A Year Ago

Published on by Lisa Category: Family Musings, Notes From Home Plate, The Philippines, This is Us

I was just looking through some old things and organizing our office when I realized that one year, I had just returned from my 2 month trip to the Philippines.

So much has changed in one year as Nick and I have settled into jobs, our first house, our 4th year of marriage, and, now, our first pregnancy.

These were the roses that Nick bought and greeted me with when I returned home. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how wonderful those months were, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget how dreadful it was to be separated for that long, too.

Looking back, I am so grateful that I went on that trip that was so much more than a trip. It taught me so many things about interdependence, family, culture, and belonging. It was worth every sacrifice made to bring it to fruition. It also sweetened our marriage in ways that I never expected. Never again since I have returned home have I taken Nick for granted. Not once, not one day.

If I, or we, ever seem cheesy or overly happy, it’s because, frankly, we are and after being on the other side of the earth for 9 weeks without him, it taught me a thing or two about gratitude and love.

A Comparative Free Write: The Wedding Industry vs. The Baby Industry

Published on by Lisa Category: Bridal Industry

Crossposted at Feministe

Lately, my thoughts have been swirling around one comparative question:

What’s worse – the wedding industry or the baby industry?

Recovering my 2004 journal, the year I was engaged, I see loopy sketches of my fiancée with the word “love” underneath and short poems exploring life and commitment. To describe my decision to marry marriage I used phrases like “a symphony of mystery” and “frisson of pleasure.” Not too far from my blotchy sketches are wrinkled, tear-stained pages. I see I made a separate column called “hate” and I named every detail of the wedding process, the whole parade and folly of rings, illusion, disingenuous sales pitches and vendors, showers and parties, and the endless charade of enjoying it all.

[October 2004: Today I nearly passed out when trying on veils. It looked so ridiculous and false on me. The room was screeching with white-dressed bodies barking orders to whoever would listen. I had to sit down and breathe between my legs. I have to see myself when I look in the mirror. I have to see me. On my time. I have to see myself in this.]
I was never a bride.

I was just a person in love, ready to move forward.

I had choices and I did it. I got married AND had a wedding. The coming together of two radically different cultures, races, and expectations was one of the most stressful experiences of my life. Both families had religious backgrounds, so tradition had some role to play in the process and compromising on what was authentic and what was for show was a long, tedious process of discussion and frustration.

But I did it.

That transition from single to married was healthily marred with grief and mourning. Facing the profound changes in relationships, responsibility, lifestyle, and geography weren’t celebratory, they were somber and I took them seriously.

However, one of the things that that irked me the most was the response so many had when I shared I was getting married: “Oh, EVERYONE’S getting married!” That miffed me. And I would always say to my friends and confidants, “Yeah, but I’m not everybody. This is a big deal in MY life and I am trying to share this with you. This is me, not the whole world.”

In that time period of my life, I remember thinking that the blanket of the wedding industry and the superfluous toppings of details and colors erased me and my reality. It erased the very real and tangible truth that I had fallen in love and decided to commit to one person. That imminent torque in my identity was my focus. And love. Love was my primary lifeline.

It was rare to find an understanding person in those 9 months of engagement. No one likes to hear of hesitancy, fear, and doubt that can exist outside the vacuum of saying Yes to marriage. It wasn’t about the relationship I had built with him that was sturdy and grounded. It was about the internal conversion of accepting full and unpredictable responsibility that came with building a future with another person. It was about facing the fears of possible failure, adultery, death, dependency, sharing, and betrayal.

I was never a bride.

I was just an honest person, a writer.

And here I am again, faced with another 9 month transition and the roller coaster begins again.

It’s like falling in love again. My partner and I have been brought even closer because of this choice. The only time I truly feel at peace is when we lay on our sides and talk about how uncertain the future is, how our expectations are creeping in our consciousness even when we try to keep them at bay, how this person coming to us will be nothing like what we think or imagine. We laugh at our crazy inadequacies to be in control. We laugh at the idea of making a will when we don’t have much, financially or materialistically, to pass on. We struggle through naming guardians in case my partner and I die. We smoothed through bumpy parts of our interracial marriage. Now we will have an multi-cultured/-racial/-everything child.

And then there’s the baby industry and circus…Listening to advice I don’t necessarily need or want. Dealing with colors and decorating a room. Registering. Showers. Ooohing and ahhing over bellies instead of diamonds.

Within weeks of knowing I was pregnant, truckloads of magazines and websites found me despite my non-disclosing nature. The amount of THINGS I am told that I need exhausts me.

[August 2009: “A baby wipes warmer? Do I look like the type of person to warm up my own toilet paper?!”]

There was something eerily similar, I noticed, to the wedding industry.

[August 2004: “A ring is a beautiful symbol, but why an engagement ring? I’d be fine with just the wedding band.”]

A life-changing event, a shift in identity, another choice made in a hopefully egalitarian

manner…and the isolation sits in.

“Oh, EVERYONE’s pregnant these days.”

“Yeah, but I’m not everybody. This is a big deal in MY life and I am trying to share this with you.”

How is it that more people are interested in what kind of crib I will need than how my writing schedule will alter? How is it that more people are interested in the date of the ultrasound that will announce gender than the date I get a nuchal translucency screening that tests for Down Syndrome? When I do articulate feelings, why are my worries and fears minimized to a scattering of pulp when I muse aloud about my career, my ability to move and travel, the unknown, unpredictable future and that, yes, I am choosing this, AND, yes, am still scared?

Why do people equate decision making with the quality of unshakeable certainty? And why do we strategize to circumvent fear? Why is it endlessly equivalent to second thoughts, wanting to retreat or rewind time?

Is it so unthinkable to posit that fear is the intuitive threshold to responsibility and acknowledging the parts of ourselves that are afraid takes more strength than pretending or that I don’t see how enormous this choice is? Could fear be reframed to be more of a guide than a disdained guest in our bodies?

Married, pregnant female seeks presence and companionship, not advice. Experienced and gentle minds to converse with and a community that loves honesty and facing unprecedented transformation are desirous. Above all, seeks wisdom, not distractions.

GEDs and LBJ Sighting

Published on by Lisa Category: Life is Never General, Movie Buffs, Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting

Nick has decided to do some volunteer work.

You know, for people like Nick, for people who already work in faith-based ministry, people who spend at least 8 hours of everyday working for the betterment of someone’s spiritual enlightenment, doing volunteer work may fill a void to actually DO something for other people.
[in case you missed it, there is a heavy dose of sarcasm in opening paragraph]

So, Nick is volunteering for a catholic center helping folks earn their GED. He decides to do this on his day off.

The other day, I could have sworn there was a brief sighting of a golden halo rounding his head. I blinked and it disappeared. Oh, my generous life partner…when will you do something, I don’t know, selfish? Like, go buy yourself something. Oh wait, he hates to shop. Maybe go buy a steak dinner. Oh wait, he prefers to eat at home. Perhaps get yourself tickets to a huge sporting event. Mhm…now there’s a possibility.

Bottom line is, Isaiah is taking more and more energy out of me and there are days when I feel like lying on a couch and staying hydrated is enough work for me. Next to Nick, these days, I am feeling grossly unproductive.

And when I wail and cry that I am not participating in helping humanity achieve a greater sense of authenticity, Nick will put his arm around me and remind me, “Remember, you’re doing the most important part for us – making sure Isaiah is good and growing.”

Ah, yes, our son.

And I straighten my shoulders and quickly feel better. YES, I am pregnant and have Big Foot Borchers practicing karate kicks and swim flips inside me.

So, while Nick is off educating the world into better human thinkers, I am working full time and counting the weeks left of my second trimester. It’s gone so fast!

In other news, last night, Nick, myself, Books, and his girlfriend Janet scored major seats at the Akron premiere of “More Than a Game,” the documentary about the friendship and legacy of the basketball team at Akron’s St. Vincent/St. Mary that Lebron James was a part of. Nick and I had front row seats, which was a little close for the movie, but came up HUGE after the movie when we were about 9 feet from Lebron and his teammates featured in the documentary. It was awesome! I stared at big LBJ for 25 minutes, barely believing I was so close to the Cavs King.

The documentary comes out in October and right now is on a tour throughout the world. One of our friends is a big wig for all movie features that come through NE Ohio. When Will Smith comes to town, we get a phone call. A documentary where LBJ will be at? We get front row seats. Pretty sweet deal.

Yeah, we’re important.

Raising Isaiah

Published on by Lisa Category: pregnancy

Cross posted at Feministe

I think you should simply spare the little mongrel parasite from the burden of her life so that you can more fully experience the pleasure of a lifestyle unfettered by the Christo-fascist “reproduction memes” that are genetically engraved in the our DNA by the authoritarian patriarchy. Think about the lifetime “carbon footprint” of your potential child… can you live with yourself knowing the destruction you’re unleashing on your own home?

One of the most beautiful, and quickly disappearing, forms of writing is letter-writing. I’ve always adored writing letters, little notes, maximizing the potential the back of a receipt, leftover notebook paper, the last unloved post-it note in the pile with the least amount of sticky left.

The shining gem of personal letter writing comes from the built-in audience. You write to or for one reader, but sometimes the revelation can be shared with many. I discovered this from Alexis Pauline Gumbs, a trouble-maker in Durham who once asked me to be a part of a writing collective, to submit a piece of writing about what it meant to be a woman of color, about what it meant to survive. It was entitled, “Without You Who Understand: Letters from Radical Women of Color,” and published in issue 5 of make/shift magazine.

It taught me about the power of letters.

Everyone else wrote magnificent essays, essays that came with their own brass bands. My writing doesn’t have a brass band. My writing is more like a solo violinist or pianist. I shared a letter that I had written to a friend one winter evening when I couldn’t sleep.

Letter writing helps me focus on one person and simultaneously, somehow, channel my own deepest longings and contemplatives.

Which is why I chose to respond with a letter to “Margaret Sanger,” who left the above italicized comment for me in my first post at Feministe.

Dear Margaret Sanger,

It is with a complicated heart that I try to answer your questions and respond to your comment. You certainly have a superior grasp of language, I admire, and have little doubt that someone with such a mastery of words makes any mistake in your comment. Each word sounds deliberate. And as a writer who loves linguistics, I studied and thought about your words a long time before I gave my answer.

Your advice to me about ridding myself of the “mongrel” inside me so I can enjoy a better life gave me an opportunity to ask myself, and others, “Why do we decide to have children anyway?”

I’m sure the answered are as varied as there are children, but the most common answers I’ve heard always point to some mysterious Knowing, some sort of underlying and assumed desire that many of us will procreate. Or, that having children is simply “what we do” or should do or end up doing as we age.

Why birth? Why adopt? Why be a surrogate? Why help bring more life amidst so much wrong and untailored mess?

Well, Margaret, I can only answer for myself and I know you’ll be unsatisfied with my reply because it seems that we that you and I probably have very different perceptions of what it means to be alive. Exchanging thoughts about global warming, population and birth control may be a healthy discussion, but that is not the arena in which I understood your question. I heard it on a more personal level asking the age old question, “Why are you having kids when you know how terrible things are?”

What does it mean for me to enjoy “the pleasure of a lifestyle unfettered by the Christo-fascist ‘reproduction memes’ that are genetically engraved in the our DNA by the authoritarian patriarchy?” One, it means that I find my own piece and peace of the world that is, quite clearly, full of kyriarchal domination and destruction. In many ways, my ability to enjoy life is already limited because of this kyriarchy. Is it possible to fully, truly enjoy every part of life knowing so much suffering exists in the world? Is it possible to be drenched in pleasure when the majority of the world is going without, while I, somewhat easily go forth?

It took me many years of maturing to find the balance in being a real, sensing, authentic writer and feminist. I believe it is not our natural state to be overwhelmed by the wrong, which I was for a long time. I grew into a writer that not only wanted to survive but also wanted, as Gloria Anzaldua said, “to record what is happening in my lifetime, to note the progress, to annotate the struggles.”

To survive this endless tidal wave, to be around for the next few decades, to live through this hell we are witnessing, it is imperative, in the most urgent sense, to find ourselves, our naked feminisms that stand counterpoint to the kyriarachy. If the utter victory of kyriarchy is to beat, rape, silence, and make miserable the lives of women, I am surrendering a sacred part of my life if I believe that this world is capable of nothing more than oppression. If I believe that the only contribution of a life brought out of my very womb would be nothing more than a carbon footprint, then, for me, hope is gone and kyriarchy has won.

Raising Isaiah to be a teacher, or a dancer, or a shoemaker, or a poet will depend on what I carry forward, what I harbor in my own vessels. If I believe that he’s a parasite, he’ll be a parasite. If I believe he will unleash destruction on the world, in my home, then he’ll be a destructive force.

But what if my partner and I believe he can bring More to the world? What if, along with his inevitable use of resources and adding one more set of footprints to walk the earth, he grows into a person capable of goodness that you or I cannot even comprehend? What if he brings a seemingly unreachable understanding of life to me, my partner, to others while he lives? What if my partner and I don’t believe that ceasing to produce life automatically equates a better living?

With a little bit of courage and whole lot of radical love, this experience is guided by my questions and deathless curiosity of what is possible and believing that my enjoyment of life is not the point of life, at least, not for me. It is with fearful hope, not certainty, that I choose this.

Be well,
Lisa

Week 20

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting, This is Us

I’m officially at the halfway point of my pregnancy.

After yesterday, and finding out the news that “it” is now a “him,” or (preferably) now Isaiah, I feel a certain solidness about life. Not that Nick and I haven’t been fully aware of the baby before, but, as I predicted it would for us, knowing the baby’s sex has personalized this whole mind-blowing experience for us.

It’s also lit something fierce under Nick.

Nick had yesterday off from work. I took the morning off but went in to work in the afternoon and when I came home, the house was gleaming from the inside out. Nick had been working his tail off reorganizing closets, making space in cluttered areas, cleaning, doing laundry, folding and stacking bedware and towels. Any miscellaneous items (usually things like my jewelry, my camera equipment, my chicken scratches on post it notes about appointments and meetings and random ideas) were all placed in a pile in my closet.

“I just feel better when the house is clean,” he says.

Not that we live in a pigsty, but our home is fairly tidy. Nick likes tidy. I like disinfectant. It’s a good combo.

But I wasn’t sure if he said “I just feel better when the house is clean” or “I just feel better when the house GLEAMS.”

Because everything is ridiculously tidy and everytime I look at my loving spouse, he’s sweating from moving something or bending over into a closet trying to clear out anything that can be thrown away.

Is that Nesting syndrome supposed to happen to the mother? Or is it the father?

I think he’s ready to be a Dad…whereas I am just feeling more and more pregnancy-tired with each passing week. My right leg is starting to cramp and my appetite is back on some form of mysterious fluctuation. Monday – Thursday afternoon, I could barely eat a whole meal without feeling like I needed to manually rolled into the living room. I ate three nuggets of cantelope and a glass of milk and feel like I ate a Thanksgiving dinner. Today, I’ve eaten more than the entire week combined and now I feel like I could do some serious damage at Old Country Buffet.

Week 20 is the halfway point, and not that we ever were thinking of “turning back,” it truly is the point of no return. Emotionally, we are just so flipping excited for this kid, we’re borderline obnoxious. I can’t believe we still have friends sometimes. How can they stand us when we’re talking and giddy all the time, thinking about our future like it’s a philosophical puzzle to figure out, talking about parenting techniques, thinking about our own childhood – what worked, what we think our parents did right…etc, etc. In sum, we are SATURATED IN THE GLOW OF IMPENDING PARENTHOOD AND WE LOVE IT AND DON’T CARE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK OF US AND OUR OBNOXIOUSLY HAPPY AND GLORIOUS STATE.

You KNOW things are seriously different when father of Big Foot himself says to me yesterday, “What do you think of this? It came in the mail.” Nick hands me a turquoise and delicately decorated piece of paper with suggestions of things to buy before the baby’s arrival.

Like an up-scale shopping list. In cute fonts.

Nick puts in on my dresser, “I think this might be a good guide of things we’ll need to buy, don’t you think?”

I just nodded wordlessly, my eyes big and unblinking as I watch him. In my brain, I hear the strains of the Twilight Zone.

Anytime the love of my life, the man who gets a headache from walking into a department store, suggests using a shopping list and actually looks excited about its futility is testament to the transformative power of Baby Isaiah.

Isaiah Factora Borchers

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting


8:45am
“This is the brain.”

“Here’s the spine.”

“Right here is a hand.”

“Your baby’s face profile…”

Then the ultrasound techie asked, “Do you want to know the baby’s sex?”

YES.

“You are having a boy! Definitely, for sure. Right here, [points] that’s a boy part.”

For the next 10 minutes or so, we get all happy and mushy and watched different angles of our son.

After some quiet time the nurse exclaims, “This baby’s got HUGE feet!”

I couldn’t believe what she said, “What?!”

She points again, “See this? This foot is the same length AS THE BABY’S THIGH!”

I start giggling. Uncontrollably.

The nurse asks, “So who’s responsible for this baby’s big feet?”

I reply over Nick’s laughter, “Definitely the father.”

Nick’s astronaut white shoes, size 13, seem to be glowing in the dark.

The nurse smiles, “If this kid had an Indian name it would be ‘the baby with huge feet.'”

Nick and I are just laughing our butts off as she shows us a close up of Isaiah’s foot.

We finish up and I’m wiping my tears of joy and giggling over this kid’s feet.

The nurse places a towel over my belly and says, “We’re done here. You’ve got a boy on the way. With huge feet.” She glances down at my feet in flip flops and makes one last comment, “Yeah, for sure. This baby definitely did not inherit your feet.”

Conversation This Morning

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting, Purchases that Cause Headaches, This is Us

Nick: Can you believe that TOMORROW we’ll know if we’re having a boy or girl?

Me: Truly, it’s unreal.

Nick: (staring at the ceiling in thought) Oh! I thought of something else that we might want to buy.

Me: In addition to the gazillion things – like a crib, stroller, rocker, bottles, diapers…

Nick: (turns to me with big, convincing eyes) No, I’m serious. I think we should probably buy one of those baby holder things.

Me: The one where the kid is strapped on to the parent, like in the front?

Nick: Yeah! Do you think we should get one of those?

Me: (quietly thinking) I don’t know. Do you want the front one or the back one?

Nick: (surprised) There’s more than one?

Me: Yes…I’ve seen the front one, where the kid is just dangling there and there’s the one on the back, kinda like a backpack. I’ve seen more men with the backpack version. It kinda looks like hiking gear, except for equipment, there’s a baby back there. I think men use it when running errands, like to the post office or something so their hands are free.

Nick: (perpetually skeptical) I don’t know about that back one. Do you think it’s safe?

Me: Probably about as safe as having your baby dangling in front of you without actually holding on it.

Nick: I just like the idea of always SEEING the baby. Like, what if I’m carrying the baby on my back and all of a sudden I think, ‘mhm, it’s kinda light back there,’ and then I check and the baby is gone? Or I reach behind me for something and then find someone trying to take the baby off my back?!

Me: (decidedly)The front carrier it is.

The Last Ungendered Day

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminism, Gender, Identity, pregnancy

I started using the self-descriptive term “feminist” about five years ago and although my life’s work to create a better world extends much longer than those five years, the lens of feminism – my feminisms, to be precise – has positively enhanced the way I experience and percieve the mystery of socialization and gender.

Tomorrow, I have my 20 week ultrasound. Before pregnancy, I didn’t know that 20 weeks is a milestone. Usually with prenatal care, an “anatomical” ultrasound is done, which means Adonis and I get to see the baby growing in my uterus. We see the face, ears, feet, hands…everything…including its genitalia.

Many things have surprised me about pregnancy, but none moreso than the impact of hormones in my body. My memory has been underwater, my moods sometimes swingy, but my emotions have been fairly calm. I’ve felt peaceful. One of the few pieces of anxiety I’ve been experiencing relates to gender and finding out the sex of the baby.

I’ve been pretty open about my feelings concerning my pregnancy through my letters to Veronica, my unborn daughter, which I started a long time ago…well before I was pregnant. And one of my fears is not just having a child, it’s about having a son. I think that my fear dwells in my uncertainty if I can teach a child and have a larger impact than the rest of the world. All the lessons this child will learn will have to be undone at some level. It begins tomorrow. It begins the moment the ultrasound technician will say “boy” or “girl.”

And the barrage of texts, emails, FB messages, and comments wanting to know will begin. Along with the pink and blue bull that I don’t believe in.

Facing the reality that I am carrying life within me has meant coming to the reality that I am deeply responsible for the wonder and destruction this child shall bear on the world once it enters this life and takes its first breath.

I am faced with the reality that the men who rape women once had mothers too and I wonder what they learned (or didn’t) about loving and treating women, both in personal relationships and strangers. I think about the way teenage boys careen by the waterfountain at school and mock the budding bodies of womanhood and adolescence out of their own insecurity. I am, essentially, afraid of what boys because, after working with violated women and children, I know what they are capable of.

I don’t want to raise a son contributing to another woman’s disempowerment.

But feminism has also taught me that not only are men capable, and actually prefer, to be loving, active, energetic leaders for goodness and wholeness, it’s also taught me that women are not grouped together in their fight for equality. The bullying, the cut throat competition, the hidden jealousy, the betrayal…raising a daughter now terrifies me just as much as raising a son. After I’ve work with violated women and children, I’m afraid I’ll raise a daughter who doesn’t care about her worth and values her sexuality only at the price set by society and media.

Whether son or daughter, I’m afraid she’ll give up on herself.
I’m afraid, quite simply, they won’t care about the world they way I do and I won’t be able to stand their selfishness.
I’m afraid that when they ask me questions about what I’ve done to make the world better, I’ll look in the mirror and only see a half-worn human and full blown coward.

Somehow, in the years I’ve contemplated and studied gender and advocated that all persons are equal, I’m petrified I’ll find that I’ve only kidding myself because I know the world can and will knock me on my butt with its cruel, streamlined, flick of the wrist power to teach domination, selfishness, individualism, and greed.

Knowing this child’s gender makes it all real, too real, because once I know “boy” or “girl,” I’ll inherit an entire set of specific strategies the world has planned to brainwash my kid. I don’t have anything except what I *think* I know, a lot of guessing, intuition, and a loving partner.

I hope those seeds are enough.

Will they know how to love, truly love themselves and another human being?
Do they know the world is not fragmented and we, all of us, are inexplicably connected?
Does having this much fear dictate what kind of mother I will be?
Who will be there to save me when I’m the one in trouble?

In some funny way, I want this child to forever remain as it is right now – perfect, growing, dependant on nothing but amniotic fluid, oxygen, and my voice. Not only do I fear about this child hurting, but I’m afraid of the harm the child will be capable of doing as well.

Tomorrow I will know if I am having a son or daughter.

Summer Storm

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Uncategorized



The breath of God swept this tree to fall east – toward the street – and not southeast, which would have been straight into our beloved home.

Yesterday, around 3-4pm, an unusually fierce storm swept through some parts of Cleveland. Working on the west side of Cleveland, I saw claps of lightning and bowling ball sounds of thunder, but I never thought it was categorized under “severe.”

Driving home, I turn into our neighborhood and anxiously drive through the debris. Streets are undriveable with power lines and poles demolished by our signature Shaker Heights trees. Tall and shady, the tree lined streets look like a tornado swept through and not far, the local highschool is scattered with flattened cars and smashed houses.

I turn onto my own street and see a pool of people standing out front. I get even more anxious that I don’t see Nick and neighbors I recognize are the ones I know, so I quickly surmise that something happened in our immediate area.

My mouth drops open as I see one of the largest trees on our block laying flat down on the lawn next to our house (ours is the brown brick, tudor style one). A HUGE tree, one that I’ve admired for the past year, was uprooted and mercifully hit only the earth, taking with it nothing but another strip of a nearby, smaller tree.

The neighbors were out, trying to saw the branches that were blocking the street. I turn into the driveway and quickly hurry into the house to see if Nick is home, alright, and if our house has any damage.

Miracle, miracle, miracle. This tree, that stood about 15 feet from our soon to be nursery decided to die, but without causing any direct damage to any humans or houses.

So, we spent the early evening marveling at the storm’s remnants, talking with our neighbors, helping more ravished properties clean up, and thanking our lucky stars it did not plummet into our house or into anyone causing harm.