Month: March 2007

The article I wrote showed up in the Guardian today:

How can we solve the problem of teen parenting? By recognising it is a choice, not a problem.

Click for more

Somewhere in the middle of last night I was walking arm in arm with Paul when he remarked that it was good he didn’t have meetings until late the next afternoon.

I replied I’ll be up at eight to attend a Church of England primary school Easter service!

The morning started with music blasting and Jeffrey telling a story about how he tried to convince everyone that Elliot Smith’s Either/Or is a Christmas album (I agree, or at least, I listened to it a lot during the recent festive season), then we were out the door and on our way, improbably, to church.

Before the children even started to sing I’d managed to spill scalding tea all over my hands and the floor of Great St. Mary’s. Jeffrey offered me his banana to cool my singed fingers and when I refused proceeded to fondle and play with it, hiding it in my gloves and snapping photographs.

Byron texted If I misbehave will you take me out of here?

Jeffrey answered out loud When I finish this coffee I’m going to have a conniption fit! Then the noise all the babies are making won’t matter!

I kept shushing them but all three of us were completely restless while most of the other parents sat and beamed at the adorable English children acting out scenes of crucifixion and resurrection.

Though Richard was sitting in the pew in front of me and I did see him smack his forehead during the sermon.

The minister (pastor? Priest? Byron grew up with a minister father and he doesn’t even know what the proper honorific is) started an elaborate story including the query How much water is there in a man’s body?

Jeffrey hissed What about whiskey?

It is good that I’ve lost my voice from too much laughter, as I would have been giggling uncontrollably throughout the entire service.

My brilliant son surprised me by singing a solo – he didn’t tell me he would be performing at all!

It was a shocking thrill to hear his pristine voice ringing through the huge old church.

Last night we met friends at the Pickerel, where I explained to Jeff that I like Josh because he is the only person in town other than me who illustrates an opinion by making the wrist flicking jerk-off motion so beloved by my working class compatriots.

Greta, as a woman, is another enjoyable rarity in the realm of mad scientists – though I never knew that as a child she trained to be an Olympian speed skater! She served up an entertaining account of scaring off attackers with with her shiny, dangerous skates – highly amusing!

On December 1 Jeffrey posted a public challenge on his Crush of the Week blog that declared So bring it on. Have a crush on something good for you for once. If you do it I will.

I formally took him up on the dare, but haven’t checked on his progress since.

His original (drunken) observation was about truly nice folks being passed over by those who like to fuck danger more than people. 

We defined the rules of the dare as: Jeffrey cultivating a crush on someone who can play a meaningful role in his life, with the hope that the emotion will be reciprocated.

How am I participating in the scheme? I could probably win the race if I had any sort of crush at all.

But Jeffrey points out, correctly, that he has never met a woman as disconnected as me. I would prefer to flirt, but learning how did not lead to something I can describe as infatuation. Though I disagree with the parallel Jeffrey assessment that I find snipers hot; no, more worryingly, I find them amusing.

Also: Jeffrey is literally the only person in the world (let alone Cambridge) who would dare chew on my shoulder:

I fell behind schedule preparing for the most recent guest. When he arrived I was still in my jammies and vaguely wielding a sponge – but Jeffrey just laughed and said At least you have your lipstick on!

I scrambled through chores and got dressed and we walked to town. Crossing Jesus Green Jeffrey remarked (as all of my NW friends have within twenty minutes of arriving) You live in, like… fucking Disneyland!

Too true.

The city delivered a foggy, sunny afternoon of wandering through college gardens; we even got lost in a part of Trinity we were not authorized to explore.

Jeffrey crushed out on half the people we saw and placed an order for a brainy brunette. Too bad Rachel is in Montreal at the moment!

Jeffrey is one of the key figures in the conspiracy of adoration that rules my Seattle existence – my ears are bright red from all the compliments today – and it is just so much fun to hang out with him!

My week will be spent marching around quaint English scenes with two boisterous six foot six American men dressed in black. I’m going to pretend they are my bodyguards!

On Sunday the weather turned from grim to lovely and I took advantage of the sunlight to throw the first picnic of the year.

Unfortunately the temperature was not amenable to this plan, so after shivering through lunch we retired to a cafe to read. I was browsing through an interview with Michelle Yeoh when I absorbed the startling fact that Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon came out seven long years ago.

I remember standing in a long queue (at the time I would have said line) on NW 21st with James and Byron quite distinctly because it was one of the rare times I let anyone other than my two companions babysit either of my children, ever.

The experience was also unusual because a stranger came up and started to heckle us because he did not approve of the way people were flocking to see that particular film.

We three just sort of stared. When he asked why we had chosen to be part of the herd-like crowd I answered reasonably Because we have tickets!

James had run away from home to live in my basement, where he spent his days arranging broken objects and taking photographs. At night he walked around the city. I do not recall spending much time with him at all during that sabbatical from his real life.

Other times with James are much more distinct in my mind – our first meeting, during a small-town parade. Sitting together in the high school hallway, admiring his leopard print shoes.

We toasted a New Year with Denny’s coffee as lonesome teenagers, my infant daughter propped between us. He says that he would not have gone to college unless I pestered him to apply, and this is true; I deliberately dragged him away from his childhood home.

I remember his dorm kitchen, and long crazy conversations in the musty garage bedroom at the Dundee house, and the music he played while making dinners in the yellow cabin.

We once drove a hundred miles with a car crammed full of my belongings, a huge clear plastic box containing a trophy baseball hat belonging to my in-laws improbably wedged between his lap and the dashboard, talking endlessly about existentialism and silly television shows.

One night when I was pregnant with my son we wandered in the Arizona desert with a woman who disliked me in a striking way, who would later tell him to choose between her love or my friendship. He said No.

During that trip he introduced me to Jess and I can even pull up a clear image of the napkin dispenser on the table of the restaurant where we ate lunch. It was a magical moment – she was the first adult I’d met who had also survived a life-threatening childhood illness and could talk about it without dissolving in tears. We laughed and laughed and eleven years later, she is still a good friend.

There are also many difficult and painful memories, and a whole lot of growing up over the course of twenty tumultuous years. I remain amazed that we are friends, through all of the strange changes and across such long distances.

In the last seven years we’ve seen each other exactly once – and he was ill and dosed up on cold medicine. We didn’t talk much during that visit, we just sucked down pho and sprawled around my Seattle living room.

But we write to each other pretty much every day, a constant fact for twenty years, and it is likely that we always will. James is one of my closest friends ever despite inconvenient geographic separation, and as such is the namesake of my son – he may even inherit said child if I depart too soon and Marisa decides that Ann Arbor is a good place for my kid to live.

James is also tasked with organizing whatever celebration marks my death. I do not want a funeral, and it will be his job to figure out what to do as a substitute. This is of course my logical response to the fact he told me he would not cry when I die – if everyone else is distracted by pesky emotions like grief, he may as well be the one renting a hall.

A few weeks from now we’ll meet up in Asbury Park to watch Jess marry Brian. Two nights and three days in New Jersey will not be anywhere near sufficient to catch up on everything that has happened in this adult lifetime, but that is irrelevant. Our friendship is not predicated on anything except love for each other.

Cambridge is without exagerration the most difficult place I could have chosen to move to (if you recall that I will never go anywhere featuring sunlight). The culture of the place is so fundamentally antithetical to the way I’ve always lived it generally feels like I’ve taken up residence in a diorama. A very nicely arranged and pretty scene, but still – false.

This is largely a function of history and assigned value. I’m a working class rabble rouser wandering in a world that is the very definition of elite – without any academic affiliations or desire to acquire them.

I’m surrounded by people who care about status more than almost anything else, and I do not register on their scale, nor do I care. When asked what I do I honestly shrug and say Nothing.

Even if pressed I will not admit any of the numerous items on my CV that would impress a famous academic. People are welcome to believe whatever they like.

Life in the NW was and is all about community and friendship, a huge overwhelming truth that I didn’t have the skills to appreciate when I believed myself a permanent resident.

Life in Cambridge is about isolation and work, and although I do not belong here, I am thankful every day.

Recently at a dinner party I was talking to a psychologist who somehow managed to solicit my clinical diagnoses. I’ve never met anyone in her profession who talks shop at a party, but I shrugged and told her: PTSD and OCD (while one is often an aspect of the other, mine were precipitated and diagnosed separately).

She thought that I was far too balanced and comfortable to have ever been as sick as I was, and said so. I replied that I honestly could not even make eye contact until I was twenty-nine years old. She wanted to know more – how did I recover without therapy, drugs?

I shrugged and said I had everything I needed.

The truth is that submitting to a course of treatment would have been an additional trauma – I was hurt by doctors, even if they kept me alive. I couldn’t get better unless I fixed myself.

It took ten years of diligent work, and there is a lifetime of more ahead of me, but I have made enormous progress.

I remember being so reserved I practically did not talk. Lately I hardly ever stop.

In fact, I am no longer the cold, lonely person described in the first three-quarters of Lessons in Taxidermy. Yes, I have both metaphoric and literal scars. But my slightly demented mutiny against the past worked in a fundamental way.

I’ve changed so much I hardly know myself. I have fantastic adventures but I also have feelings. How confusing!

Last night I asked Byron if I have changed beyond recognition, and he said You’re just growing up.

Rushing out to a photo shoot I realized that it was raining and grabbed the first umbrella that came to hand – a big, tattered, broken old thing that a random friend left behind.

I own a substantial number of umbrellas that are stylish and attractive, but it would have been far too clever to dig one out given that the brolly became a major prop for the photographs.

Since the article is about my experiences as a teen parent, the elder child consented to let us exploit her.

This is rare to the point of nonexistent; through the ten years of promoting my magazine and books books I’ve never willingly allowed the children to be depicted. But my daughter is officially a grown-up now, and makes her own decisions about these matters.

We stood about Parker’s Piece in the rain and wind chatting as the nice man from the paper snapped away. At some point he commented about the article They say it is a jolly story, yeah?

Well, no. I would describe it as a long fractious rant about discrimination, but replied Um, okay.

My daughter provided a constant stream of hilarious stories and we laughed and laughed. On our way to the next destination the photographer commented She is a lively one!

That would of course be an understatement.

Fetching up at the Arts Picturehouse cafe, we asked permission to shoot more and then arranged ourselves at a table by the window. The fact that it was a Saturday afternoon meant that the place was crowded with people staring and openly eavesdropping.

My cover, in other words, is officially blown. From now on I will not be able to get away with claiming that I do nothing when asked about my work.

When we finished and said our farewells the photographer turned to the girl and said What bribe did you get for this?

It hadn’t occurred to her to ask for a bribe, or that the process would be simultaneously fun and unnerving.

I sighed and handed over thirty quid.

On Wednesday I woke up at six but the morning somehow managed to spiral out of control, finding me rushing as I smacked on tricky new mascara purchased the night before just as the car was supposed to collect me at eight. The basic concept never change beauty routines when pressed for time has obviously not taken hold.

My hands were shaking as I wielded a potentially disfiguring cosmetic wand near my eyes and this was quite puzzling. I’m never nervous before these sort of events – instead, I fall apart after. I reviewed my mental files and decided the recent roster of bereavement was the likely source of the shakiness: two family members and one friend have died, and a close relative was institutionalized after a near lethal suicide attempt. All within about ten days.

Facts of that nature are difficult to contemplate at the best of times, let alone when circumstances dictate charisma be exercised. But my childhood taught me how to efficiently ignore unruly emotions and this proved useful for once: I finished getting ready and dashed out the door.

My publicist met me in the lobby of the BBC and we chatted with the other guests before being whisked into the studio. The show was highly entertaining though I made a fool of myself in front of a national audience, as is my habit.

I feel extremely lucky that the archive of Midweek disappears after a few weeks, since I am reliably informed that the recording includes something along these paraphrased lines (I’m not going to listen so I can’t provide a true quote):

Libby: Bee, why didn’t you speak to your therapist?

Bee (flatly): Working class people don’t do therapy. Talking about feelings? What are those? As far as I know I didn’t have feelings until last year.

After the show ended we had a lively short chat about radiation and nefarious government research projects (Hanford, anyone?) and then surged away to our various destinations.

The publicist guided me on to the next radio studio, but we were early and I fell into conversation with two bikers who were hugely entertaining. We chattered about assorted topics and they somehow extracted my version of what Lessons in Taxidermy is about, probably to the dismay of my publicist, who might wish that I giggled a bit less about things like childhood cancer.

The bikers, however, were great fun and not at all fazed even when we lurched across existential and metaphysical topics. It was in fact a lot like hanging out with my extended family. Later I was informed that they have a television program – they are literally Hairy Bikers.

The further chats with BBC regional programs went fantastically well and I stayed on form, remembering all of my media training and also what the book is about. Then it was took me to a series of bookstores to sign copies of the book and have charming conversations with book sellers, as always one of the best parts of my job!

We met Kate, my editor, at RIBA for lunch. They toasted me with champagne and we talked and laughed. The restaurant tables are arrayed around a central installation, this week a large strange wooden object, the bit nearest me offering the statement Learning within a reality that is messy needs to be a little messy itself.

Back at the radio station I chatted with the bikers a bit more before going on the air with BBC West Midlands, talking to a host who was significantly interested in my double vision story (or at least the gory bits of it). He asked about life on the boat, and why I decided to buy one so precipitously without any knowledge or experience. The answer is easy: I fell in love.

I said goodbye to the publicist and spent a few hours attempting to work on a newspaper article, with no success whatsoever, until Iain texted to ask if I fancied a drink. I met him near Oxford Circus and he took me to a very odd goth pub, where I told the tale of my day and we caught up on sundry things before setting off to a sushi dinner.

I’m not exactly sure how I met Iain – I suspect it had something do to with the Chloe fundraiser at the Horse Hospital – but our friendship is one of the best bits about living in this country. He also read my book and gave it to his agent, who in turn became my agent and sold it to Orion – meaning Iain is directly responsible for all of the fantastic things that have happened in my career this year.

Susan, Amanda, and Xtina met us at the restaurant and my agent served up hugs and kisses and a card addressed to my favorite mutant.

I am endlessly thankful to have so many good friends.

Back home in Cambridge I flung myself on the floor of the boat, curled into a ball, and cried for two hours.

My life is sometimes rather strange.

Just as I was about to depart for London I opened a message from Mash informing me that a childhood friend died.

I’ve written about this person before; he was one of the other sick kids in school, and in Lessons in Taxidermy he shows up crawling through the springs of my hospital bed.

We were never particularly close because his house was on the other side of the forest, but there was definite kinship and secret camaraderie because we were abysmally different from the other children.

Later when we learned to hide our illnesses he became a popular metal kid while I was hanging with the outcasts and punks. We never talked much but we respected each other from a distance – and defended each other when appropriate.

I lost track of him seventeen years ago, but I often wondered where he was, if he had married or had children. The fact that he is gone, that his loved ones are bereaved, is extremely sad. On the train to the city I stared out at bucolic fields dusted in snow, thinking about home and the woods where we used to play.

This morning my nerves should be shattered but I am just sad. This seems like an appropriate emotion as the book is launched.

Tomorrow is the official UK release of Lessons in Taxidermy.

Tonight I’m holed up in a swanky London hotel under orders to write an article about the experience of being a working class teenage mother.

Cognitive dissonance is my new best friend.