Trying to Touch the Bottom

I come at this class and these blogs from an unlikely place. I have been in a live-in, same-sex relationship for five years with a partner who has co-adopted a daughter with his ex. She is now nine years old, and though this may seem overwhelmingly unconventional, or comparable to the “bizarre live-in boy/girl friend circumstances” which Jana blogged about, it puts me in a position which is close enough to parenthood to witness Tillie Olsen’s “bursting of the ego” (110), without having to live out the constant obligation and requirement of full-time parenting. It is also helpful that we only have her on weekends and holidays because to her it is almost like a vacation from her stricter parents, while it is like a treat for us to see her.

When I first met Marissa (the daughter in question), she was four, and already having three men as father-figures in her life she politely asked me if I was a Dad too. I said no with a nervous chuckle, but I wish now that I could have given her a little more of an explanation. When the three of us are out in public, it is interesting to note the ways in which people shamefully stare, trying to figure out whatever it is about the situation that puzzles them. I’m sure that this is in part due to the fact that Marissa is African-American, while my partner and I are not.
As far as the domestic situation, the chores, duties and finances are split evenly for the most part. There are days when one of us complains about laundry or groceries, but these are minimal. There are times when one of us foots the bill because the other is terribly strapped. I think there is some kind of unspoken understanding between us, and, as I was reading the essays in The Bitch in the House I was struck by the amount of ink spilled on topics surrounding domestic duties and the anger that swelled in the authors over the subject of household work. In most instances, the speaker in the essay would get angry over the fact that the chores were not done, but then grow angrier at the thought of not doing those chores herself! As an aspiring writer, I think it is important to voice frustrations and anger on the page, but it is also true, as quoted in David’s blog: “It might have been remarkably useful [for the writers] to tell their partners first.”

In my own house, we are both clean to an extent, without going overboard. Me being the messier one, I am allowed my side of the bed to make disorderly (and I do this very effectively—shirts, towels and jeans lay sprawled out on the floor below the window in a delightfully chaotic fashion), while the rest of the room/house remains spotless. The magic to this lack of stress, I believe, lies in the underlying theme of the preceding blogs: communication. On the topic of marriage, well—as we know, it is not necessarily easy for us to do—but it has not been ruled out. The last blog stated, “To be an individual means to find an individual answer,” a notion that I find rings very true in a situation such as mine, for what page in what book do I open for help in navigating this complicated life I’ve fallen into? What parental role do I emulate or wish to rebel against? Which gender, if any, should I try to perform, and, more importantly, how do I set an example for this young girl who once asked if I was her father?

I know that these questions will never get any easier to answer as she grows up, as she develops her own identity, as society peers in nosily, whispering, casting knowing, disapproving glances amid PTA meetings and Tupperware parties. I can only hope that she was not slighted that day that I said “no.” I can, however, find some solace in the security of my own loving relationship—knowing that it will serve as a safe base for her already unstable childhood. My current relationship has provided me with a solid emotional foundation in these last interesting five years and I don’t see it disintegrating, but rather, growing stronger each day. However it turns out, I hope to ultimately set a good example. That is all that I can hope to do.