang.

I've wanted to pursue more education since before my last graduation. If I was ever good at anything, it was being a student. I've always craved learning. And something occurs to me just now: you can't be such a passionate student without a rather large swathe of humility in you. I've been called arrogant, condescending, proud. Well, I suppose social discomfort takes many faces. It's been said that I suck the air out of a room. It's been said that I never shut up. Okay, that last one is what I think of myself when I'm socially anxious. But it's no less true.

I've almost always been teacher's pet for that eagerness and humility. That's the thing of me: I know I have something to learn from every person I ever meet. In recent days, I've been told that I'm different to other women with my fire and my brain and my mouth, in that I listen. How can we ever learn if we never stop talking? I miss him. The tidepools I could always drown in. The sand and the sea, landlocked and hurting as much as I do, despite reason. Which is ironic in that I feel like I can never shut up when I'm nervous. I suppose he made me feel not my anxious self. I guess that grew too. It certainly wasn't that way when we first met. The same hills in our mouths and still I felt like I was less for some reason. Brainwashed. And then all this comfort and safety in the ocean of his eyes and the lines around them when I gave to him the darkest parts of 37 years.

I recall a corner in my favorite music venue. Sugar-free Red Bull for me and his certain whiskey. Funny, that time, he wasn't taking drinks to anyone else. That idea is absurd to me now. That one will not stay in the grotto long. I really don't think he has any place there at all. He arrived long ago. With another redhead, I suspect. He said to me when I asked an earnest and impassioned plea for his knowledge about something I wasn't sure of: I think the subject was Rosemary Kennedy and her lobotomy,  something to the effect that he wasn't the enemy, that all men aren't the enemy. He meant men at large. I was a little defensive and knew a tiny bit of the subject, but I legitimately thought that he had something to teach me in that moment. I always look like a challenge. I always am a challenge, I suppose. I don't always mean to be. It's just the way that I learned to be heard. They hear you, they see you, if they see a challenge in your eyes. If they hear a question that perhaps they don't have an answer for. None of us can fight our nature or our instinct, or what we are taught as soon as we learn words. It's who we are. 

I guess I came here tonight to ward off the things that hurt with the things that make me feel like I cannot fail. I'm working with this nonprofit that speaks to my soft, crushed, shattered, fucked up, bruised little heart. I think of what they may have accomplished for the people I loved. Daddy did the things he did to busy his hands and quiet his mind. Jay could have used this exact sort of help with his little red Pontiac Sunbird. I think Steve-O may have benefited from a group of people who understood him. Gods, he was brilliant. Maybe the smartest person I ever met. All I know for certain is that he liked my tits. "Nice shirt" and all I didn't know that meant, my oblivion, my child's heart, even as a mother, I think I still don't most of the time. I was raised in a world that didn't recognize beauty in a girl. Or at least my own. Imagine being damn near 40 before you knew that you'd been a beauty this whole time. And I am. Funny, it only makes me question if any of the other things I knew I was before were influenced by my big, pale eyes and this mess of a mane and my tendency toward being statuesque. Statue-like, for certain. Cold, stiff.

This place is talisman to me. It's silly to think about if you aren't in my head and my heart and in my soul. I hate that this is where I landed. No, that's not right. I'm so happy I landed here. I hate how I landed here. But I don't see how it could possibly have happened in any other way. I don't think I could have arrived  here, to what feels so deeply like my purpose now that I've raised up my only, any other way. Sentimental and stupid of me. Like the people I love most also are. If you care for your own heart, never let anyone see your heart in your eyes as you go soft. But if you ever want any damned and fragile and brave-hearted creature to love you, be soft. Here I sit, approaching 40, and still praying and hoping and manifesting tenderness and softness, though I've got little hope. I love him. And he loves me. I don't have any way to prove that I am safe. I am so good for support and I wouldn't hurt a fly. Just ask the Japanese hornet I didn't kill today, in my house. It may could have killed me with my issue with bees, but how could I? Huge, fierce, brave, angry creature. Me.

Two days ago, I did a thing I never thought to do. I placed in a run. I didn't just place: I took first in my age. 30-40. I'm rapidly approaching 38. Way past the mean. I realized as I took off my medal and laid it on my nightstand that it's because most women my age are raising children and being good wives. I, at 30, was raising a small child. Alone. I guess it never occurred to me that as long as I've been adult that I've been an exception. One of the ten percent. Then one of the five percent. And those were just quantifiable because of my mind.

Boy, have I rambled. All of this whole thing in my heart, weighing on my heart. I was astounded and again impressed with the honestly, the two. Smart and careful and studied and brilliant and adaptable and as hard-working as my own blood. They are ready. I said so. All during class yesterday, I kept being impressed with how they are. How ready they are to move forward and up. They are grant-ready. I would never have seen this if I had not sought out more than I could offer at that moment. And so I said. I asked if they'd ever gotten any grants and they said no. Hours later, I asked how they were so put together. And the one said "Because we put a lot of research into what we needed. We've applied for grants in the past, we just got denied and passed over for some bs startups but we clearly didn't have you."  The one for a reason. And it kills me nearly every day. They're smarter than I'll ever be with all my schooling. I admire them. Him. Them. The brother I deserved and this man I can't do a goddamn thing with because he hasn't hurt as much as me, I guess, in the same way I have. All his heartache looks different. We didn't have you. Well, you have me now. What will you do? Fool to think that we will ever change what we're both here for. I wish really that he'd tell me he doesn't feel a thing when he sees me. That his heart doesn't do little somersaults like mine. Fool. 

How can I fail with all that faith and certainty they have for me? Hm. Even if the first fails, we will succeed. I feel it. I feel that this team, and me as a part, we can do it. We will. I have this knowing that I am simply a cog in the machine and that we all must be here and be a part. And that the universe brought us here together for a reason. The brothers I've missed, the one  I wanted, and the love I've craved since before I knew love. Heathcliff and  Linton all at once. I've spent too long aching for my Heathcliff. I think I've let that go. The love that aches in me traded for the love that works for me. Works, like a team of mules. "We clearly didn't have you." Well, you do now. What will you do with everything I have to give?