Feats of Bravery

Every third day, I race off into the early morning to my job. There, I will hopefully find the engine, still and silent in the bay, the crew sleeping, the coffee pot primed and ready for the flip of a switch. These are moments of peace and quiet that are rare birds in the fire house, and in these dark mornings, I slide into my blue uniform, my badge, pull my hair back, and place my turnouts on the rig, smelling faintly of smoke, of sweat, of work I love. I place my mask on the harness, and check my air pack, making sure that should I need it, my lifeline to clean, cool air is ready and waiting. I comb through the medical kits-- IV set-ups, meds, intubation equipment, trauma gear, oxygen, cardiac monitor-- knowing that any second I could be called to the worst day of someone's life. This is my routine as I face the unknown of what the next 24 hours will bring. My shift will not look like an episode of "Chicago Fire".  If I end up storming out of a burning building with a limp child in my arms that we heroically resuscitate in 30 seconds in front of a news crew, well, that would be time to retire. Nonetheless, I am constantly asked the same thing about my work-- am I afraid? Does it take a special kind of bravery to act in a selfless manner for another human? What does it feel like to sacrifice your sleep, your peace of mind, and sometimes even your health for another person? 

This got me thinking. There's another musing about this to be written at a later date, about what it means to don the gear, what the weight of my turnouts on my back signify. I intend this post with no disrespect to my fellow brother and sister firefighters, for what we do with humility and grace under the most awful circumstances at times is tremendous. However, it's not every third day that I have to consciously steel myself, brace myself for what is to come, face the fire and not know if it's a warm crackle, or a fury about to flashover. 

You want to know what bravery is? Ask a stepmom. Ask anyone in a blended family, for that matter. 

It takes courage and tenacity to walk into an unknown battlefield, even though you might not have a clue that you should be wearing a flak jacket at the time. I can recall a wonderful lunch conversation with my future mother-in-law. I proclaimed adamant declarations of love and optimism for my future husband, his kids, and all the unknowns of combining 2 families, 2 careers, 2 households in different states. I eagerly recounted how I knew his divorce was difficult at best, how despite the conflict and anger that so often boiled into our lives, that I knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that with love, positivity and kind intent, it would get better. It had to. No one could keep up that level of conflict and drama. In a few year's time, we'd all be friends, exchanging Christmas cards, laughing as we recounted stories of "our" children and all their beautiful wonders and idiosyncracies. In fact, I'd be a great peace-maker. I'd be a healing salve to the children, a rock-solid advocate and supporter to my husband, a ballast to all the rocky changes of their past few years. His ex and I would become allies and sounding boards for each other as the children grew into teenagers. My son would rejoice with his new siblings. Starting my career over would be scary at my age, but doable. Moving us all into his classic craftsman bungalow would be tight, but cozy; intimate. If you could dream it, by damn, you could be it! I can recall being more than a little shocked when my mother-in-law gave a hearty laugh, but with grave seriousness, looked me straight in the eye and said "Dacia. Oh, dear Dacia. You are a wonderful woman, and Matt is very lucky. It's obvious how much you love him... but do you have any idea what you're getting into?"

Spoiler alert: No. No, I did not. I had no idea.

I am not a graceful woman, by standard definition. I am not refined, gentle in manner, or subtly mysterious. I talk too much. I wear my heart on my sleeve, laugh without reserve, love big and fearlessly, and all too often, throw myself against walls of inequity and judgement without enough foresight to think, "this might just hurt a little." For me, moments of grace are revealed through every day acts. I hang onto the hopes that my step-children will ever again fling themselves into my arms, bury their face in my neck, and declare their love for me. This is bittersweet, because they used to. At night when I tucked them into bed and tell them I love them, I no longer hear it in return. They are caught in a loyalty bind. Their embraces are tighter, but without making eye contact they'll say "thank you." If someone accidentally lets an "I love you"slip out, they immediately become sheepish and appear guilty. It's heartbreaking.

Turns out, I'm not alone. This battle field, scattered with hopes and unrealistic ideals, is marked with an army of some of the strongest souls I know. Not just our children, step-children, and husbands/ wives, but a veritable tidal wave of strong step-parents, unknowingly joined through our shared experiences, each choosing bravely every day to never give up. Each day, choosing love, where love is not always a right granted and waved in your face like a victory flag. In fact, there's no such thing as victory in this theater, just small, sometimes imperceptible moments of grace and resilience.

Today was my kids' first day back at school after a long and beautiful weekend with their other parents. I know these are fragile times, this transition between families-- daydreams of how things used to be, dealing with the stark truth that the love is all there, but the physical reality is fragmented into pieces and divisions that the children did not choose. It's fact that no matter how bad a marriage and divorce was, all children deep down want their parents to be back together. I have friends in their 40's, whose parents divorced in their teens, that when asked, still say they would prefer their mom and dad to be married, no matter how beloved the step-parents and blended families are. There was a very uncomfortable recent period where my youngest would say at my return after every 24 hour shift, "so I guess you didn't die in a fire last night." It stung me, it angered my son, and it gave me real pause and concern about the deeper psychological ramifications-- and then I realized-- it's not that he wants me to die in a fire, but if I had to go, to do so in such a dramatic fashion would be a very guilt-free way in his mind for me to simply disappear, and his mom and dad to get back together. He's made similar statements about the untimely demise of his step-dad, whom I know he loves as well. The pain of enduring another divorce would be too great to bear, but our deaths might clear the air for a reunion.

My heart breaks for my children, all of them. I grew up in an intact nuclear family. I remember my mom and dad briefly discussing a divorce during a rough patch, and I can still feel the searing fear and grief in my belly when I thought it was a possibility. (They didn't, and to this day, have one of the most incredible marriages I've ever witnessed). I can only imagine what it is my children carry with them. They grow and heal with every passing day, but my husband and I never lose sight for a second that they are survivors of something that as children we never had to experience. I never lose sight of the fact that although I didn't even know of the existence of their father during my divorce and his, that my very presence in their life represents in some way the physical absence of their mother.

Which leads me to this afternoon. I walked to pick them up at school full of excitement to see them, feel their hugs and hear the bubbling chatter fill the house again, but also aware that today, more so than usual, the wounds are a little raw. In my step-kids' case, their mom moved after the divorce across the country, so comfort is not just a matter of swinging by for a hug, or changing a night up here or there.

As my youngest stepson rounded the corner and saw me, his face fell. We were both so acutely aware in that moment that my presence meant the absence of someone else. He gave me a limp hug, and when he stepped back, I saw the tears in his eyes. We took a minute to duck into a corner of the building, and I knelt down. I took his hand, and met his gaze, which was filled with hurt, anger, and confusion. "You miss mommy, don't you, buddy." Lips pursed, he nodded, and a few tears spilled over. We didn't speak, I just held him tight, this tender sweet child of my heart, but not my body. After a minute, he stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and grabbed my hand. It's a unique comfort to feel that end-of-school-day stickiness of a 7 year-old's hand in your own. We exited into the unseasonably bright day, to his waiting siblings.

All four of us, hand in hand, walked down the hill for home. After a few moments of silence as we took our bearings and settled into the rhythm, chatter erupted-- who saw what this weekend, who got the sandiest at the beach, the tragic story of leaving a beloved stuffed animal at a hotel. My son regaled us enthusiastically with tales of visiting a reptile show with his dad and holding a "giant" snake, and eating a pile of gummi sodas so sweet you could feel your teeth rot. We were a noisy, bouncing family phalanx. As we reached the house, the after-school conversation turned as it always does to the most critical moment of the afternoon--snack--and they ran in ahead. My youngest, as he reached the threshold, stopped and turned to me, his eyes still a little glassy, the hard resentment in his face replaced by a burgeoning softness and peace, and the hint of a smile. "Dacia, will you make me special toast?"

There are many ways to say I love you. My little big family, we're creating that language every day as we go along. I stood there for a moment in the waning sun, feeling my place on the muddy lawn, in this swirling, messy, glorious life. Grateful, strong, tender.

Brave.

It's about the shoes.

The strangest thing just happened to me. I'm at my favorite coffee shop, eking out my 1 hour of sacred writing time (it's been weeks), when an opportunity just arose to walk the walk. Before you read any further, watch this. Seriously, watch it. It's 4 minutes long, it's funny, kind, and perfect, especially in this season. It's also the impetus for what happened next:

A Firefighter on Bravery

So there I was (or rather, am)... chai latte steaming at my side, frantically working on an essay on step-parenting and bravery that is really trying to be born, when he slinks around the corner. "He" looks like he walked out of Portlandia as an extra. Hipster glasses, greasy shaggy hair, 3 day stubble, green drab jacket, converse sneakers. He's putting away an i-pad mini and a pack of American Spirits falls out of his jacket as he reaches my table. I'm aware of him; I've felt his eyes glance on me occasionally since I walked in here. He's maybe 26 at the most. He mumbles something I can't understand and his hands tremble as he replaces the pack of cigarettes. Nervously, he stands up and makes eye contact, and says in a strangely thin voice, "Hi, are you working? This is one of those working or studying tables, right?"

"Yeah. I'm writing. I come here to write."

He gives an awkward closed-lip smile. "That's cool. Writers are interesting. Would you mind if I visit with you?"

I don't mean the flash of embarrassment and then disdain that must cross my face, but I see it in the tight sadness of his expression. I stammer. "Sorry, I'm here to write. I only have a few hours a week. Sorry." I don't think I even make eye contact when I say the second sorry.

"I apologize for bothering you. Hope your writing goes well."

I can feel the wave of his humiliation, subtle but definite, as his shoulders slump and he walks to the other side of the partition in the coffee shop. He's got the shuffle step of rejection.

I go back to my writing. I'm trying to come up with some amazing metaphor about parenting and battlefields. I'm summoning up the many emotions I repress on a daily basis about step-parenting, and trying to given them a voice. I'm frustrated by the distraction and irritated by the interruption in what was a good flow. I come here to avoid interruption. This is my hiding place in a life full of interruptions and demands.

A feeling of vague unease settles around me. I'm bothered, and then it occurs to me-- it's about the shoes, dummy. (If you didn't watch the video, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about).

Looking around, I don't see him in plain sight, my interrupter. I take a drink of water, hit save on my computer screen, and get up. As I round the corner of the cafe, I can tell where's he's sitting by the insecure rounding of his shoulders. He's folded in on himself, hands around a coffee mug, seeking a safe invisibility. His hair really is greasy, and the mom in me wants to tell him he needs to take a shower and wash his hair if he intends on ever having a real conversation with a girl. I walk right up to the other side of his table, pull the seat out, and sit down with greater force than I intend. He stares for a second, wide-eyed and startled, then casts his eyes down to his mug. I'd like to say that the awkward-fest that followed was smoother than I'm portraying it, but it wasn't.

"Hi. I'm the lady that just told you to go away".

"I can see that. I didn't take it personally, you were busy."

"I was, I mean, I am, but I wanted to tell you I respect you as a person."

Yeah, I actually said that. Like I said.... awkward.

"You see, I'm married, I have four kids, and a full-time job, and I get like one hour, two a week at most to write, and this is where I come to get away and do that. It's my time, and I just want to tell you I wasn't rejecting you personally, I'm just trying to keep my time. I mean, you could be a very nice person, or an axe-murderer, but you deserve someone to tell you that you matter. Because you do."

"Wow. Okay. Uh, thanks. That's really cool that you're able to get away to write."

There's an awkward pause while we sit there across from each other, not making eye contact, and I can feel the heat of foolishness rise in my cheeks. Who do I think I am, Oprah? After 10 seconds of silence, I stand up and start to step away.

"Hey. I'm not a very social person and my counselor says I should try and be more social. And I'm lonely. I wasn't trying to hit on you or anything. Shit, do you really have four kids?"

We finally make eye contact, just for a second. "Really." He smiles widely. He has terrible teeth. He must realize that I am noticing this, and immediately clamps his lips back into a thin grimace. "Well, I only have an hour, so I'm going to get back to my writing. I hope you have a good day, and I hope you find a really good conversation."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do." His hands tremble around his mug, and he's trying to control his smile.

Less than a minute has elapsed. I go back to my writing. (Here I am!) The metaphors don't come, but the desire to capture this moment, however ordinary and random, is there. I'll always be a New Yorker at heart, so eye contact and smiling at total strangers aren't something I practice with a whole lot of regularity. I spent so many years being hyper-vigilant of my space, of always readying myself against an unwanted advance, or worse, attack, that it takes a conscious effort to let my guard down when I'm alone. We put so much effort into creating our relative isolations. My chai is cold now, but I'm acutely aware of subtle spice, of the slight grainy texture of the cinnamon on my tongue as I swallow the last sip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him get shut down two more times; once with a young college-age woman, another time with an elderly gentleman. As I'm half-way through writing this, he slips out the door. As he walks past the big glass windows separating cafe from sidewalk, he stops and pauses and looks in to where I'm sitting. This time I'm very deliberate about my eye contact, and I smile. He smiles back, even showing a little bit of teeth. He fumbles with a cigarette, lights it, and walks up the sidewalk, shoulders hunched protectively forward.

I never had the opportunity to meet my father-in-law. Fred left this earth years before I had ever dreamed that there was a person out there in the world like Matt. I know a few things of him now; stories shared reverently by his sons, the soft sadness and fierce joy in my mother-in-law's eyes when she speaks of him, the occasional Jack Daniels-- neat, no other way-- my husband on rare occasion lifts in toast, the photos that I've seen. In one of those photos, he stands proud and poised by his wife, both of them dressed sharply, slacks and turtlenecks and trench coats, on a beach somewhere, wind whipped, smart, proud. It's an iconic photo, a portrait of partnership, endurance, and straight-up class. The other photo is of his final day, his body ravaged and gaunt from lung cancer, my heroically stoic mother-in-law equally taken with a quiet grief as she holds the hand of her partner slipping away, and Fred's 3 sons-- one with his brand-new baby, my stepson-- holding the space in love and absolute equanimity. For all that I'll never know of Fred, with full certainty I can say that this man was a giant. The other thing I've been told in the family narrative is that Fred was a died-in-the-wool railroad buff. He loved trains, knew routes and timetables by heart, could name any make and model of engine, and revered the graceful old stations as holy as any chapel.

I thought of Fred this morning as I waited at Union Station in Portland for my train. At first, I was a little ashamed. Fred would never have dreamed about catching a train in an old flannel shirt, jeans and boots, hair all haphazard, slightly ragged suitcase covered in a fine sheen of cat hair.  I imagine Fred in that similar trench coat from the coast picture, and definitely a fedora. I can almost smell the warm worn leather of his briefcase.  As I waited in line to board, I texted my husband: "Every time I board a train, I miss your dad for you."

The route to Seattle from Portland is lovely in so many ways, but the real magic is those first few minutes, leaving downtown. The gritty twisted steel, broken concrete, industrial jungle that the train lurches and crawls through, the pervasive emerald moss so thick it appears to have a pulsating heart beneath the dense cover; this is the landscape of the voyager. I relish that moss, in stark contrast to the oxidized beams and girders. Through those heavy industrialized first few minutes, the train is like a toddler, swaying, unsteady, tentatively waking and exploring. As we approach the Columbia, the tracks steady a bit, the creaking and lurching become a slow, steady roll. The mist is heavy and thick this morning, so thick you almost expect to taste it in your teeth through the window, so it's a bit of a shock when the sun breaks through my window as we gain the trestle.

Then... we are timeless, immortal, and existing in a moment that just feels like freedom. The low rumble of the diesel is like the bass line to a symphony, the blast of the train whistle a trumpet call to the rolling Columbia below. The river answers in shimmering silence, a landscape in the early morning of taupe and grey, dotted by the occasional makeshift camp on it's shores beneath the trestle. A wisp of smoke rises from a campfire, a heron glides prehistoric beneath the steel span. Bliss comes in the soft, insistent minuet of the train bell clanging in rhythm with every heavy girder flying by my window. There is such a methodical rightness to everything, a balance of nature and steel, and I feel my tired body slowly lulled into dreamy, musical sleep, all rumble and roll punctuated by the occasional staccato of the whistle. Momentum, equilibrium, a beautiful rightness to the world. This is for you, Fred.

It's a pretty innocuous thing, a leopard print sweater. The specimen in particular was the suburban jungle kind, cheap cotton cardigan, size M, $15 at Target. I'm not exactly know for my fashion sense, but below the tomboy exterior (usually clothed in jeans/ sweats/ t-shirt/ tank-top/ gore-tex, or any variation), is the bonafide heart of Liberace, sass of Coco Chanel, and sensibility of David Bowie. I have a pinterest account, and I'm not afraid to use it to post $2500 Louboutins and Vintage Versace gowns. I will never in my life own either of those (I have 4 children to put through college), but my heart secretly lusts for bias-cut silk and the blessed red underside of those sexy, sexy shoes. It's my dirty little secret, and even though I will gripe and moan about dressing up, there's a part of me that loves the thrill of something different.

... And then there's a leopard print cardigan, a kind of strange no-man's land somewhere between hoody and sweats and casual dress with cowboy boots (a favorite of mine, no matter how Portland cliche that may be). A 38-year-old woman wearing a leopard print cardigan can be one of several things. Maybe she is a spunky, fun, tragically hip SE Portland-living graphic designer (bangs are a must), not afraid to rock the leopard print, able to casually laugh at how irreverent and spontaneous she is, how she laughs in the face of fashion rules. The leopard print cardigan is a mere tiny little exclamation point to her ensemble, because she is fierce! feisty! and gloriously independent! She may as well be wearing $400 cashmere, because judgement be damned, she'll define her own fashion, thank you.

She could also be a cast member reject from Jersey Shore. The only things her leopard print will be missing are pleather pants and heels, big hair, and jewelry, lots of jewelry. She's the kind of woman you  smell the perfume on 2 grocery aisles over, contemplating the endless subtle variations of canned spaghetti sauce, and suddenly catch a waft-- dear god, my sweet Aunt Ruth has risen from the dead-- only to find a vision of suburban perfection clickity clack around the corner. I secretly admire these women as much as I fear them, all big hair and floral-scented tacky sparkle, not giving a damn what your organic-carrot and kombucha buying, hoody-wearing ass thinks for a second. I'm pretty sure they all drive Escalades and are going to cut me off during left-turns when I'm on my bicycle, but that doesn't mean I can't celebrate their own special brand of femininity.

Or she's somebody's mom, or several somebody's mom. She will not just buy the Leopard print cardigan at Target, she will also buy the navy blue and black one because they are on sale for cheap, and this will be probably the only time she buys clothes for herself for months, and she's practical, if a little bored with it all. The leopard print cardigan will be almost an after thought after aisles in search of appropriate underwear for a 9-year-old girl, t-shirts that her middle-schooler will actually deem cool enough to wear, and flea treatment for the dog. The leopard print will catch her eye, a small beacon of subtle "wild child" in a sea of modesty and clothes for "the professional woman". (She is always secretly relieved she wears a uniform after seeing those). She will stuff it under the buzz-lightyear replacement sheets and the Halloween decorations, all while scowling and scoffing at the "50 Shades of Grey" paperbacks prominently displayed at the end of the book aisle, thinking "how lame and pedestrian"... because despite the outward aura of subdued and a little too tired, she knows kinky, she knows good sex and erotica, she has a leopard print cardigan that, bonus, she will wear with cowboy boots. She will ignore the side-eye from the 22-year-old checkout girl with the collarbone tat and pink streaks when she rings it up.

She'll be so impressed with herself for such a small act of domesticated subversion that she'll snap off the tag in the parking lot, and slide it over her very plain black tank top, and drive home in it. She may look in the mirror and note yes, how definitely cool it is, paired with her knock-off $10 aviator shades, all the more so with the booster seats also reflecting in that same mirror. The smell of somebody's day-old soccer socks threatens to offend her nostrils, but gives her a sense of peace, of place. She will pull up to the house, 4 sets of soccer cleats on the muddy porch, haphazard fort made out of pruned branches a created obstacle, and forget she is wearing it when she strides in the house.

This will be short lived, as she will be met with a tinny, loud, "WHAT is that you're wearing?" by her 7-year-old, shortly followed up with a "I love your Halloween costume, Mom!" by her 10-year-old. Her well-intentioned but filterless husband will poke his head around the corner and laugh... "you look like some 'Real Housewives' of New Jersey extra!" A small finger gesture from her will elicit a quick placation. "But I, uh, love it! Go leopard print! Yeah baby!" This over-enthusiasm will give her pause about two things: a) that he noticed actual clothing, and more surprisingly, b) that he knows what "Real Housewives of New Jersey" is.

None of this will matter, because she knows rock and roll is sometimes what you make of it. The leopard print cardigan has come home.