Chapter Twenty – Three Mawwiage: Thy Scientific Name, Thy Scorched – Earth Plague is Misogyny
Chapter Twenty – Three
Mawwiage: Thy Scientific Name, Thy Scorched – Earth Plague
is Misogyny
“Women have very little
idea of how much … men hate them.”
--- The Female Eunuch,
1970, and Germaine Greer’s opening sentence, p 245,
of the first chapter,
“Loathing and Disgust,” in its Part IV entitled “Hate”
Costumes, I’m supposed to be thinking hard about
costumes. And carving the perfect
pumpkin into the perfect jack – o’ – lantern.
Thinking so hard, in fact, that I as the witchy mother of three very
Samhain – spirited youngsters had better’ve had solidly in mind by the date
that Mr. Jinx and I had filed our initial response what were to be Mirzah,
Jesse and Zane’s trick – or – treat outfits for 1988! Here Halloween was less than a week away, and
I hadn’t a clue. Nor a stitch sewn. And not a pumpkin seed drying anywhere.
Most days I couldn’t think.
At least not on anything purposefully focused at all. Quakers and others often, in meditation,
actually strive for this state of blissful non – consciousness, a nirvana to be
intentionally and intently navigated. My
cranium only held in it Mr. Jinx’s directives after such a fat, obtuse and
slobbery man ‘with papers’ had banged on my door on that October’s 04th.
“Get together,” Mr. Jinx emphasized this although he had a
completely blank – like facial expression most difficult to read, “and down on
paper now all of your assets and all of your debits, bills, people and places
you owe and who owes you. Got
educational debt outstanding yet? Yeah,
that too. Taxes from previous years not
yet paid? There’s the matter of the
house you live in there on Othello. Only
purchased a bit over a year ago, you say?
Hhmmm. Well. That’ll have to be sold. So.
Start looking for a realtor right away and get it listed. You’ll want to have it kept clean for showing
then at the drop of a phone call. When
the realtor rings you up, you see, you’ll want, ya’ know, to be able to just
grab the kids and be gone so the people can come over and look at it right
then. You’ll want to be sure and get
this house sold just as soon as possible.
Before we head to settlement would be best, of course, so you need to be
on this right away. It’s in a great
location though, what with it being right beside
It was obvious. Soooo
blatant. Mr. Jinx – right off and outright – did not even believe at all that I, let alone that the kids and I
together, even deserved to stay
living on
He went on, “Here’s the form you need to fill out. It’s the document on property and ownership
of goods and materials, of assets, credits, debits and bills that we’ll be
submitting to the court in ‘your case’ so it carries with it the weight of,
well, like a sworn statement, a deposition like. Just so you know.”
“I don’t swear to things, Mr. Jinx,” I said quietly.
“What?!”
“I don’t swear on documents or
take oaths either.” In that first office
visit to my attorney, I had been trying so hard to hang on to some semblance of
me, some bearing of who I, this actual and real person being
told all of these things, really, really was.
Surrounded there instead, I was, by all of the law books and the colossal
and finely constrained binders, the leather and lemon smells, the so shiny
office trinkets – each without one spot of dust on them, that is, the clear
crystal and gold – plated clock with no cord perfectly ticking out its exact
time and the matching letter opener and the gilded frames of family portraits also
matching, of course, the very,
very well – suited and shapely women in low, very, very tailored taupe pumps,
not a run in a stocking to be seen on any one of them at any time, their coming
in and out and handing Mr. Jinx blank documents as if right on cue or from his
having buzzed for them at the precise moments of where he was in his
explanations to me of the way of things
to come. Which, of course, he had not
done. They just seemed to know, these
females, kind of robotic – like, where Mr. Jinx chronologically was in the
telling to me of this tale that was to become ‘my case’ and, so, at the
appropriate times, these fembots filed in with all of the stuff they already
knew at this particular time would be germane to it.
“Why not? We have to
tell the truth here. That’s what I’m saying
to you, Ms. True. Aahhh, Legion.
May I call you Legion?”
I nodded noting, of course, that I was already assenting to this familiarity
– when, at the very first times of my
being addressed by my new employee, the
lawyer, I had not even been accorded
the respect of the title of doctor, that is, of his first – or ever yet hence – referring to me as the
Doctor True that I am. And was,
then.
“This document means you swear it’s the truth to the best of
your knowledge, Legion. All your
accounts, what you own, all of your possessions, how much you think it’s all
worth on today’s market, who your creditors are and how much you still owe them
all. That’s what this form is. O, yes.
Very important: You have to also tell
on them when you came to own the
stuff, not just how much it’s worth. It
helps the court figure out what you had before you got married, what Dr. Edinsmaier
himself had before that and what the two of you together acquired during the
actual time of marriage to each other before this separation. This is highly important. It’ll help the court decide what should go
with who then afterwards? See?”
“With whom, Mr.
Jinx. The correct English grammar, Mr.
Jinx, is, ‘… help the court decide what should go with whom.’ ” Only I sure as hell
didn’t correct him. I am thinking,
though, how much I’d’ve liked to be a big and hot enough shot to correct him. For sure.
Shit. I was not “seeing”
a damned thing either. I was so angry
and so hurt that I couldn’t even leave the kitchen table most mornings. “See?” Mr. Jinx had queried, not really
expecting no for an answer. Not actually
expecting any answer from me at all. After
Mr. Jinx’s and my first conversation –– as one – sided as it had been. The very thought, just the thought alone, of
my going into the Othello den and there looking around in its drawers and cases
and envelopes and shoeboxes for god knows what in the way of papers and
documents that was Herry’s fucked – up ‘filing system’ for not only our family
but throughout all of our 12 – plus
legally wed years together gave me a nauseous feeling that was not ever to be
assuaged. When it is necessary to go
rummaging and digging through the mounds of court documents or ‘important’
papers of our finances or purchases or ownership together, the nausea and the
desire to resist this very activity swells up immediately right there in my
solar plexus, in the gut of my belly’s inner being, each and every single time ––
all of these years later. My separated
and divorced girlfriends, since, have told me that they feel that very same
feeling inside their very same anatomy.
Performing this probe makes us all nearly instantly want to puke. We do it though, of course. Anyhow.
No costumes from out my hand and heart this year. Of my making there would be no Halloween this
year. This year my breaking heart and bony
hands were busying themselves with those dozen or so years’ worth of our lives
together on the papers from that den.
Eventually I waded through, then brought them all in bunches out to the
kitchen table, the Boys in school.
O, wait! Flip / Reverse: Of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s making – of his ‘working’ – there had never been a Truemaier
Boys’ Halloween! And this year, that Edinsmaier ‘tradition’ among so, so
many of the Slacker’s genre of ‘traditions’ was, again of course, certain to be
continued.
I scribbled and put down on scraps figure after figure and
divided and subtracted. Noooo need
anymore was there for adding or for multiplying. Not in our lives no longer together. Not in our lives now coming fully apart! And sat.
Mostly I sat.
And thought. Well,
whatever it is that can be called ‘thinking’… This was so hard, I have to tell
you.
It was so hard, in fact, that I hadn’t even considered that there
could be something worse than this ‘thinking’ procedure heading toward me. This was so bad in and of itself, how could
there be anything more horrible coming into my future than this? Mehitable and AmTaham, my alleged parental
protectors, should’ve long, long ago made it crystal clear to me, instead, that
exactly the opposite of this solitude
– of this Solitude of Self, Elizabeth Cady (
In addition, however, to the business – like coldness and the
icy stoniness of the calculating that was the mere mathematics of a 12 – year,
modern American marriage, there was another form upon which I was to work
before my next appointment with Mr. Jinx.
This one was a kicker although for a seasoned essay test – taker such as
myself throughout all of veterinary medical classes and who had then routinely
written a single essay answer that often came to a zillion pages in length,
this assignment should’ve been a breeze:
I was instructed by Attorney
Jinx to write about my life.
O, but I needed, Mr. Jinx emphatically dictated to me, to be
very clear on this particular
essay: It should be about my life as a wife and as a mother. “Only throw in a little bit about the vet deal
and the working outside the home thing.
Enough of that only to show that you, ya’ know, … that you are certainly
quite capable of being out in the workforce and making a livelihood.”
Truth be told: what
Mr. Jinx wanted most to show ‘the court’ in ‘my case’ was how much of a fine
and all – attentive mother I was and o’course would, therefore, continue to be. ‘Specially since it’d be utterly evident to
‘the court’, wouldn’t it, ‘the case’ being a divorce case and all, that I must
be –– in the category known as wife –– waaaaay … less than? Mr. Jinx wanted me, in the essay, to be
certain that I showed ‘the court’ that I was at the least a “good – enough mother,” the term that that crone and
long – time feminist, Dr. Phyllis Chesler, calls us … us “mothers on
trial.” Even though for the pillared
professional as was Herry, I –– also a professional … same as Herry I am
thinking but in reality not at
all so the same
–– I was obviously in no way a “good – enough wife.”
At least a good – enough mother despite the very real fact,
though, that this year there were to be no costumes. Not from the workings of the Truemaier Boys’
mama. And, of course, costumes and
things pumpkin – related were not at all to be even expected from out the hand
of, or just in part occupying let alone monopolizing, the mind of their Daddee
Dearest, Dr. Herry Edinsmaier, either.
So. I estimated and
wrote and calculated and formulated. I
cooked and washed and chauffeured, then read the Boys stories, tried to make plausible
– enough excuses for this particular year’s absence of Samhain accoutrements
and, finally, myself fell into bed and fitfully slept only to rise up once
again and cook, chauffeur, estimate, write, calculate and formulate a little
more. And retain a realtor.
* *
* *
All of that but now,
however, with a catch. Literally. Like that catch deep down in one’s
throat. Mr. Jinx’s office would, as I’d
initially been told, serve instantly from now on as my voice to my
husband. My own voice, as it turns out
and, further, was pointedly made so clear to me, hadn’t been working very well,
my words and ideas not being heard nor heeded.
So, therefore, it would not be a good idea at all for me to phone up Dr.
Edinsmaier on this, the matter of the selling of the house. Or about any other matter actually. Instead, my people’d get in touch with his
people – and, voila, options would be bantered about and decisions made. As they were.
They were, indeed.
Mr. Jazzy Jinx and I met once more. Now this second
time it most certainly was on Jinx’s agenda first and foremost, before
taking into his hands at all the products of mine, to talk about money. His fee, his money, how much and when and
what it’d take from me and now that I’d done all of this figuring, certainly I
knew, didn’t I, just where I stood on this portion of the whole matter, the
part about actually paying my newest employee, my attorney – to secure for me a
legal divorce. Paying for a binding –
for – all – time action set down upon paper – this divorce – that I didn’t ever
want happening to me or to my kids in the first place.
Before venturing terribly far into our dollars – and – cents
conversation, I mentioned something to Mr. Jinx this subsequent visit that I,
in hindsight, absolutely should not have brought forth at all. I thought in
Like a ‘time – out’ sort of period. A cooling – off time just in case ‘the case’
initiated was felt, a little later on down the pike, to be a huge mistake after
all – one that with this interim, thinking – it – all – over time, could be
corrected. Before ‘the case’ proceeded
any further. That after one party starts
such an actionable legal petition for marriage dissolution, there is the
option, if the responding party so desires, for marriage counseling. Something like three sessions. Whatever the hell that means. So that the legal action begun … could be
undone … just in the nick of time. And
the marriage – and its bonds – kept intact.
And … ‘saved’. I told him, “I am
thinking, Mr. Jinx, if ever there was a time needed for such a deal, well,
now’d be it, not?”
“Hhmmm,” his forehead leaned into his left hand with that
elbow propped carelessly across some of his leather, “technically, you’re
correct,” he replied in a skeptic’s I – wonder – what – she’s – up – to – now
mode. “So. Ya’ wanna have the three sessions of marriage
counseling, do ya’?” Slovenly stated … in a slattern’s pattern of speech.
“Well, yeah. I think that
that’d be in order since I’m not wanting any
of this whole thing. Don’t you think so,
too?” I queried my own legal counsel, not at all knowing at the time that Mr.
Jinx himself’d be divorced in a half decade or so hence and, in becoming thus,
would then so cavalierly be busting up a mother and a father of two teenage
children. How could I then have known
that my ‘counselor’ cared not one whit nor two hoots for preserving the two –
parent family either? Any such family. Let alone, his own one.
“It isn’t for me to say, Legion. You do have the right. That much is true.”
“Well, it works sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“JYeah. Riiiight,”
without enthusiasm or eye contact. The
entire extent of his purposefully dull – witted, slacker reply received.
“O. Aahhh. Okay then.
How is this arranged? You set
that up, too, do you?”
“Well, I do. For the
first visit, that is. I just need names
of people you want, names suggested by the county. But.
After that one time, why, then the other two are at the discretion of
the counselor and the two parties.”
“Ya’ mean as to whether or not they even happen at all?”
“Yup, that’s what I mean.”
“Okay then. I’ll give
you times that are best for me; how’d that be?”
“Fine. Whatever.” Even less enthusiasm than previously – if
that were at all possible to describe.
“And where do I learn the names of these marriage counselors
or their agencies?”
“We maintain a list.”
Mr. Jinx was becoming, now, more and more impatient it appeared to
me. Apparently we hadn’t spoken
sufficiently enough to his satisfaction about his money issue, and he was so
wanting to get the discussion back onto the track of that.
“Is there anyone in particular on it,” I asked hopefully –
and, as it so turned out, … stupidly,
“that you’d recommend?”
“On the list you mean?
I do not do that. I do not
recommend on marriage therapists. No.”
“O,” is all I said out loud; I even nodded slowly. To myself I am thinking, “Whoa! One is sure the hell out here in right field
all by yourself alone on this matter of, of … trying to mend a marriage headed south, isn’t one?” What a piece of profound prophecy 1988’s
Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Right Field” certainly was in more metaphors than just
my marriage, I am thinking! Right there
in those leatherbacks of Mr. Jinx’s so foxy office decor. “Breaking a mawwiage up’s no problem. Ya’ve got all the counseling ‘help’ in the
world with which to do that. ‘Cept for maybe not all of the money that it takes to get divorced, though. But keeping two people together? Ha!
Not likely. Not at all likely,” …
was the real and true sense oozing out all over from that second encounter with
my legal counselor, Lawyer Jazzy Jinx.
“Playing right field can be lonely and dull. Playing right field, it’s easy you know; you
can be awkward, you can be slow … I don’t know the inning; I’ve forgotten the
score. That I'd make a fantastic catch
on the run. And not lose the ball in the
sun.”
No. Not so for us
though. We were not only going to drop
the ball; we were flat out losing it, too.
And it was so, so dark. There
wasn’t even to be any sun, to be any sunshine … for the Truemaier Boys or their
mama, Dr. Legion True.
* *
* *
How it was that we, Herry and I, actually came to have
appointed for us both a realtor and a
marriage counselor I cannot even now recall.
Once Mr. Jinx got down to the business of talking about his bucks which,
rest assured, he most certainly did remember to get done, all that I can remember
from the next month and more was a blaze, a flurry of phone calls and visits
and appointments here and there and all over and almost none of them at … “times
best for me.” They didn’t need to be, Dr.
Edinsmaier and these other scheduling folks felt, since, of course, I didn’t
‘work’ so therefore I could meet with the therapist, the realtor, the Good and
Wonderful Doctor and now ex – to – be, the lawyer … just whenever, couldn’t I?
Madonna had sold homes for years. Years and years. She was your mama’s madonna. Not the singer – actress type who had three
years earlier back in Kansas with her busty bosom and her bottled blondeness,
snared away from Herry’s so willing and open hand a thousand of his – and my – ‘earnest money’ – down bucks in
just four hours’ time flat. I actually
did not mind meeting with Madonna; and I certainly did not mind unloading that
house, that particular building at all.
That bachelor pad was Herry’s
anyhow; it had never, never been mine nor a family home for three growing
boys. I do not recall even one time
Slacker – Daddee Edinsmaier trudging the 70 – plus steps from the kitchen down to
the machines along the south wall of its basement to do even one load of
laundry the whole time we lived there.
Madonna was most accommodating, very helpful, very sympathetic; and
while I full – well understood that she wasn’t in this deal for charitable
purposes, I truly never got the feeling from her that I was being sold a raw
bill of goods about anything.
Of course, since it was his
house, Dr. Edinsmaier or Mr. Shindy Scheisser, Herry’s scalding attorney,
really had not cared to wait for my opinion on matters pertaining to its sale
anyhow. When Madonna had need of answers
to any real estate matters, they just went ahead to her with whatever the hell they
pleased, no consulting ‘the girl’s’ Attorney Jinx first. I hardly cared though. Realty and I, in my lifetime, had rarely
mixed before, not until that early morning when Herry, already here in Ames,
telephoned me still back in Kansas and wanted to know how much money I might
have stashed some place that he didn’t know about. This he needed to know he brazenly stated to
me over the wire because he wanted to put a sizeable payment down on the
Othello property – albeit that Jesse, Zane, Mirzah and I, spouse though I be
but in Herry’s brain just another ‘child’, a recalcitrant cunty one – albeit
that all of us … hadn’t even seen it
yet.
Now – with the selling of it, this procedural deal was
merely a flip – flop reversion of the process Herry’d gone through when buying
it up in the first place, I guess. There
was one offer that I remember Herry utterly turning down, Madonna telling me
that Dr. Edinsmaier said it was far too low, $8,000 less than his posted price
at the time.
Curious it is to me now that I cannot even remember what Dr.
Edinsmaier, Lawyer Scheisser and Realtor Madonna settled on as an initial
asking price for that Othello property.
I remember that Husband Herry and I were to have paid for a home, any home in
But what we were asking to get back out of that bachelor
pad? I simply can’t recall. Madonna did tell me that it was standard
practice in divorce sales to have a cleaning service come in when it was
finally sold and after we, “the divorced family,” were all moved out of it –– before
the formal closure on the property. This
cost, to include all carpets steamed and windows gleamed, would be around $500
for one to two days’ service of two women ( … of course … ) to bring the place
up to total readiness.
I knew that much!
After all, it was I who had always cleaned and cleaned and scrubbed and secured
back for us all out of every prior landlord our family had had just about that
exact amount every single time our five – member posse moved from place to
place around the countryside. Twelve
times – in Zane’s first decade of life. I
knew what a thorough cleansing was
worth; I had earned back every single, mother – fucking cent out of every
solitary security deposit that we had ever coughed up. Alone I had.
And, of course, without – those dozen times – one word of thanks to me
from Taker Edinsmaier. Not ever. Not
even one “Thank you, Legion!”
Now, however, I was very willing to not do it myself. To not do any of it myself. It was so
relieving to hear Madonna say that hiring out for this was routine in such
transactions. I had an out; I would not
be stuck with this prostituting, slave – laboring, charwoman duty one last
mother – fucking time. And for what was his house, no less. Dr. Edinsmaier had had us all moved, I was
figuring, a total of a dozen times, that’s 12 times, during Zane’s first decade
of life. Throughout most of these moves
and years then, of course, there were also two more boys needing to be moved
and cleaned up after as well. But just
thinking on Zane alone, 12 times in those first ten years of his entire
life! Why, that averaged more than twice
a year for him! Then, too, his
brothers! And for me. Me, this moving family’s own personal slave who
worked for free – except that I counted as fee for my services all of our various
landlords’ return back to Herry. To
Herry, of course. To Head of the
Household Herry, of course. Counted as
fee for my slavery services our landlords’ return back – every single time we
moved – of the entire security
deposit amounts.
Our most immediate past move
from
All that Herry had done was
board a Greyhound to
Husband Herod Edinsmaier never said to me, “Thank you, Legion.” Not one word of thanks. Without so much as scrubbing one square foot
of flooring, let alone, cleansing a bathroom’s toilet bowl anywhere we’d ever lived! the Good and Wonderful Doctor Edinsmaier just
swung himself up into that Ryder saddle and, in mighty fine, flinging flourish
as always his fashion, rode east and north on out of Manhattan.
Now, the next house, the
* *
* *
The holidays were upon us; and as the way that Halloween had
gone, so too, went Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I ferried the Boys to Kate Mitchell and worked at packing and cleaning
out, writing documentation and keeping submissive company with Mr. Jinx and
Madonna. Winter and its Solstice – that
is, AmTaham’s 69th and my 41st birthdays – came on, even
out West to
Scorched Earth we were.
All of us.
There was the life – affirming tree, balled with roots and
entirely whole, well, that year … to ignore.
There was no baby blue spruce to plant on New Year’s Day, a week after
it had, live and intact and ready to grow, (usually) gone up on Christmas Eve
and no decorations around January 01st too, now needing to be taken
down either. Mirzah, Zane and Jesse were
shuttled back and forth on weekends, every weekend, to Herry’s apartments. Those 48 hours away from them then I worked
on my sitting – and – blankly – staring – out – ahead – of – me skills, hands
still and folded on my lap, such technique, talents and cleverness I was to
fully develop in the next five years. To
an art form. A breathing – yet – dead
DEhuman art form.
Catatonia and cataplexy this was in me, indeed, and it
seemed that that fall and winter I mostly practiced these dance steps right
after my having participated in two particular events: meeting with Herry or meeting with Larry. Our attorneys, Jinx and Scheisser, of course,
didn’t like us coming together directly with each other, alone, so we did
not.
Not too often, that is; but once in a great while we
did. On the street corner of 09th
and Ridgeway, a short and neutral way away from the real estate on Othello, about
the equivalent of three blocks’ distance or so.
Cold and blustery in late fall, standing out there on the sidewalk swept
with dead leaves and hunched over avoiding eye contact, I maneuvered myself to
Herry’s left shoulder so that I would better be able hear his words without my
having to ask him to repeat himself a half a dozen times over the winds
howling.
How he hated that! When
I couldn’t hear. And had to or did ask
him to repeat himself. So repulsed, so
revulsed by this is Dr. Herod Edinsmaier that he simply will not repeat himself, not even just a
second time.
Narcissist Herod cared not a whit whether or not I
eventually ever did hear him. He said
so. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”
These comments were final I could always, always tell. There was no chance of having him reconsider
and, therefore, repeat his words. No
chance. Because he would turn away, walk
away, slam doors, hang up, drive away.
Pure passive aggression. As evident
as it was that he loathed me and anything the very essence of me, Dr.
Edinsmaier clearly loathed as much … any accommodation
to me.
It wasn’t deafness the ‘real’ doctor hated; it was my deafness that he hated. And what that would mean he’d have to do in
the way of work on his part – in
order to help me hear. Work
… like the labor of … remembering. Like
remembering to project his voice, to be facing toward my eyeballs and not away
from my view, to stand on my right side, to not be covering up his mouth in any
way. All of this was work.
Work that would go into
benefiting Legion. So. The Good and Wonderful Doctor Edinsmaier simply
chose not to do it at all.
But I would, … later on, within the few instances whereof I
was ‘allowed’ to participate somewhat in his decision – making, when I was
‘allowed’ in to taking actions, in to making transactions and deals and to conducting
any portion of future endeavors …, why, then I would – by the Spectacular
Spouse I was so privileged to be bound up to – Herod Edinsmaier – I would then be
expected to have heard him earlier on as to exactly what his
thoughts and subsequent behaviors on all of these matters were precisely … to be.
But. I hadn’t heard
him.
Recalling our entire relationship I would have to say that
this manner of Herry’s was the routine and standard measure of his response to
my auditory anatomy, defective and ‘less than’ as it was to him. “In
sickness and in health” –– from the mawwiage wows, er, marriage vows. Hell, he must’ve purposefully and concertedly
not taken that part in. Because from the
git – go Herry despised my manner of single – sided hearing which is, evidently
to him, so, so different from that of how others with whom he interacts apparently
most often comprehend … his noise.
But, most curious it is to me how I must’ve missed this
during those lust – filled months before our declaration of avowal to each
other, the time some folks’d call a courtship.
That time of pensive thought and immersed reflection where this sort of
thing about each other a lover is supposed to … aaaah, catch, isn’t one? I was a scientist, for chris’sake: how the fuck had I ignored this – this evidence of Herry’s own science of
insulting the woman in his life purported to be “his love?!” We are stupid, we women. Not brilliant scientists at all. Stupid.
We met one another, Herry and I, on the neighborhood’s
detached and frosty corner sidewalk to discuss the immediate and daily caretaking
of the Boys and the legally allowed counseling to save the so – called marriage
for which I had asked Mr. Jinx to go ahead and mark us down. Apparently, to make things appear all
authorized and official, the state’s district court judges out in the various hinterland
counties need to take in on some registry the fact that a couple, where one of
the two has filed papers for divorce, is or is not taking ‘advantage’ of this
state – legislated provision for marriage counseling therapy. In
At the time, I had no knowledge whatsoever of certain
groups’ suspicion of and oftentimes outright righteous contempt for marriage
overall. One such group is
feminists. I had no awareness then of
feminists’ positions, often termed radical or extremist. Or called a lot worse than that by those whom
feminists seem to threaten.
Specifically, I did not know feminists’ thinking – women’s or men’s – on
any society’s legal system of
marriage, let alone, on any of the binding contracts held out by most, it
seems, as ‘necessary’ if a couple is to be in accordance with the precepts and
canons of one or more of the World’s current, allegedly ‘great religions’.
I certainly wish I had known.
Most certainly, I wish I had known before I was being
divorced. As a matter of massive fact
actually,
I wish I’d known long before I, pregnant or not, had ever
married anyone. Married anyone under the
laws of a republic’s government or under the laws of any rulers’ rigid, patriarchate
– riddled religions.
All of these ‘great religions’, of course, were written down
– down through their histories – by only males.
None of them had their books, the concepts, the principles or canons put
down on to paper as thoughts initially directed from women’s brains. That is, absolutely none of the entire ‘holy’
bible, the dharma, the koran or the torah – such loudly touted and revered ‘sacred
scriptures’ – all! –– none is known to have been written
down by even one female. All of the works of any of these religions that comprise the schema for the
construction, the composition and, most certainly for the control and
correction of folks, these written
works, catechisms and commandments to be used in their mosques, schools, synagogues,
churches, shrines, holy sanctuaries, basilicas, cathedrals, madrasahs and
temples around the Whole World are made so and mandated – – by the Entire
Earth’s very, very clear gender minority,
by only the 47 percent of the
Planet’s populace who are male. Even, realistically, a far fewer percentage
number than that one when you consider that the littlest male humans, our
World’s weest boys, who are on the whole, cared for and raised up by women and
girls, aren’t themselves – yet – counted among these religions’ and legal
systems’ constructors either.
So. The 53 percent
who are, and have been for quite some time now, the Entire Earth’s very, very
clear gender majority, we females,
are completely left out of the loop – in making up and writing down these
religious rules by which to apparently live.
And about this marriage thing?
For sure!
Sounds to me these religious rules do – as well as to other
feminists – mighty suspect. As well as,
shall I say, convenient?! How quite literally and utterly mother –
fuckingly convenient. How colonizing and
rendering again childlike is this consecratory, crushing dominion over that 53
– plus percent who is the entire
Globe’s majority population and, distinctly
and for certain, over its DEhumans who are the adult ones.
Furthermore, judges choose, particularly in regard to
divorce cases involving pillared fathers anywhere, to play right into this androcentrism from
their lofty legal – system benches worldwide as well – when, in some countries at least – such as the
United State of America! they’re supposed to be representing ‘the law’.
Separated, they are supposed to be, from the religious angle of
contracts, separated away from the religious angling and wrangling of marriage
contracts. Civil laws and their
adjudicating officers are supposed to be separate. Aren’t they?
I certainly wish I had known. I wish I had known about there being groups
of people out here in the real World who know and find marriage to be so
dishonoring and so disrespectful and destructive – so DEhumanizing – to so many
people. I hold Mehitable and, to almost
an equal degree, AmTaham accountable for not specifically educating me and all of
my sisters when we were very young about the great non – requirement for religious or for governmentally sanctioned
unionizing. They both, as our parents
and thus as our protectors, should have been responsible for instilling in us
three daughters, Legion, Endys and
Ardys, the obligation to ourselves – the absolute exigency – to grow
up independent – as The Way to life’s true and complete
happiness.
It is as if, instead, both Mehitable and AmTaham merely
wanted their daughters bound down, way, way down, through and by matrimonial
bondage. Same – old, ages – old story
for young girls and for old women all the World over for the last 12,000
years. All of these millennia what a
waste. An utter waste of us, the World’s majority wealth and
resource. We, the 53 percent.
Hooking up? Yes.
Romping? Yes! Definitely!
Even rearing up babies together? Yes, of course. Absolutely!
But … but … but … just NOT
in the manner of mawwiage.
Where men’s religions and men’s laws rule and reign down
dominion over. All the fuck over The Other of the World’s adults who are now caused to
be made, who are now – through the willful and purposeful, patriarchal
tethering of marriage – rendered childlike and enslaved.
This enslavement of us is made so incredibly easy, this
thralldom of Us The 53 Percent, because we DEhumans, we Not Males are not
really … human. We are not. We are not human precisely to the degree and
to the quality that Males are
human. We Females, that is John
Stoltenberg’s Not Males, are The Less Than.
We are The Other. Ask any
broadcast or print journalist reciting to us all or writing the World’s evening
news. Ask any judge. Or any marriage therapist. Well, ask at
the least Mr. Larry Brouhaha.
* *
* *
Mr. Brouhaha, Mr. Larry Brouhaha greeted us each with a
handshake, first to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, of course, and then lastly to
me. To me the ushering – in was made
with a slight curling smile; it was a smirk all right and curved around the
commissure of his thin lips. “And this,
Mr. So – Called Therapist, along with your deadened dishrag of a handgrip, is
not my imagination,” I am left thinking.
About 55 at the time, Mr. Brouhaha motioned, with a flip – off of his
forehead to his right, for us to be seated.
His office was borrowed actually.
It was in a modest, concrete block building rented by Storm County’s
version of mental health services; and he, Mr. Brouhaha, performed this type of
‘service’ – counseling on the county’s payroll, that is – I had no idea why
except that, in hindsight, he couldn’t have made a living at marriage therapy
had he been in a private practice.
Of average and truly nondescript, white – bread appearance,
his demeanor and countenance would have been equivalently as characterless
except for the unmistakable haughtiness apparent in the air around him. The man exuded arrogance and
entitlement. Right down to his head –
tossing when signaling to us the direction of our seats.
He and Narcissist Herry hit it right off. Herry, who when notified hadn’t wanted a whit
to do with therapy for this marriage contract of ours and was present there
only because of a canon – backed court order to come, cracked a beginning snide
smile, too. Himself swiftly seated with
clasped hands thrown behind his head while simultaneously swiveling and leaning
back, Mr. Brouhaha, minus so much as a “Tell me a little bit about yourselves,”
began the session instead without missing the beat by stating, “So, Dr.
Edinsmaier, tell me. In this marriage of
yours to her, have you felt, well, ya’ know, married?” During the complete query, Larry Brouhaha, over
his tortoiseshell half rims with his nose aimed at the floor, gawked at the thing in the room that was me, not directing
this glare of his at all at Herry.
“Huh?” the Good and Brilliant Doctor answered.
Pivoting then both his view and his rotating chair toward
Herry finally, Mr. Brouhaha I guess clarified, “Ya’ know, have you had at all that
‘I’m married’ feeling?”
“Aaahh … aaahh, yeeeaaah, yeah. Sure.” the Good and Brilliant Doctor answered. Stammered.
“I see. Good. That’s good.
Well, maybe it’s good. Okay
then. I have assignments for my clients
so yours for our next session is to write down a list of what have been good
things in your marriage and what have been, well, not so good things. As you see them, ya’ know, not so good as you
see ‘em. Have this list ready by our
next session. Ten days’ time suit? Thanks for coming. I’ll see you then. Just make the appointment with my girl out
front.”
“Only I’m to make
this list?” Herod Edinsmaier whined.
“O. No. No.
She’s to make a list, too, of course.” Mr. Brouhaha repeated the rimming
of his reading frames at me but addressed his words to Herry. This seemed to please Herry. Slacker Edinsmaier didn’t have to be the only
drone here apparently. I was also a
worker bee, certainly no queen of anything.
Least of all, queen over that landscape of curdling coddled milk, rotting
clotted cream and sullied honey that was our eroding, spoiling marriage.
Then that was that. The
end of the entire first marriage counseling session.
“Wha’?!!! What just
happened here?! Nothing. I mean literally nothing happened here, did
it? Did I miss some utterly stupendous
marital counseling tips or something? We
are out the door and this is it?!
Fine. Fine. I’ll make that goddamn, mother – fucking list. I have just a frickin’ passel of things to
put down on it, too!”
“And what the fuck’s up with this ‘my girl’ fuck? ‘Make the
appointment with my girl out front.’ ” How cuntingly so pussylike Brouhaha’s
androcentrism dripped that Herry picked right up on it and knowingly nodded his
head vigorously while responding to Mr. Brouhaha, “Yessir, I’ll be sure ‘n’ do
just that.”
We parted, silent, Husband and I, as usual. I went home.
Only, later that afternoon, to telephone up “Brouhaha’s girl” to find
out the date and time of that next appointment in ten days’ time hence – which Herod
Edinsmaier had not only promised to do but’d also conveniently forgotten, I am
thinking, to tell me of its details.
No such appointment, “Brouhaha’s girl” told me, had yet been
made. Ah – huh. The usual.
I had that, then, to do myself, too.
Of course. Of course, I did.
Fresh pad and pencil I got straight to work, but by the end
of the second page, chock – full, I determined to switch over to that handy – dandy format I
had so infamously happened across at Herry’s bland, walk – in flat, Herry –
Daddee’s every – weekend hovel of a shelter for my Truemaier Boys: the Rolodex 2” x 3” affixed – card filing
system with such fine indexing, categorizing, alphabetizing and dividing
features. Complete this particular
Rolodex was with its own smoky – black, opaque, plastic dust cover to
boot.
Always an organizer, always organized, I approached this
specific written assignment no differently than any other in veterinary medical
school or my PhD program. Card upon card
upon card, entirely filled up in
phrases beginning with verbs often separated by semi – colons, was entered into
its appropriate division and category, those divisions and categories
themselves suitably indexed and alphabetized.
List: People,
Institutions, Principles
Why angry: Self
– esteem, Money matters, Ambitions, Personal relationships
Tell re list: Resentments,
Flaws in ourselves (incl sloth, lust, greed, gluttony, envy, anger, pride = ya’
know, Pope Not – So – Himself – At – All Innocent’s
and Actors Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman and Kevin Spacey’s and a whole passel of
other males’ – mandated, wicked Seven, of course), Our fault in having
resentment
Tell where I am in marital
problems: How I feel and believe, How I
perceive I make others feel
Intermittently throughout the next entire week and more I
labored at this: someone else’s command
to me again and, of course, a man’s assigning
command to me again, and came away
from the simple brown kitchen table on Othello Drive to this next mawwiage therapy
session … naturally and expectedly then –
as always with any other of my many, many learning endeavors anywhere else
– … very, very well – prepared.
While now back in my possession, this December 1988
construct that was my end – of – the – year, (apparent – end – of – my –
marriage) Rolodex file then … wasn’t always.
Upon its seizure under and within a legality known as “discovery,” my – but never Bestial and Incestuously Frotteurist
Herry’s from that one – room apartment wherein he’d written in his Rolodex of his loves … that is, of
his love for fucking “cows, dogs, pigs and chickens” and of his groping love of
“fondling his three baby sisters Kay, Celeste and Murielle” – my Rolodex came to be in its entirety Shindy Scheisser’s, ah,
er, truly therefore Dr.
Herod Edinsmaier’s possession then and, as well of course, ‘the court’s’. This Accounting of Me … This Accounting of Doctor
Legion True, of who I believe I am, actually came to lie for years – for years
and years – in mountains of ceremonially stored cardboard courthouse boxes to
gather in them there nothing but its dust and molds as Petitioner’s Exhibit #9
and marked 11 May 1989 – a date just shy of two weeks away from Wednesday, 24 May 1989, the one whereupon I became
officially uncoupled from Herry, the date on the document that was the very
androcentric government’s and all patriarchal religions’ not – mawwied – to – each
– other – any – damn – more, very definite divorce decree. I was, of course in this action, not ‘the case’s’ Petitioner.
I began to read my carded assignment – – at “Counselor” Brouhaha’s
request to do so. One, then the next and
the next and the next:
·
“Resent Herry asking me why I want to stay
married to him; resent his defining that when I say ‘I love you’ to him that that is sick, the
love that I have for him. ‘By all right
and reason I know I should separate
myself permanently from him, but you see’, the One Day At A Time Al – Anon book
states on February 19th’s inspirational message page, ‘I love him.’
”
·
“Resent Herry’s saying the divorce is his Step 9
to me, thereby his using and twisting the Program so he will never, ever have
to humble himself to say to me that he was sorry or wrong about specific
matters, issues, ideas, situations, people, whatever.”
·
“Resent Herry’s saying the divorce is God’s
Will; uses it to again twist the Program around so it appears not to be self – rationalization
and self – justification of his will really. My perception of how to twist the Program;
have done it before myself.”
·
“Resent Herry for his NEVER wanting to be in the
kitchen at the same time with me; resent his not wanting to cook together, do
the dishes with me, etc, plan for company.”
·
“Resent Herry for his not going on walks with me
EVER.”
·
“Resent Herry for his never just coming up to me
in private and touching, hugging or kissing me, like in the kitchen, the
shower, the car.”
·
“Resent Herry’s never coming to make love to me
freshly clean shaven or groomed; resent him for the feeling of my not being
able to ask him for this for fear he’d reject me and go sleep on the couch or
elsewhere for that matter.”
·
“Resent Herry for his thinking that or
suggesting that I became pregnant knowingly to try to trap him into some
sort of relationship; resent him further for his NEVER taking at any time
the precautions, through the use of condoms or simply asking me if I had the
diaphragm in and if I didn’t, then his waiting about penetration
until one of us was protected. Herry
always left birth control to me; then blamed me for all three pregnancies –
especially when I was so happy with them all.”
·
“Resent Herry for his telling me in Sept ’80 to
get a job so we could ‘be solvent’. With
3 wee ones, childcare was over half of what I made that year ($16000); resent
him for not considering borrowing from family members and instead of making me
go back when I felt so very guilty about leaving the Boys only to clear $2.75 /
hr. Then when I went back to work,
resented him for not getting home from the Med Center earlier than 8 pm to save
money (child care) and do some … ANY … of the baby chores (baths,
folding diapers, cleaning up clutter, making formula & baby food) leaving
it to Rosemarie and others for which we had to pay. Or else, to me.”
·
“Resent Herry because he has NEVER said
the words to me, ‘I love you, Legion.’ He has nev__ ”
I was abruptly interrupted.
Interrupted with not so much as the holding up to me of an open –
palmed, still hand in the ‘stop’ signal.
Nor an “Excuse me, Dr. True … ” Not
even so much as a “Please, Legion.”
Just interrupted in mid word, “Myyyy Gaaaawd!!! Do you hear this, Dr. Edinsmaier?! Do you hear this?! Do you hear all of this?!!!” As always before with Brouhaha’s stares, Compadre
Herry was the human addressed – – but the thing in the room again locked within
so – called Marriage Therapist Brouhaha’s vista of eyeball penetration was me.
Dr. Edinsmaier muttered, “O O, jyeah. JYeah I do, Larry!” As he retorted, Herry’s mouth morphed inside
that huge, huge head of his and with the snidest of curls took up a sideways
stance – a practiced and long – longtime skilled sculpting by the Truemaier
Boys’ sperm donor, the Entitled Pomposity who was still my spouse – on the
lower portions of his mustachioed face that were his jaws.
Brouhaha continued his tirade about me in tyrannical tones
but not to me, of course, “Is it any wonder?!
How could you have possibly lasted this long, Herry. How?!
It’s amazing to me that you can stand to just even be in the same room
with this … this … this, cr__, cr__, aaahh, person. Let alone, Herry, it’s almost Christmas, for
chrissake!”
What precisely was Mr. Brouhaha about to call me? What?
Creature? Critter? Criminal?
Crazy. Crazy is what. Crazy and all
of the other labels as well, he was.
Yeah, Mr. Brouhaha, Professional Therapy Man, so wanted to but
momentarily realized that legally he could not – right there in the Storm
County Mental Health Services’ office – call me, the DEhuman and the Not Male
that I was to him, any of those particular names. Right in front of me yet not to me. To
my estranged husband, instead! Thinking
in his so – called professional brain along the same characteristic female –
loathing thread as had been Herry’s rapist – thinking mindset when Professional
Medical Student Edinsmaier so desired to drop his drawers and “fuck ‘em right there,” that is, engage in
sexual intercourse and make love to the obstetrics courses’ DEhuman help –– the
women who were the how – to – perform – vaginal – examinations’ med – school
laboratory models.
O, wait a sec, I mean “screw those pussies” and “get me some
strange,” instead, don’t I?! In order to get properly correct the parlance
always of the Good and Brilliant Doctor for
anyone’s coital activity.
Criminal or not. Rape
or not. ‘True love’ or not.
When I glanced on Herry’s sheet of notebook paper ripped somewhere
from a spiral spine, two words appeared scrawled near its top, but he had had
no list of anything prepared assignment – wise.
I was not even privy to either of those two words; Mr. Brouhaha never
asked the Good and Brilliant Dr. Edinsmaier one time to give either of us,
least of all to give me, a recitation of anything, completed or not, that had
also been Herry’s assigned homework.
That was that.
Again. The end of this second
session of marriage therapy.
No explanation to me for this outrage of Mr. Brouhaha’s and,
of course, absolutely no apology.
No explanation is needed now. Now?
Now … I know why the drivel
that was this man’s diatribe
about me, the misogyny just beneath his surface. And while, then, an apology was moooore than
in order – but was not ever going to happen.
No matter that besides Herry’s and everyone else’s end – of – December ‘holiday
time’, my birthday was also coming
up! This, plus no apology, was no gift!
There wasn’t even that legislatively allowed third session
scheduled, and I certainly saw that, with embittered Mr. Brouhaha as “therapist,”
there truly was no bother, indeed, of any other either. I paid my half portion of his fee for
‘services rendered’ –– of course, with my having to pay even ten cents of it actually
being more abuse heaped on top of the
haranguing and violence that had already been this man’s “counseling.” I never consulted with another marriage
counselor then. And none since.
From these close encounters of Brouhaha’s first and second
kinds began the birthing of my take on the legislatures and executive branches
of both the state and the federal union as pertains specifically to the so –
male dealings with all manner of legal and religious things, of everything … as a matter of fact, related
to marrying. The staunchest fundamentals
of patriarchy we now see being lain down – again in this, the latest of
millennia – in both their blatant and sometimes subtle legislative plans to
keep female folks rigidly coupled. “If
not to the original men from the women’s first or second unions, then just
binding and coupling them up to any one will do. A marriage to anyone is enough to keep from
our having to spend on her or her children, God forbid,” these multiple bills
quietly propose – many of which are now up for discussion in states’ house and
senate subcommittees. Discussed by men
who wholly hold that mawwiage of woman to just any man is far better than to no man at all – not to mention … far,
far better than to no man … ever … at
all!
Too, these are the exact thoughts and the plans about making
and keeping her mawwied off that that other addict, the one besides Dry Drunk
Edinsmaier, has: that is, those of the
Born – Again Boy – King George.
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