I’m in the process of editing the videos of the dates and trying to give a good sense of the whole experience of being another person.  I will post something soon.  It has taken me a little longer than I expected to recooperate from “being” someone else for 2 months.  I feel culture shocked, as if I’ve been to another country and now my homeland looks different from how I remember it.  I needed a little time to reaculturate to “being” me.

This is my last day as Delia and I’m feeling elated to be done and a little sad.  I’m going to miss her.

It’s been 2 months of being Delia every day, experiencing life from a different viewpoint.  Life is easier for Delia for a number of reasons.  She doesn’t have as many responsibilities as me and she doesn’t stress over the ones she has.  Of course she gets upset when things don’t work out, like the computer problems in the museum, because she doesn’t like to let people down.  However, she doesn’t take on the burden of responsibility for it.  She is a people pleaser but not a worrier.  And she is endlessly optimistic.

Perhaps because of this, people seem to like Delia (other than my friends who have been actively missing me and seem to resent Delia a little bit.)  She is just so darn nice and friendly.  She has a sweet little voice and a gracious manner.  I hope to learn from her how to be a little more patient and polite in my regular life.  I’m so focused on what I’m working on most of the time that I can be a bit abrupt or less than gracious with people when I’m busy.  Especially the people I’m closest to, because I know they will forgive me.  Delia is kind to everyone but especially people she loves.  She has her priorities straight.

She is pretty in a different way than me and it is more than the hair, makeup, clothes, lips and teeth.  She is pretty because she is sweet, gracious and kind.

I have to thank Alan for creating someone who I have enjoyed embodying.  He’s been such a sport and has hardly blinked an eye when I refer to “Jane” in the third person about one thing or another.  He has been great at playing along.  In fact, the real me is going to take him to the airport tonight, partly because I want to thank him and partly because he wants to meet me. 

What he has done is brave and very cool.  It took guts to come here alone.  On the ride back from the airport that first day I (Delia) said, “Do your friends know you’re doing this?”  He said, “Yeah, some of them.”  When I asked, “What do the think?” he replied, “Well, some of them were afraid you might be an axe murderer…”  We both laughed and I said, “Yep, that was what my friends were afraid of too.”

So I admire his courage for coming here and trusting that it would be OK.  As he said that evening, “Well, you only live once.”  And I could help thinking how normal it has become to travel miles from home to meet someone you only know online.  This is a strange project (reflecting an even stranger reality) and he has both taken it seriously and with a sense of fun.  In fact, he is a very laid back guy who seems to match Delia in optimism and kindness.  Which makes me think I’ve done a pretty good job.  He and Delia seem to be a good match, and she really likes him.  He is perfect for her.

Unfortunately, she is invented, a collaboration between Alan, the voting public and me.  I like him and am so appreciative of his participation, but I am not Delia and after today Delia goes home and disappears again into the ether.  She is an avatar who stepped off the screen for a few months.  But like everything on the internet, she is a blend of “reality” and “fiction”.  In this way, she represents our culture.

The first time I remember meeting the man who would become my first love was freshman orientation.  I remember walking over to Western with a guy and girl I’d just met to see the comedian George Carlin.  The girl reminded me of my childhood best friend and I immediately liked her.  He was tall dark and gloomy.  I liked him too but didn’t relate to his quiet and restrained manner.  We didn’t all become best pals right away, but oddly they both became major players of my college experience.

As we walked, wonderful fall light filtered through the still green leaves of late summer.  I smiled and turned my face to the sun only half paying attention to the conversation.  I loved being in college.  I felt lighthearted and carefree.  This was what I’d worked so hard for, freedom.

My mother and I had argued endlessly throughout my senior year about me going away for college.  She’d say, “We can’t afford it!”  And I’d reply, “They’ll be my loans.”  Then she’d say, “But it makes more sense to stay home for a year or two and then go to college.”  My reply, “Yep, but I’m still going,” would often make her cry.  Once in a particularly dramatic moment she sobbed, “but I don’t want to eat cat food when I’m old.”   This argument made no sense at all.  Trying not to laugh, I said, “I’ll buy you tuna.”

So there I was my first week of school and I was already making friends and life never seemed so good, perhaps to make up for the awful years of high school.

A few weeks later, I got a letter in the mail.  It was from this same guy.  As I read, my gut tightened.  It was a love letter. I was somewhere between disbelief, anxiety and nervous laughter.  I liked him and he was nice but I didn’t want a boyfriend, and if I did, I didn’t think it would be him.  I showed the letter to a few friends and asked what to do.  We laughed a bit and I felt bad for showing it to them.  But they gave me good advice and ultimately I just approached him and said quite honestly that I wasn’t interested.

Senior year, it was at a party I think (I don’t really remember) but I do remember him leaning over and whispering in my ear, “You know, I still love you.”  Again, I felt shocked, but this time I was pleased rather than dismayed.  I couldn’t believe he still liked me.  Over the years we floated in and out of the same social circles, never quite in the same group but with a lot of cross over.  I thought, “What the hell, if he still likes me after all this time, I’ll give him a chance.”  I’m glad I did.  He was my first love and my first heartbreak.

We were living in Boston in a tiny apartment.  I looked around at the piles of stuff and felt angry.  ‘Why doesn’t he clean up after himself.  What? Does he expect me to do it?’  I was working a terrible job taking pictures of babies in malls and discount stores.  This was not the life I’d imagined after college.  I was angry in general, and lonely despite the fact that my best friend also lived in town (same girl I met that fine fall day in Freshman year.) 

Things were not too good between my friend and me.  She and I had planned to move to Boston together, but then in a romantic moment, I’d looked at my boyfriend and said, “You want to move to Boston.”  When I told her he’d agreed, she looked hurt.  To make it worse, she’d had a huge crush on him the year before.  We couldn’t all live together (which is what I suggested to her at the time.)  It would have been impossible, awful.  I chose him over her.  At that time I was ruled by impulse and was being a very bad friend.

So, that day I was angry about the mess in the apartment.  When he got home that night, I said, “It is getting so messy in here.  I’m not your mother.  I’m not going to clean up after you.”  He didn’t say anything.  He just looked at me, his beautiful brown eyes showing his irritation.  This made me more angry, and I insisted, “Why don’t I clean the kitchen and you clean the bathroom?”  He shrugged, “OK.”

I still can’t believe that I actually made a set of cleaning instructions as if he’d never be able to figure out how to clean a bathroom on his own.  In fact, I think I taped them to the bathroom wall.

I was miserable.  We were miserable.  There were definitely good times when we just enjoyed each others company, but most of the time we fought or he valiantly tried to ignore my tears or rants.

It shouldn’t have surprised me when a half a year later, he turned to me in bed one night and said, “I want to fall in love again.”

This hurt terribly, but only because I’d allowed myself to love him.  Love is always an act of bravery.  A friend said recently that courage is not about being fearless, but doing something despite your fear.

I tried to track down my best friend from college.  She didn’t respond.  I don’t know if my messages went to spam or if she didn’t want to be part of this.  We left on bad terms.  Twice I dated men she’d really liked.The specifics of the circumstances weren’t as bad as that makes it sound but, still, I was a bad friend to her. 

I fell for you the moment I first saw you.  It was at a dorm party during the first month of college.  Everything about your face, your body, your long hair, your easy laugh, your crazy energy, your huge smile, was incredibly appealing.  I was totally smitten.

I didn’t have the courage to ask you out at first, and  I had a hard time getting to know you.  You weren’t very receptive to hanging out and talking with me, or so I thought.  You seemed to exist comfortably in your own world with your new friends, enjoying the thrill of a new college life.  I did tag along with you and a few mutual friends to an environmental fundraising event, with an Earth First speaker lecturing the audience and singing Earth-friendly folk songs.  Walking to and from the event, I noticed how different we were.  I would run in short sprints to burn off excess energy – you would skip happily along at your own pace.  I would either talk intensely about serious subjects only, or not at all – you would talk about anything and everything, for the sheer joy of conversation.  I was Ren – you were Stimpy.

Finally I gathered up the courage to write you a long love poem.  It was pretty bad.  I might throw up if I saw it again.  But at the time, I meant every word.  You weren’t terribly impressed.  You let me know straight away that you weren’t attracted to me – no equivocation.  I don’t think you liked my intensity.  You were probably worried that I would stalk you.  But I wasn’t a stalker – I was a sulker.  So I buried my feelings for a long time.

Over the years, I became more comfortable in my own skin, and my social skills improved.  We’d see each other here and there, and chat here and there, and it was no big deal.  We were casual acquaintances, though we moved in different social circles.  You didn’t seem to change too much, and I was okay with that.  Little did I know what would happen before we graduated.

We finally hooked up, quite to my surprise, during a big outdoor party, maybe two months before graduation.  I was extremely intoxicated, and I don’t remember everything that happened during the party.  At some point, all of the sudden, we were dancing and making out in public.  I would have been embarrassed the day after it I had done this with anyone else but you.  Instead, I was ecstatic.  I guess the alcohol and the upcoming end of school broke down a few barriers on my end.  I wasn’t sure why you embraced me like you did, but I didn’t care.  Your acceptance meant the world to me.

We had a few short weeks of dating at the very end of college, and you proposed that we move to Boston.  I think it took me two seconds to say “yes” to such a huge decision.  I didn’t have any other post-college plans, and the idea of striking out for a brand new city was very exciting.  My friends and family were surprised, since we had not officially dated for very long.  But after four years of college, I felt like I knew you pretty well, and that we would be compatible as a couple.

Being young and naïve, I thought everything would go very smoothly.  The move itself went fine, but the other circumstances about our new life together took their toll over time.  We lived in a tiny apartment with very little money.  We both had temporary corporate jobs or public service volunteer work, none of which was fully satisfactory.  Boston was exciting at first, but draining after awhile.  I was worn down by the daily struggle, and I think you were too.

On top of all this, I realized that maybe we weren’t compatible as a couple.  For example, one day you were driving us through Boston in a rental van, going to pick up a free sofa.  You had a hard time telling left from right.  I would read the map, ask you to turn left, and you would say “which is left?” or “what do you mean, show me.”  I was completely exasperated.  How the hell could you not know left from right?  I could not understand how anyone could have such difficulties with spatial relationships – especially someone with a strong visual sense for artistic expression.  Another person would have let it go – but I didn’t.

At the time, I did not have the patience, the respect, and the good behavior to maintain a healthy relationship with you.  I wasn’t fully committed to the relationship, and I decided that we could not overcome our strong personality differences.  Most importantly, you went back to school and found a calling that appealed to you.  I was nowhere near to finding my equivalent focus in life, and I probably felt jealous of your new direction.  So I decided I needed a new life.  I left you, and then I left town.

In the end, it was probably the right decision, even though it caused both of us a lot of pain.  I regretted what I did for the first year away, but over time I adjusted to my new life in a new city, and I came to see that you and I just weren’t meant to be together for all time.  I only wish I had handled myself better while we were together.  We did have some good times, and I will never forget what a wonderful person you can be.

I don’t remember the specific time or place, but I remember being asked out by a guy friend of mine in seventh grade.  I liked him.  He was my friend.  When we were younger, we used to go fishing together or ride our bikes around town.  It was easy and fun hanging out with him. 

I was always a little bit of a tomboy: climbing trees, catching snakes, building forts, fishing or making campfires.  I’m sure this was my brother’s influence, my idolization of him, as well as my natural tendency toward all things outdoors or mechanical.  But at that time, I don’t think this boy and I hung out much anymore.  Things changed between the boys and girls in sixth and seventh grade.  There was a new tension to the simplest interactions.  It was no longer OK to hang out all the time with boys. 

I clearly remember my reaction when he asked me out.  I was shocked and embarrassed.  I couldn’t understand why he would want to ‘go with me.’  “No,” I said, “No way!”  He replied, “Aw, come on.  Why not?”

“I don’t know.  I just don’t want to.”  It was the truth.  I didn’t know why I didn’t want to go out with him.  In fact, I had never considered going with anyone, dating hadn’t crossed my mind.  It wasn’t personal.  I just wasn’t ready to date, and couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact of my friend wanting to date me.

After a few more tries, he gave up and asked out my best friend.  She said yes, and I felt relieved.  But one day she cornered me and said, “You know he still likes you.  You should go with him.”  I looked at her aghast, “But you’re going out with him!”

She smiled with her signature smirk, “Yeah, but he really likes you.  You should go with him.  Give him a chance.”  I just shook my head.

The whole mad crush and dating ritual perplexed me.  My friends started plastering their walls with pictures of movie stars, or waxing poetic on boys they adored.  I wasn’t there yet.  I never got there.  I went all through my adolescence into adulthood without ever having a crush.  I went all the way through middle school and high school without going on a single date.  It wasn’t that no one wanted to date me, but that I honestly couldn’t see the point.  It seemed like a lot of bother for not much return.  I never understood what all the fuss was about.

Certainly, there were guys I found attractive, but that was it.  ‘He’s handsome.  I wonder if he’s a good kisser,’ I’d think to myself (not that I’d ever been kissed), but it wasn’t accompanied by a pounding heart or blushes.

I think I was afraid to open myself up to hurt or disappointment.  My family life was tough at that time, and my parents’ and then step-parents’ relationships were volatile and unpredictable.  If that was were passion lead you… I wanted nothing to do with it.

Talked to his mom.  We had a nice chat, but she couldn’t give me contact information for him.  Oh well.

Wasn’t it something like I was going with him and then he asked if it was all right if he asked you out?

He was so in love with you.  You were just like, “No.”

He asked you out in 7^th grade, and it was a total love thing for him all through school.  If you had ever given him the time of day, he would have been in seventh heaven.   At least, that’s my opinion.  I think he did like you all through school.

But what I remember the most about you and his relationship was when we were on the senior trip.  We were all back at the hotel room.  You were in your pajamas and you started laughing.  Well, you flipped back and your legs were up in the air with your underwear showing for all the world to see.  He was looking right at your butt and he was so drunk.  The expression on his face when you started laughing, and I thought, ‘oh my god he’s still in love with her.’ If you would have said yes to him in 7^th grade, I think you guys would have been going together all through school.

Well, you know what I think is that all your brother’s friends were around all the time. You were exposed to all these boys through your brother but they were just like extensions of your family.  I always just looked at it that you were around all these guys, they were always there, you know, just like another brother to you.

I never really thought of you thinking of a guy another way. I don’t know.

My seventh week as Delia: I’m very comfortable being Delia now.  I don’t feel like it is an act most of the time.  I don’t have to think about speaking or moving like her.  It all comes naturally.  It’s like learning to drive a car: at first it seems an impossible task and you feel like there are too many things to pay attention to at the same time.  Then, more rapidly than you could have imagined, you are driving, not thinking and concentrating hard on driving, but fluidly, unconsciously, simply… driving.

I still have moments when I revert to being more Jane than Delia, especially, for some reason, when I am teaching.  However, most of the time I walk like Delia, I talk like Delia, I am Delia.

An interesting thing about Delia is that men are attracted to her.  They talk her up and try to give her their number or smile and flirt with her.  As Delia, I get hit on almost every day. 

There must be something about the way I move or talk that says, ‘yes, I’m available.’  Delia is approachable in a way I am not.  Of course, I do get hit on occasionally in my normal life, but not too often. I try to project hands off.  I guess it works.

Given that we are one in the same, I believe the extra attention is because, as Delia, I try to focus on being soft and sweet and easy going.  I truly feel that I have all the time in the world and that there is no point in rushing.  I think this makes me approachable.  In addition, Delia really does want to meet someone special.  I think men pick up on these vibes. Looks might play into it too.  Delia wears makeup, styles her hair and dresses with care.   But I think the determining factor is body language. 

I think body language is a very powerful force in attraction.  During a project where I made myself look like a blonde bimbo media icon, I found that men treated me about the same as usual.  Although I was all dolled up, wearing heels and mini skirts, my demeanor stayed the same and my body language still said, hands off.

I have always felt that I am intimidating to men (in fact, I have been told I am intimidating by men) and, to be honest, this pleases me.  I find too much male attention irritating.

Delia, on the other hand, is not intimidating and she is not bothered by the attention, most of the time.  She occasionally finds it perplexing and a little worrisome because she doesn’t always realize someone is flirting with her until they say something more forward than she is comfortable with, and then she feels bad for leading them on.

I don’t think this experience will change my hands off demeanor.  I still believe life’s easier when I discourage male attention… (the kind that leads to them giving you their number and mouthing, “call me.”)  In my opinion, it’s better to get that kind of attention selectively. 

In the mean time, no harm, no foul as Delia wanders around attracting random men.

Everything changed in our lives when my mom and stepdad married.  It made me nervous to have a new person be part of our family. I remember warning my mom against getting involved with him.  He was a big, one-legged guy who worked on motorcycles.  She seemed fragile and unpredictable.  I felt it was my job to look out for her. 

I still don’t think they were good for each other, and he and my brother fought from the get go, but he was good for me.  

I used to work with him out at the motorcycle shop on the farm.  He taught me basic stuff and had me clean up or haul crap around.  I was his helper, fondly referred to as his “Shop Slave.”

“Hand me the wrench, will ya.”  I put the wrench in the hand sticking out from the underside of a half-suspended Triumph.  Grease coated bolts and bits of hay littered the cement floor around him.

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and waited while he grunted.  ”Come on you bitch.”  I knew he meant the stuck nut, not me.  ”Come on,”  he insisted.  Then squinting, he cooed, “Oh, I see what your doing” and angled his arm another way.

He always talked to the problem machines, and he pretty much only got problem machines.  People from miles around knew by word of mouth that if you had a bike you couldn’t fix or a part that no longer existed, my stepdad was the one to bring it to, and depending on your attitude, he fix it up for a reasonable price.

“Get me the screwdriver would you?”  I handed him the nearest one.   He huffed, and said in a sign-song voice which suggested that I was the town idiot, “The Philips head.”  I smirked and handed him the Philips head.  His taunts and mild bullying didn’t bother me.  He could fix anything, even if it took a month and some damaged knuckles (his not mine.)  I loved hanging at the shop, even as a lowly “Shop Slave”, and watching him work miracles with machines.  

After a hard day of grease and grime, my mom would drop by straight from work and we’d go get some greasy BBQ chicken and fries from the deli.  Going into the grocery in my grimy clothes, I felt strangely proud.  I was a tough girl who worked on motorcycles (or at least helped) and knew how to ride.  I felt like a cross between my mother’s cautious daughter and my stepdad’s favorite son. 

One night, a few years earlier, we were driving to the next town to do some shopping and get dinner.  Abruptly, he pulled over to the side of the road and said, “Look at this.  Poor little stinkers.”  I leaned forward and looked out the front window.  Spotlighted by the headlights was a mother skunk on  her back and a bunch of baby skunks sniffling around the body.  They weren’t even weaned yet.

I felt my heart squeeze and said, “What’s going to happen to them.”  He replied, “Well, what usually happens to small animals left on their own in the wild?” I scrunched up my face and stuck out my bottom lip. I knew what he meant and didn’t want them to die.  I could just imagine them getting hit in the road or worse, going hungry or being killed by some bigger creature.  

“Oh no!  What should we do?  We can’t just let them die.”  I felt my eyes tear up.  ”Could we take them home?”  I stared out the window again.  They were just so little and adorable and defenseless.  ”Please.”

I glanced at my mother but she looked dubious.  So I focussed on my stepdad.  He shrugged and then laughed a big belly laugh.  ”Do you know how to take care of skunks?”  I started to nod, and then shook my head when he laughed again.  He looked serious for a moment.  ”Will you take good care of them?”  

“Oh, yes!  Of course.”  I had no idea what that meant.  It didn’t matter.  I wanted to save these little guys if at all possible.  

“Well… ”  He looked at my mom.  She shrugged and that sealed the deal.  I was now the proud owner of 3 baby skunks.

I learned how to feed them with a bottle and left over scraps.  One died right away and the other got sick after a few weeks and died.   But the third became my pet.  I’d hold him in my lap and pet him or let him wander around and play in the grass.  He was sweet and cuddly like a kitten, a slightly stinky kitten.  Eventually he his stink glands started to work and he’d lift his tail when startled.

One evening, my stepdad said, “I think it’s time for your little buddy to move to the campground.”  I looked up from the TV and said, “What?”

“You know, your little stinky friend?  He’s not a baby anymore.  I think he’d enjoy the smorgasbord at the campground.”  He erupted in gleeful laughter.

I smiled sadly and laughed with him.  I could see my skunk happily surprising some campers as he waddled over to check out their trash.  I sobered and said,  ”Do you really think he’s old enough?”  My stepdad nodded.  

I didn’t argue.  I knew it was wrong to keep a wild animal.  I just hoped we hadn’t ruined him for living in the wild.  Then I thought of all the times we found skunks in our yard or eating our garbage and decided he’d do all right, or I hoped so.  I also realized that not every parent would let their daughter take home skunks just because she couldn’t bear to see them die.  

My stepdad lives outside the lines.  He is a strange combination of cruel wicked humor, tough guy demeanor and embracing kindness.  From him, I learned how to feel capable and never let others dictate how I live in the world.

I’m not big on telling my story to the world.

I remember you working out at the farm.  One of our friends used to call you the “shop slave” because you worked in the motorcycle shop with your stepdad.  It was the same as with the neighbor boy.  He told the kid that he would teach him all kinds of things about motorcycles, but he was also… difficult let’s say.  

I remember you driving for about four hours on the riding mower out at the farm.  Then you ran over a piece of hose and he blew up over it.  But then again, I remember you saying that it was cool that you could go to school and out mechanic the guys because he’s taught you a bunch of stuff.   

Then when we went to the Upper Peninsula with his family, I remember being absolutely terrified when we went out on dirt bikes.  You wiped out and flipped over a few times, and I had my stomach in my toes at that point.  But he just kept saying, “She can do it.  She can do it.”  And you did. 

What I remember about the skunks was they were along the right side of the road as we were going out of town, probably on our way to the next town.  There were two baby skunks and he encouraged you to take them home.  I was looking askance and you were asking to take them home.  One had mange and died and then you raised the other one to maturity.  You had to release it into the wild.  I don’t remember how long it was between when we picked it up and you release them.  You fed them lettuce. 

What I thought was kind of neat was when we went to Florida and his mom took you under her wing.  You stayed in her trailer on the porch.  You had a period and I said, “Oh dear.”  She thought it was no big deal and said, “It’s perfectly natural.  We just wash the sheets.” 

I still think the duck story is an interesting one and explains a lot.  It was kind of like how their family would travel in great big vehicles hauling lots of stuff or in one tiny vehicle packed to the eyeballs.

We brought the ducks back from Florida for you in a shoe box.  His mom knew just what to do with them.  When the lid was closed, they stayed quiet.  We had to stop more often at rest stops so they could  walk around and poop.  Then we’d put them back in the box.  We gave them to you and they really imprinted on you and would follow you everywhere.  

He was tough on you sometimes, but he also used to look at you with pride. 

This one is hard and it’s taken me a while to post something about our divorce.  The delay is partly because I’m just plain busy installing the show in the gallery (as Delia, of course), partly because I had to interview 3 people for this one and, because of the touchy subject matter, wanted to send a copy to each person before I posted anything.  But it is also because I uncomfortable talking about such an unhappy time in my family, so I put it off.

Not surprisingly, interviewing my mom, dad and brother was difficult but also very gratifying.  I feel closer to my family than ever.  After all these years there are still a few unresolved feelings on all sides, but I’m impressed by how open they were willing to be in their stories and how delicately they dealt with this subject.  You are going to get the edited version because although they all spoke to me candidly, no one wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings.  My mom was concerned that she would say something that could hurt my dad or show him in a bad light and my dad was equally concerned that I would post something that could hurt my mom.  My parents are good people.

My memory is foggy about the time before, during and after the divorce.  There are a few moments I remember vividly.  Like video clips taken out of context and played over and again, I fear they are warped and a skewed view of events.

I remember going for out dinner with my mom.  We probably went to the Hotdog Stand which was a funny little place with great Chicago dogs and video games.  My brother used to spend the entirety of his paper route money there, which I, being a miserly girl, found appalling. 

After we ate dinner, mom and I walked home slowly, chatting about school and my friends.  Sometimes my mom and I did things together, just the two of us, and it always felt special.  I don’t think we had very much money at that time so that surely added to the feeling. 

When we got home, there was blood on the stairs, smears and drops leading up to the master bedroom.  I don’t even remember being scared, just feeling like ‘Oh no, no.  Why do things have to be like this?’

I don’t remember how we got him downstairs.  I just remember my dad sitting on the toilet and my mom asking me to put his shoes on while she called the hospital.  But his eyes looked funny, he smelled like alcohol and he was bleeding.  I didn’t want to go near him.  I wasn’t scared of him.  I loved him.  But felt paralyzed, I wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

I think my mom ultimately had to put them on because I couldn’t.

Later that year, I don’t know how much later.  I remember visiting my dad in rehab.  I don’t remember what the place looked like or seeing my dad or what we did there.   All I remember is walking down a hallway and seeing a man in a wheel chair.  His skin was yellow.  His eyes were blank.  He had a blanket over his legs.  I didn’t know a human being could look like that.  I did know that somehow alcohol could do that to a person.

The time during the divorce is a confusing blur with no order or distinct memories. 

After my dad moved out, I remember visiting him by myself.  My brother didn’t want to see him anymore.  I did.  He lived in an apartment in a yellow house, within walking distance from our house.  When I visted, I think we simply ate dinner or watched TV.  I really don’t remember what we did.  I didn’t matter to me.  I just wanted to see my dad.

It didn’t matter that he would still drink sometimes or that things had been messed up for a long time.  I loved him, and I think understood that he was just sick but underneath it all was my dad who had always been kind and adored me.  This experience taught me to accept people’s flaws (we all have them), love them for the good parts, and protect yourself from the bad.

Recently, I said to my aunt, “You can totally love and accept the person but still be clear with them that you don’t approve of their drinking.”  She laughed and said, “You are a poster child for Alanon.”   Maybe, maybe not.  All I know is that I love my dad and he hasn’t had a drop to drink in 25 years, but if he was still drinking, I would still love him with my whole heart.

I know what upset your mother, I had resigned my position.  In a small town, being superintendent is a very political job.  People with kids in school often join the board because they want to make sure their kids don’t get screwed over and then quit when their kids are out of school.  It is a very political job and you are always doing a juggling act and the buck stops with you. It didn’t suit my personality very well. 

I used to come home and complain to your mother.  In hindsight, I know this was hard on her, but really she was the only one in town I could talk to about this stuff.

I was Assistant Principal by 27, Principal by 31 and Superintendent by 35.  It was as high as you can go, and I asked myself if this was what I wanted to do for the next 20-25 years.  I had no problem with performing my job.  I never drank on the job.  I’d get home at night and have some drinks then, but I was not a guy with a bottle in the desk.

In fact, the board was surprised when I talked to them about resigning and asked me to stay on while the new guy got acclimated.  One of the board members said, “We’d have been willing to give a leave of absence if you needed time off.”  But it was just not the right job for my personality.  After I resigned, the librarian said, “You know what your problem was, you are too honest to be superintendent.”

I planned to work on the house and maybe go into business with a friend.  As far as your mother goes, I felt like when I took time off, she had no further use for me.  Before I resigned, we had an argument and I said, “Fine. I’ll resign and take some time off and you can work and support the family for a while.”After I quit the job, I was home all day.  I was no longer any use to your mother and that was the downward cycle for me.  Things got dysfunctional after I quit my job.  It was almost two years from the time I resigned to the divorce.After I went into rehab, your mom wanted a divorce.  I begged her to take me back.  She let me come back, but I think it was only half-hearted and not sincere, as I think the marriage was finished for her.  Then we had an argument and I started drinking again.  There was still alcohol in the house because she still wanted to drink sometimes.  Really there shouldn’t have been any alcohol in the house.

After rehab, I realized I had to be responsible for me–no one was there to do it for me.  It was important for me to go through that and I had a chance to think about what I wanted to do in life.

Eventually, after selling books for a while both in the Detroit area and back closer to home, I got my resume in order and took a job as a business manager, which was a much less political job and a better fit.  But I still would drink in between sober periods. I went back to rehab one last time.  My boss said, “The board will not understand a 2 week stint in rehab, especially considering your history.”  I didn’t complete rehab because I had a choice to make.  After three or four days in rehab, I left the hospital and made up my mind not to drink any more, and that was the last time I had a drink.

I did go to AA for a year.  But, finally, there was this one woman who said “You don’t belong here with us.”  She didn’t mean it in a mean way.  She meant that I didn’t need to be there.  I just never went again and I’ve never had an urge to drink since. I have always felt I would be welcome at AA if I ever had the urge, but fortunately I have never felt like taking a drink and may be lucky to be a “1%’er,” or those who stay sober without AA.

I am finding writing about the divorce time very taxing.  I just don’t know how to comment without sounding acrimonious and am not very sure of the details.  I do know that I went to work for Oceana County CMHS after your dad quit work. He planned on finishing work on the cottage we had built on Lake Michigan.  The school board was willing to call it a sabbatical, since he was a very valuable asset to the community and well thought of and they wanted him to return after he took a year’s hiatus.  

He was severely depressed and found working out there alone difficult.   He found my working very threatening, and was resistant to my going to play volleyball one night a week and going out for “happy hour” with the girls every other Friday night which was our pay-day.  He resented what he called “babysitting” for you and Cam when I went to classes to finish my teaching degree credits.  We argued a great deal, and I often went to work very sleep-deprived.   

You and Cam came to me and said that “You are too nice Mom, to have to live like this anymore.”   You were 8 and 11 years old at the time, and I was stunned because I thought children would want to keep their parents together at all costs. I discussed the situation with the priest at our church, because I thought marriage was sacrosanct and that we were meant to be together forever.  He said as long as I didn’t re-marry that the church would consider that we could live together again if we could settle our differenced. He also said that it was hard for you children to be caught in such a difficult situation.   

My mother helped me financially to hire a lawyer, who happened to be a class-mate of mine from high school to start suing for divorce.  He gave me some excellent advice about keeping your dad in the picture, and fighting to make sure you would have some money for college, but not fighting over trivial issues.  He said, “Lawyers make a lot of money off people who argue about the moose-head in the attic,” by way of illustration.   

I loved your dad and still hoped we could reunite.

All I can remember from before the divorce is just dad drinking all the time and mom and dad having lots of arguments and me finding any excuse to be out of the house at anytime.

I remember dad going into rehab a couple of times and falling off the wagon and just feeling like we were just going through the motions. I kept thinking, ‘This is not going to do any good. What’s the point? He doesn’t care.’ And then I was SO relieved when mom sat us down to tell us they were getting divorced. 

I remember this one time when we spent over night at one of mom’s friend’s house. Dad was really on a bender that night or something and mom decided to get us out of there and I think she filed for divorce at that time.

I remember dad calling in tears and saying to me, “Is this what you want?” Well, I was pissed off and probably said, “Yeah!” All I felt was relieved that this was going to be behind me and we wouldn’t have to watch him slowly kill himself. I was too much of a self absorbed teenager to be supportive at that time. I am so glad that I have reconciled with him since then.

I don’t remember a lot of specifics about the actual divorce. I don’t recall the during.

For a long time I felt rather put upon that I had to go see dad. Mom would guilt me to go see dad. She’d say, “Well your sister really wants to see him and doesn’t feel comfortable going on her own.” I remember being kind of bastard about it. I would get him to take us to movies or to buy me books. 

I remember this… it has little to do with divorce but a lot about transition between the first and second marriage. Most of the time, mom was just a bitch about meeting him half way. Dad only wanted to see us if mom would drive halfway to where he lived. And I thought ‘If he wants to see us, just come and see us.’ 

I remember this one time when mom said, “Your dad wants me to meet him halfway. And I can’t do that. You need to find a ride down there.” I replied, “I don’t want to fucking find a ride down there. I don’t need to see him.” This went round and round for a while. Then she said, “Fine, but I’m having my boyfriend here this weekend.”

“Who cares?” I said. Part of it was just her not wanting to drive down there on principle, but she also wanted us out the house so she could have him over. 

The next week after that she sat us down and said, “I got to talk to you guys… well I’m moving my boyfriend in. How do you feel about that?”“Obviously that doesn’t matter. If I tell you I don’t want him in the house it is not going to change anything.”

So anyway the whole incident just was part of the games they played, the ultimate example of them playing their stupid games with us in the middle.

My third week as Delia: Being Delia has been difficult this week.  Several friends wrote emails saying that they missed me, that they hadn’t realized the full extent of what I am doing and what it would mean for them.  They also asked if there was any way to contact me.  As Delia, I read their emails and thought, ‘Oh dear, that’s too bad.  Well, no… Jane is gone until May’ and then dutifully wrote back, “This is Delia.  I’m house sitting for Jane and answering her emails and phone while she’s gone.  She won’t be back until May.  -Delia”

One of my friends invited Delia out for a juice.  After introducing ourselves, I looked at his shaved and tattooed forehead and said, “Wow, you have unusual eyebrows!”  When he replied, “Oh, I was born that way…” I just giggled.  We chatted comfortably about a number of things.  It was easy to stay in character because he played along.

Our congenial mood was broken later, when I heard someone say, “Jane.  Hey, Jane.”  I didn’t turn and the woman spoke up louder.  My companion and I turned to look at her, and an awkward moment ensued.  With a confused smile, I said, “Hi.  I’m Delia, actually.”  She came over, shook my hand, and stared hard at me.  “I’m sorry.  You look a lot like my friend Jane.”  I just smiled my nice, friendly Delia smile, but inside I didn’t feel like Delia.  I felt mean.

All along, I was worried about being unfair or cruel to my potential participant.  So I drew up a contract, carefully explaining the project.  The contract states that we have no further obligation to each other after the live ”dates”.  Along with the contract, I sent him an email clearly stating that this was a project and not meant to be a genuine romantic pursuit.  I really tried to cover all my bases and be up front with him.

It didn’t occur to me until right before my transformation began, that it would be difficult or awkward for my friends and family.  I never considered that people might feel stupid for mistaking Delia for Jane, that casual acquaintances might think that I am making fun of them, or that I would constantly create that ungainly moment when someone waves at you and then they realize that you’re not who they thought you were.  Unfortunately, I didn’t make a contract for my friends, family and community.  The email I sent, inviting them all to a “Goodbye Jane Party,” didn’t properly explain my project and its ramifications.  I didn’t cover all my bases. 

By being Delia, I have broken my social contract with my community.  And yet, they are kind to me… I can see their confusion and hurt, but (for those who still recognize me) I feel their respect and forgiveness.


I hope this will last me until May.

I remember standing outside my brother’s door, looking at the stickers that covered its surface.  Things like a snake with “Don’t Tread On Me” written across it, or the iconic grinning redhead, Alfred E Newman from Mad Magazine.  Some of them were new and some half peeled off.  I didn’t have stickers on my door.

“Sam?  Are you in there?  What are you doing?  I want to play too.”  I whined.  It was my perfected annoying-enough-I’ll-get-my-way voice.  “Go away,” he said, his voice muffled by the door.  “Come on, please,” I dragged out the eee of please.  Pressing my ear to the door, I heard some whispers and then, “Get lost.”  I could tell by his tone that I wasn’t going to win this one.  Sometimes he let me play too, but most of the time I was not invited into his inner sanctum.  Sometimes when he wasn’t around, I’d sneak around his room and look at stuff.  There wasn’t anything very interesting, but it felt exciting and naughty to be in forbidden territory.

I always wanted to be closer to him, to get his approval or at least his attention.  Most of the time, the best way to do this was to annoy him.  I’d intentionally do things to bug him, just so he’d tell me to stop.

Every week or maybe every other week, we’d get two quarters for our allowance.  Then we’d go downtown to buy candy, either with our parents or by ourselves since it was only a few blocks away.  He’d buy two candy bars with his money, and I’d buy 25 one cent candies and put the other quarter in the bank.  By afternoon, he’d have eaten both his candy bars.  From then until our next allowance, I’d flaunt my stash at every possible opportunity. 

We’d be watching TV and I’d pull out my bag of candy and maybe eat a few Sweet Tarts, those were my favorite, partly because of the flavor and partly because they lasted so long.  I pop them in my mouth one by one, sucking slowly and letting them dissolve in my mouth.  “Mmmm,” I’d sigh and he’d scowl at me.  If I was feeling especially nervy, I’d smirk and say, “What happen to your candy?”

He was pretty good at ignoring me, but I’d always push a little more.  I walked a thin line between getting a response which is what I wanted, and getting pummeled.   Even though we fought a lot and he was way bigger than me, I was never afraid of my brother.  I knew he’d never really hurt me, at least not intentionally.  I idolized him and wanted to do whatever he was doing and see whatever he was seeing.  And sometimes when he was in a good mood or maybe he was bored, we’d play peacefully together for hours.

I remember sneaking into his room when we were supposed to be sleeping and playing board games, whispering so we wouldn’t get found out.  Or on hot summer days, we’d play in the backyard with hoses and sprinklers.  Laughing, we’d run and spin and jump through the cascading water.  Or in the winter, we’d build snow tunnels out by the road where the snow plow left piles of hard packed snow.  Some of the best times of my childhood were when we played together.

There is a little part of me that still feels like a pest.  I will always be a little sister, hoping to be included and not caring if I annoy people.  As an adult, I am pretty fearless socially.  I know that not everyone enjoys my company.  As long as I’m included, I don’t care if everyone likes me. 

As it turns out, this is a pretty good attitude for a performance artist.

Yep, I remember you standing outside my door asking to play.  I used to play Star Wars figures with Sandy a lot until we were twelve or thirteen.  It was a pretty regular thing.  I’d go to her house or she’d come to mine.  Then we hit that awkward age where we didn’t know that to do.  As far as you asking to play, I don’t remember a specific time because it happened more than once.  There was a fair amount of, “Can I play too?”  It wasn’t a bad thing, but at the time it pissed me off.  It was just one of those little sister wanting to play with big brother things.


This story’s a classic.  Remember when I convinced you to let me give you a hair cut with the hedge clippers?  You were five or six, and I don’t know how I talked you into it.  I didn’t threaten you.  If you didn’t want to so something, you’d just let me beat you up.  But somehow I managed to talk you into it. 


We went into the garage and got the hedge clippers.  You’d hold up some hair and I’d snip it.  That’s how you got your first really short haircut.  I got yelled at, not just because I gave you an irreparable haircut but because I’d used the hedge clippers.  Mom was mad more because of the hedge clippers than anything else.  She just kept saying that they were dangerous and you could have been hurt.


Another memory is from Christmas.  We’d get candy in our stockings and I’d eat all of mine right away.  And you would take 3 nibbles of a chocolate football, wrap it back up in foil and put it in your stocking.  My candy would be gone and you’d eat yours for weeks.  It wasn’t just that you like to horde things but that you liked to annoy me too.  Pretty much you knew what to do or say to annoy me enough that I’d throttle you and get in trouble.  I knew I wasn’t allowed to hit you, but it would get to the point that it was worth the punishment.


Because I wasn’t allowed to flat out hit you, I’d end up sitting on you and bouncing.  You’d cry and I’d still get in trouble.  Or you’d be sitting on the couch or lying on floor and I’d land on you and then bounce.  I’d be told so many times not hit you, so I came up with alternate ways of hurting you.


I have an image of you burned into my brain.  It still makes me laugh.  It was one of those days when I was being good big brother.  There was enough snow and we went to the big hill down at the beach.  We hiked up the hill went down a few times.  We’d made groove down the hill going toward that maintenance shed but not right toward it. 


I was going down the hill pretty well because the snow was finally getting packed down, and I turned around to see you flying downhill.   You were headed for a huge snow drift.  As I looked back, you flew off it and got this massive air, at least seven feet high, and smacked right into the maintenance shed.  You were on one of those saucer sleds, where you don’t have much control.  I was laughing so hard but was worried about you too.  I ran over saying, “Jane, are you ok?  Are you all right?”  I was trying not to laugh, but it was like something out of a Jackass movie.  You probably got a concussion, but it was just so funny. 


It still makes me laugh.

When I was very little, my mother went through a granola mamma stage.  She baked bread, made yogurt and worked in a yarn shop.  We did yoga in the mornings with Miss Lily on PBS and spent the summer months outdoors: gardening, swimming, picking berries, hunting for shells at the beach, or collecting butterflies.  It was the early seventies and many women tried on the earth mother guise.  My mother is what my aunt refers to as a “joiner.”  This was just a stage for her, one of many.  But for me, it set the foundations for the woman I am today. 

I distinctly remember sitting on my mother’s lap at the yarn shop, surrounded by row after row of brightly colored yarn.  There was a plethora of deep gold, earthy browns, and mossy green.  Ah, the seventies.   

Huddled together in amongst a tangle of yarn, she would tell me, “I need you here to keep me warm.  You’re a good little space heater.”  And a surge of warmth would spread from my tummy, up to my rosy cheeks.  I felt good and helpful.  It didn’t matter that my toes were cold, I was mommy special helper.  She would knit and I would try to hold still, only itching my nose when the yarn tickled too much as she moved her needles up and down, up and down for hours. 

My mother never taught me to knit, and I learned to sew and quilt on my own as an adult.  But I remember the warmth and goodness of sitting on her lap, the calming rhythm of “woman’s” work.  She seemed endlessly patient with me and my brother, while she worked at these simple, but beautiful tasks. 

I haven’t bought bread from a store in about four or five years.  Even the best bakery bread can’t compete with pulling a steaming loaf out of the oven and eating a slice before it cools.  There is no plastic inside my refrigerator; instead there are fresh, organic veggies and leftovers in glass containers.  I make my own yogurt, practice yoga daily, yearn for a vegetable garden (hard to do in the desert… I’m adverse to wasting water!), and still love watching butterflies and bees. 

In my crazy life as a grad student, I make it a priority to cook homemade meals, practice yoga and appreciate nature.  I owe these values to my mother and a time when macramé and all natural peanut butter drifted into mainstream America. 

(Community Action Program) who were financially disadvantaged or livedout in the country and were isolated and needed better socializing.  Theywould come over as part of a preschool program.  It was just happenstance. I didn’t even have a teaching degree.  But a woman who knew me and that Iwas taking masters classes in early childhood, called and asked if I wasinterested.  And I said sure. 

Well, I had a separate budget for their supplies and you weren’t allowedto play with them except when the kids came over.  It was a governmentprogram and I had to keep receipts and such.  And you were so jealous thatyou couldn’t play with the stuff the rest of the time.  I had to be quitefirm with you. 

Another thing I remember is going to Lake Michigan.  We would godown to the beach and look for shells.  Or sometimes I would paint and youwould draw.  You also liked to watch this German guy on PBS who had apainting show.  You were three or four and were just fascinated by it. I thought it was very unusual for a little girl to be mesmerized by watchingpainting.  

You also liked doing yoga with Miss Lily, a PBS morning program fromWisconsin.  She was very gentle and you liked her voice.  I did it ona regular basis.  I still do the neck exercises.   

This is the stuff I rememberus doing alone.  Probably, it was when your brother was in school orspending time with friends.  He was very gregarious and spent loads oftime with friends.  So it was just the two of us.

My first week as Delia:

I’ve tried to be Delia in all my interactions and in every movement throughout the day.  Delia is new to town.  She doesn’t know anyone, where anything is or how to get around.  As Delia, I find an unfamiliar city and many new faces.   I get to see my city and my corner of the world with fresh eyes… and I realize my life is not easy for someone else to step into. 

Delia is used to having a car, TV, stereo, blackberry, playstation, ipod, etc.  For her, it’s been a challenge just to get around.  The roads are bumpy, the drivers are inattentive, there’s lots of construction, and Delia is not used to carrying so many things, all while riding a bike.  As Delia, I’m becoming convinced that I need a car.

I live in a great place in a bad neighborhood.  Delia has never lived in a marginal neighborhood.  And in her city in Michigan, even the bad parts of town manage to look cute and well maintained when compared with here.  She is bothered by all the weeds and broken or nonexistent sidewalks.

Although the car situation is Delia’s prime concern right now, for me, the difficult part is all the interactions with people I know.  When I answer the phone and they ask for Jane, I ask what they are calling about, and then depending on who it is, I either introduce myself as Delia and say that Jane will be away for a while and I will be taking her calls or, when I have to, I say, ”Yes, this is Jane.”  I’ve tried to stay in character as much as possible, but there have been times when I had to identify myself, like with the dentist.  Official interactions require me to use my real name.  But I try to speak with Delia’s tone and manner in every interaction. 

The hardest part is running into friends and colleagues who don’t know about the project.  When they wave or say, “Hey, Jane.”  I reply, “Hi I’m Delia, actually.”  Then I put out my hand.   Some people appear shocked, some start laughing and others just give me a little look, like, “Oh great, another Jane project…”  I have realized that I’m not just doing my own performance, but asking a whole community of people to play along with me.  They are also performing and collaborating on this project.  They are indulging me.  I hope this is fun for them, not tedious.

And, of course, I miss my friends, which seems silly because they are right here.  I can drop by or call anytime.  But I don’t want to just pretend to be Delia when it’s convenient, I want to really be Delia for this project, and Delia doesn’t know anyone here…

There are some things I love about Delia.  She is slower, sweeter and softer than me.  It’s nice being Delia.  As Delia, I move with more grace and lassitude.  I find these movements soothing.  It’s as if I have all the time in the world to get where I’m going, and, remarkably, I haven’t been late for anything.  I don’t need to worry and obsess about the hundred and one things on my to do list.  Instead, I feel a certainty that everything will get done.  As Delia, I feel a quiet confidence that contrasts nicely with my own loud, assertiveness.

Here are some minor changes I’ve made:  Delia is a bit messy and feels a little guilty when she walks into the bathroom and there’s clothing, shoes, and makeup all over the place.  Delia drinks caffeinated coffee, not tea or decaf.  Delia likes to sleep in.  Instead of jumping out of bed at five am, she goes back to sleep until at least nine.  Delia listens to commercial radio and changes the channel when the news comes on.  Delia is not vegan, but a vegetarian who occasionally eats fish.  Delia waits until someone speaks to her first.  She is very polite and thoughtful.

I like Delia and I think I will learn a lot by walking around my life in her pretty shoes.

Yep, I remember the yarn shop.  It was an odd situation.  The owner didn’t have enough money to keep it warm.  He was also an alcoholic with a temper.  One time, I let a lady buy some yarn and pay later.  I knew she would pay it back.  Well, he drove over to our house in a rage and yelled at me about how expensive it was and how he was having a hard enough time keeping the place afloat.  And she did come back and pay… 

It’s funny, I play bridge with his sister now.  Eventually, that temper killed him.  His wife left him, he drank a lot and he went down hill.  He got so angry that his heart blew up. 

But I’m sorry.  I don’t remember you sitting on my lap or even being there.  I’m sure you did.  You must have been in school or maybe you were four or so and came with me.  I just don’t remember. 

Making yogurt, I remember that.  It was sort of a science experiment and you thought it was very interesting.  We had to have starter with active cultures and get it to a certain heat, but not too hot.  I’d pour it into six little cups, and the machine would keep it a certain temperature for six hours.  It was a plug in thing, to keep it the right temp.  Here in Michigan, it’s too cold otherwise, or I’m too cheap and keep my house warm enough.  I just made plain yogurt and we would have it with berries.  I was a regular granola mamma at that time. 

What I remember most… can I go off and segue way into something else?   

Ok, I remember a couple of thing in your life and my life.  When you were just short of three, I had children from CAP I remember having a T-shirt that said, “Daddy’s Little Girl”.  I don’t remember the color or how I got it, or whether it was a gift from my dad or something my mom picked out.  However, I do remember how I felt about knowing how much my dad loved me.  It made me feel special.  It was truth in advertising… I was daddy’s little girl. 

In the evenings, after dinner, I used to curl up in the nook of his bent legs, my head resting on his thigh.  Often we’d have the tan afghan my mom knitted thrown over both of us with just my head peeking out.  We’d watch TV, probably things like news which bored me at that age.  But it didn’t matter what we watched, I felt warm and cosy… loved.   

I don’t remember where my mother or brother sat.  I have a fuzzy memory of my brother lying on his stomach on the floor, with a pillow under his head, his hands folded under his chin, but he might have sat on the end of the couch or in one of the orange velour chairs.  My mom might have been doing dishes or other things around the house, or maybe she sat at the other end of the couch or in the orange chairs.  It’s strange that I have such a strong memory of snuggling with my dad, I can feel the slightly scratchy afghan and my head resting on his thigh, the fabric of his pants, but remember nothing else.  It’s as if my memory edited out all the other people and things in the room, and narrowed the experience down to the bare feeling of love. 

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my expectations for men, and I think they can be traced back to that T-shirt or a moment on the couch, curled up with my father.  In my relationships, I expect to be adored.  I expect to be treated as if I’m special.  Maybe I even want a T-shirt to prove it. 

I’m not saying that it is a bad to have high expectations.  We should all expect love and kindness from the people in our lives, but are my expectations a little unrealistic?  Do they put undue pressure on my relationships with men?  How have these expectations shaped my love life? 

Looking at my past relationships, I think I have been won over by men who pursued me strongly, sent me flowers, wrote me poetry, or told me that I’m wonderful.  Secretly, I wanted them to think the sun rises and sets on me.  The problem is not the love, pursuit or adoration, but that no one is “wonderful” all the time.

Yeah I remember the Daddy’s Little Girl T-shirt… I think it was pink.  I don’t remember if I bought it or if your grandmother Virginia bought it.  It was the kind of thing she would buy.  Maybe we bought it together aT Sassafras Teas.  We used to like to go shopping together.  You were quite little when we bought it, like four.  I thought about making a pillow out of it, like I did for one of your brother’s favorite shirts, but I think something got spilled on it, maybe grape juice. 

When you were quite a little girl, between one and three, your father liked to put you up on his shoulders.  He would walk around with you up there and was very proud of you.  He thought you were gorgeous.  I’d come up and what was fun for me was I could see your face because I wasn’t holding you. 

Another memory is, of course, you used to sleep in the hole behind his legs and you like to climb in there and get comfortable. When you were older you would climb on his back and ride around on him. He would get on all fours and you would get on his back.  Then he would tickle you, but not inappropriately at all.   

I think he was pleased that you were a good fisher girl because his father was a good fisherman.  You would come back from fishing with one when no one got any or you would have five or six when everyone else had one, because you would concentrate and focus and be very quiet.  One time he went out with one of his favorite friends and you on his boat and you were the only one who caught anything.  His friend and he caught nothing. And that absolutely insured your reputation as a fisher person.  And the guys were chagrinned.  It was funny. 

He clearly adored you.  There wasn’t any darkness with you.  You just lighted up his life.

My story of the day I was born: I had a friend once who claimed to remember not just being born, but before she was born.  She remembers selecting her parents.  I don’t know if I believe her, but it’s a beautiful idea, that you would have an opportunity to choose your fate.

Of course, it makes me wonder why someone would pick abusive/neglectful parents, or other unfortunate circumstances.  Did they make a mistake?  Or are there bigger lessons hidden in those experiences?  Does the world need pain and suffering to maintain balance?  Perhaps only the strongest souls choose to live a life centered on pain.  Maybe in doing so they keep the world in balance or carry us all forward to a more promising future.  Or maybe we don’t choose at all.I can’t remember my birth, but this is what happened:

My belly feels funny from where my knees are pressing against my soft center.  It’s not so much pain, as achy discomfort.  I try flexing my right leg but there isn’t any room.  I can’t move my arms much either and my face is pressed against something hard.  I turn my neck and feel a little more comfortable, but it doesn’t last.  I shift again and then something happens and I am squeezed from all sides.  It becomes impossibly tight but just for a moment.  I try again to move my legs and arms, but it seems to be better just to relax.  Something is about to happen, I am sure of this.  My life is going to change.The squeezing has gotten much worse.  My body is tense.  There’s hardly any respite from the pressure and it is growing stronger each time.  I don’t know how long this has been happening.  I don’t know if it will ever end.  Now I am not sure why I felt so certain that something wonderful was about to happen.  This is not wonderful.  It is not pleasant… and it is getting worse. 

I think I might be dying.My head hurts so much, and there is just pressure everywhere.  But I feel better.  Everything aches but I am not struggling anymore and I feel more comfortable, resolved.  I trust that something beautiful is going to happen very soon.  I am not dying.

Oh my god, oh my god, this is it.  Help… Everything is sharp, bright, loud.  Something is moving all over my body, it’s rough.  I’ve never felt anything like it.  My heart is beating so hard.  I want to cry.  Now, I am yelling and I can’t stop.  I don’t know anything.  Where am I?  With my mouth wide, gasping, I push out my arms and arch my back.  I stop crying as I realize something amazing: I can move.

I can’t decide if this is horrible or wonderful.  I don’t know that it matters.

My dad’s story of the day I was born:

That year I had gotten a job in a small resort town 250 miles away, and Bill (my new boss) really stressed that he needed me to come and start right away.  And at that time they were working on a large construction project nearby, so all the available housing in town was taken up by workers.  I found a cabin to rent, and was looking for a house, but there wasn’t much of anything available. 

Your mom stayed in our home (which we had put up for sale) with your brother, and I commuted back there to spend the weekends with them.  When the time approached for your mom to have you, I asked for time off and went back to our home.

The day you were born, we drove to the Hospital and checked your mom in.  I immediately started making phone calls to, you know, your granny and grandpa, family and friends.  Because your mom had been in labor well over eight hours with your brother, I assumed it would be a while before you were born.

After about an hour, the doctor came out and asked me if I’d like to come into the operating room.  My first reaction was “no”, because I… well, the idea of being in there with all the drama frightened me because I worried I would not handle it well and be a distraction rather than a composed observer,… I mean it just wasn’t a common practice in those days.  I hadn’t known that that was an option.  At that time, it was a new idea that they were just starting to offer.  I figured I’d make a few more phone calls and think about it a little longer.

I was in the middle of another phone call when the doctor came out and said, “You have a baby girl.”  That quickly.  You mom was only in labor two hours with you.  I was pretty surprised, especially after your brother’s birth had taken so long… with complications.  He was breach and the umbilical cord was knotted, but not too tightly, as he was still getting nutrients from it.  Anyway, your birth was really quick.  Looking back on it, I wish I had been at your births.  But it just wasn’t a common practice in those days. When I got my first look at you in the nurse’s arms, I was utterly struck by the amazing miracle of it all and so thrilled. To this day you have continued to thrill me with pride at what an amazing woman you a