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Sisterhood

I poo poo sororities. For the most part.

I was in one. I loved it, in the beginning. But, when my first major crush told me, “You know, sororities are just cults,” I played the victim.

“My mother made me do it.”

She had good reason. She, my father, and I showed up for Freshman Orientation at a college three hours from home. We walked the vast campus, in a land unknown. While standing outside an assembly hall–my face in shock and my mother’s face in worry–another mother took mine by the arm and mentioned “Greek” and “RUSH” and insisted “it’s the best thing for your daughter.”

My mother looked at me and likely envisioned my 98 pound self wandering down campus sidewalks and in and out of empty hallways, aimless and alone. She turned back to the woman and thanked her. During the last precious weeks of the summer, she helped me gather photos and fill out applications and put together a week’s worth of RUSH outfits.

She wanted to make sure someone took me in. And, one sorority did. With open arms, a lot of screams, a few tears, and a t-shirt.

A year and a half later, in front of my crush, I feigned indifference.

“Anyway, I think I’ve outgrown it. They have too many rules. And, formal dinners. And, I already know how to use a fork.” I sat up straight, pushed my permed hair behind my ear, and tried to look like a woman.

That was nineteen years ago. I’m over all that sorority business now.

But, when I an invitation popped into my inbox the other day, nostalgia got the best of me. Funny how I never asked them to remove me from their email list.

The invite said Red Dress Gala. Wow. Three course meal. Ooooo. Dancing and mingling. With sisters.

I clicked the chapter’s home page and groups of girls hugging and smiling flashed before me – photos from last year’s party, welcome week, a football game. I saw my face reflected in the pictures. For a few seconds, I considered flying down for the Gala.

My sorority past is like the time I found myself inducted into the Lion’s Club. I didn’t quite fit in, someone sort of made me do it, and I roll my eyes and smirk when I talk about it. Yet, I read that invitation with butterflies in my stomach.

I dislike the sorority’s popularity contest called RUSH, the teachable moments during formal dinners, and the sappy songs (I’ll keep the secret handshake, thank you very much, it’s so FBI-ish). But, what I long for is the wooing, the invitation to be a part of a collective–the female cohort.

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grief erupts slowly.

It isn’t the anniversary of her death.

Nor is it fall, the season I usually start to feel her absence.

But, grief doesn’t run on a calendar, so that I can cross off weeks or months until the fog lifts. Grief rises to the surface, intermittent, unpredictable, like bubbles in a bed of lava.

I’d had an argument. One that couldn’t be dissected on my own. In the car, I reached for my cell phone and thought, I’ll call her quick. It’s been a while.

“We had a fight,” I would tell her. “What am I supposed to do?”

Then, the rise, the burst, the sting. I put the phone down and placed my hand back on the steering wheel. My chest sank in a long exhale. My head floated.

It’s early this year, this hurt. I’m not ready.

I count back, almost nine years ago, and remember. The look on my husband’s face when he had to say the words: your mother died. The shock. The quiet, as I shut out the world for a while. The first time I smelled her favorite brand of perfume at the mall; I laughed in horror, because my mind flashed back to the funeral home. Months later, in a store fingering votives, I could have swore she was standing behind me. Once, at a conference, a woman approached her friends and started talking about dinner. In my peripheral vision, she looked like my mother. With my ear turned, her southern accent mimicked my mother, too.

When confused or full of doubt, I still look for her. I will her to visit me in my dreams. Or, I pick up the phone without thinking. Even after so long, the loss still upturns my heart and mind. So much, that I sit down, write another story about her, and try to rehash those last conversations in person and over the phone.

Why did I say that? Why did I hang up so fast?

And, where do I go from here?

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The Science of Writing

I came upon this article from Real Simple Magazine the other day, where Jonah Lehrer writes about the science of thinking. He mentions indecision, which leads to panic, which I relate to well:

  • I can’t decide what I want to cook for dinner (because, really, I don’t want to cook dinner). Then, the kids ask the dreaded question: what’s for dinner? I panic.
  • I fall into half an hour of quiet time. For twenty minutes, I consider the pros and cons of doing this, that, or the other. Then, I realize I have ten minutes left to start and finish whatever I decide. I panic.
  • I want to insert a third bullet here, because I think three is better than two. But, I can’t decide which anecdote fits best. Oh, boy.

With interest, I read Mr. Lehrer’s 10 tips to streamline my thinking and rid me of constant doubt. At one point, he suggests I “consider alternative points of view.” So I did.

I re-read his article through my writer’s eye and honed in on a few correlations between the science of thinking and the science of writing:

He says, “Tap your emotions.”
My writer’s mind translates, Don’t just regurgitate them into a journal, channel that resentment or frustration or elation into a good story.

He warns, “Don’t think under pressure.”
My writer’s eye twitches. Pound out and publish that blog post too quickly, and you’ll spend the rest of the night in bed staring at the ceiling, in a panic.

He suggests, “Be skeptical of your memories.”
My writer’s mind preaches, If working on a “he said, she said” memoir, start wearing a wire. Even if your brain falters, your digital recording won’t.

He encourages, “Go ahead and daydream.”
My writer’s brain fantasizes, Write like you’re getting paid for it.

He advises, “Think about thinking.”
My writer’s head nods, Write about writing.

Then, my writer’s eye squints, And get back to rewriting that novel, missy.