Enough of "Should!"

Past tense of shall and often used to express the conditional in a sentence, the verb, should should be outlawed, or at least its usage curbed significantly.

My friend, I'll call her C. to protect her anonymity, and outrage from angry linguists, used to tell me "Wendy, your life is full of shoulds." C. had good reasons for her comment. Like a character from The Iceman Cometh by Eugene O'Neill, she had been advising me to stop equivocating and to be decisive, get to the point. I didn't realize until lately how correct her softened admonishment had been.

For as long as I can remember, I had difficulty trusting my own decisions. In part, that behavior had been reinforced by my parents, particularly my well-meaning father whose life's mission had been to offer advice. I would often wiggle in my seat, but the habit of knowing he would have sage suggestions led to my asking more advice than he gave. It got to the point when I questioned every motive. Moreover, I kept using the verb, should. "Should I ask him out?" "Should I change my major?"

As I grew older, I began turning to my friends for help with important decisions. Self-doubt overtook me, however, and my confidence waned. My more than patient friends started to throw up their hands. I had burdened them with "should" questions too often, leading to feelings of guilt for asking them for advice and even more guilt for doubting their comments. Then, I met my friend, C. in graduate school, and her words stuck, for the short term at least. When we graduated and went off to different parts of the country, losing touch for months at a time, I resumed overusing, "should." Like a dormant ulcer that resumes stabbing you in the gut, that nuisance verb, should, regained the upper hand.

Forced, after life-changing events, to think independently on a regular basis, and with some therapy, I finally began to take control of my life, stop questioning every motive and giving my remaining friends some peace. Today, I've begun to see that asking friends about what I should do on a regular basis is fruitless and self-defeating. How else could they respond other than to say: "I can't tell you what to do or you should do, but I can say. . ." I've learned a life lesson.

Moreover, in the greater scheme, the macro versus micro approach to examining should, there's a truism to this lesson: it's too late in this world of ours, with climate change, food shortages, territorial disputes, and social or economic inequity to use should. No more conditions. We have to stand united, firm when addressing global problems because we've exhausted possibilities

As for me, I've decided to love the man in my life without worrying so much about how I should behave or what others believe I should do. The future has never been more tenuous. In either case, I have little patience for the dreaded, conditional verb should.

MAN OF FIRE - Dedicated to Fallen Firefighters in Boston

MAN OF FIRE

You entered the inferno with a shield,

A tradition of sacrifice; a heritage without yield.

And with every step you cautiously searched,

Giving mind to dangers when rafters lurched.

From cobalt blue to pale yellow, flames singed your bristled hair,

And poured sweaty showers on your salty, scarred skin;

A fog without air engulfed your head, though you did not care;

For a powerful magnet, a weakened victim, pulled you in.

A force too strong to run for flight,

Your courage lit the way when day for night;

Then with your exit from that fiery stage,

Your arms held a bundle, another life, another page.

The story continued with many deeds: resuscitating a woman who hardly breathed;

Climbing heights to carry a man on your shoulder you heaved,

Or grabbing a housecat nestled in a corner that put up a fight;

You proudly wore that warrior’s uniform, gray with yellow stripes.

After thirty years, your daily battles finished;

Some memories have gone, others remain undiminished,

You have continued to strive to become a better man,

But to my heart you are one among many, the best in the land.

Happy Birthday, Gloria Steinem!

Fellow Smith grad whose unflinching perseverance has opened worlds of possibilities for women. Thank you.

SECOND PLACE

Eleven years old, Sixth Grade, a day I will always remember, I won the MOST IMPROVED IN GYMNASTICS trophy in Gym class at the end of the school year. I've never been an athlete. Let’s face it: I was one of those picked last for every team. I’d trip over my shoelaces before I could play kickball. But on that glorious day I finally won an actual trophy. Okay, three inches tall at the max (I have since lost that cherished item) and silver painted plastic, not the gold prize that had been awarded to the girl who won “Best," still an accomplishment for me.

Since then, I earned a scholastic medal and a full fellowship to graduate school. However, I’ve never cared about being the “best.” I’ve only been concerned with doing my best, until now. Without going into personal specifics, I’ve been in second place for the last six months. No, let me re-phrase that: a distant third. I won’t lay blame on  the person involved. He’s not married or involved with another woman. His life belongs to his three grown children. Two of whom have their own kids. The other has serious challenges. Even more problematic, he wouldn't introduce me to most of his family, except for a brief visit with his grandchildren, all of whom live an hour away Two of whom have their own kids. The other has serious challenges. No one could argue that as a father or grandfather, this man would win the award for “Best.”

 Sadly, however, he reached out to me for what has been lacking in his life for too long—romantic love. For half a year, I have supported, loved, compromised and only asked to be on the second rung on his priority ladder. I have realized, tonight, that I did myself a disservice. Having been warned from the beginning that he had priorities, I chose a path toward roadblocks that I couldn’t scale and participated in a competition I couldn’t possibly win. My only reason for persevering being “love” and wanting to share my life with a man some would describe as a perfect match.

If I were to agree with that description, I’d be assigning value, making the man the champion among many who didn’t come close. To rate anyone, a lover or friend as compared to another is wrong. Each person brings unique characteristics. So, what have I learned from this experience? Being a winner doesn’t mean meeting society’s expectations or finding the “one.” What matters is that I will survive, as I have many other challenges, and that I deserve to be in first place, to reward the one person who matters more than anyone: myself.

Updates: Interview for book and website access

For a complete interview with me about my book, SHADOWWATER, please access the following link to YouTube: INTERVIEW via BOOKS & THE WORLD

I've also updated my website, now listed as: shadowwater.net

Thank you for your support! New blog will be posted soon.

Irish Rhapsody

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I wish to revel in Irish culture. I do have connections to Irish heritage, a bit of green and more orange; however, my intention isn't to dissect Irish politics, instead it's to share why I hope to make a pilgrimage to Ireland and see "Erin" from my perspective.

That's the key, from my point of view or how we interpret stories from our own life experiences as much as what we were taught in school. So, I'll begin with my first memory: the animated rendition of Gulliver's Travels (book written in 1726). Though born in Dublin, Swift's heritage was Anglo-Irish; still, the leprechaun-sized Lilliputians creating mayhem, had me entranced. Of Gulliver's adventures, I identified with A Voyage to Lilliput, being little and misunderstood myself. Later, when I learned about the story's political satire, the child in me became saddened, as the adult recognized Swift's metaphors and irony.

Another vague recollection involved watching Walt Disney's Darby O'Gill and the Little People (1959) with Sean Connery, a Scot on television. Though enjoyable and sometimes frightening--I never forgot his encounter with the Banshee--now, I see the inherent stereotypes.

Of the other Irish-themed movies I watched as a young person, Finian's Rainbow (1968)  grabbed my heart. The sometimes painful storyline involving racial prejudice in the South and class mores came to a bittersweet end (SPOILER ALERT). With Finnian's daughter happily wed, Finian decides to leave town to ". . .follow the rainbow,"  which made me, as I'm sure as it did others, cry. And, then there was the annual St. Patrick's Day ritual in our household, The Quiet Man (1952), with John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara, Victor McLaglen, and Barry Fitzgerald. A movie it took years for me to understand as I couldn't believe why a dowry would be so important. There were many layers to be discovered over time.

With every passing year, my mother, who also admired Irish culture, would point out authors and playwrights that would show up in the most amazing places, i.e. Oscar Wilde in the movie, Around the World in Eighty Days (1956) or the filmed version of his The Importance of Being Earnest (1952). You see, when old enough, my mother made sure I appreciated our diverse world through artistic expression particularly. That said, these were only peripheral introductions to Irish heritage because Wilde and George Bernard Shaw were born in Ireland yet preferred to focus their attention on satirizing or skewering the English, with piercing wit and drama.

Once I began high school, my English teacher introduced me to W. B. Yeats's poetry and James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artists as a Young Man (1916).  Since then I've discovered modern Irish authors and filmmakers who have also tugged my emotions, notably Maeve Binchy's novel, Circle of Friends (1991); the movies, My Left Foot (1989), In the Name of the Father (1993), Once (2007), and American-born John Patrick Shanley's plays/screenplays, e.g. Doubt (2008). These works embody a poignancy, or beautiful sadness  which has connected me to the roots of Irish literature.

However, one collection of short stories by Joyce, The Dubliners (1914), still swirls in my imagination, a stand-out being The Dead. As fiction and film this reverent ode to lost love, disappearing traditions, and premature death reads like a poem and translates to celluloid (it was 1987), in Irish-born John Huston's loving hands. The movie is like a nightingale's song. Waxing  rhapsodic, I loved every minute.Beginning with the quiet, deliberate motions of shaking off winter snow from coats and boots as the visitors arrive for Christmas dinner, the spinster sisters' story-telling, Irish nationalism, to the tenor's elegiac The Lass of Roch Royal, prompting the heroine's stunning revelation, the story epitomizes the ethereal melancholy that was, and is in the hearts of many, Irish history. We, the readers, are never lulled into Romantic complacency. Little details, whether it be the servant taking the gentleman's shoes to dry them off at the beginning, the vigorous discussion about the Irish separation from English control, or an unintentional slight made during a speech, all set the underlying tone. And once the ending's climax occurs, I cried. One of the few stories on paper that would elicit such a strong reaction.

Being a visual person, movies more regularly turn on the waterworks. After having read The Dead for the third time, seeing the film (1987, starring Angelica Huston and Donal McCann) and watching Gretta's share her memories with her husband Gabriel , once again washed me with welcoming, cleansing tears. Ireland exemplifies another culture which extols their duality: joy/despair. The Irish got and continue to get the light and shadow of life. Once you read a passage from The Dead, you will find exquisite depth of Joyce's voice now hidden and unheralded for too long. Here Gabriel is watching Gretta mesmerized by the tenor's voice and song, mentioned above, coming from upstairs as she stands on a step, a scene which serves as a prelude to her remembrance:

He {Gabriel} stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the

air that the voice was singing and gazing up at his wife.

There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a

symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman

standing on the stairs in the shadows, listening to distant

music, a symbol of. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze

of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her

skirt would show off the light ones. "Distant Music" he would 

call the picture if he were a painter.

No culture can exemplify life's dramas without bias and entrenched beliefs. However, for the upcoming holiday, March 17th, I'm setting aside the "global community" for a moment and enjoying the gifts that are Irish.

A NEW WORD FOR THE AGES: COYFRIEND

I'm over the age of fifty and proud of it. I have the longevity gene and take care of myself, even with medical challenges. And, I'm lucky to have a handsome, kind, loving and funny man who is ten years old than I in my life, so why must I continue to call him: "boyfriend?"

My mother, from the French school, often suggested: "Why don't you use, beau?" In high school, I had enough reasons not to be a regular bullseye. No, when a teenager or into my early twenties, using "boyfriend" made sense.

However, later in life, especially middle age, "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" is our only alternative if not living with your partner or spouse. I'm not a "girl" anymore and the diminutive suggestion of being a man's girlfriend makes the feminist in me cringe.

"Lover" sounds like your meeting your someone for a romantic tryst or falls under the category of "friends with benefits," an overused, controversial phrase.

No, I've found a substitute. After a long, hard think, and writing a novel featuring the newly discovered crossbreed, the coywolf, I've hit on an idea: "coyfriend!"

Purists and teachers out there who object, please read my reasoning behind this creation (others who are less prone to critiquing, please bear with me). The semantics of the adjective "coy" has evolved, yet in its earlier meaning and usage there is also a modern context. Let's look at Merriam Webster's Dictionary's definition of "coy":

Modern citation -

: having a shy or sweetly innocent quality that is often intended to be attractive or to get attention

: not telling or revealing all the information that could be revealed

Webster's dictionary also includes the older meanings of "coy":

1

a :  shrinking from contact or familiarity <'tis but a kiss I beg, Why art thou coy? — William Shakespeare>

b :  marked by cute, coquettish, or artful playfulness <using coy tricks to attract attention>

2

:  showing reluctance to make a definite commitment <a coy response>

I've highlighted the meanings that, to me, best describe a relationship with a man or woman. When you're involved, being "coy," as in "not telling or revealing all information. . ." makes excellent sense. Each person often protects themselves, shies away from sharing too much during the first year. 

The second, older used meaning of "coy," (highlighted above), also fits the boyfriend/girlfriend scenario. When in the beginning stages of a relationship isn't there a natural hesitancy to commit to the next level of intimacy? Moreover, "coy" is gender neutral, playful, slightly deceptive, and covers that gray area between dating and co-habitating or marriage.

I haven't decided whether "coyfriend" or better "coy-friend," is worth submitting to Merriam-Webster's, the OED or other established wordsmiths. I do claim first dibs, however.

Finally, I'll jump off the diving board and ask my readers to weigh in (seriously or jokingly) on my contribution to the English lexicon: I do have a linguistics background, but linguists are encouraged to submit their thoughts.

Copyright 2014 Wendy Shreve

 

 

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