—Lorraine Hansberry
If there is one thing I wish my previously-single self could have understood, it is that marriage only alleviates one kind of loneliness: The yearning for a partner. Someone to "do life" with. A companion who will be there to cherish and encourage you. Someone you can be on a team with and raise a family with. Someone who somehow, despite your many failings and flaws, still loves you.
But there are other kinds.
Waking up in the morning, your partner still asleep, the gray morning light seeping in through the blinds with the sound of rain.
Walking out to the mailbox, the lowing of grazing cattle, the soft whoosh of unconcerned solitary cars passing you by.
Well-worn choruses strained through a too-loud sound system. Earnest smiles and handshakes, curiosity held at bay. The Word of God, quick and powerful, yet you can't help but feel pity for your unconceived children.
A diversity workshop held at a country club. ("It was the only space that could accommodate this big of a group.") A student in an undergraduate honors seminar: the only one. ("How does the African-American community feel about this?") A professor at a small liberal arts college: one of two. ("Have you met Valerie?")
A freckled, hazel-eyed husband who wants to please you, his caramel, kinky-haired wife. You never thought the spaces between you would ever matter to you as much as they do. The number 2016 has no modernizing effect on timeless things like families, hometowns, beliefs, lived experiences.
When someone asks "Where are you from?" you wish your answer could fit within the minutiae of getting-to-know-you small talk. Instead, it's a narrative of your childhood trajectory from U.S. South to European South back to U.S. South at an older, more awkward age. An explanation of sorts for why you don't have a Southern accent.
Your mom's voice on the other end sounding like the closest thing to home you know. It's your parents' turn for Thanksgiving this year, you remind yourself.
You didn't get the tenure-track job. She did. When you meet her, you completely understand and agree with the reason why. There are people in the world who are smarter, more experienced, and more qualified than you. Face it and take it like a champ.
You never thought you'd one day find yourself wandering the aisles of Save-a-Lot in search of seltzer water.
A diversity workshop held at a country club. ("It was the only space that could accommodate this big of a group.") A student in an undergraduate honors seminar: the only one. ("How does the African-American community feel about this?") A professor at a small liberal arts college: one of two. ("Have you met Valerie?")
A freckled, hazel-eyed husband who wants to please you, his caramel, kinky-haired wife. You never thought the spaces between you would ever matter to you as much as they do. The number 2016 has no modernizing effect on timeless things like families, hometowns, beliefs, lived experiences.
When someone asks "Where are you from?" you wish your answer could fit within the minutiae of getting-to-know-you small talk. Instead, it's a narrative of your childhood trajectory from U.S. South to European South back to U.S. South at an older, more awkward age. An explanation of sorts for why you don't have a Southern accent.
Your mom's voice on the other end sounding like the closest thing to home you know. It's your parents' turn for Thanksgiving this year, you remind yourself.
You didn't get the tenure-track job. She did. When you meet her, you completely understand and agree with the reason why. There are people in the world who are smarter, more experienced, and more qualified than you. Face it and take it like a champ.
You never thought you'd one day find yourself wandering the aisles of Save-a-Lot in search of seltzer water.
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