TheBanyanTree: Whittling it Down

[Maria Gibson]

It is not quite a century since women have come into their own as human 
beings.  Mired in the laws and notions of men and their expectations, 
women were only along for the ride for a very long time.  The space of 
female energy was always there burning in their hearts, and perhaps it 
was a biding of time or maybe a stroke of luck as one broke free and 
others followed suit.  Still.  It took a long time and that journey 
isn't quite over but I and my sisters certainly feel the free will and 
self actualization to take charge of life in a way unheard of a hundred 
years ago.  Progress marches on.

I was born to a poor white family forty-two years ago, not even close to 
a half century unless I am referring to someone else.  The eldest of 
three, the only girl and aware at an early age that I weren't like all 
the other kids on the block.  Growing up is rocky for most of us and it 
was no different for me.  With a father until age five, sans father 
until age ten and my mother went to work full time while I did housework 
and cooking after school and again with a father, this time the evil 
step father.  By the time I was seventeen and my mother had had enough 
abuse, enough poverty, enough misery to finally garner the courage to 
leave, I was also ready to leave.  I had had enough of growing up.

A dead on quarter of a century ago, at age seventeen, I wed.   I 
finished high school and then joined my young, handsome Marine in Japan 
and we began a life together.  We had two children, numerous pets and 
even more numerous places to call home.  Nomads by way of the 
government, we were happy.  I stayed home for the most part, not 
counting the odd three month job from time to time, and raised children 
who understand their worth as human beings.  There was that little 
matter of a brief war, mostly clean for television audiences, but we 
survived it.  I had not a small break down of spirit and faith as I 
feared having to explain to the then two and seven year old boys that 
their father was dead.  Just a wee bit of psychosis for a few months.  
We were so very happy when we were sent back to Japan which turned out 
to be the final tour of duty for my husband.

Ironically, it is now thirteen years since we first landed on the 
beautiful island of Okinawa.  Not a lucky number, thirteen, not a lucky 
time of life.  Because although we had a great lot of fun there, it was 
ruined at the very tail end by trouble, boy oh boy big damn trouble, 
just as we were leaving.  Okinawa to me is the dividing line in my 
life.  Before going and while there I was one person.  When I came back 
I was another.  No big drum roll, no made for tv movie, no camera 
enhanced turning of calender pages so that the audience understands.  
Nope.  Just.  A different person, altered by life and its 
circumstances.  That happens sometimes.

Eight years ago when we moved to this city, this wonderful place in our 
great USA, we got jobs, bought a house and continued raising our 
children as best we could in the midst of depression and anxiety.  The 
human spirit having the phenomenal capacity that it does, we survived.  
Sometimes I am convinced that it was 'barely survived' but when the 
outcome is survival over non-survival, you take it any way it comes.  As 
if there is a choice, right?  We marched on and on and on for seven 
years enduring what came along, learning to cope with a life that was 
altered and coming to terms with the knowledge that even if life is 
never quite the same, it is still a gift and a treasure.

One year ago; one hundred of these makes a century and fifty of them 
makes a half century and twenty-five of them makes a quarter century, I 
began to change on levels I could not comprehend.  In order to try and 
comprehend those changes, I went on a party spree but it took me about 
four months to get to the all out spree part.  Before that there was a 
lot of not thinking about it or trying to convince myself I didn't feel 
the way I felt.  Silly rabbit....  So, I gave alcohol a try, the bar 
scene got a fair workout and I dabbled in sundry not so nice activities, 
all to no avail.  When I woke up hung over and regretting what had 
happened, I was still changed.  I was still not the me I had promised to 
be and I was not the me I was expected to be.  Not a nice picture I 
made, not anything to brag about or be proud of.  Looking for a fresh 
vegetable in the compost pile probably won't get you something 
palatable.  And neither was I.  Palatable.

Ten days ago, twenty five years into this marriage, my husband finally 
had enough.  Funny thing; it was quite innocent on my part as far as 
incidences which could have caused me a lot of trouble go, but there it 
was anyway.  The breaking point had been reached.  Amongst a lot of 
tears and no small amount of fears, I applied for an apartment five days 
ago.  I was approved three days ago with a move in date of the first of 
the month.  Two days ago I began to gather things from this house, home 
for nearly eight years, to take to the apartment.

Yesterday I awoke and after an appointment, began to load my van with 
small furniture and what nots, the big stuff to go later.  It only took 
about forty minutes but it was very difficult and surreal.  When I 
arrived at the apartment, it took only about thirty minutes to unload 
because I am on the ground floor and have no stairs to negotiate.  
Twenty minutes to inspect the apartment for anything which I might be 
charged for upon moving out if not noted on move-in day.  Ten minutes to 
walk from room to room with my crap strewn all over the place, in heaps 
and piles which no one but I will unheap and unpile; I realized with a 
finality that I was actually doing this.  I have never lived by myself 
in all this nearly half-century of life, these forty-two years I have 
been blessed with.   As I re-entered my home, returning from my 
apartment, it took about one second to notice the resounding echo 
crashing into the room I had emptied.  It came down to this, this one 
moment in time, this final measure of what not only is about to happen 
but which had actually begun nearly a century ago.  It may not seem that 
way to everyone but I know this is about independence and the right to 
seek it.  It won't come without a price and it won't come without 
collateral damage.  I can't be the girl I was twenty-five years ago any 
more than the female population can go backward in time from the booming 
echo I had caused, back to the closed mouth women who, so long ago, 
would not have dared to pursue their heart.   I can only be who I have 
become...for better or worse.

I have changed.

Maria