8/8/11 Monday again, and I'm thinking of Ms. Sykes

Another Monday? It comes right after the day that I was baptised for the first time, on my own accord, a decision made by own my mind, as messed up and convoluted as it is. It came with God's constant encouragement. It was exactly as Paston Steven said, "I don't have anything to change into, I don't want to get wet in front of everyone, I'm on my period, I'm too ...whatever" Those excuses were holding me back, and holding me back. It wasn't like I wasn't trying to lead a good life already, in God's eyes, well slightly skewed by my own foolish choices, and secretive ways that will ultimately ruin even the best of us. It wasn't like I wasn't trying to follow his ways before. Regardless, the day came at age 35 that I professed in front of hundereds of fellow believers that I love God and will do what's in my power to follow in his footsteps.
Now that's not to say I won't fuck up. I will, and probably in ways that I haven't before. I can screw up a wet dream, to steal that played out, but oh-so-funny to me euphimism, which is what worries me so much with this whole finding my biological mother escapade. That's putting it lightly. I know that one way or another I will insert my size 6 foot in my mouth. No scratch that, cram my foot into my small but so exclamatious mouth. I'm not sure if that's even a word, but it is now if it wasn't.
I will say something off beat, off color, off whatever. It will just be off in some matter or fashion. I'm famous for making people feel uncomfortable. I just accidentally typed uncomfartable, and it was funny to me. But I changed it because I know that farting is not funny to everyone, but if you ask me, and I asked myself for you, it should be. It's the only thing that makes me laugh everytime.
I will bring out the uncomfortable silence, the awkward moment of looking around and frantically racking your brain, trying desperately to think of something pleasantly mild to say that's somehow not weather related. I will blurt out some deep feeling that I have been repressing for 30 something years, that will just turn her off, and make her wonder how in the world I got such a big mouth.
On the other hand, I might say something cathartic, awe inspiring, condusive to epressing feelings in a positive way. That's the beauty of being a human in my opinion. We are constantly teetering on the fence of good and bad. One way we jump could end in a fantastically wonderful outcome, the other, a dramatically disasterous nightmare of sorts. We are all so mixed up. No one is better than another, and we are all prone to make the same mistakes. Only some of us make them over and over and so on.
Judging by the "notes" I have on my birthmother, which I was told this afternoon were "amazing and full," by one of the search angels, named Carole, which incidentally is not the only angel in my life named Carole, but I'll elaborate on that later, judging by the notes, my BM sounded like she had her head tied on tight. Not wound up tight, that's different. She was a very good student, making almost all As in elemetary school. One of the main links I have to her is her fifth grade report card, which is something that we have toiled over for the past few weeks- trying to figure out what year she was born, what year this and that, what year she picked her first bugger, what year she learned how to ride a bike. I am joking, but it's getting rediculous. Frankly, I am getting tired of it. I'm beginning to think to myself, is all this compiling of missing links really worth trying to find some ghostface that gave me up to complete strangers without even holding me more than once? I mean really. I never did this much research while in college, but that's not saying much. The only thing I made As in in college were writing courses and history, an the occasional filler class, and to me they were mostly all fillers.
Unlike me, she was driven, scholarly, made up of sugar and spice and all that is nice, except for that extreme case of disassociation, that little piece in her brain that allowed her to give away something so precious, to hide it from its very source.
Those days things were different. If I had a dollar for everytime I heard that comment, I would be in line checking out at the Mac store behind every other foolish and highly impressionable schmuck in the free world who thinks that Mac computers are God's gift to creation, with the devil's way of throwing it all off with the invention of Farmville and Mafia Wars, Facebook, etc.
She had it all going for her, but that little thing in her belly would tear it all down. She wanted to graduate college, to have a career like the rest of her, I'm imagining prominent and well-to-do family- her older brother, a recent college grad, and her older sister, a physical therapist, her father and largest link to education I imagine, an analyst with a large manufacturing company, I now know is Dupont, thanks to Ms. Carol Sykes, the resident know it all.
She's lived there for 70 years. God knows why. I guess the same reason all people who live in small towns never leave. Perhaps she has a wonderful family, friends who love her, an amazing church. Whos knows her reason? Who cares? She is willing to help me, and that is all that matters to me right now. I can fill in the gaps of her life after I've filled in the gaps of my own.
I have always been drawn to the elderly. I love hanging out with older people- their knowledge vast and wisdom influencing, sometimes contagious. I would live in a retirement community home were it socially acceptable, and would they be able to handle my boisterous ways and occasional male companionship without feeling compelled to lecture me on the importance of "finding the right man."
Carol is someone I called last week after speaking with someone down at the Vital Records office in Kinston, NC, who gave me her number so easily. When she picked up, I could see in my mind exactly what she looked like, dyed blonde hair, aqua-netted into a perfect football helmet which was so thin, it was almost see through. She has a mole on one cheek, and wore bright Paradise Pink Avon lipstick, circa 1961, that faintly resembled its original color when she bought it all those years ago. But, it was on sale, so she bought ten of the same color. Incidentally, she had just found one recently when she was cleaning out her top drawer of her antique mahogany nightstand that was passed down to her from her grandmother Aida from Pink Hill. She was beautiful in her own right, marvelous in spirit, and wasn't afraid to sip a Beefeater's and tonic on Friday afternoon on her big wrap around front porch with the wooden planks painted blue, and repainted, and repainted.
I could tell she was bored. When I asked her questions that most people would connect with identity theft, she answered generously, and without hesitation. After all, she was from Pink Hill, and had lived there her entire life, was even running for mayor she told me. No harm, no fowl right? Her mind, though spry, isn't trained to be as cautious as mine would be. Maybe it's because she is from Kinston, NC, and I am from Charlotte. She didn't grow up in days where a social security number is a hot and sought after commodity among theives. No, you barely even locked your front door, and probably never even thought to hide your purse when you went to bed.
Miss Carole, who didn't mind me calling her by her first name, was eager to talk to me, a complete stranger, with my unbeknownst motives, a secret agenda. And it wasn't until the end of our hour and fifteen minute long conversation, that I told her what my real reason was for calling her, and asking her to do things for me that total strangers do not typically do for eachother.
And the wonderful thing of it all? She told me she would go down to the school in question, grandkids in tow, because they most likely know how to scan and send to email, while unsurprisingly, she doesn't, and would make copies of the yearbook for me. Incidentally, I ruled out that Pink Hill K-8 was the school that the BM went to, so all that work she would have done for me out of the kindness of her heart would have been negated anyhow. What I have taken from talking to Ms. Carole Sykes from Pink Hill, phonetically said, Pink Heeeul, is that there are a lot of good things to be said about small town town people, and a lot to be learned about how the world should be by watching people like her in action.
She called me today in fact, and although I felt bad about it, I had to quickly get off the phone, because I was at work and someone more important than her dialed in, with something more important to say than what she was about to say. I need to call her back tomorrow, and hopefully, I can hear the rest of her "options" as she so described them this afternoon. This time when she called she wasn't sipping on a sweet tea from the mason jar, slightly watered down from all of the ice she so gingerly piled in with her shriveled up fingers, crossed and veiny, long pointy unpainted finger nails that may have had some dirt underneath them from just having been out back plucking a nice, fat, juicy red tomato from the plant, and from picking up that cantelope from the ground that needed to be eaten. She wasn't sitting at her her dining room table, adorned with white doilies, and a basket of wooden fruit, although she had enough fruits and vegetables to fill the largest table at the farmer's market. She sounded as if she was calling from her car, a scary thought.
I liked Ms. Carole Sykes, and look forward to hearing her greatest and best stories, which I have a feeling, will be nothing short of amazing and storytelling worthy.
After all, she is running for mayor. Who runs for mayor without having something good to say? Although, my daughter goes to daycare, but they deem it to be, "child develeopment center" with the mayor's kids, and I have yet to hear one word out of his mouth. That might influence my vote in fact, but that's beside the point...