Seen from Another Angle

Last week, I walked my friend Anora to her truck, which was parked on the street near our house.  On that clear night, the sky was intensely black, and the stars seemed etched sharply onto its surface.  Anora saw a shooting star when she looked up, and after that we both stood there in the cold looking up, hoping for more, and trying to name the stars we saw above us. 

I glanced over at the house as we stood there.  The bare rose of Sharon bushes in front were strung with large, multicolored lights, and the lamppost in the yard twinkled with tinsel garlands.  On the gate to the backyard, a wreath made of twigs and small white lights lit up a red bow.  Inside, Marilyn awaited. 

I was struck then by a familiar feeling of gratitude and comfort that returns now and then when I look at the house, a feeling often accompanied by surprise and awe:  “I live here.  This is my home.  I am rooted here.” 

Just a little earlier, other friends who make up our writing practice group had left the house after a holiday potluck that has become an annual tradition.  Inside Anora’s truck, her baby was asleep, tucked under a blanket I had knitted while we waited for her to arrive nearly a year ago.

Looking at my life in that moment, from that angle, I felt enveloped in its warmth and was a little humbled by my good fortune.

On a hike with my friend Patti last week, I once again saw my world from another angle.  As we walked in the forest preserve less than a half hour from where I live, the land dipped and rose:

My Other Office

Yesterday, Sunday, I went to Café Kopi in the evening to grade some more papers and took this photo while waiting in line to order.

Recently, I have been grading papers at my favorite coffee shop, Café Kopi in downtown Champaign—even in the mornings when I would usually work at home before going to campus to teach.  I have abandoned my usual grading post, the kitchen counter, because it is on the same floor as our guest bath, which is in the process of being remodeled.  On most mornings, I say hello to Eli and Barrie as they begin work here, and I head to Kopi to begin work there. 

Some days, I miss my time alone at home.  I miss looking out the kitchen window as I refill my coffee cup.  I miss taking a break to empty the dishwasher or to hang up laundry.  And I especially miss my morning walks, one of my favorite times to think through my lesson plans. 

But I am also delighting in being at Kopi each morning, a regular in a way I haven’t been before.  I know now that if I get there by 8:30, I am likely to get a spot on the north wall of the bigger room, one of the coveted, square, glass-topped tables with the bigger, brighter lamps.  On a sunny morning, the sunlight streams in and hits the table, lighting up my work and giving me energy.  On the mornings when I have more time, I leave my car by Westside Park and enjoy the walk to Kopi, pretending I live downtown and can walk to work. 

So while I am displaced from my routine, this new one has its joys, too.

The Wisdom of a Ten-Year-Old Boy

This is one of the cakes we cut to celebrate our civil union in June 2011; we applied for our license on the first day it was legal in Illinois and had a ceremony at the courthouse on the fifth anniversary of our commitment ceremony. Another cake we cut that day said, "Legal at last!"

Yesterday, my friend Tony sent me a link to a chronology of same-sex marriage and civil unions in the United States.  The November 6 elections brought further progress towards marriage equality.  I try to appreciate the progress.   But the fact that other citizens get to decide whether my partner and I may enjoy the civil rights they take for granted—worse, that some of my fellow citizens believe they are entitled to make that decision—grates on me.

Still, the recent progress gives me hope.  Another source of hope is a conversation I had with my ten-year-old nephews last month.    

On a cold, sunny Sunday morning in Connecticut, we sat in a diner booth awaiting pancakes and waffles.  The twins had just turned ten, and we were on our annual visit out east to celebrate their birthday.  That morning, our large group was divided in two, and my nephews and I shared the booth with their grandma Sharon, visiting from Nova Scotia. 

As Sameer drew with crayons on his placemat, Sanjay said to me, “I think I’m liking Mitt Romney better than Barack Obama.”  The kid knows how to get my attention. 

Sanjay had heard somewhere that the President hadn’t kept his promises.  I explained that because the Republicans did not want the President to be reelected, they had blocked many of his proposals, refusing to cooperate with him. 

“They did that?  Why?!”  His ten-year-old sense of right and wrong was piqued. 

Our mailbox on Election Day 2012.

After we discussed Obamacare and preexisting conditions, and the boys talked about a girl in their school who had cancer, they began to see why I supported the President. 

Then I added, “Romney thinks your Aunty Melon and I should not be able to get married.” 

Next to me, Sameer’s crayon stopped moving on his placemat, and across the table, Sanjay tried to stand up in the booth.  “But people should be able to marry whoever they want!”  Sanjay was indignant, sounding like he was stating the obvious. 

And then, puzzled, he asked “You’re not married?” 

Our wedding cake from June 2006

After all, he remembered walking me (or rather, pulling me) down the aisle at the Unitarian Universalist Church when he was three and a half.  (The next day, he had asked me about the ceremony: “Why did you all talk so much?”) Sameer remembered that our wedding cake had egg in it; he was allergic to eggs and loves cake.  How could we not be married?

I explained civil unions and that some states recognize ours and some don’t and how that is different from their parents’ marriage.  We also discussed how Canada, where they go every year to visit their grandma, has different policies about same-sex marriage and about health care. 

Then the pancakes came, and we got busy eating.  But when I get frustrated at the slow pace of change, weary of second-class citizenship, I remind myself that the future will be different.  Today, there are ten-year-old boys who say without ambivalence, “But people should be able to marry whoever they want!”