”Thus wrote
a woman, partly brave and partly good,
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more,
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew, and whore.”
-Adrienne Rich
We’ve lost a good one, America. Rest well, Adrienne.
The first time I met you I didn’t know you’d forever change my life. I didn’t know I’d remember your name 9 years later, or still transfer your phone number from upgraded phone to upgraded phone just in case. My iPhone 4s (I’ve had it less than 3 months) is the first phone you haven’t graced, and I don’t know if I should consider it a sign of achievement that , or laziness, since my previous BlackBerry was too dead to retrieve numbers from. I don’t know if you still have the same Oklahoma number, or if your voicemail is still hauntingly the same. I don’t know what I would say if I was to call, or if you’d even remember me without having to prompt your memory. The first time I met you, I didn’t realize you would be my first love, my first time, my first heartbreak, and the stereotypical clichés we attach to love. Rather, the first time I met you, we hung out after curfew at camp and dangled our feet in the pool and talked about nothing until 1 am. I didn’t realize then we were casting invisible lines that would forever connect us. I thought we were talking about the campus laundry facilities and the lectures we had to attend in the morning. I thought you were some random guy from Oklahoma. In 1 weeks time, we’d be writing each other notes about “What are we doing?” and “I don’t know, but I like where we’re headed”. In 2 weeks, I was sneaking into your bed so I could sleep next to you (sex wasn’t even on the table, much less an option on the menu). In 3 weeks time, you were brushing away my tears and telling me it would be ok when we had to leave.
The first time I met you, I didn’t realize we’d both travel to Kansas to my roommate’s house to meet. I didn’t realize the lengths we’d go to keep something together that was so obviously meant to unravel. The first time I met you, I was a 17 year old with no knowledge of the strain that distance, youth and uncertainty can have on a relationship. I just knew that I will always remember your yellow and blue plaid shirt, the way you looked at me, and that a breeze through an open door ruffling a white sheer curtain will forever belong to you.
-E
Dear E,
It was your birthday today, and I wasn’t with you. And that’s not okay.
Your birthday celebrates your life. That you’re here. That you exist. And that you matter. Birthdays are special and important, and anyone who belittles them sucks at life (This is why we celebrate mine for a month… because other people waste the great occasion. And I shout “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!!” and make the band at the bar sing to me, because it’s a fucking special occasion.).
And because your birthday is a celebration of you, it is one of my favorite days of the year.
It’s a day all about you being here. Being here for me. Being here with me. Being who you are… my best friend. So, it’s all about you, but I’m gonna make it all about me.
I get to make it all about me because knowing you is possibly the greatest gift in my life. And I will celebrate this GREAT gift…
that I know because of all of the little things…
Like the shopping sprees where you and I cannot and will not shop for anything on the same racks because our body types and personal taste could. not. be. more. different. But we meet up for accessories because we can’t get enough of that cheap, sparkly shit… and OMG—owl necklaces for E! And peacock earrings for B! And flowers for our hair!
It’s in the phone calls that spontaneously happen because we CANNOT BELIEVE what one of us is telling the other via text. We need voice confirmation of WTF has just gone down.
It’s in the “OMG, get on gchat” moments.
It’s in the fact that we can be driving somewhere, and if I tell you a family secret the size of a bomb, you don’t wreck the fucking car. You are quiet. And then you say all of the right things. And knowing what you know, you never look at me differently, except maybe with more understanding.
It’s the fact that you get the random afternoon texts that say “Be my friend.” Which means so much more. It’s not just about attention. It says “I’m not alone, but I’m alone. I need you. You’re my best friend. Say something empowering or funny”… It’s not just “I miss you.” It means, “MY LIFE IS SHIT WITHOUT YOU. Be here in this moment with me”… and so much more. (And when I say that to a guy and he doesn’t get it, you will go poke him in the chest.)
It’s in the late night texts of “Love me more.” Which means “show me you love me, and do it soon, because I’m dying a little here, and I need to know you’re there.”
It’s in the fact that if we ever, God forbid, get knocked up, we will pray to whatever gods will listen that we’ll have boys. Not because we don’t want to dress up little girls and watch them become smart asses like us… But because we can’t imagine raising girls in the world we live in, and certainly not in this country, where women are still owned in so many ways. Where our bodies are considered “parts” by our government that is composed mostly of men, and some parts are worth protecting while others are not. Where our paychecks are 70% that of a man’s. Where women fight every day for equal rights to education, for small business loans, for sports coverage, for a media that covers women because of what they do/are accomplishing/think/are capable of, and for a fighting chance at military recognition and protection agains rape, sexual assault and verbal abuse. We know what it’s like to be on guard all the time, to be bitter and cynical simply because we were born female, without our permission. We know what it’s like to every second be ready to defend ourselves, our positions, our merits and our brains. That every time we demand equal rights, we are made out to need/want special rights. But it feels like only you and I know this, and we feel alone in the fight. Women are still second-class citizens in our first world, wealthy, democratic nation. The women who fought for what we do have today are rolling in their graves because we aren’t organizing fast or hard enough and our rights are being reversed… and it’s a heavy burden to bear… too heavy for little girls who have to grow up too fast. We share the same fear that when our (potential) smart, capable, educated, strong, open-minded, big-hearted daughters look into our eyes and ask us “why would you put another woman on this earth?” we won’t have a good enough answer.
It’s in the fact that we don’t have to weigh or mince words with each other. We say what we mean. We mean what we say.
It’s in the E.E. Cummings poetry.
It’s in checking my texts before I even get out of bed in the morning to make sure you didn’t need me or that I didn’t miss something in the night.
It’s in when I tell you that I’m going to go protest or engage in civil disobedience, you say “don’t get arrested. You watch LOCKUP. You KNOW what it’s like on the INSIDE.” And then you wait on standby in case you have to bail my ass out.
It’s when I say I’m going to go Occupy, and you say, “okay, I’m coming with you, but I’ll need a place to plug in the curling iron, and I’m bringing my Coach purse and those bitches are just going to have to deal.”
All of these little things in my life… are what my life is composed of. And my life feels BIG because I know you.
Happy Birthday to you. Happy Greatest Gift Day to me.
But it was your birthday today, and I wasn’t with you… And that’s still not okay.
Love,
B
I love you because of your amazing spirit. Other people would have looked at the massive amount of shit you’ve been through (and in) not only in the past year, but in your life, and long ago retired to the corner to curl up and cry. You, on the other hand, not only continue on, but do with class (well, most of the time), determination, and strength that I’m not sure you even realize you display.
You’re my best friend because you understand me, and love me regardless of my mood swings and judgement of everything (including hippies. Fucking hippies). You understand me when no one else does (or even tries to) and somehow you don’t judge me for it. This kind of quiet and enduring love is rare, much like a person of your character, yet I was lucky enough to stumble upon it and you.
I love you because you sit quietly while I whip Tupperware around the apartment in an angry rage, and complain about messy cupboards and husbands. You watch me throw away containers without lids and a 30 pack of coffee filters and say nothing, because you know I don’t drink fucking coffee anyway. You don’t remind me that there’s probably a use for the lidless containers because you know missing lids isn’t the point of why I’m upset. Sometimes it’s easier to be upset about the small things because the large things are just too overwhelming.
You’re my best friend because I don’t need to say anything to you in order for you to know exactly how I’m feeling. You can tell if I’m happy, drunk, hurting, or ready to leave this bar because that bitch in that gross velour zip-up hoodie keeps looking at us. We don’t start conversations on the phone, but rather get right to the point, starting with “I’m so sad” or “Why is she such a bitch?”. We can come home, sit down, and the other one will know exactly how our day went and open them a Diet Coke.
I love you because you also believe there is no absolute to any situation, and that black and white long ago delved into a grey area. You taught me that at certain times, love is everything, but at others, love is nothing, and then there are some times when love is simply not enough. Or maybe we learned that from a Greys Anatomy episode, and we just credited it to ourselves. However, I’ve learned that while there is no absolute, there is us, and our friendship.
I have a theory that as long as you have one good friend, one real friend, you can get through anything.
-“How to Build a House” by Dana Reinhardt
Yep. Story of our lives...
Love is not like it is in the movies.
Well, that's just haunting as Hell.
i make no apologies 