I realize that I now have to admit to actually being a blogger; I had a blog idea during class today, scribbled a note in my margins and started writing it in my head on the way to lunch. I don't know what's gotten into me, I don't know if I'm ok with this, but there you go - it's how it is. I guess I might as well go with it, especially since the "it" is the Margaret Fuller reading that we discussed in class today. (And we all know that while I may still be in the process of being slowly won over by this blogging nonsense, it would not have all started without the catalyst that is American Women's Writing Life.)
Fuller's "First Friend" section struck something with me, something that I haven't much discussed in public, at least not in anything more than abstract, vague terms that haven't really intimated what I'm really thinking. As I was reading it late last night, two alarms went off in my head. The first was the Bryn Mawr-perfected "erotic alert." (I'm sorry Bryn Mawr, I don't mean to single you out; it's probably just what I get for being an English major at a small liberal arts college.) The second was "Huh... Fuller's descriptions of these feelings eerily closely mirror an experience that I had."
Now, I have to say that the juxtaposition of thoughts of myself and the vague idea of erotica is a completely unfamiliar (and uncomfortable) concept.
I certainly didn't think of it that way at the time; I was only thirteen years old. I should probably give a bit of backstory: I started volunteering at an animal shelter when I was 11 years-old. I went every single Sunday with one of my parents and we helped clean the shelter in the mornings. I was in love with the entire experience. As time went on, I started developing a sort of closeness with the shelter staff; looking back, I kind of think of myself as their sort of collective pet. They passed me back and forth between them on different jobs, teaching me things as I went along, talking to me about their lives and a bit of mine. They seemed, quite frankly, astonished at my 11, then 12, then 13 year-old self taking on such things as cleaning dirty cat litter pans and scooping out dog yards. For my part, I was, quite frankly, astonished that I was being entrusted with "important responsibilities" and that these impressive, almost god-like adults seemed to enjoy my company.
As you can probably tell, I was thrilled with the entire thing: I lived for those Sunday mornings and afternoons. It was a unique childhood experience, something that I believe has really made me into who I am today. I learned how to work, and work hard; it's a pretty physical job at times. I learned how to work as part of a team, about the dynamics of the workplace and some of the complications of adult interaction, about how to give a kitten an IV and about how to give a dog medication in a piece of liverwurst.
While over those three years many of the staff came and went, a few of them stayed, and out of those few, one woman took a particular interest in me. Her name was K. (or, at least in this blog it's going to be - I don't like mentioning people on a publicly accessible forum without their express permission) and I thought she was basically the most perfect person in the world. In reality, she's probably not. She was about 31 when I met her, pretty but fairly ordinary looking with shoulder length brownish, blondish hair, depending on whether or not she had highlights in it with a degree in Biology from a college in the area that probably didn't reflect all of her intelligence. (Last time we talked, she had just finished a Masters' Degree program and was teaching high school kids with behavioral problems - and I honestly can't think of anything more suited to her, on a number of levels.)
Anyway, I don't exactly remember how our closeness came about, but I think it had something to do with her being a youngest child by quite a lot, and me being an only child - and neither of us having younger or older siblings respectively. She took an interest in me and took me on as a sort of apprentice; she let me work with her all the time and tried to teach me everything about anything she knew about. (One of my favorite lines from her: "Stick with me, kid - I'll teach you everything you need to know about... dogs.") We spent a lot of time together at the shelter and we gradually started doing things outside of work; she got along really well with my parents, who, I think, sort of considered her to be some kind of daughter/niece hybrid. She occasionally took me out for lunch or dinner; she came to my softball games sometimes; we saw a movie and painted pottery once. She eventually took over as Director of the shelter, but the responsibility and confining aspects of the job (having to worry about money and managing people in a less direct way than she had as a supervisor) got to her; she left after only a short time in the position. That could have easily have been the end of our friendship; but it wasn't. She called me to tell me that she had resigned... and promptly made plans to come to my next softball game.
I don't really have the words to explain how much K meant to me; I cherished every moment we had together, playing them back in my head during the week to sustain myself until the next Sunday. (Embarrassingly, I wrote down our conversations to make sure that I could remember every detail.) I could barely sleep some Saturday nights for anticipation; I dreamed of simply spending time with her. It wasn't just admiration - it was pure devotion. I thought that she was the most amazing person to ever walk the fact of the Earth and that any time I spent with her was the greatest thing that could possibly happen to me.
I'm really not sure how aware of any of this she was; I think she must have seen something of herself in me. We were incredibly similar, not only in personality, sense of humor, but, scarily, even appearance. (A few times people mistook her for my mother and she kind of freaked out... she was only 18 years older than I am.) But I don't think she knew how much I really loved her, how much she truly meant to me. Sometimes I regret not ever telling her (leaving out all of the erotica nonsense, of course), but I also don't even know how that conversation would begin, so maybe it's best for everyone.
It is really only now (as in extremely recently) that I wonder if I might have been vaguely in love with her. I had no idea what that kind of thing meant then.... (Ha, who am I kidding? I don't still...) In fact, it is only recently, now that I have similar feelings for someone else, that I am starting to identify it as potentially more than platonic...
I don't know if any of this actually means anything. But this post is getting ridiculously long, so I'm going to end it. I just thought it was something that I needed to address; especially since I've been denying it for such a long time and I still am not completely comfortable.
I just don't know what to make of this.
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