A Virgin and A Pauper

In 1991, my newly discovered writing talent scared the hell out of me.  I kept it a secret from everyone I knew.  I was a contract administrator.  I handled important government documents.  I had a DOD secret clearance for God’s sake.  I sold F-16 seats for a living!  I worked for the military-industrial complex.  I did NOT (are you listening God) write poetry.  As much as I loved Emily Dickinson, E.E. Cummings, James Kavanaugh, who did I think I was?  A poet?  A writer?  Me?  Surely you jest and I have magically appeared in an alternate universe.  

What if they found out that late at night at home on my Mac, I was writing love poems of loss and longing, hunger and sex.  In free verse that didn’t rhyme, no less.  Oh my God, the humiliation, the embarrassment, the giggles.  High school all over again.  I might even get fired.  Contract administrators, 46 year old mothers do not suddenly awake one day espousing free verse about feelings, wanting to do nothing else except write.  Whom was I kidding?  If I didn’t stop this falderal immediately, the poetry police would show up and lock down my Mac.  I definitely needed therapy or at least to leave Los Angeles.  And quickly.  Where was a Bekins truck when you need one?

Uncle Aron said Los Angeles was a terrible place to live.  There had to be a PA (Poets Anonymous) meeting somewhere in Los Angeles?  There were meetings for every addiction known to mankind with acronyms to match.  Where were the yellow pages when you needed them?

Josh was in his junior year of college with every belief he would write the next great screenplay.  He wouldn’t leave home.  Why should he?  I paid for his lifestyle and let him borrow the RX-7 when he had a date or totaled the car he was driving that month.  All his friends had a place to hang out during earthquakes.  And should a tsunami follow, the fridge was always full of food so all his buddies could camp at our house.  We lived five miles east of the Pacific Ocean, food was free, I did all the cooking, paid all the bills, and knocked on the door before entering his room.  If God hadn’t intervened I’d still be working eighteen hour days, living with him and whatever girlfriend wanted to come over and play during daylight hours when Mom was at work.  As usual I digress, sorry.  So many stories, so little time.

I would sit down after work, pull out my tiny spiral chamois notebook (that Mead went everywhere with me), along with my Uniball blue 10 pt fine pens I purchased by the box.  I’d be typing oblivious to time or hour, when I would feel him behind me reading over my right shoulder.  He would want me to read the poem aloud.  The came his first question, “How long did that take you?”  For him it was always pragmatic, about mathematics not feelings.  His mathematical brain working the next angle.  One day instead of the math comment out comes, “Mom, you do realize that Emily Dickinson died a virgin and a pauper?”

To which I retorted, “Well I have her beat on one count.  I’ve had sex once in my life.”  He left the room.  His dream of inheriting a trust fund wasn’t coming to fruition quickly enough. 

After writing from March to August 1991, I needed a large three-ring binder with alphabetic tabs.  One Sunday in August, Josh knowing my fear of speaking in front of crowds, drags me to Portofino’s – a college hang out near California State University, Long Beach.  Sunday nights they had the latest rock group perform with poetry readings during intermission.  Terrified does not properly convey my state of fear.  My son, the soon to be Academy Award winning playwright, who was majoring in “writing screenplays” at Steven Spielberg’s stomping ground, wanted me (his mother) to come read my poems to his friends.  Now I get his sneaky brain at work, I will be dead by Monday morning.  And he will inherit the house, the jazz CDs, and the RX7.  Not to worry.  Now he can have women over any time he wants, not just while I’m at work.

Off we go, me hugging the three-ring binder so tight there are nail marks in the vinyl, sitting in back listening to the band though only hearing my heartbeat.  There are roughly 99 people in attendance, 77 college females, a few males, band members, and staff.  I’m shaking.  Intermission arrives I’m the last poet to read and the only one over 20.  I read poem one, not bad a little clapping, didn’t throw up.  I read poem two, a little more noise from the girls (guess angst is appreciated amongst female intellectuals), I SNAP.  Guess the applause went to my head.  I turn the alphabet dividers to “O.”  I read Orgasms and Other Feelings.*  The room explodes and 77 college girls are on there feet cheering at the top of their lungs.  Noise that could be heard at the Marriott on Ocean Boulevard a couple of miles away. 

*Note to college boys/men – never ever give your Mother a hard time about anything.  Not if she can write or speak.  A time will come when she remembers.  

Orgasms & Other Feelings

We learned early on

Not to talk about “them…”                             

Orgasms…

          …and other feelings.                                     

So women grew up wondering

What one was

Feeling cheated

If they didn’t have multiple ones

As read about in Cosmo

We didn’t know much

Though we were sure

Men must be the culprits

And held them responsible. 

We traded in our mates

Our husbands

Exchanging partners

Looking for the “them”

Divorce became the right of passage

To adulthood.

Whose to blame?  Who knows?

If the truth be told

No one can teach you to be unafraid

You need to learn it…                                   

                 …for yourself

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

 

Don’t Try this at Home

When you’re the oldest child of immigrant parents, you plow the path as if you were a John Deere.  They think it’s 1930 Poland or Romania.  In reality it’s 1960 Phoenix, Arizona USA.  They say “no” a lot!  Because life costs too much, they have four children to raise, and few financial resources.  You have found babysitting pays.  So does a savings account at the bank, which in addition pays interest. 

Mostly they say “no” because they have been thrust into a life they never intended living.  Modern psychology hasn’t arrived in the form of EST trainings, Ram Dass, Tony Robbins, Wayne Dyer, and weekly therapy sessions.  Grateful is how you feel if you have enough money to fix the brakes on the car and buy a chicken for Shabbat dinner.  All your clothes are made on an old Singer; you want a cashmere sweater and matching pencil skirt from Goldwater’s on Central Avenue.  They watch Ed Sullivan, you watch Dick Clark.  You crave fitting in they don’t get it.  School isn’t for fitting in school is for learning. 

In the 60s, nothing was more American than smoking.  Thanks to the movies of the 40s and 50s, everybody who was anybody smoked.  I wanted to be everybody.  I wanted to be cool.  If you were cool, you were leaning against the wall in the halls of Central High wearing a pale green cashmere pencil skirt (very tight) and the same color sweater (even tighter).  Babysitting earnings did not pay for cashmere.  Besides, I couldn’t inhale and I never looked or acted weak in public.  People made fun of you if you weren’t cool or tough. 

In my dreams, I’m leaning against the wall with my right leg bent at the knee, the bottom of my green jellybeans against the same wall.  James Dean is handing me a drag off his cigarette that has recently touched his lips, just before he reaches down and touches mine.  All the really popular girls are walking by whispering, “How did she land him?  What happened to Julie Harris?”  In my dreams.   Wide a wake, I remember there’s a tiny problem.  James Dean died five years earlier and I can’t inhale without gagging, coughing, and seeming a complete inept moron.  Who’s going to kiss that?  No problem – my mind has a mind of it’s own.  Not sure if I made it up or borrowed it, but it accurately describes my brain. 

Quick trip to the bank and the grocery store (walking, I’m only 14).  Kents, I heard of those.  Oh no, where to hide them so Mom’s angel doesn’t find out and tattle on me.  Marjorie Morningstar, my latest read by Herman Wouk.  So you know, I don’t read;  I devour books.  When I find a book I love, I find every book that author has written and devour those as well.  Number of pages doesn’t matter.  Put the pack of cigarettes between the back cover and the last page.  Flat cigarettes, no problem, they’ll light up.  But where?  Where can I commit this felony without getting caught and sent to Florence Prison? 

I know, the Steinberg’s house Saturday night.  Great!  Saturday night arrives and the children have an 8 pm bedtime.  It’s 9 pm, I read them a story, now they’re fast asleep down the hall of the long hallway ranch home with their door closed.  

For those of you who don’t know, summer in Phoenix is stifling.  Crank up the cooler and open the sliding glass door all the way so the air gets pushed out instead of recycled.  Find large bowl type glass ashtray that’s washable.  

Directions for committing felony: 

Sit down on the couch; get matches, set ashtray down, light up cigarette one.   Cough, spit, gurgle, then try to breathe, light up cigarette two. Proceed to the end of the pack taking two hours to do so. 

Results: 

Oh my God!  Who’s bright idea was this?  That stupid angel, must have been his.  I’m dying, never mind I’m green.  Too bad I don’t have the cashmere outfit, I’d match.  Flush everything down the toilet after chopping up the package, wash the ashtray, the sink, all the while I’m holding my rib cage, figuring this is my last day on earth so I better make sure the kitchen and family room are spotless.  Ashes anywhere, nope.  The Steinbergs arrive home, hand me money, and say in astonishment, “Sara, you don’t look so good, do you want a ride home?” 

Well duh…she responds, “I’m fine, I’ll walk.  (It’s still 100 degrees outside.) I think maybe I have a cold.  My throat hurts.”   *Note to teenagers ~ if you are going to lie, make it obvious then it sounds like the truth.  

Two blocks home, fall into bed; sleep like a dead person, never waking up in the morning, Mom will come in and find my cold body.  What is that light, it can’t be morning yet.  Drag myself up and into the kitchen for juice. 

Mom takes one look smell, “What is wrong with you?  You look terrible.” 

“My throat hurts, I think I have a cold,” says lying Sara. 

“In July?  You’ve been smoking!” she responds incredulously. 

“Me smoke, never!” says the eldest daughter.

 

*I have a theory, which I have learned the hard way.  Whenever I tell a lie, God makes it come true.

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Essence of Human Relationships

Ram Dass tells a story about a man rowing on a lake high in the mountains in fog so thick you can’t see your fingers unless you hold them right in front of your eyes.  While he is rowing, he runs into something, probably another boat.  He starts yelling loudly, “Watch where you’re going.  Can’t you see I’m rowing here?  You must be blind, you’re not paying any attention to where you’re going.”  No sound, except for his oars in the water.  No one arguing back, no name calling, nothing but silence.  Only the oars in the water in rhythm.  Soon the fog lifts and the man sees there is no one in the other boat; the one he collided with.  The other boat is empty just floating on the lake.  Ram Dass says “that’s the essence of all human relationships.”

Hope Arrives at Daylight

I walked alone upon a road beside a hill

Where I saw an open grave lying still

All alone beneath a tree, when I came near

The darkness grew, took my sight, left the fear

For there, right there, in front of me

There was my name, inscribed on stone,

          beneath the tree.

Unsure, I tripped, I grasped for land

I grabbed at air, I brushed her hand

Then face to face I came with her, I couldn’t see

I knew not buried yet, the her was me.

She hugged me long, whispered, “Please

don’t cry.  I’ve come to talk, to say good bye.

It’s time for me to go, I’ve done my best.

You’ve grown so much, passed every test.

You’re wiser now, courageous, strong.

I’m tired, it’s time for me to move along. 

I know the journey left in front of you,

Is full of love and stories, too.”

I hugged her back, she felt so warm.

She said, “It’s time to go, you’re on your own.

I have to go, I’ve done my thing.

Lay me to rest next to the spring.

Go on your way and never fear.
The world is warm, your path is clear.”

I turned to face where she had gone,

And saw instead a glowing dawn.

The night had passed, the world was new.

I’d lost myself and found me too.

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

In the End

It matters not

who did

what to whom

or why…

 

It matters only

how we get

from there

to here

and when.

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Significance

September 1979, during my first week at Airesearch in Torrance, CA my new boss Brent asked me about the ACES II F-16 ejection seat contracts I was administering.  I looked back at him with blank eyes.  “What product are you selling?  How does it work?  Have you seen it or touched it?  What’s a class C explosive,” Mr. Green wanted to know standing at the entrance to my tiny gray cubicle?  I looked at him in total disbelief.  I was a Contract Manager.  I knew about the law, finance, protecting the company’s interests.  My degree was in law, I wasn’t an Engineer.  I was a conscientious employee, experienced, committed, came with references.  Why did I need to know how an ejection seat worked?  I knew what a contract was.  I had been in school forever and spent a fortune learning those principles and he was doubting my smarts.  Discrimination based on sex that’s what this was.  What difference could it possibly make that the seat was man-rated? 

“No,” I responded, “I don’t.”

“Come with me,” Brent said.

F-16 ACES II Ejection Seat

Off we went for a three-hour tour of the company.  I met Gary, the Buyer, who purchased parts that went into the seat; I met John the Manufacturing Manager, Sheldon the Test Engineer, Clifton the Engineering Program Manager, his boss Sumner, and Evelyn, the woman on the manufacturing line who installed the wires on the printed circuit boards.   I viewed the clean room where the sensors (that flew the seats) were made, looked through a microscope while a man installed gold wires so small they needed tweezers to hold them while soldering, and learned that our company (the only one in the world) owned all the patents for this process. 

Ours was the only company that was authorized to produce these sensors for the US Air Force.  I could feel myself becoming proud of landing this unbelievable job.  I found myself becoming more intelligent following, listening, and of course smiling (a lot).  I found respect on a manufacturing line, and dignity in a shipping department.  Astonishing myself most, that none of it came from the law degree still the box in the garage because I had managed to flunk the California Bar Exam not once but twice (on purpose).  I guess I really didn’t want to be an attorney after all.

Surely this was some kind of cosmic joke; maybe, though before the day ended, I even knew the names of guys in the shipping department who made sure our seats were packed in such a way that they didn’t eject during transport.  

Later that day I asked my boss if this was a necessary part of my employment?  “Absolutely,” said Mr. Green.  “In your career you will meet many people.  All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say hello.  You will be asked to sell or negotiate products you know nothing about.  How can you possibly handle yourself in an intelligent, confident manner if you have no knowledge of these products?” 

I never forgot the lesson of significance.  During my seven years there, I also met the President and Vice-President of Airesearch.  They came to visit me often, stopping to say “hi” to the Contract Manager who smiled a lot and regularily went to visit the people on the manufacturing line; as well as bringing boxes of jelly donuts to the guys out in shipping Christmas week.  One October they came to ask me how much of a discount I had given one of our customers warranting the incredible 3 ft tall sunflower/mum floral arrangement* that was sitting on my desk?

*from Ron (Footprints on my Heart) 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd