Chapter Nineteen She and I Aren’t Really Married

Chapter Nineteen

 

She and I Aren’t Really Married

 

“This is the relationship we should all aspire to.  The hierarchy which has subordinated men, you will be taught, established matriarchy as the way in which God can be correctly related to and spoken about.”

--- Dr. Anne Primavesi, From Apocalypse to Genesis: Ecology, Feminism and Christianity, 1991, Chapter Seven, p 139

 

Wandering around Wisconsin, the five of us, was soooo not fun.  No car crash per se but certainly everything else about Mehitable, Zane, Jesse, Mirzah and me traipsing hither and yon seemed as if there’d been a smashup of some sort somewhere.  As, of course, there had been.  Back home.

 

Mehitable and especially AmTaham arrived at our house about the second of July just so excited and most open to good news.  I hadn’t any for them.  Not good enough at any rate to outweigh and override the very real fact that      Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s mother – in – law no longer had her rather assumed assurance, by my being legally bound   to that certain 40s – something doctor with lots of future earning potential, of a smooth and easy old age for herself.  To say the least, Mehitable True was not at all pleased to learn that I was minus one more husband – that I was minus this particular one, that is. 

 

Her self – centered outlook was, well, one very much along the lines of that of Ms. Ruth DeWitt Bukater’s, Rose’s embittered mother on board the elitist Titanic – the fated ship according to James Cameron’s sinking of it anyhow.  Mehitable was most hopping mad at me just as that film’s director had depicted Ms. DeWitt Bukater to also be at her daughter who seemed to her mother to continuously – and purposefully – be blowing the arranged betrothal to Rose’s millionaire fiancé, Cal Hockley, “Do you want to see me working as a seamstress?  Is that what you want?  Do you want to see our fine things sold at auction, our memories scattered to the winds?  My God, Rose, how can you be so selfish?”  I could just envision Mehitable, who blind though she be and herself completely unable to sew for some several years now anyhow, laying on the heavy, heavy guilt as our own scene, much like the movie’s, concluded, “Of course, it’s unfair!  We’re women.  Our choices are never easy!” 

 

Not that Mehitable True ever, ever had a damn thing to concern herself about as regards AmTaham’s fidelity, but Mehitable also thought, very often right out loud, and behaved just like Ms. DeWitt Bukater did –– and just like Wyly King’s wife, Georgia, did, too.  Those all – too – common, parentally unaccountable, unprotecting and horribly and purposefully endangering 1950s American mothers of daughters!  Georgia King told her own daughter, Grace, in Something To Talk About after Grace’s husband, Eddie Bichon, mother – fucked Grace by sleeping around all over town, “Now as funny as it may seem, it’s up to you to set things right again!”  JYeah, like … Wrong …!       In exactly whose universe is it up to the betrayed woman in the philandering man’s life to “set things right again?!”  Soooo not in mine and not in the universes of any such women whom I know.  That’s for damn straight.  Let him …     deal with it …!  Let him deal with the fallout of his own willful and stupid choices.  Not us.

 

At Mehitable’s behest, I was switching vehicles with AmTaham, Daddy ending up with our Shit – Box Dodge of a wagon to use till we returned and I delivered his wife back to his doorstep in the Burg.  In the process for heading out and readying the Baby Blue, AmTaham’s bustleback Seville and from which Caddy’s luxuriously leather rear I had had for just ever to continuously take from a controlling and meddlesome Mehitable backseat – driving directions and directives this way and that as to how to conduct and improve my piloting, I mentioned something to Grandpa AmTaham as Mirzah, now only 2½ months shy of his tenth birthday, happily helped us both with the loading.  “Say, Daddy, I happen to think Mirzah here is growing up into the absolute kindest person I’ve ever known to walk the face of the Earth.” 

 

An ever so slight but definitely proud smile pulled at both corners of AmTaham’s mouth as he glanced sideways and twinkled toward Mirzah who was resolutely piling three little overnight bags, his own and his two bros’ too, into the Blue’s trunk, “You do, do you?!”  A hoisting effort Mirzah made with that unique lower lip of his firmly pushed inward and with his front, top incisors clenching down on it while pretending not to make too much of my and his Grandpa’s complimenting comments.

 

“I do, Daddy,” repeatedly nodding, I answered in a most solemn tone also feigning a rather matter – of – fact seriousness to my demeanor, same as was Mirzah’s.  When, in reality, I was so warmed, so made calmed and imbued with reason regarding things of the future by this youth and was so filled with awe that, just in that transitory moment out there on the Othello driveway beside two of the greatest people ever I had met in my life, I knew AmTaham knew, too, how bursting inside I felt at having grown and borne such a wondrous little person who, from so very, very early on, just knew how to be around all other people it seemed. 

 

Mirzah, his glowing golden hair not yet turning too much darker from its dazzling platinum color which all three of the Truemaier Boys had countenanced when they were first such gorgeous babies, had had the least amount of time on the Planet to get to know either AmTaham or me due, of course, to his happenstance placement as third child of mine and as the very last one of seven grandchildren, all of them grandsons, for AmTaham.  But true it is:  such a sweeter disposition, a more loving nature and a purer, exquisitely inquisitive desire to learn new stuff every single day I had never witnessed in someone else before Mirzah.  It was most evident to me, seriously or even kidding around – wise, that here before us two adult Trues stood one mightily fine human being, the likes out of which composition future dalai lamas and mahatmas are made. 

 

Mirzah had patience.  Patience not unlike Grandpa AmTaham himself possessed.  With AmTaham’s and my states of deafness, we both could always, always count on Mirzah, without our first pleading or even initially summoning him to come up closely to us, to enunciate clearly and to repeat himself if need be.  And ... as often as need be.  With none of this ordinary, routine effort on Mirzah’s part did he ever manifest the least bit of snippiness, impudence, flippancy or snide attitude.  Most unlike Herry’s demeanor or even Mehitable’s so – called adult behaviors to both AmTaham and to me with our deafness.  Here was a mere kid who at four, five, six, seven years of age actually appeared to know what it must be like to be deaf and, for that matter with a verisimilar approach to the same type of interactions with his Grandma Mehitable, to be blind, too!

 

You liked a certain jacket or this or that toy of his?  Off its hook and out of the toy box, then, came the garment and the plaything or game – and it was yours.  Not just to borrow, not just to use for awhile although you were most welcome to do that, too, if you liked; but it was yours to take home with you.    And keep.  Period.  I remember these acts of Mirzah’s back in Pennsylvania and Missouri so, so well.    And often.  Nearly every day and unquestionably every week or so.

 

It was like Mirzah was a Mennonite or a Quaker long before he’d ever even heard of a meetinghouse somewhere and had taken into direct action for himself a creed and the discipline to perform continual acts of charities during his childhood.  Deeds that he could only have imagined or have been innately provided the knowledge and the will to know about and to do because he was somehow more endowed with or cloaked in things spiritual and ancestral than any other babe I had met.  Because while I, in those early years of Mirzah’s, had taken him and his two brothers just a very few times, less than half a dozen is all probably, to a lutheran church worship on Sunday mornings, Mirzah had never once attended a christian sunday school group or, as a matter of fact, a class that was taught by anyone of the World’s other organized and so – called great religions on any other day of the week either.  Mirzah had not had any other adults, professing their own holiness or to being priestly, authoritatively telling him he ought to obey this or that religious rule or canon or to do good works or to be kind or to make all of his everyday actions honorable.  None of that – formally, that is.  Still.  He did.  Mirzah was a morally good, good atheist boy.

 

AmTaham I could tell was beaming inside while gazing upon his youngest progeny so helpful here while listening to me, his littlest’s ma, joyously cite such common incidences of Mirzah’s open hand and kind heart.  I found it very easy to read my daddy.  Maybe because we shared the same Winter Solstice birth date, therefore the same stars, maybe because we silently both shared being unable to hear very well in a World most impatient and imbecilic around deaf individuals, maybe because I was simply so, so like him also possessing that passion for learning the relationships of things and words and concepts to each other and, most likely of all the reasons, because I had adored and loved AmTaham for just ever – was I mighty good at perceiving his bent or penchant at any particular time on any particular matter.

 

And AmTaham was thinking that Mirzah was, indeed, special.  AmTaham couldn’t go to Wisconsin with us, but I imagined he was spinning his circuits on just what he could swing with regard to time off for himself, once we all came back, so that he could spend more and more time with his Truemaier grandsons, especially with this one – of whom he had not come to know for as long as he had Jesse and Zane.

 

*     *      *     *

 

The Boys and I returned this person, Mehitable, to Williamsburg and to AmTaham True a few days after the Fourth of July.  This entire particular 1988 road trip through Wisconsin’s summertime, whether to her fat, motor – mouthed self propped up and plopped down into the very middle of Blue’s backseat or to her packed and boulder – like form hovering on the edge of a motel room’s crushed mattress or after my first having to listen to her whine from a bench seat in one of the gaudiest corners of The House on the Rock,     I had to answer, to explain, to defend.  Always, always defending myself I was.  And always, always in front of Mirzah, Jesse and Zane as well. 

 

Hardly an ‘Independence’ Day, Mehitable’s leveling of charges of inferiority, idiocy and hopelessness left me with the near – ultimate in the deliberate undermining and the fucking over of a mother’s authority –   by a mother.  At no time during those first days of Mehitable’s finally knowing that Herry’d left, was I,   her very child and from my own mother’s lips then – or any day since, given simple, unconditional understanding, empathy and compassion.  Let alone, any manner of emotional backing that one gives another, that one gives any other, who has been wronged.  As in … unspeakably, unconscionably and morally wronged and is deep within the throes of injustice.  This specific mother did not grant me even   the very least benefit of the doubt as to why our marriage had gone south, not to mention, go herself to   The Mat and The Ends of the Earth to support, let alone sustain and uplift, me – her child.  Dr. Phyllis Chesler speaks to this genre of adult woman’s mother and her kids’ grandmother in Chesler’s voluminous and stunning 1989 bedrock piece, Mothers on Trial:  The Battle for Children and Custody as well.  Some female Ancestor this predator of her own young is ... As the mother I myself was then as Mehitable’s adult child and as the mother and the grandmother who I now am, I shall not forget this.  Mehitable’s behavior.  Ever.  I shall never, never forget this.

 

We, Zane, Jesse, Mirzah and I, came back to Ames and Othello Drive to try to pick up the pieces of this family smashup and, at the very least, have somewhat of a memorable half summer or so still left that I’d earlier promised myself I was going to try so hard to give my Boys.  I cannot remember now, however, hardly any more of that summer, that autumn and the end of that calendar year – other than a very few smatterings.  One of those things I do remember and a most grievous error on my part for agreeing to the arrangement at all:  Every single Friday night through Sunday night they, my Sons, through every single weekend of all of those months, were all gone from me and from our family home, Herry’s bachelor pad.  And they, Mirzah, Jesse and Zane, were about to be truly missing to me.  In every sense of that word:  missing.  I should have been preparing myself to flee.  I mean that.  Literally.  I should have been preparing myself to flee the country with them.  Instead of what I was about – which was trying so hard, especially when I was falling asleep alone at night, to believe that Herry was off healing himself so that he could come back to us all. 

 

“Herry told us he wasn’t really married to you.”

 

On my journey back to the Boys’ bedroom, it was Zane’s voice coming straight up at me from his play down on the carpet as I passed through the vastness of that living room in the Forest that in it could’ve held a full – sized grand piano and wedding receptions.  In my periphery, I saw both Mirzah’s and Jesse’s heads come bolt upright from their Lego block constructions.  All six of their ears probably perked up, too, just like their heads had jerked up, all of them collectively awaiting whatever response from me.

 

“What?  What’d you say, Honey?”

 

“Herry told Jesse and Mirzah and me that he wasn’t really ever married to you at all.”  The Boys only and always addressed their father – because of Herry’s own totalitarian commandment – by his first name.  Never by “Daddy” or “Father”, “Papa” or “Pa”, “Pops” or “Poppy”.  In my entire lifetime, I have never, never, ever heard any one of my three children call the man whose haploid sperm spawned them all “Dad”.

 

“I see.  This was when?  He said this to you when?” I asked, buying some time.  When I was in veterinary medical school studying to be a practitioner, we students were coached, that when trying to diagnose  during a simple office visit or a farm call, to play for more time.  Take Bessie’s temperature; stick that thermometer in, then plug the stethoscope into your ears and listen to her abomasum.  This would buy you, the doc, some quiet and probably uninterrupted thinking time. 

 

And was I ever trying to think now of what Herry was up to.  Just exactly, I am quizzing myself, how did this short statement of Zane’s to me right now sound anything like self – inventory, self – assessment and a treatment or healing if it, indeed, had come to them from Herry?  And what was he doing saying such stuff at all to little Boys?  Let alone, to children who were hearing this as if it were a father’s personal August and September birthday presents to them!?  More upheaval and now this, this bolt, this ambuscade coming square at them was happening right around the six – week period when all of their birthdays are celebrated.  Jesse was now 10, Zane 12 and Mirzah 9, by that autumn and next, new school year.  My Boys’ summer had again ended.  And as nowhere at all near the fun – filled and relaxing one that I had meant for it to be for them. 

 

“Last time we were there.”

 

The 24^th Street one – bedroom apartment had quickly changed for Herry to an even smaller – sized one on Ames’ South Fourth Street.  He must have contacted the same realtor who initially had secured for him a residence in that first 24 hours of Herry’s egress.  This second apartment existed in a much larger, brick building complex, probably one with laundry machines although I have no idea.  His was a studio.  When   I dropped the Boys off there on a couple of Friday evenings and the front door to Herry’s unit opened, one was greeted immediately by a nearly bare double bed, only white sheets and one cased bed pillow upon it, stretching out lengthwise perpendicularly to the doorway and about four steps in from it and parallel to the faux walnut – grain television set at the bed’s foot.  A wee bit further in to the apartment’s one total room was the kitchenette to the left with its very small table straight ahead and positioned underneath the studio’s one window to the south.  Two beige kitchen chairs, each with plastic seat covers tucked under them, were shoved upside the table.  Immediately to the right of “the dining area” and nearly lost into the lone room’s back corner stood a simple pole lamp beside an orange vinyl reading chair.  That was it. 

 

Why had Dr. Edinsmaier, still of course, in possession of his single – engine and his twin – engine flying machines housed out at a behemoth of a hanger–“apartment” due west of Manhattan, Kansas, two states away –– why had Herry – Daddee Edinsmaier chosen for his three little human being babes, and not for his airplane babes, to move in here in particular?  To have a mighty fine and appropriate dwelling for his three young chaps to play and to grow in?  Perhaps it was because the wee and nondescript unit’s location, unlike his first 24^th Street dominion, was only about 2½ minutes’ driving time from Herry’s branch laboratory.  All of a sudden, though, true it was:  my three active human children were not, on weekends, going eleven blocks north to at least two rooms to play in but were, instead, crammed into this darkened recess inside a characterless pile of brick and mortar.  A tiny hidey – hole where Zane, Jesse and Mirzah would spend     48 hours of every one of those hot and cold weeks, that’s every single weekend, of the last half of 1988.  “How is this … healing?” I am thinking to and querying myself.

 

“O – kaaay.  Wha’da’ya s’pose your dad meant by that, Zane?”  All Lego pieces fell silent, not even fingered, none even touched.  All three Boys, sitting crossed – legged now, just stared straight up at me as  I turned around from the hallway portal to their bedroom and came back into the living room, shocked at my own children’s revelation to me yet trying so desperately not to show them any sign of horror.

 

Zane, so inquisitive, such a brilliantly perceptive creature all of his dozen years so far and possessing so giving a nature, too, also like Mirzah’s, I could see by his beseeching, yearning and questioning gaze, was so trying to make this thing he’d been told by Herry – Daddee just ... not so.  Anybody looking, anyone truly listening could have seen the immense sorrow in his and his brothers’ eyes.  It didn’t take a supersmart grownup to figure out that, “If mama and daddy had never really gotten married, then even though I was about four months old and out of mama’s belly when I thought they actually did get married – but they didn’t, well then, then, … then I really am ... a bastard kid!  An’ … and now?  Now it’s also true that my little brothers are, too!”

 

Having had suspicions all of my then 40 years about the true intent, the motive behind and the purpose of christianity and not really knowing most of the precepts and canons of the Earth’s other so – called “great religions” but finding from what little I did know of them by this age of mine their true intents, motives and purposes also enormously suspect, this apocalypse of Zane’s this very day marked, for me standing alone there in the company and witness of only my three little babies, the very moment of my monumental distrust of any and all things forced, commanded and dominated by men.  And of all those things that a person gets force – fed over the course of her entire lifetime, my absolute and now total loathing of organized religion everywhere the World over began that day in earnest. 

 

It would not be until 12 years later and coming to me from a like mind in Georgia living right next door to my tax dollar – supported School of the Americas in Columbus which was therefore functioning ‘in my name’ that I would know of the thinking and writings of ecologist and feminist, Dr. Anne Primavesi, in her From Apocalypse to Genesis: Ecology, Feminism and Christianity.  Where, in anyone’s World, is it written that Herry – Daddee Edinsmaier can think up this fuck and then actually go ahead and do this?  Perform this little itty bitty soliloquy of his to anybody … let alone, to his own little itty bitty kids? 

 

Unless and because he thought himself to actually possess me as his slave, as other, as inferior, as not the measure by which he, Herry, had to live.  I, the woman, the Not Male Professor Stoltenberg terms me as in his 1989 Refusing to Be A Man:  Essays on Sex and Justice, I, the woman, was not the standard.  Only he, the man, the adult male of our particular family coupling, was.  The standard by which anything and everything in our lives was to be measured. 

 

Including … whether we were actually –– or thought “and spoken about” as actually –– married … or not.  Dr. Primavesi in her Chapter Seven, Ecofeminism and Christian Imagery, wherein she is there addressing also judaism, hinduism, buddhism and islam as well as the experiences of women in other traditions encompassing all races of humankind, writes of “church liturgy, the commonest experience of the christian tradition and one in which subliminal messages about sex – gender roles are given an illusory aura of sanctity.” 

 

It’s all in the image, isn’t it?  The deception … of pureness, of holiness, of … correctness.  Of … Human Being – ness.  And, therefore following of course, of power and dominion over.  A male judge from his bench and in his written documentation of a decree that awarded sole custody of a little four – year – old boy to his unemployed father stated that the husband – abused mother, the child’s solitary primary caregiver for all of his short 48 months and a part – time college student 24 years old sporting a cropped bob, had better learn, among many other things the judge, the man, told her she needed to learn, “to look more like a woman” and, therefore, more like a mother.  She needed to, he wrote and therefore decreed as law, grow out her hair long.  That was his measure, his standard of what constituted her being considered by him as a good – enough mother and, therefore, possibly being given the ‘award’ of the custody of the man’s property, his child, not her child, to her – exactly, of course, in a precise straight line with the thinking, the practices and the writings also of the ancient Greeks, of Aristotle, of Socrates and of Plato … all of whom taught their students, male only of course – those students, and, subsequently, all of recorded history since, that women were only the vehicle, the vessel for the production of a man’s creation, of a man’s seed.  She, Woman, was not at all the reason that there were children in the World – that there is a World of human beings at all – according to ancient Greek men we so honor, revere and thereby oftentimes quote today.  And, apparently, a whole host of countries, belief systems and religions elsewhere before and since these Greek ‘thinkers’ – as well.

The obvious emphases are mine in these next five, excerpted paragraphs from the work of the Prophetess              Dr. Rosalind Miles.  From off of pages 102 through 106 of her The Sins of the Mothers, ie Chapter Five within her     2001 masterpiece edition of The Women’s History of the World dead on and straight up, Dr. Miles has the explanation for this … judge … of family law custody … and for other such Edinsmaier – like pillared men in despotic positions of power:  “WHEN MAN MADE HIMSELF GOD, HE MADE WOMAN LESS THAN HUMAN.  The reduction of the whole sex to the one basic function of childbearing did not make women more acceptable to the patriarchal opinion – makers.  On the contrary, downgraded from human being, woman stood revealed as ‘a most arrogant and intractable animal’ (per Julia O’Faolain in her 1973 Not in God’s Image:  Woman in History) –– and this monster, born of the father gods’ sleep of reason, came to threaten their days and haunt their nights for a thousand years and more.  The consequent campaign of hate against women’s animal physicality, pursued from the dawn of Judaism to the birth of the early modern world, has now emerged as one of the most decisive historical facts in the story of women.

For women’s history is not composed of the history of external events in linear progression.  Wars, dynasties and empires have come and gone within a shorter span of time, and with less impact on women’s lives, than the practice of menstrual taboos, for instance, or female infanticide.  Such themes shape women’s lived experience far more than dates and deeds; and the patterns they create are continuous, circular, unchanging over many generations.  The attack on women’s bodies that was one of the most marked consequences of the imposition of patriarchal monotheism has no convenient onset or conclusion –– but it was a principal determining factor of every woman’s history over an extended period of time.  It signaled, precipitated even, the decline of women into their long night of feudal oppression and grotesque persecution.  Only the accelerating descent to the lowest pitch of physical misery could produce the momentum required for the slow climb back to … full humanity. 

Why did women’s bodies become such a crucial battleground in the sex war?  The answer to this lies at the heart of the masculine struggle for supremacy.  By denoting women as separate, different, inferior and therefore rightly subordinate, men made women the first and largest out – group in the history of the races.  But it is impossible to exclude women totally from all the affairs of men.  No other subordinated class, caste or minority lives as closely integrated with its oppressor as women do; the males of the dominant culture have to allow them into their homes, kitchens, beds.  Control at these close quarters can be maintained only by inducing women to consent to their own downgrading.  Since women are not inferior, they had to be bombarded with a massive literature of religious, social, biological and, more recently, psychological ideology to explain, insist, that women are secondary to men.  And to make women believe that they are inferior, what better subject for this literature of religious teaching, cautionary folk tales, jokes and customs, than the female … body?  By destroying the basic site of human confidence and sense of self, by dumping in sexual guilt and physical disgust, men could ensure women’s insecurity and dependence.  There is no mistaking the true nature and purpose of the worldwide, orchestrated, rising crescendo of onslaughts on women during these centuries.  Every patriarch fulminating in denigration of the sex was engaged in as brutal a bid for women’s abject capitulation as the gang – raping Mundurucu of the South Seas whose tribal boast was, ‘We tame our women with the banana.’ ”  Recall Herry’s teaching the next and 21^st Century generation of males spawned by three spurts of his own exalted haploid sperm cells Why Bicycles Are Better Than the Human Female … Body.

Prophetess Miles continues, “Yet the sheer volume of prescriptive material, the huge battery of devices aimed against women, while they argue the high level of male anxiety, imply too the strength of women’s resistance.  For woman was an ‘intractable animal,’ and She displayed her brute unreason nowhere more clearly than in her refusal to acquiesce in her own subjection.  The violence and continuance of the denunciations imply a consistency and continuance of the prohibited behavior that made all the prescriptions necessary in the first place.  The battery of social and legal controls also indicate the exact areas of masculine anxiety; and there was no part of the female body that did not in some way give rise to panic, fear, anger, or deep dread.

For women were dangerous in every part of their anatomy; from top to toe.  Luxuriant hair could excite lust.  …  Within the face woman concealed one of her most potent and treacherous weapons, her tongue.  A proverb found in almost all languages nervously insists that ‘the only good wife is a silent one.’  …  The head was at least the seat of whatever reason a woman might have.  From there down her body was nothing but ‘the devil’s playground.’ ”

And these paragraphs of the Prophetess’s?  About Woman’s body?  They just begin to skim the surface of the issues of the vagina and, by its extending physiology, ah er, by the reason of science!!! … menstrual blood.  Over the course of recent, recorded history, that is at least the last 12 millennia or so, mothers, not fathers and not other men, are fucked through with such saws and proverbs as Dr. Edinsmaier’s bicycle one and along with related taboos down through history as i) “A woman’s body is filthy and vile and not a vessel for the law” and  ii) “Three things are insatiable –– the dessert, the grave and a woman’s cunt” both from the Arab area of the World, the first one Hindu worshippers’ Buddha himself stated about females and as regards their wielding absolutely no power whatsoever, and iii) from Jewish and some Native American tribal men, “A menstruous woman is the work of the Devil.  A woman in her courses is not to gaze upon the sacred fire, sit in water, behold the sun or hold conversation with … a man.”

So.  So this lawman, this particular judge?  This one pronouncing law down upon a short – haired mama and her four – year – old child?  This supposedly ‘learned’ guy speaking and writing decrees, writing canons about a worthy – enough mother’s hair length?  From those times of the old Greek literal mother – fuckers was he?  This judge of Woman?  No!  No, he was not!  He is from “the Year of Our Lord” …   2000 “AD” … in a country called the United States of America residing and decreeing custody laws in a county in the eastern part of allegedly the most highly educated state in the World’s supposedly most advanced and progressive Union, the State called Iowa.  And signed by him into the law which currently governs this one, now very – fucked young mama on the first and newest one of the 21^st Century’s International Women’s Days, 08 March!

 

Considering Legion True’s phenomenon of flip – reverse, Dr. Primavesi further writes, “Suppose you are   a man, a member of a predominately male congregation.  All through your church life you have heard only women’s voices lead in prayer and only they have preached.  You have seen only women preside at rituals in the sanctuary, and only they have blessed or absolved the living and the dead.  You have heard only feminine words used for yourself and your fellow worshippers.  You have been assured that these are intended to be inclusive of both sexes; that whenever the officiating woman says womankind she means all humanity.  You are presumed to understand that when you sing of the Motherhood of God and the Sisterhood of Woman you are praying that all men as well as women come to experience true sisterhood.  Your son is baptized, and the congregation thanks God that he has been reborn as God’s daughter.  How do you feel when you notice that feminine words and imagery alone are used for God?  You ask about this and are told that these are merely semantic forms, and that, of course, since God is transcendent, there is no question that She is female in a sexual sense.  If you persist and find the nerve to protest about the exclusive use of ‘Mother of God’, saying that it does something to your sense of male dignity and integrity, a learned cleric may explain that in the matriarchal society which formed the tradition of the wording of scripture, liturgy and theology could emerge only in matriarchal language.  You may press on and ask why, when there is a real effort now in society at large to redress the effects of matriarchy, little or nothing, is being done in Christian churches.  Then you will be told that while Christians believe that God is ultimately beyond sexual categorization, She sent Her Daughter down into this fallen world to make God known to us, and that we know that God is fully revealed in Her.  Furthermore, this Daughter called God ‘Mother’ and told us to do the same.  During Her life, She passed on Her intimate knowledge of God to some chosen women friends She called My Disciples, and they passed it on to others.  This means Christians can be sure they are right when they speak about God and claim a special relationship with Her.  This relationship is made possible through the power of Her Spirit handed on to chosen women who hand it on to others. 

 

If you still persist in your questioning you may ask, if God is asexual, have females only been chosen to represent this God.  Then you will be told that as in Eve all women sinned, then through God’s Daughter all womankind will be redeemed.  As Adam and Nature led Eve into sin, so they are to be subordinate to her.  As ordained representatives of the Daughter Who has saved us, women have the power to baptize men into a new relationship with God whereby they also are made God’s daughters.  This is the relationship we should all aspire to.  The hierarchy which has subordinated men, you will be taught, established matriarchy as the way in which God can be correctly related to and spoken about.  Primacy is given to female bodies and imagery since they are associated with the revelation of God in Her Daughter and our Redemption by that Daughter.”      It’s all in the image, isn’t it?

 

At least –– until Reason … prevails.  And there’s finally – altogether – none of this god / goddess / fairies’ telling of tales!  This peace of mind will be a long, long time in coming – what with an actual majority of the members of the current United States Congress (publicly stating, anyhow, their) believing in the magic and the fantasy of the fairies known in all of christendom and very many other religions, too, as … angels.

 

*     *     *     *

 

This autumnal day of Zane’s question to me was still two years away from The Conversation, the conversation about belief systems and the entire fallibility of the World’s so – called “great religions” that just the two of us, Daddy and I, finally did engage in while we were both cleaning paintbrushes in the Havencourt basement.  The one where AmTaham True actually apologized to me, his adult child, for having all 40 of my years forced me to exactingly and punctiliously attend this male – mandated thing called christian worship service and sunday school for all of my first two decades of life. 

 

Coming as it did – that conversation – 58 years! after AmTaham True, himself, had been forced by his German American head schoolmaster, Herr Minister So – And – So, to “believe what it is I tell you to believe!” the controlling Herr Minister’s right index finger repeatedly thumping and thrusting itself deep into AmTaham’s 12 – year – old chest after Herr Minister had first yanked him up and out of his desk chair and screamed this commanding order at the Adolescent AmTaham in front of all of his classmates.  Just because Daddy had in 1931, to the then so – called teacher, raised a hand in rebuttal and proceeded to recount to the rest of the roomful about the bones of a monkey – like critter known as Lucy which had earlier been unearthed during that mid 1920s’ decade somewhere way off on a continent known as Africa.  A truly classic “textbook” case in history – making and, subsequently, in history – teaching to the World’s next generation of George Orwell’s, “He who controls the present controls the past; and he who controls the past, controls the future.”

 

And, further still, I had had to go through this phallic fiat of regularly attending christianity – grounded rituals after AmTaham not only knew how he himself felt about them and their religious canons but also after he had discussed all of this issue in gargantuan detail for several years with Rowland, Wyman and Sterling, my uncle, my first and dearest cousin and my only brother, all of the men closest to me as my male relatives.  AmTaham had debated on this massive a matter with none of us female children – or cousins or aunts or sisters.  Were we, AmTaham’s three daughters, even then not worthy of enough respect and honor to have been included in a man’s philosophical and religious discussions, especially in one where repudiation and disavowal of something he did not at all believe in was at issue?!  Not even then!  

 

This, unlike my Daddy in Chapter Eighteen I have to say, is one of the very, very, very few times that I, as a child of his, am really angry and truly disgusted with AmTaham True.  He hadn’t even respected me enough, his own child – and that disrespect of his appears to me to have been because I am a female – to entrust me with such a disclosure as to this belief, or more accurately, as to this non – belief of his.  And, as importantly,  I and at least my two sisters had been made to suffer as well as to suffer through the ultimate hypocrisy and these so – dangerous – to – our – spirits’ teachings for years and more years by having to attend and (at the least for me) feign belief in these christian rituals, this unscience! these untruths! throughout all of our childhoods.

 

Why?  To keep us daughters so in fear of our own sexual desires and longings through our hating our breasts and our vaginas?  Our G – spots and clitorises?  Our very own blood … for chris’s sake?!!!  Loathing ourselves through religious canons pontificating on and on about our own vileness and filth and that we should be so – so careful with our purities so as to not ever become sullied, not to mention, PG! – preggers! – pregnant?!  Thereby, dare I say it – supposedly embarrassing, humiliating, dishonoring the beJESUS out of the males in our families?!  Just “allow” us … chemical birth control, for fucks’ sake!  

 

“Wha’da’ya s’pose he meant by that?” I repeated it now to all of them more or less – or was it to myself?  And the thin air.  I did not think I could stall my reply any longer.  Zane, Jesse and Mirzah had been raised up all of their short lives within the near lily white, Anglo – Germanic culture of christianity, including such manner for marrying, even if they themselves had not been made to suffer its practices, schedules, canons and conventions … its dogma.  Their daycares except for when we were able to have a quality nanny in our home and their schooling except for Mirzah’s four – year – old months at a Missouri Montessori, had also all been public and much of it in a Midwest setting – through three different plains states.  That culture, too.  Here, they full well knew, even Mirzah did, what “not married” would mean.  For them, for me, for the culture where we all lived – or at least they could imagine what “that kind” of a woman – man relationship means. 

 

Simply stated, it meant that … I was bad.  And that they, too, Jesse, Mirzah and Zane, as growths out of and extensions from me, were also bad.  That is what “not married” meant.  And that was the reason for their gazing stares up at me now.  Nowhere in those lovely and sorrowful azure eyes of theirs could I see that … Herry was bad.    Just me and just them.  Or, that there was some kind of mistake on Herry’s part here.

 

We, the four of us, we were somehow … wrong.  Wrong at whatever we had been calling “our lives.”  Herry, the man, the male of the woman – man couple, was The Standard Measure of things.  And, thereby also, not wrong, of course.  If he says we are not really married and since he is the man and would, by that fact alone therefore know,

–– and around whom then all things should be measured and standardized, then we were not married.  And we four?  We were, therefore, bad.  Dr. Herod Edinsmaier had spoken.  Had “spoken about” ... us. 

 

That?  That had done it for me.  Those six sad eyes and that unstated but collective understanding of ours – were exactly for me what the Herr schoolmaster’s index finger – thumps into 12 – year – old AmTaham’s breastbone had been for him.  This mother – fucking shit slopping straight out of Herry’s mouth to the ears of all of my little Boys not only was breaking their little Spirits, it’d just, indeed, made all of those Sons of mine ... ... bastards.  And a truer non – believer out of me and my Spirit there could not have been more instantly created!

 

Ironic and peculiarly queer it was that this aversion of mine to patriarchal religiosity should happen to me at just the very time that Herry began taking up any, let alone, excessive churchiness again.  For all of the entire time that I had known Dr. Herod Edinsmaier which by this Autumn of 1988, numbered right at 14½ years, Herry so highly prized countenancing himself off as – and loudly proclaimed to any and to all who may wonder or actually inquire if he were – an atheist.  From my and others including his family members, particularly his mother and father, personally witnessing these exchanges with other people and his regular daily deportment and demeanor regarding anything spiritual or god – based, it was easy for all of us to see that Herry was not only an atheist but a vehemently professing one at that! 

 

Because of this, religion and even spirituality or faith in anything beyond one’s self were never the subjects of any discussions between the two of us.  Ever.  And while Dr. Edinsmaier never outright stopped me from taking the Boys to the very, very few christian worship services, all of them lutheran until their becoming all Quaker Silences commencing in November 1983, that I did take them to, he also never accompanied us to any of them at all either.  Except for the very first couple to three times we all went to Quaker meeting in Missouri, First Day meetings for worship there on the University of Missouri campus in Columbia, that was it for him.  Nor did he, having been raised up in a family of 14 pregnancies in 20 years with 12 term births and 11 living children a stout roman catholic by rabidly devout parents and siblings one of whom, herself a catholic sister who had left her nunneryness in order to marry not just any guy but a guy who had been a practicing catholic priest, attend anything catholic along the  way of our growing family.  And before my 10 March 1974 meeting him at the Campustown saloon – discothèque or our having any children whatsoever together, Herry – Daddee had not been attending anything catholic either.      I think not since his being totally away from things and matters parental had Herry been avowing anything catholic.  Or, anything just plain christian, for that matter.

 

“Wha’da’ya s’pose he meant by that?” I had asked Zane.

 

“Well, Herry said that since … aah, aah, a priest kind of a guy didn’t say the words on the day of you and Herry being at the church, it didn’t actually count for him and you getting married.  An’, and … aah, Herry also said that, aah, it was the wrong kind of church, too.  Was it, Mom?”

 

*     *     *     *

 

True it was:  This vitriolic shitfuck from Herry was ... had to be ... The Last Straw.  Absolutely.  I had never, ever heard of such a horrible thing to say to one’s children, one’s little, little children.  Or, about one’s marriage to the mother of those same youngsters.  Never.  I had never heard of such a massively hypocritical statement about the history of a man with a woman, any woman, let alone, with me.

 

Is it any wonder then that I absolutely abhor christianity?  Or, anything that smacks of patriarchally mandated canons or androcentric precepts of organized religion?  Of organized male – generated or male – initiated religions or belief systems or alleged ‘faiths’ anywhere in the entire World?

 

In one itty bitty dictum by a vehemently professed atheist –– now however attending a christian worship service   and one which was roman catholic of course every single weekday noontime plus late Saturday afternoons as well, that is six goddamn days out of every seven –– Dr. Herod Edinsmaier had so tyrannically leveled for me and for my Boys any kind of a family life and structure which I had built up for them.  All 12 – plus years of it.  Linguistically torn down and smashed into shambles by Despot Herry – Daddee’s declaration of it – his declaration of us all –      as nothing more than a shameful sham.

 

I would come to find out a wee bit later:  No one exacts and works revenge like Herod Edinsmaier exacts and   works it.  This incredibly excessive churchiness of Herry’s would look so, so good on a pillared father in family law court going after sole custody of Mirzah, Jesse and Zane along with the maximum child support charted by statute –             as if he were loaded for bear.  “Always, always workin’ the angles, aren’tcha’ Herry?!” 

 

One time, a Tuesday noontime it was, I went just to see for myself if what I had been hearing was really true or not.  And sure enough:  there he was, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier.  Before the same alter of the same church, st. thomas saniqua catholic church, as was that of the pulpit and domain of a squatty, robed man by the name of “father” james elppus, the very same (so nooooot so) “reverend” who had screamed into our Pammel Court apartment’s telephone receiver in September 1976, when Herry and I were seeking christian baptism for Zane in a joint lutheran / catholic ceremony that I was a slattern and a slut and that Zane was, indeed, my bastard baby boy.  And that there would be no friggin’ way, not even in a frozen – over hell’s worth of existence, that he, elppus, would ever, ever preside over any such “sacred” event for Zane –– jointly with the lutherans next door across the parking lot at the memorial lutheran church or any which way otherwise either.  And, furthermore, elppus lambasted me that he would immediately upon his hanging up be contacting that other local one of his ilk, the st. cecil’s catholic church (the house of the lord’s gymnasium, we recall, wherein in a wee dozen years’ time to come would be Herry – Daddee’s frotteuristic grope of Grace at my second – born Jesse’s and her Nathan’s youth basketball game) and warn the priests over there, too, of this evil plot by a whore and her misbegot whoreson!  That … “reverend”.

 

Sure enough:  right there in this midst all right shone Dr. Herry Edinsmaier genuflecting and making the sign of the cross and kneeling and singing hallelujahs and bowing his head while appearing to left and right murmur long ago – memorized prayer phrases just as fast and as catholically correct as all of the other parishioners around him …       all of whom that noon were either old, blue – haired ladies or twenty – something female college students, plain in their dress and plain in their faces.  Yup! –– all on a Tuesday at about 12:10 in the mother – fucking afternoon.

 

I had been brought down.  All the mother – fucking way down.  Again.  By a guy healing himself?  Riiiiiight.   These words to Jesse and to Zane and to Mirzah, these were the words and this was the act of a pornography –  consuming and – supplying, narcissistic, exhibitionistic, passive – aggressive, misogynistic hypocrite.  Who was anything but healed or healing.  Or ... ever intending to try to!

 

By far and away, it was and it remains the hypocrisy of the man, Dr. Edinsmaier, that then stopped and that, right now, continues to stop me from any possible chance at being duped any further.  I am unable, if I am to keep my dignity and my integrity from being thrown again into the toilet and flushed, to allow myself to be made again stupid by this mother – fucker. 

 

That day I began to believe I was never going to know marriage to Herry Edinsmaier any longer.  Nor ever again. 

 

Still.  I did not then know just how unmarried, if we were or were not before now, ... just how unmarried we were about to become.  For the unwed and unbound part, I should have fallen on my knees in grateful praise and thanksgiving.  To pagan goddesses or, rather, to my wonderful, strong and finally freed Goddess – Self, of course.  As to the amount and the type of violence to follow, I knew nothing then of what women’s shelters the World over know:  When a woman either leaves a man or tells that man to leave and to only return when he’s sorry and able to acknowledge his wrongdoing and injustices and is willing not only to try to but also actually changes himself, then … then is when She the Woman is most at risk and in great, grave danger.  The violence and the vengeance that    He the Man – and a pillared one to boot – will unleash and be able to come at her with and to wield against her will be of such force and magnitude the likes of which she cannot even begin to imagine at the first.  As Mama Kay finds out in Godfather III when she has not only been cast away but Husband Corleone has sashayed on over to the soirée at the vatican bastille of that particular exalted, all – male bastion, “When they come, they’ll come at what ya’ love.”

 

O o o o o so, so true this is.  Even with my Ancestors alongside me, thousands and thousands and millennial years of them beside me and mightily unlike the dude in the story of Amistad, I stood not a chance against the evil broiling within the boiling brain of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier. 

 

I turned directly into the full view of my three lovely Boys’ faces, “No, Zane, no.  It was not the wrong church at all.  Your daddy and I are married.  And that happened, as you and Jesse and Mirzah have long been told before, on the 18^th day of December in 1976, just about exactly four months after you were born.  Lots and lots of friends came and all of your grandmas and grandpas were there, too.  It was a beautiful wedding, and you?  You were such a good, good little boy all during the whole deal.”

 

He had been, too.  That much was … true.  Even if Herry now wanted to deny that it, the marriage between him and me, had ever happened; and, of course since he was the man – and now such a “religious” man at that – why he certainly could do just that.  But even with that, Dr. Edinsmaier could not deny that my Baby Boy Zane whom Herry’s present priest, elppus ... such a “godly” a guy himself ... was loathe to have called a bastard, had been throughout whatever ceremony it was that had taken place on that particular early Saturday afternoon at Ames’ memorial lutheran church, The Most Wonderful Wedding Baby Ever.