Making Contact on the Metro and the Politics of Train Etiquette

The other day, as I rode the metro to school, I found myself in the unfortunate position of third wheel.

No, I was not accompanying a friend on an awkward date, nor playing wingwoman on Single’s Night.  I was merely slumped on the train, alone, contemplating my imminent cup of coffee. Yet I did not feel alone, because right in front of me, a couple was embroiled in a very vocal domestic dispute. And they knew that I was seated next to them.

I should be precise – the couple spoke just loud enough so that I could hear them; they were at least partially aware that they inhabited a public space. Still, it was the sort of argument that one imagines having in the privacy of one’s living room, where there are pillows and books to hurl and a couch for make-up coitus. And throughout this dispute, one member of the couple was seated so that he regularly made eye contact with me. In fact, avoiding mutual recognition was impossible unless I conspicuously a.) changed seats b.) shrouded my head with my cardigan or c.) hid under my seat (which, considering the detritus left there, seemed like a pretty lousy idea).

Here is the thing about eye contact: even if you are in no way involved in someone’s conversation, when that person looks you in the eye–even unintentionally–you cannot help but feel implicated, interpolated. Perhaps this comes of being a self-centered creature, but when so many of our intimate connections rely upon mutual gaze, it is difficult for me to not feel a fleeting moment of connection in these sorts of situations. And certain connections, even if they last no more than a few moments, can be really uncomfortable.

And so, the male partner, eyes ablaze, continued to air his grievances, intermittently noticing that, yep, I was still there. At this point, I was even more slumped in my seat, with earbuds securely lodged in place and my face pressed against the window. The other day I had a brief exchange with a friend about times when we wished wearing headphones also made one invisible. This certainly was an instance where a degree from Hogwarts would have really come in handy.

For, irritated I was – and indignant to boot. Who the hell were these people, having it out on the train? Had they no respect for their fellow commuters? Did they not value their privacy as a couple? (says the girl who blogs and tweets about her relationships on the regular).

I was feeling pretty hoity-toity about the matter until today. Paul and I were airing a few grievances of our own – not with each other (another time, dear readers), but with some of the pain-in-the-ass behaviors we encounter on the metro. We both acknowledged that our desire to be both open-minded and generous exists in tension with our respective tendencies to become aggravated when other train-riders behave in irritating ways. And yes, in case you had any doubts, both Paul and myself are paragons of commuter virtue. Over the course of the conversation, it occurred to us that the lines we draw between public and private spaces have everything to do with our socioeconomic privilege. I know nothing about the couple to whom I have referred, but I do know that not everyone has a living space conducive to private conversation, whether because of its size, additional occupants, or a mélange of factors. And not every couple has the time and money to schedule a Starbucks-and-stroll in order to talk through a misunderstanding.

Similarly, I cannot deny my rage every time someone decides that everybody in the whole wide world of Metro needs to hear the kickass tune playing on their phone or mp3 player – and that, in fact, we deserve an accompanying serenade as well. “My ears shouldn’t have to be assaulted with this shit, ” I think self-righteously. And to make a point that absolutely no one notices, I emphatically wedge and adjust my headphones so that they rest precariously near the abyss of my ear canal. Fuming, I carry on an inward monologue about how navigating public space means respecting boundaries.

I do believe that this is true. I also believe that not everyone grooving to their jams on the metro necessarily has that many opportunities to do so at home.  For some, the metro might offer a sort of privacy that I cannot possibly fathom – precisely because I do have access to a number of so-called private spaces. It doesn’t make it any less aggravating to have my own music drowned out by another person’s musical tribute to Miley, but it does remind me to be more tolerant. It may be that nothing but sheer rudeness prompts a person to transgress both official and unspoken metrorail rules. But there is no way that I can know that. Time and again, I have to remind myself that everybody is living out their own narrative, shaped by all manner of forces. I want to do my best to not assume the worst of others, even if those others are really, REALLY irritating me. I want to–as much as is possible–stop seeing people as “others” in the first place.

There were other seats available to me that day when I became an implicit third party to domestic strife. In retrospect, I should have been gracious enough to move, rather than to stubbornly assert my rights as fellow metro passenger. Next time I hope that I will, remembering that I can’t know what has brought this couple to this point. And maybe I’ll sing along to Miley. It’s really no skin off my nose, and it’s certainly the most surefire way to end the musical number.

All that said, to the dudes who take up two seats because your masculine aura needs that much breathing room? Scoot on over, because I’ll be joining you momentarily.



The emotional peaks and valleys of this semester have been uncommonly extreme. On the one hand, I have taken another, exciting step towards achieving my goal of writing creative non-fiction for wider audiences. The wonderful people at The Hairpin published an essay that I wrote about 90’s roller rinks, nostalgia, and teenage sexual awakening (You can check it out here: This in and of itself was a tremendous honor, not to mention a thrill; I love The Hairpin and very much believe in their goal of promoting woman-centered writing. Then, at the end of the same week, as I absent-mindedly perused my Twitter feed, I found that The Paris Review had highlighted the piece. Talk about a compliment – I very nearly vomited in appreciation (Is there such a thing as glee-vomiting? One of these days I might make it so – unwillingly, mind you). And in the meantime, people have shared such wonderful memories with me. The gift economy of writing is both so enriching and fulfilling. I want to spend my life swapping stories and ideas with people through every available venue, and I am committed to doing exactly that.

And yet, it has been in other ways a very humbling and frustrating semester. Not everything has gone as I would have hoped–not even close–and I have had to grapple with several disappointments. Such is life. In the midst of one rough patch, I was feeling particularly in need of a little sonic morale boost. So with the help of some friends, I compiled a “graduate student empowerment” playlist. It is available on Spotify, and because I had so much wonderful input from other folks, I feel quite comfortable saying that the playlist kicks ass. Whether or not you are a graduate student, I highly recommend that you give it a listen (you can blame me for all of the Robyn).

A couple of weeks after making this playlist, I read a wonderful essay by Buzzfeed writer Summer Anne Burton, entitled “The Fine Art of Mixtape Seduction” ( Mind you, I am no slick fox, so I have never performed my own seductions via mixtape – or via any other means, for that matter. I have always loved a good music mix, though. And in middle school, high school, and college, I made a number of them for my friends. In high school, my mixtapes always included track listings with detailed rationales for each of my selections. The rationale was always a mélange of autobiography, pseudo-philosophical musing, and “isn’t this song just, like, the best?!” Moreover, the process of compiling the mixtape’s content was itself a craft. One could not record the songs willy-nilly; order was crucial. Putting “Both Hands” (with the orchestral accompaniment, of course) after “Bullets With Butterfly Wings” would have been a grave mixtape transgression, as would including too many songs by the same artist. Any music snob worth her salt knows that she must represent her taste as both refined and varied.

I have always turned to music for emotional sustenance, and this semester, with its many ups and downs, has certainly been no exception. Between putting together the Graduate Student Empowerment mix and reading Burton’s fantastic piece, I have also been reminiscing about my music mixing days and the track listings that probably took me as long to compose as any English paper. I thought, for the heck of it, that I might revisit this exercise and put together a “mix” of the first ten songs that came to mind – ones strongly tied to specific memories. Lately my students and I have been thinking a great deal about biographies and memoirs–we just finished Audre Lorde’s Zami–and so we have had many conversations about how we remember and revise our histories, not to mention the associations that provoke or accompany memories. Often the memories that cling most tenaciously or perpetually resurface cannot be arranged into a cohesive narrative. So, what I am saying is that seventeen-year-old Rachel would probably sneer at this playlist. But I will ignore her pretentiousness and sally forth.

1. “Time Ago” by Black Lab:

When I first heard this song, I was eleven years old, sitting underneath the window in my bedroom with my portable CD player in front of me. Immediately after, I concluded that it was the sexiest song I had ever heard. I had recognized “sexy” as an adjective since I was maybe nine. As an eleven year old awash in a complex web of new feelings, I all of a sudden realized that certain things, certain people, were sexy to me. Still, I could not quite articulate what that meant. I looked primarily to music and movies to cultivate my understanding of the term, and so I learned the following: 1. Having sex outside was sexy. 2. Having sex in a car was also sexy, especially if said car did not belong to you (ah, Titanic, the dreamscapes you inspired). Black Lab wooed me with the lyrics “All by ourselves we made love under the sleeping, moonless night,” because, as you will observe, they refer to bumping uglies in the outdoors (possibly on the hood of a car!), and THAT is sexy. But I was also a sucker for any song that articulated a man’s pained and nostalgic longing for a woman. I wanted to be that woman for somebody and was fearful that I never would be. And so, each time the local DJ fulfilled my wish and played this hyperbolically earnest one hit wonder, I would imagine it as the soundtrack to my first tryst with whoever I fancied that term.

2. “I Would Do Anything For Love” by Meatloaf:

One night, during our sophomore year, plagued by too many English papers, midterms, and theatre rehearsals, my friend Kellyn and I–roommates at the time–determined that there was only one way to mitigate our collective stress. We sought out Meatloaf in Kellyn’s iTunes library, turned the volume up as high as our RA would permit, and treated the rest of the floor to our vocal stylings. We stood defiantly, if precariously, on our wobbly desk chairs, hairbrushes clutched in our hands (microphones, you see). Within a few minutes, our neighbor Sarah LeCates rushed in to join us (we shared a hairbrush). While we were both quite friendly with Sarah, we were not close friends. But we shared a fleeting intimacy that night, even if our impromptu karaoke did not significantly change the nature of our friendship. The next year, Sarah left campus to study abroad in Senegal. Before returning to the States, she fell ill and died shortly thereafter. My sadness, while profound, could not be the same as the sorrow felt by those close to her – and, being a warm, vibrant person, she had many dear friends. But I never hear a note of this song without thinking of her.

3. “Jackie’s Strength” by Tori Amos: 

If I were a Tori Amos song, I would be “Jackie’s Strength” – at least according to the Buzzfeed quizmeisters. Apparently this has something to do with my penchant for the dramatic, so clearly their algorithm failed. Truly, though, I could not help but feel a bit of pleasure with my result. This song became my lullaby in eighth grade, its ethereal chorus engulfing me, forming what felt like a protective shell around my vulnerable, insecurities-riddled body. At school it would often play in my head, materializing into armor just beneath my skin and guarding me against the harsh social climate of my middle school. And it was there when I could not be brave – when I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing that I could be anyone or anything but what I was.

4. “I Will” by The Beatles:

At the reception following my first wedding, two of my ex-husband’s relatives sang this song, accompanied by another one of his relatives on guitar. It was a beautiful tribute to what I thought at the time would be a long marriage. For a couple of years following our divorce, I could not listen to this song without pangs of guilt and an acute sense of shame. Hell, sometimes I would listen to it as a form of self-punishment. Now the song conjures a fraught mix of associations: Paul, my ex-husband, the family of which I was once a part, my second wedding, steadily approaching on June 7. I can accept the joy with the pain now – and that is all I can do. I do not expect that this is an association that will ever weaken.

5. “Shake it Out” by Florence + the Machine:

Oh Florence, you Pre-Raphaelite goddess. You do you, always.

No word play will make my connection to this song less hokey, but the associations are significant to me. I listened to this song as I walked from Paul’s house on my way to the bus stop one morning (and then many mornings, afternoons, and evenings after that). We had been dating for several months, but I was still licking my wounds from the previous, hellish year, when I both married and separated. Unsurprisingly I was particularly affected by the lyrics, “…it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back, so shake him off.”  I wish I could say that Florence’s wisdom healed me on the spot. Of course it didn’t, though it did make it into many a Facebook status message. Yet it reminded me that I had a right to be in love with Paul and to embrace all of the accompanying feelings. I am pretty sure that I sent him a stupidly cheesy text message before the song ended.

6. “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind:

“Rachel, I wanna listen to the song where he goes ‘Yiyiyiyiyow,'” said my youngest sister, then in pre-school, many, many times.

I readily obliged, for reasons she did not know.

7. “The Freshman” by The Verve Pipe:

I spent over four years desperately in love with a guy who did not love me. He and his friends, all freshly-minted high school graduates, had formed a band years ago and were spending the summer before college playing coffee house gigs. Those gigs were the place to be that summer, and I, a rising junior who did not yet have her license, frantically sought out a ride to each one. When my job as a grocery market cashier prevented attendance, I felt deeply bereft. My crush’s band would often cover this song – and well, I might add. Perhaps it was the explicit connection to high school, the song’s hyper-solemnity, or some combination of the two, I don’t know. But this song, more than all of the others on their set list, reminded me that my crush, the frontman, was moving on to the greener pastures of collegiate life. And no matter what Wet Seal halter top I wore to his shows, he would not return my affection the way I wanted him to.

8. “Dancing On My Own” by Robyn:

Throwing punches alone in my apartment, attempting to channel everything I imagine Robyn to be, I would dance until I broke a sweat. Desolate and guilty, this song fortified the backbone that enabled me to leave my marriage.

9. “Stand Inside Your Love” by Smashing Pumpkins:

A Pumpkins devotee since age ten, I could not wait to share every last one of their songs with Paul. Predictably enough, we began with “Tonight, Tonight” (I probably join the population of a small country when I say that this is one of my favorite songs). After the preliminaries, I thought I would woo my beau with one of their more traditional love songs. Barely thirty seconds in, Paul nervously caught my attention–I was, of course, in raptures–and said, “Umm, could we maybe turn this off?” Believe it or not, not everybody enjoys Billy Corgan’s voice (I know, right?). In fact, some find it downright intolerable. Much to my horror, I learned that night that Paul is one of these people. I briefly reconsidered our relationship, but thought that one offense, however grave, was not sufficient reason to call it off.

10. “Portions for Foxes” by Rilo Kiley:

Writing this blog post has made me aware of my apparent affinity for red-headed ladies who sing. And each time I hear this song–or any that they played at their show, really–I can only dwell on the exquisiteness of Jenny Lewis and just how badly I want to braid her silky hair.

Your guess is as good as mine as to how these songs would sound played in succession. I’m curious to see for myself. And because I decided to write about the first ten songs/memories that occurred to me, it is interesting now to think of the bands and songs that did not make it onto the playlist. For instance, the absence of Radiohead, Arcade Fire, and The National feels conspicuous. Surely I have memories that I associate with them, and I know the image-conscious bones in my body tingled as I realized that those bands would not make the (albeit self-imposed) cut. But this was an experiment rather than an attempt to establish myself as the keenest of music aficionados. Seventeen-year-old Rachel will just have to eat that.

When Geeks Collide: Life with a Movie Critic

Before I began my relationship with Paul, I might have known that February is designated by the film-savvy community as “Oscars Season.” But in all likelihood, me possessing that information would be predicated upon someone hosting an Oscar party or bringing up the Oscars in a way that prompted me to ask, “Oh yeah. Those. When do those happen again?”

There are few things I claim to know with certainty, but one thing I can say without qualification is that I will never again NOT know that it is Oscars Season. If you stepped inside our living room, you would immediately understand why: crammed into that tiny space is a veritable cornucopia of DVDs and film scores on compact disc. Biographies of such personages as Orson Welles, Tim Burton and Jim Henson burst from our jam-packed, loosely-titled “American Literature” bookcase.  Above our television (an appropriate enough location), an original Chuck Jones illustration adorns the wall. To be fair, some of the DVDs belonged to me before they became part of the larger Cote-Vorona collective (though, for the record, “Spice World” belonged to Paul). Regardless, beginning a life with Paul meant that my Victorian novels and Pre-Raphaelite picture books could not consume every spare millimeter of the bookcases. And I would have to accept that, given Paul’s aesthetic preferences, it would be unfair for me to smother the walls in Pre-Raphaelite artwork and 19th Century magazine prints. As it stands, our living room exists in a liminal aesthetic space between 20th Century American pop culture and Victoriana. If you leave the framed Oingo Boingo record cover out of the equation, I’m dealing pretty well with this.

My purpose of writing this post was not, however, to grieve my inability to decorate our apartment like the parlors of Thornfield, Thrushcross Grange, or Pemberley. I have always loved movies: watching them in the theatre, thinking about them, and debating their various strengths and limitations with friends. I am a card carrying worshipper of Emma Thompson. Thanks to Tom Hiddleston, I have a renewed interest in Norse mythology. But I do not love movies as much as Paul does. Nor do I possess the inherent ability to unpack them and assess them in the brilliant way that he can. He is a rare, film-whispering, breed of a guy. I love this about him. But I am not always capable of accommodating his passion.

A little modification: When I wrote in the above paragraph that I do not love movies as much as Paul does, I should have added that, in all likelihood, 95 percent of the population does not either. And truly, I believe that it is his depth of perception and innate ability to understand the filmic genre that cultivates his profound appreciation for it. That does not change the insane fact that you could awaken Paul at 3:30 a.m., ask him to rank Martin Scorcese’s five best films, and he would do so with barely a yawn and a blink (in part because there is a very decent chance that Paul would still be awake, watching a movie or writing about one). We once, in the fledgling stages of our romance, completed the grueling, 12 hour ordeal of moving me out of one apartment and into to another. As we staggered back to his place to shower our aching bodies and settle into sleep’s luscious oblivion, I made an offhand comment about a Woody Allen film.** I was under the impression that Paul, like me, was struggling to maintain both consciousness and an upright position as we headed home. And perhaps that was the case…until I brought up Woody. Renewed by the sweet nectar of filmic discourse, Paul dwelled on Woody Allen’s oeuvre for the rest of our walk home – and perhaps even after that. My memory of the circumstances remains foggy because, as astonished as I was by this impromptu verbal dissertation, I was, as I mentioned, exhausted as hell. Yet, even in that bleary, half-conscious state, my mind somehow grasped the realization that Paul had a very particular relationship with film, one that I had never before witnessed. And it was intense.

My own limitations regarding film-talk arise most frequently when Paul and I actually see a movie together. Previously, I tended to be rather lazy about going to the movies. Unless a movie had me frothing at the mouth (i.e.”Titanic” in 7th grade), I would not prioritize seeing it. In fact, I’ve been doing a fair amount of mouth-frothing lately over the new Dickens film, “The Invisible Woman,” and I still haven’t seen that. Being of the loquacious variety, I generally gravitate toward activities that do not require me to sit still and be silent for two hours. Paul, on the other hand, integrates movies into his schedule. He will catch a matinée by himself, on the way home – a practice that has always made perfect sense, but has never been something my exceedingly-extroverted self has been able to try. Sit in a dark theater silently and completely absorbed in a film ALONE? But who will I crawl over when I need to go to the bathroom?

Now that it is Oscar Season, Paul’s “need to see” list of films has both lengthened and become more urgent. (Note: I do not think, before dating Paul, that I ever said that I “needed” to see a movie, which just goes to show how oblivious I was to the critical work involved in viewing a film and, more generally, working in the field.) For one thing, as a member of the International Film Music Critics Association, he needs to vote on the best scores of the year. Working on film in an academic context also means that he needs to be up-to-date on the films being released, especially because he writes on contemporary directors like Steven Spielberg and Wes Anderson. And, like me, he blogs–albeit in a more professional context–and it does not make much sense to write a movie review three weeks after a release date.

So, Paul and I have been seeing a number of movies together this winter, and there are more to cross off the list. And while he never complains, I can only imagine that I am a pretty aggravating movie-going companion. If I am confused during the film, I will almost certainly nudge Paul to ask him to explain (I always assume that Paul knows how a plot will unfold by the end of the opening scene). But after the film has ended, I often require a 24 hour grace period before I will enter into any sort of sustained discussion that is not primarily superficial. And if I really loved a movie, I refuse to hear any critique–no matter how small–until the afterglow has dissipated. This can be problematic, because, once the credits are rolling, Paul has about fifty different thoughts prepared to spring from his mouth simultaneously. And these generally are not thoughts of the “OMG NO SHE DID NOT” variety.

For example, while I have been thinking about Spike Jonze’s “Her” almost nonstop since seeing it, my initial conversation with Paul while leaving the theater went something like this:

Me: (sniffling) Wow. That was amazing. Wow wowee wow wowsers.

Paul: Yeah, that was really great.

Me: (immediately indignant because Paul’s reasonable level of enthusiasm does not match my off-the-rails, tearful effusion) IT WAS AMAZING AND FANTASTIC AND I LOVED IT.

Paul: Oh, I did too. It was a phenomenal film.

Rachel: (almost screeching with euphoria) And the performances! I was so impressed with Scarlett Johansson, and that is not something I would normally say.

Paul: (of the mistaken opinion that we are finally getting somewhere in this conversation) She was wonderful, yes, and the relationship between Samantha and Theodore really makes me wonder whether that is the most accurate depiction of romantic intimacy on-screen to date.

Rachel: (Paul’s intellectual remark cannot be matched while inside The Cloud of Many Feelings. Want to feel the feelings, not think the thinks. Unreasonable levels of indignation return.) I don’t wanna talk about this anymore tonight.

Paul: Ooooookay…?

This is not an uncommon scenario in the life of the Cote-Voronas. In many ways, I am probably the filmmaker’s version of Wolfgang Iser’s Ideal Reader. Unless my skepticism precludes–and that means I must find a film VERY problematic–I generally feel just about everything that a film wants me to feel. I am an emotional sponge, absorbing and emitting in equal measure. When Feist released the song “I Feel It All,” I was deeply grateful to her for penning a line that I could steal for all of my online bios. So, when I am moved by a film–particularly one that I loved as much as “Her”–I have to let the emotional waves subside before I can do much critical thinking or be open to hearing any pointed critique. For about twenty-four hours, any variety of the latter will feel like utter blasphemy, and the former will feel like a cold shower.

This is not to say that Paul does not experience these films as profoundly as I do – the beginning of this post testifies to his keen enthusiasm. In fact, one of the things that drew us to one another was the similar way that we experience an especially riveting movie score. Danny Elfman’s “Black Beauty” (yes, I do like Elfman after he sheds the ridiculouslessness of Oingo Boingo), Michael Nyman’s “The Piano,” Patrick Doyle’s “Great Expectations,” Elliot Goldenthal’s “Frida,” Thomas Newman’s “Little Women,” Dario Marinelli’s “Jane Eyre” — Paul and I love listening to this music together, and it all claims, in various ways, intense emotional importance in my life. “Black Beauty” and “Little Women” in particular will always remind me of my childhood with my little sisters, in part because we watched these movies on a weekly basis growing up, but also, more simply, because the music seems to articulate how I love them both. Similarly, many of the scores Paul and I enjoy together become reimagined texts for the ways I love him. (I will also divulge that I cannot so much as hear the first notes of the music from the Season Five finale of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” without dissolving into sobs. By now, the response is almost Pavlovian.)

Paul possesses a more emotionally measured disposition than I do (surprise!), and, at this point, he is a seasoned film critic. So he can exist in a space where he is both experiencing the affective impact of a film and, simultaneously, thinking about its technical intricacies and larger implications. I often wish that I could do the same so that I was a better movie buddy for him. Still, my experience of watching movies seems to be an enjoyable experience for him (primarily a comical one). And while his film-critic mind might not be as compelled by the “WHY DID HE HAVE TO LEAVE HER?” “WASN’T IT SO MEAN WHEN SHE SAID THAT? JEEZY CREEZY!” variety of questions, these are the sorts of things I need to talk about while I am still emotionally processing a film. He gets that, I think, and he humors me accordingly.

And, in turn, he knows that he can always wake me up in the middle of the night after watching “Breaking Bad” in order to tell me of the horrors he has just witnessed. Because even the most experienced film critics have their limitations. (I have not watched “Breaking Bad” myself, but have rather experienced it vicariously through Paul. I am his “Breaking Bad” trauma counselor, if you will.)

As Oscar Season continues, and Paul and I continue to work through his list of must-sees (many of which are on my list too), I anticipate all manner of conversations: the post-viewing chats that inevitably will end with me in a snit and, the following night, long debates over wine – when I am finally willing to submit that, no, that movie was not the Platonic ideal of cinema and, yes, there is more to discuss than its most melodramatic of plot twists.

What’s more, I was actually just as excited for the release of the Oscar nominees as Paul was this year. I guess his enthusiasm has been catching over the years, as much as I loathe to give him credit for that (ask him one day about what a delight I am). And I am eager to watch the Oscars with him–his Superbowl, for those whose minds are turned to that particular sporting event today. The fact that I refer to it as a “sporting event” probably gives you a sense of my own investment in the game as well, although I do hope there will be cute animals in some of the commercials. Also, regarding the Oscars, red carpet fashion, anyone?

Ultimately, I suppose I can say with confidence that our individualized movie viewing experiences will not tear asunder the bonds my beloved and I have forged. That is, unless he persists in criticizing Michael Fassbender’s performance as Rochester in the 2011 adaptation of Jane Eyre. My charity only extends so far.

**NOTE: At the time that I made this comment, I was unaware that Allen had been accused of sexual assault. Having just read Dylan Farrow’s open letter, I do not know that I will be able to watch another one of his films. We do worlds of harm when we suppress the voices of those who have suffered such violence and cruelty – and even more so when we continue to champion their (in this case, probable) perpetrators.

I did, and then I didn’t: Being a divorced twenty-something

I have decided that my goal will be to update Positive and Promise by Monday, at least every other week. Originally, I thought Sunday night might make a nice, tidy deadline, but, let’s face it, I am watching “Downton Abbey” on Sunday nights. And, if I can catch up soon enough, I will be watching “Sherlock” as well. One has to manage one’s priorities responsibly.

Generally, I also will do my best to alternate more somber posts, like the one from last week, with pieces that are more light-hearted. But everything that follows has been on my mind for some time now, and I would like to put it into words.

Writing this piece will be simplest if I begin with the absolute basics:

When I was twenty-three years old, I got engaged to my college boyfriend. When I was twenty-five years old, I married him. Ten months later, we legally separated. A little over a year after we married, our divorce became official.

Anyone who has been in my shoes knows that a whirlwind marriage is anything but uncomplicated, even if it is only a brief foray into the world of matrimony. For one thing, like most people who decide to marry, I entered into marriage with the full intention of remaining married. But before long, I realized that I had been ill-equipped to make the promises that accompany marriage – even though I was positively chomping at the bit to make them.

Make no mistake: I wanted to be engaged to my boyfriend, and I made that abundantly clear. I was tremendously excited when he proposed to me. Our wedding was beautiful and happy. But, several months later, when I was supposed to be compiling my wedding photo album and writing thank you notes for all of the lovely gifts we received, I was seized by a horrifying awareness that I had previously ignored, justified, or simply did not understand: getting married had not been the right decision. I did not want to share my life with the person I had chosen and to whom I had committed myself.

When I began this blog, I wrote about my obsession with narrative security. I have always, for as long as I can recall, been made deeply uncomfortable by situations that I could not control or whose outcomes I could not determine. To some degree, I will always struggle with this insecurity. What I did not understand, in the years directly preceding my engagement, was that I had completely succumbed to it. If ever a doubt about my readiness to commit entered my mind, I frantically explained it away or sought another’s reassurance that there was no need to question my relationship. The possibility that my boyfriend might not be the person with whom I would spend the rest of my life was utterly and completely terrifying to me. In fact, I began grappling with this terror when I was still very much in love with him. I can recall looking at him, profoundly aware of my feelings of affection, while simultaneously battling an insidious fear that I would, one day, want to leave him.

Eventually, I trained myself to compartmentalize these fears, rather than to confront them. I went to great lengths to tuck them away as tidily as I could, and developed cognitive mechanisms for assuaging them whenever they reared their ugly heads. And so, over the two years of my engagement, I never once considered the possibility that I should not marry my fiancé – not when I began to question my sexuality or when I sensed the profound ways that I was changing. This is not to say that there was a definitive red flag bearing the words, “DO NOT PROCEED – BIG MISTAKE,” but there were opportunities for me to reflect. I never took advantage of them; I was too afraid to do so. And by the time my wedding was a year or so away, I had worked so diligently to bury and disavow my fears that I only now know all that I was too terrified to confront.

So I married him. I did so happily, optimistically, even confidently. I did not expect that, three months later, I would be blindsided by a slew of emotions that made it very evident I had entered into a commitment that I could not sustain. For much of the year–my first year in my doctoral program, for that matter–I felt lost in a cloud of delirious misery. I made some very poor and hurtful choices. I also tried to remain in the marriage in order to give it the chance that it deserved. By May, I knew fully well that I was only causing more harm by staying. I could not, at age 25, commit to a relationship that I knew would never entirely fulfill and enrich me – or my partner. Finally, with the help of a few people very close to me, I had learned to assess situations without evading the nasty, undesirable parts. Leaving my marriage was going to be an atrocious ordeal (as far as the majority of my family knew, I was happy). Moreover, it was going to cause my partner a world of hurt. I chose to do it all the same. It is one of the only decisions I have ever made that I have never once second-guessed.

This does not mean that I made the decision easily. I did not want to wound anyone with my actions, especially not my husband. But by this time, I had already hurt him–and others–terribly. I knew that if I did not end our marriage, circumstances would only get nastier. I would have to conjure the shitstorm first if there was to be any hope for greener pastures later.

Leaving my infant marriage caused all the tumult that I expected. Many were upset and confused and angry, and I understood why. I wished that there was a way to help everyone achieve the knowledge I finally possessed myself – that this absolutely was for the best. I understood why so many people believed that I had behaved selfishly and rashly – and in some ways, I had. I felt profoundly sorry for every bit of sorrow and pain that I had caused and was causing. While my experience was very different from that of my ex’s, I, too, was in pain. I generally do my utmost not to hurt people, and here, in a matter of days, I had overturned a few worlds. What’s more, I did not understand how I had been such a “blind puppy,” as Jane Eyre would have it. How the hell had I walked down that aisle before I had the bravery and maturity to confront the full extent of my feelings? How could I have been so childish? So…let’s face it…stupid?

Not long ago after the separation, I asked these questions of a wise woman in my life. She responded that we make the best decisions we can at the time that we make them. I want to believe that this reasoning pertains to me. I did not, after all, marry impulsively. I had been with my boyfriend for several years; we had lived together; and we met with the minister multiple times before he agreed to officiate the ceremony. I did think deeply about my relationship, but all of my thoughts were based on the premise that it should continue. I was never able to cross the threshold into more ambiguous territory.

While it will never be easy or comfortable for me to inhabit life’s less secure spaces, I have learned to do it. Two of the many things my first marriage taught me are the importance of mindfulness and that periods of “not knowing” can be some of the most critical and generative that we endure. Unfortunately for Paul, I learned my lesson so well–and was so shell-shocked from my divorce–that I harassed him with a slew of potential catastrophes that I feared could befall us. In fact, it isn’t really fair to refer to some of these catastrophes as “potential” – but I suppose that depends on your definition of “far-fetched.” Mine is pretty loose, and I am fairly certain that my fiction-generator was on overdrive for the first eight months of our relationship.

If you have been reading my blog, then you know that I have made the decision to get married again. I am tremendously happy with this decision. I mentioned earlier that leaving my marriage is one of the only decisions I have ever made without second thoughts. The second decision I have made with that amount of certainty is the decision to share my life with Paul. With Paul, I have found a big, fulfilling, exciting love – a love that sustains me, nourishes me, teaches me, and challenges me. I am so fortunate in my relationship that I feel undeserving of my happiness. I wish this happiness upon everyone, whether or not they have a partner. I wish it upon my ex-husband.

As you might imagine, my experiences over the last several years have caused me to think more critically about the institution of marriage. I remain skeptical, although I have decided to re-marry, and I believe that our society has a long way to go before we have a healthy relationship with matrimony. It might actually be impossible for society as a whole to have a healthy relationship with it. We may have to settle for empowering individuals–especially women–to make healthy choices in their relationships. For some time, I felt very isolated in my new identity as a divorced woman. Whether or not I was being paranoid or self-conscious, I felt judged and socially-inferior. I still prefer to refer to my ex as “my ex” rather than “my ex-husband” – the latter inevitably raises eyebrows and provokes questions (“Twenty-eight and already divorced? Huh.”). Lately, however, I have noticed that a number of friends and acquaintances have recently divorced or ended long-term relationships. One of my motivations for writing this piece is to render our position a bit more visible. Of course, every relationship is different, and the circumstances always vary. But I have the sense that our society does not feel as comfortable with divorce as it purports to – and, really, that makes sense. When divorce rates in America are 50 to 51 percent, it seems reasonable that the topic would incite anxiety. Learning that a couple is getting divorced–especially when the news is a complete surprise–can be quite jarring. I imagine that it has the potential to make others feel unsteady in their own relationships, if only briefly. It is a scary thought to know that you could leave the security of your relationship, even if you have no desire to do so. It was scary for me to do it, even though it was what I wanted to do.

While it should be unnecessary, I still feel compelled to write what follows: There is no shame in being divorced, regardless of your age, regardless of the number of years or, in my case, months, that you were married. There is no shame in leaving a relationship if you know that you cannot love your partner the way s/he deserves to be loved, or vice versa. I find you-centric mantras rather nauseating – I do not think we can live as if we are without responsibilities and commitments. However, I think young women in particular must understand that they are free to make the choices they believe will be for the best. Inevitably, those choices will have consequences, and most likely things will be pretty terrible for a while. But it will be ok.  Because eventually, things won’t be terrible; in fact, there will be the possibility for them to be wonderful instead. And we should all be allowed that possibility.