My Shitty Writing

Last March I wrote about visiting the zoo with my son, and looking at elephants which were standing in a pond. Suspecting that elephant is one of my animal totems, I silently spoke to the closest one –  “If you are my totem, send me a message. If you are my totem, turn and look at me.” I repeated this a few times in my mind.

This elephant lifted his tail, and PLOP splashed the excrement into the water. Everyone yelled, “ew!” Then, PLOP again. And once more. After that the elephant turned and looked straight at me. I even heard someone say, “he’s looking at you!” He flapped his ears a few times and made a deep noise. He stood like that several minutes, then turned, and walked away.  If you’d like to read my interpretation of this from last March, read, “It may be shit, but it makes a big splash.”

In July, we visited the zoo again (we go most every school break).  This is a natural habitat zoo and often, the elephants are so far away that you need binoculars to see them. But, once again, they were close to the viewing area. As we approached, a flock of crows landed, each to her own pile of dung. We walked along, and the crows followed. When we stopped, the crows again claimed a personal dung pile. Only, this time, (and I hope I don’t lose you here), they started eating. Seeds. From the dung. Still with me?

I noticed an informational sign that I’ve never seen in the 10 years since I’ve been going to the zoo. It said, “There are some seeds that will never germinate until they’ve passed through the intestinal tract of the elephant.” Between the visit in March, and this, most recent, visit, I knew the seeds were an analogy for my writing.

I’ve long suspected that I chose many of my life events, so I could write about them. It’s not that unusual, I guess. People researching prisons have had themselves incarcerated, so they can feel what it’s like. Hemingway put himself in harm’s way on a regular basis, for the sake of his writing. Instead of prisons or wars, I chose dysfunctional relationships and fundamentalist conservatism.

What’s this got to do with writing a biography about suffragists?

On Saturday, I drove into Washington DC to visit the Sewall-Belmont House and Museum. I was scheduled to drop my son off, at the National Arboretum, with his dad (see yesterday’s post for background) between 11 and 11:30am, then, check into my hotel, and walk the half mile to the museum. It opened at noon and closed at five. I wanted to be there for as much of the five hours as possible.

Everything was on track until we go to Quantico.  For some reason, traffic is always slow in that area. We sat still for a while, and probably lost 15-30 minutes. Not great for my museum “window,” but not totally unexpected. Then, we hit I-395 in DC, just mere miles from the Arboretum drop-off. Traffic was not moving at all. Sitting still. A parking lot. There was road work. We sat. And sat. And sat. It began to look like we wouldn’t make the drop-off until 1pm (yeah, we sat that long). I wasn’t positive how far the Arboretum was from my hotel, and I started to get mad that I hadn’t suggested that we meet there in the first place. I knew my ex didn’t want to venture into downtown DC but wasn’t I bringing our son almost to his doorstep? (He lives in Maryland, and we normally meet halfway between his home and mine in NC.) I got even more angry at myself, when traffic started moving again, and I saw an exit for the street where my hotel was located. I could have gone straight there instead of passing it for the other meeting place.

THEN, the interstate ended, and I never saw my exit! I don’t have a GPS or a smart phone. I had printed directions off of Google Maps. “My” exit, apparently, did not exist. Furthermore, the interstate spit me out into an unfamiliar, and slightly unsettling, part of town. It was past 1pm at this point. My son called his dad, said we were going to have to pick another meeting place, and that we’d call him back. I was getting more and more angry that I had not insisted we meet at the hotel. I was beginning to panic about how little time I was going to have at the museum. It was my sole reason for driving the 5 hours into DC. I told my son to call his dad back and say we’d just meet at the hotel. His dad didn’t answer the phone.

Then, the real fun began. The streets of downtown DC.  I’ve been to DC many, many times before but either I’ve been using public transportation, or someone else was driving. Also, I’d never been to this particular hotel. When I-395 first spit me off, I had no idea where I was, but as I drove further (because I was in an area where I was frightened to stop and ask for directions), I finally recognized some landmarks. I slowly got my bearings. I drove closer and closer to the Capitol Building, knowing my hotel was within walking distance of it. I could SEE the dome; I was so close, but ended up driving around and around in circles because of the way the roads were laid out. Then, the names weren’t logical, although they seemed that way at the surface. The time was approaching TWO O’CLOCK. The museum closed at FIVE O’CLOCK. I was panicked. My mind chatter went something like, “was I crazy to even attempt this, why is it so difficult, am I even making any progress, am I ever going to get there, it’s SO CLOSE but then, something happens to make me get even further away than I was before, why is nothing logical here, this is crazy, what was I thinking, I just wanted to do something useful and I’m getting more and more frustrated, why did my planning not help, I thought I was so well-prepared…” At one point, I could even see my hotel but couldn’t get to it. Normally, I would have parked my car, walked there and asked how to drive to the place. But, it was a Saturday afternoon in the middle of landmark central. There was no parking.

Also, while driving around, I PASSED THE MUSEUM. I was determined to park, go there, and worry about the hotel later. But, was there anywhere to park? No. The museum receded in my mirrors. I was literally in tears. Yet, as frustrated as I was, I was surprised to be feeling hopeless. I honestly felt as if I’d never reach the hotel, and as if it would be better for me to simply turn around and drive the 5 hours back home.

The phone rings. It’s my ex. I’m certain he’s been sitting at the hotel waiting for us. But – get this- while waiting for me to show up at the Arboretum, his car had overheated. While I was driving around in circles, he had been towed, and his wife had left work to pick him up and drive to DC to get our son. He was still a good ten minutes away from the hotel. And, he has an iPhone. So, he gave my son directions, my son told me which street to turn down, and we all arrived at the hotel at the same time. It was 2:45pm.

My son climbed from one car to the other. I gave my keys to the hotel valet so they could whisk it to whatever magical parking the hotel has, and I literally took off RUNNING to the museum. Running. After being in the car since 7am. In DC heat and humidity. I arrived at the museum around 3pm. (And, I’m certain I smelled lovely!)

The museum was nicely air-conditioned. I was looking at pictures and artifacts and trying to feel energy coming off of Susan B Anthony’s desk and Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s chair. I was reading about the suffragists’ hunger strikes, and I felt faint. I staggered a bit. I thought I was having an empathetic reaction, when I realized – oh yeah, I haven’t eaten anything since before 7am. And, I’m probably dehydrated. THEN, it hit me.  What emotions had I just experienced?

Hopelessness. Futility. Like time was running out. I was going in circles. Getting nowhere. Berating myself for not being more forceful. Everything seemed illogical – IN DC. My goals where within reach but yet so far away. I questioned my sanity; considered giving up and just returning to where I’d started. But despite it all, I was stubbornly determined to reach my destination.

I could draw more parallels but you probably get the picture. I cannot possibly compare what I went through with what the suffragists experienced. But, when I entered that museum, I could RELATE not just to the facts of their story but to their feelings, to their emotional states. My incredibly frustrating few hours gave me a depth of understanding that I would not have otherwise had. And knowing what I know about life, I know that this is exactly what I CHOSE.

(Maybe, next project, I can choose to write about being independently wealthy in the tropics?)

Tomorrow: The Secret to the Suffragists’ Success