caged love.

Maya knew why the caged bird sings.

When I was 7 and a first grader in Muskogee, Oklahoma,  there was a little red-headed boy named Robert in my class who had a crush on me. He had freckles everywhere, big green eyes, a mop of curls. Total ginger. 

I wore dresses every day, because I wanted to be Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and she only wore dresses. I wore my long brown hair in pigtails or braids because Dorothy. I read a lot. I daydreamed all the time. Avoided math as much as humanly possible, shamelessly added/subtracted on my fingers, continue to thank god for calculators even now. 

I was one of the best readers in class, and I was definitely the best speller; I had the most stickers on the Spelling Chart. Robert was a rough-and-tumble little boy who, whenever I think of a phrase like, "he wore torn britches covered in worms and dirt and crushed leaves," immediately comes to mind. He always seemed dirty, and he wasn't the best speller or the best reader or the best mathematician. I'm not sure what Robert was good at, actually, but I bet today he's the best at whatever job requires a lot of rough and tumbling.

Every day on the playground, Robert used to chase me around. His main goal at playtime, every day, was to kiss me. It was annoying and exasperating and vexatious and irksome and infuriating. All I wanted to do was sit off to the side, under one of the big trees, reading a book or drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick. I did not want a boy or anyone else to talk to me, to hang out with me, and certainly not to put their lips onto me. I wanted to just sit and read and draw and think and do what all introverted little kids like to do: be quiet, reflecting in their souls. 

And then Robert would show up and a hellish 10 minutes or so of running and screaming and being irritated would ensue. 

One day, Robert and I were alone in the classroom while the rest of the class was outside on the playground. Why were we alone? I can hear you asking, in a very millenial-thinker kind of way. Because it was 1978, fool, when people were still sane. They didn't have all this Social Media or a lot of gadgets to distract their minds, politics wasn't as divisive, food portions were smaller, people weren't as judge-y in their big, glass houses, and children were allowed to roam free as birds like they should be before they turn into adults with a lot of bills and taxes to worry about. But I digress.

So anyway, we were alone. And Robert started chasing me around the room, trying to kiss me. That day, he caught me. Maybe he caught me because we weren't in the wide, great outdoors that had more get-away space. Or maybe he caught me because I was exhausted of running away and just let him. Whatever the reason, Robert caught me. And he kissed me. On the cheek. And I slapped him.

Slapping Robert had the following immediate effects: it made him gasp and put a hand on top of where mine had slapped him, then get very mad and hurt, then tell me he didn't like me anymore, then tell me he hated me, and then tell me we weren't friends. And after that, Robert the curly-haired, ginger-headed little boy never chased me or tried to kiss me again. And I was relieved. I wasn't sad. I didn't miss the chasing. I didn't miss the attention. I was deeply, grateful-to-the-Universe relieved and happy. 

I went back to quietly sitting under the tree at recess, reading or drawing my pictures with a stick in the dirt. Sometimes other little girls would join me and we'd play hand clap games or they'd draw with me. Nobody chased us. Nobody tried to cage us and make us do what they wanted. And we were happy. We were happy together, and I was happy alone. 

From time to time, I'd see Robert chasing another little girl around on the playground and I'd feel a slight twinge of...something I couldn't define, knowing he now had other kissing and chasing interests. Everybody wants to be wanted, even at 7 in 1978, and maybe it was a little sad and disappointing, somewhere deep inside of me that he'd really meant what he said: that we'd never be friends again. Even so, I mostly just felt really free and relieved. And the next year Robert wasn't in my 2nd grade class and I never thought about him again.

Until I started growing up and reflecting on what it means to live a successful life. Because obviously the whole thing had a big effect on me. Obviously, it's one of my big childhood memories. The big ones, for me, always have the most details.

I also think it's become so big for me because maybe it was the beginning of a journey I hadn't even started yet. I grew up as very sheltered child in a codependent household, where approval and making other people happy was very important. There was a lot of love, and my younger brother and I always had the things we needed whenever we needed them. And we had a lot of freedom, because the Internet and 24 hour news media hadn't been invented yet, and so people didn't know to be terrified of letting children roam the neighborhood alone from dawn to dusk. But I was always very conscious of being the kind of girl who would make my parents proud and happy. I was always worried about doing or thinking or saying something that would make my father disappointed in me. And I'm sure I felt like that because he felt like that about his parents. And my poor mom - her parents told her good girls got married and had babies...when she told them she was thinking about going to college. 

(A side story testament to my strong mother: when I was 7, probably the summer after Robert stopped chasing me, she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I told her: "Oh, just a mommy like you." And those words struck fear in her heart, because she didn't want to model for me that my only option in life would be to marry someone and have children, thus becoming trapped in only one kind of life when there was so much more. This moment affected her so much that several years later she would finally go to college and spend a lot of time driving her children nuts with her obsessions over getting straight A's. Overachieving is in my genes.)

Why do we do this to our most beloved people? Why do we place our own needs and parameters on them? It creates a need for the approval of others in them. A constant feeling of: if they approve of me, they'll keep liking me. If they keep liking me, they'll give me what I need. And what I need most is approval. A vicious circle. 

I'm not saying I don't need other people. We all want to love and be loved. Human beings are social creatures; other humans are essential to our survival. I'm saying I don't want to be needed BY other people. At least not in ways that are demanding and confining or desperate and clingy. Because I'm really very perfectly happy sitting under a tree, drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick, quietly reflecting in my soul. If I've got to deal with the crazy needs of your soul, then my soul gets confused and disoriented. And when my soul feels confused and disoriented, I tend to shut down. 

Which is why today, I'm wondering what would have happened had Robert just sat down quietly next to me, picked up a stick, and started drawing. I'm wondering if maybe later, when we were in the classroom by ourselves, I would have let him kiss me on the cheek. I'm wondering if I'd have kissed him back. 

I don't chase people because I don't enjoy being chased. It's much better, I think, when you notice what brings someone a lot of happiness and just sit quietly down next to them and start doing it with them. Or ask them to teach you how to do it. After that, I bet they'll take an interest in what you love, ask you to show them how, and maybe even start to do it with you, too. 

Quiet, gentle, free love. We don't have to cage other people to make them ours. Because if you have to chase them to catch them, if you've got to lure them into a cage to feel they're yours, then they were never really yours to begin with. Right?

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

-Maya Angelou, "Caged Bird"

free spirit.

One of the things I keep saying to myself that I want to be, that's become my one goal with the rest of my time here on this side of this planet in this galaxy in this part of this Universe, is to be more of a free spirit. When I say this, I think I basically mean: Non-conformity. I mean: Take your rules and shove 'em where the sun don't shine, Mr. Man. I want to be a bird you cannot change. 

I know I've never liked being told what to do. I don't like feeling backed into a corner or confined. I know this is one reason I'm having such a hard time in public education right now; it's all just so confining, so regimented and scripted, so without creativity. Also, I come out swinging when I feel like I'm being bossed around or manipulated or caged. And I am stubborn; when I make up my mind, I'm pretty certain (till I'm not). I've always been fiercely independent; I don't really ask for help until I'm in a place where I can barely crawl my way back to the Light. And even then I'm still trying to do a lot of the work myself even though you may be practically carrying me. As a child, it didn't bother me that other kids were out playing and doing whatever. I was perfectly content reading under a tree, hanging out at the neighborhood pool all by myself while making up worlds about mermaids and freaking myself out that Jaws COULD, theoretically, be at the bottom of the 12 ft deep end. I wrote stories and plays and sat and listened to adult conversation with curious and sometimes shocked ears. I mean, I did have friends, but I was absolutely and completely content to be by myself (and this is still true). People tend to drain me, particularly in large crowds. My mother worried a little about me out loud sometimes, my father occasionally encouraged me to go out and make more friends. But mostly they just let me be...ME. I'd spend hours drawing my father pictures of fashion models so he could have a harem, or I'd write my mom a poem about my ridiculous brother (honestly, WHY was he THERE, Mom??) (I'm joking; my brother and I are good friends and I love him to pieces...especially now that we live in separate houses). Or I'd be performing a bizarre dance routine in our basement, certain it was floatingly esoteric when in reality it possibly looked like I had a degenerative muscle disease (I still dance like this, by the way).

But I'm also a consummate people pleaser; I want everyone to be happy and at peace. Which means that, in the past, so often I've found myself agreeing to do things and be things that aren't really true to who I am at heart. And then I end up feeling resentful and angry and restless. So, so, sooooo restless. Which is why I left my marriage in June; I tried very very hard for several years to fit into the Big Picture...but in the end, it wasn't ever my Big Picture. And this makes me sad. I really, really wanted to help C have his Big Picture. I still do, actually. I really like that one corner he's painted over there, and the hues he's chosen for the sky at midnight. But it's not MY big picture, and that really bothers me. 

(I remember one conversation towards the end, fraught with distress and frustration with me on C's part...he just wanted me to understand, to see the Big Picture, to get with the game plan. C is very athletic, and drawn to team sports. I remember he'd always say to me: We're a team. This family is a team. And I remember every time C would bring up the concept, the idea, of the three of us - him, me, and Miss M - as a team, I'd think: but what if I've always abhorred team sports? Because I'm more of a runner, or maybe an archer. Bodybuilding or singles tennis, perhaps. I've never really enjoyed the team-aspect of group sports. That requires asking for help a lot, and I like to do things myself. When our arguments started heading this route, it was one big page turner/eye opener for me. I mean, okay. I'll be your top athlete...if I can go it alone.)

So anyway. I went looking/researching for what it means to be a free spirit. Because I'm pretty patchouli hippie and all, but before I get a the Sanskrit symbol for God tattooed on my inner right wrist and some birds flying off into a sunset inked onto my inner left thigh, I want to make sure I actually know what I'm doing. That I'm on the right path. 

It turns out, I am. Because ha! Free spirit = no definitions. No confines, no inside the boxes. Which, hurrah! Oh, hurrah. You can totally be a Wall Street Banker AND a free spirit. You can save for a rainy day and STILL be a free spirit. You don't have to panhandle to be free. Free spirit means stop trying to come up with a definition and just freaking BE. Let your spirit free and just BE. 

Here's one article I found that has my name all over it: 21 Unusual Struggles Only Free Spirits Will Understand. I understand all 21 of them. And yes to everything in THIS one, and ditto everything in THIS one. And also that it's okay to be completely contradictory of what you said on Monday by saying the exact opposite on Wednesday - that is completely indicative of a free spirit. Free Spirits just won't play by your rules, homey. 

So yeah. I think I'm doing okay in my free spirit journey quest, because it turns out I've been one since, oh, 1972 or so. I just didn't know it. And you know what that means, don't you? It means that probably the reason I'm so fucked up emotionally half the time is because I'm not being true to my nature, I'm too worried about societal standards and norms or that person's definition of moral behavior or what she thinks or he wants or why that stranger in the supermarket is glaring at me. I'm not an overnighter; I can't quit my addictions cold turkey, and I'll be very honest and let you know that I am addicted to other people's opinions of me. I want people to like, no, love me. And so I care what other people think. And it's really been harshing my mellow. For a really, really, really long time now.

So that's another goal I'll be focusing on for the next 365-ish days or so: getting back to that time I could spend a Saturday night reading a book or writing a short story about one of the Menudo boys falling in love with me and whisking me off to exotic San Juan, Puerto Rico to sing me Spanish lullabies in minor keys. Meanwhile, all the other 15 year olds were off dating and making out at the movies, and I couldn't have cared less. Not a single iota. The nanosecond I can access that girl again, I'll be juuuust fine. 'Cause screw your judgments, eff your norms. Life's short; fly free, little freebird. Those cages ain't nothin' but a thang.