The Marriage of Helen & Bel:

The Marriage of Helen & Bel:
A Dialogue Between Sisters
by Morgana BraveRaven

How can she - my own sister? Geeze, you think you know a person! Jena muttered to herself as she read an email from her sister Alissa. Shaking her head in disbelief she raced through the message, reading so fast that the lines began to blur together: It’s a sin… It’s a crime... It’s a threat to tradition and the sanctity of marriage!

I really had no idea she was so… closed minded? Anal? Cruel and thoughtless? Wow. It’s actually shocking to make this kind of discovery about one’s own sister, she thought. A knot in the pit of her stomach began a slow squeeze. Jena looked at the framed picture of Alissa and Jon on their wedding day which sat on the mantle. Jena was not exactly a diligent housekeeper and the picture was coated in a thin film of dust. Jena drew two smiley faces in the dust, then wiped them away with her sleeve, feeling somewhat disheartened. In the photo Alissa and Jon were both smiling. Beaming, in fact. What a happy day it had been. June 24, 1995. The sun had shone all day, and it was warm, but not too hot. There had been 200 guests, which in Jena’s mind was a huge wedding. Friends and relatives had flown in from all over the continent, and honestly it was the most intimate, romantic wedding that Jena had ever been to.

Alissa and Jon had been married at Jon’s family home, in the garden. Jon’s mother was quite an enthusiastic gardener and the way the garden looked that day made you think that Ella, Jon’s mother, had put her entire life into that garden for just such an event. They had set up a little gazebo for the ceremony, and tents for the reception. The garden itself was huge, with paths and benches scattered over at least an acre of garden. There were flower petals everywhere and on every thing. A string quartette played all afternoon, a harpist played through dinner. Every time you turned around, someone was crying. A whole day of happy tears. Champagne, wine and tissues flowed non stop all day, and all night. It was a bit insane, emotionally, but what an incredible wedding it had been. Jena wiped the rest of the dust off the photograph, replaced it on the mantle, and then returned to her sister’s email. She found it sadly disturbing that Alissa would deny any pair of lovers the right to such an experience, should they desire it.

It’s a sin. It’s a crime. It’s a threat to tradition and the sanctity of marriage! Jena picked up the phone and dialed Alissa’s number. After three rings Alissa picked up. “What?” she said, her voice cold and sharp, obviously expecting her sister’s call.

“That was quite an email you sent. I had no idea you felt that way”, Jena responded.

“Jen, come on. I’m a Christian woman. How did you think I would feel? Besides, what does that have to do with us? Absolutely nothing. I swear to God Jen, you are really a heathen. You need to get you some religion girl. Besides, what does gay marriage have to do with what I was asking you? I merely asked for your support for Ethan Van Der Haggen because he has been nominated to run for the Conservatives as MP for the Cowichan area, and you go off on this whole tangent about not being able to support him because of his stance on the gay marriage issue. Geeze, Jen, you’ve known Ethan your whole life. He is a really solid guy and he would be a great voice for us here if he gets where he is trying to go, and I can’t believe that you won’t support him”.

“Whoa there little sister, how on earth can I support anyone who is strongly opposed to the issues I believe in? That’s crazy. I can’t do it. Oh, and by the by, there are plenty of good Christian women who do support gay marriage”.

“Oh, sting. Ya really got me there, Jen”.

“I’m not trying to get you, Alissa. I’m trying to understand”.

“Jen, marriage is between a man and a woman. Not a man and a man, or a woman and a woman. Man and woman - that’s tradition. And I don’t really hear anyone saying that same sex couples can’t have a life together – they just can’t get married. They would have a civil union which would entitle them the same rights as married couples, but would protect the rights of those officiating over the marriage ceremony should it be against their beliefs to perform a same sex union. So honestly I don’t know why you insist on going sideways on this”.

“Because it’s bull, Alissa. It’s absolute crap! Listen to yourself… tradition, threat, the rights of the officials? Give me a break; it’s not about the officials! It’s not about you and it’s not about me. Please tell me how a same sex marriage could possibly be a threat to anyone? No one is asking you to become involved in a same sex union. Same sex couples are simply asking for the same rights as hetro couples”.

“Ok, so they can have their civil union”.

“Al, you are so smug. Honestly, civil union? And what exactly is a civil union? Defined by any other term, it’s a friggin marriage!”

“Marriage is between a man and a woman. That’s tradition, and that’s how it’s defined in both the Bible the dictionary”.

“No, I think a more accurate definition would be that marriage is the union of two persons; a celebration of commitment and love. Besides, it really depends on which dictionary you consult. Definitions do vary. And as for the Bible, don’t get me going on that”.

“Jen, come on. We’re talking about cultural values and tradition!”

“Tradition? Values? If tradition and cultural values are your argument, then you can’t pick and choose the traditions and values to suit your needs. A hundred and fifty years ago women and children were chattels of their husbands. Women were not persons under the law – we couldn’t even vote! And how long ago was it that persons of African decent could only ride at the back of the bus and could not eat in the same cafes as white folk. Should we have stuck with those traditions also?”

“Come on, Jen, I don’t mean that. You know what I mean”.

“Actually, no. Unless you are a hypocrite, then no, I have no idea what you mean. How can anyone find a celebration of love and commitment a threat? I can certainly think of more imminent and pressing threats in the world today. Honestly, wouldn't it just be wonderful if everyone could find a stitch of love in this crazy world..? I seriously do not understand why anyone feels threatened by calling a gay union a "marriage". I mean seriously, Alissa, no matter what you call it, it is a marriage. Why is everyone so hung up on the term marriage? Do straight people think they own the term? There simply is no ownership of nouns. It's funny actually, if you think of it in other terms. Let's say that straight people can use the term "white" to describe the color white, but gay people have to use the phrase "a color lacking color" - they are both
describing the same thing – regardless of what you want to call it. For Christ’s sake, it’s the same damn thing!”

“Stop swearing Jena! I won’t talk to you if you insist on carrying on with your language. What does it matter to you anyway? Why are you so concerned about this? You’re not even gay!”

“I am concerned – no, not concerned, I am passionate about this issue, and I am passionate because the real issue is human rights - the rights of all people.

Alissa, are you heterosexual, a woman, or a person? Don’t answer that – you’re all three… but you are a person first – subcategory: woman, subcategory: hetro. We must be defined as persons first, and if we must categorize - then ok, we are gay or straight, bi, trans-gendered, male, female, Italian, India, Canadian, pink, white, fuzzy, or whatever we are. But seriously, a person’s sexual orientation should not affect their ability to legally marry or use the term marriage if they so choose. To deny a person the ability to marry based on their sexual orientation is absolute prejudice and hypocrisy”.

“Jen, you’re talking about a simple tradition”.

“Al, traditions change, so do values, and thank God they do. I’m just asking you what you are afraid of and why you do not think it is important to give all persons the same rights and privileges?”

“Like I said, Jen, they can have their Civil Union…”

“Honestly Alissa, I am speaking to you right now because to me you are a representative of those in our society who are opposed to same sex marriage. What are you so opposed to. How does same sex marriage affect you or threaten you? Is our crazy society going forward or backward? Let go of your discomfort. It’s time for some serious change if we are going to progress as a society. We need to move forward – not backward. There is no point forcing gays back into the closet”.

“I’m not trying to force gays into the closet, Jen. I do have some gay friends if you will recall”.

“You’re not being much of a friend to them now, Al, are you? I have gay friends too, and I can remember years ago going out to dinner on a double date with Chris and Denver. I was with James at the time, it was in the mid 80’s, and I remember how in love Chris and Den were, and how sad it was that they couldn’t reach across the table and hold hands like James and I. They couldn’t hold hands or walk arm in arm down the street like we did. The four of us spent the whole evening discussing how uncomfortable that must make them. It was really sad to me that they could not openly display their affection – but we have come a long way since then, and this gay marriage issue is not just sad, it’s appalling and offensive!”

“Oh, man, you’re out of control here…”

“Alissa, I am not out of control. We are talking about human rights! There are gay people in our society – there always have been. Your disapproval of their desire to marry doesn't change the fact that they want to and that they should be entitled to, any more than society's need to hoard the term marriage for the sake of tradition makes any kind of union, civil or otherwise, between gay persons anything less than a marriage! I ask you again Al, what on earth are you afraid of?”

“I’m ending this right here, Jena…”

“You said you felt threatened, well that implies that you are afraid. What are you afraid of???”

“Jena, you’re totally out of control and you won’t let me get a word in so there is no point discussing this with you any further”. With a click, Alissa removed herself from the conversation with her sister.

“Alissa??? Alissa! Don’t you dare hang up on me!”, Jena shouted into the receiver. “What are you afraid of…”,she said replacing the phone in its base, “what on earth are you afraid of…”

Jena sat down on her sofa and looked out the window. The sky had clouded over and the air had become heavy. It looks like rain, she thought to herself. Yep, I think it’s gonna rain today.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please leave your comments and let us know what you thought of The Marriage of Helen & Bel:'

Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights Since May 10, 2000

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The Story of the Woman Who Could .. part 2

The Story of the Woman Who Could Part ll
By Morgana BraveRaven
~*~

The reflection in the mirror is familiar, and yet not familiar at the same time. The features are all there, eyes, nose, lips, hair, all the same, but changed. There are shadows. There is a shallow, powdery quality to the skin. If a slight breeze should happen through the open window and inadvertently blow across this reflection, it will vanish. Life and its experiences, abrasive, like sandpaper over her soul. Something has got to change, before she is erased by circumstance.

But what can change in this town where there is no room for change? She lives within a dead-end economy, and that reality is much bigger than she herself is. Yet, knowing this does not alter the fact that something must change. No life should be lived from a fear-based center where there is never enough. The constant shortages grate against ones very being, until you can’t remember happiness. Can’t remember laughing until your sides are so sore that you can’t take a breath. Can’t remember the beauty that surrounds you. The river that cut its way through the high cliffs of the valley. The rolling blue ocean that laps at your toes, or thick humid forests dripping with the heavy scent of pine that hangs from every branch, so strong you can pluck it from the air. This is all lost to her now. She is not aware of rivers or blue skies. The ocean has become nothing more than a force that drags her spirit out to sea with the tide. The peace once found along its barefoot shores carried off with the wind.

Looking in the mirror at her own vacant expression she knows that she must pull change out of this muck. She must find hope and a sense of purpose because the weight of it is suffocating, and dinner still has to be made.

~*~


Sitting at the bus stop on a sunny morning in early March, she remembers the card given to her by her grandmother on her eighth birthday. The world is like a mirror reflecting everything you do, and if you face it smiling it smiles right back at you… If it were only that simple, and yet sitting in the warmth of the sun on this bright March morning, it feels as though it could be that simple. Happiness certainly was simple when she was eight, and March mornings were especially grand. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, letting her breath go very slowly. For a moment she can feel the simple happiness of an eight year old. Tucked away in a fold of memory it pokes through like a glint of sunlight reflecting off a still puddle caught in the early morning sun. She smiles a wide, warm smile. For a moment the world feels bright. For a moment there is room to breathe and reprieve from the weight of it. She sits in the warmth of the sun, smiling, and it feels good.

At work it nears twelve noon. Anxiety waxes. It starts in her stomach, and tightens, coiling upward through her chest. It is heavy, the weight of it, and just before it becomes unbearable she closes her eyes and thinks to herself, I do not want this. I cannot do this one more day. She clenches her hands tightly, forcing her fingernails into her palms, I do not want this! She takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes. Outside the sun is still shining, the day still bright. The sun does not care that sandwiches must be made – it just shines.

And then it happened like a quick and unexpected slap to the cheek. Like a switch turned on in a cold dark room and suddenly there is light. Click!

What can change when there’s no room for change? How do you choose when there is no choice? She could not change that moment in her life. She could not choose outside of what was in front of her. At that moment, she was a mother with a job. She had to work, she had to move forward, and she had to let the weight go because it was too heavy to carry the disappointment and the bleakness even one step further. She relaxed her hands and took another breath. She smiled. Orders filled the screen in front of her: ham and swiss, chicken on rye. She made them. The sun still shone.

After work she did not wait for her bus. She walked, and as she walked, she observed the business around her. How long had it been since she had done that, observed rather than just passing through it, oblivious to everything but her own dingy gloom? In the streets children laughed. Someone dropped a coin which bounced with a ting before rolling off the curb. Children shouted. Children cried. Cars raced past sidewalks, traffic lights turned green, amber, and red. Bicycle bells rang, music trickled from open windows. Was that the scent of fresh baked bread wafting down the street?

The sun beat down on her face, and as she walked she became aware of her breath, in and out, so easily, like silk. She looked around. I can’t change any of this, she thought, not one thing. I can only let it go, and let it be. Let it be? Ahhh… not so easy sometimes. She could feel her hands beginning to clench. She could feel tension beginning to climb up her spine. She could feel her breath begin to stick in her chest, and she could feel the weight of it beginning to creep back onto her shoulders. She stopped for a moment, hesitantly. I can’t carry it any more, she thought quietly, and she walked forward, one step at a time, leaving the weight of it behind her.

Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights.
Please leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'The Story of The Woman Who Could!'

Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights
Since May 10, 2000

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http://www.sykaroinsights.com

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The Story of the Woman Who Could .. part 1

The Story of the Woman Who Could
by Morgana BraveRaven

Each morning she rises early to go to work. After the alarm has screeched for a full seven rounds on the snooze setting she swings her legs over the edge of her bed and plants her feet on the floor with a thud, then wrenches her bone-weary body from the cozy comforts of bed. Warm blanket, soft, forgiving pillow, a salvation she hates to leave behind in the scraggy, still dark moments of the day… but she does.

So it is every morning as she hits the ground – not exactly running, but at least involved in movement.

Another day, and she is awake and moving through the weight of it.

Ahh – the plight of the single mother, the lone parent. The weight of it. An experience that is embraced and dreaded all in the same breath. But you press on, each day mocking the last, and the next. You press on because there isn’t another choice. Choice is not an option because there is so much to do and so much
left undone. Life is what’s in front of you, and dinner still has to be made.

The blessed weight of it. Imagine – yes, imagine if you will, for a moment, a woman sitting at a bus stop. She is an ordinary woman sitting patiently on a bench at a bus stop, just waiting for her bus, with one hand resting quietly by her side, when through the air wafts a mote of dust – a wee tiny spec which lands upon the
back of her hand, and suddenly the woman cannot get up, because the weight of that wee spec is incomprehensible. So, there she sits, shrieking and flailing, because she has realized that she is pinned to the bench. She is stuck. She is trapped, and those who are near look on with disbelief because they are unaware of the weight – they cannot see the mote, and therefore assume that the woman must be utterly mad.

But that is not the case. Madness has no involvement whatsoever. It is merely that her bus has rounded the corner and will pull up to the curb in less than four seconds. And she can’t get up. She can’t pull her hand from the bench and she must, because she must be on that bus to get to work on time.

This is the weight of it – responsibility. No matter what should fall upon you, you must get up off that bench and get on that bus – even if it means chewing your hand off to do so. Choice is not a factor and plays no part. Dinner still has to be made.

~*~

She stands behind the counter slicing whole wheat buns and piling cold cuts and shredded lettuce neatly, and with great speed – slicing, wrapping, bagging (oh, and don’t forget the napkin) when a round woman blurts out, Excuse me Misssss, I said no sauce on that sandwich, and flips her a look that insists that she naturally belongs behind that counter making sandwiches at warp speed for eight bucks an hour because,
obviously, she is too stupid to do anything else…

The lunch line up grows at an exponential rate and all she can see in front of her is an ocean of crossly folded arms and stern faces. The occasional huff pressed impatiently through pursed lips is not helpful. Can they honestly believe that such displays of calculated hostility help her to make sandwiches any faster? And when the man in the red plaid shirt, the one with the foul breath, jumps to the front of the line questioning her as to the whereabouts of his long awaited sandwich, how shall she control her urge to scream and throw sliced tomatoes at him?

How shall she exercise control when all she wants to do is reach over the glass counter and grab the obnoxious offender by his shirt collar and scream, You daft, foul smelling idiot! I’m not bionic…

But, exercise control, she does. Chokes back the urge to scream. Swallows her breath. Forces herself to focus on the orders on the screen while trying not to think about the fact that after taxes and rent, she will have $130 to get through the rest of the month. In this small town there is little work in any field, and certainly none in hers. In such a town, and under such circumstances, you do the work that is in front of you: ham and cheese on white, smoked turkey on whole wheat… She does not think about the eight years she spent at university. She does not think about careers or money, shoes with holes, or dreams. If she did she would crack, and dinner still has to be made…

~*~

She stands in front of the mirror repeating to herself out loud, Be Grateful, Be Grateful, Be Grateful. This is her positive voice. She tries to hold fast to its logic, but another voice pipes up, taking control. She does not want to follow it, does not want to listen to its whining and sniveling. It is so petty, but it seems impossible not to listen because at this moment what it is saying seems truer, and she gives in… WHAT should I be grateful for???? What?? WHAT!!! I am exhausted. I am broke. We have nothing but instant noodle soup in the cupboard. I can’t afford to fix the car. IDID NOT SPEND EIGHT YEARS IN UNIVERSITY FOR THIS!!!! Why am I here? How did I get here? My life at this moment has no purpose – I feel like a machine, and I can’t see an end to it. There are no choices for me! This is just too hard – I can’t do it, I just can’t…

She brushes her teeth. Washes her face. Her movements are mechanical, as though her arms were hooked up to some kind of machine, with someone else cranking a handle that makes her arms move. She dries her face. Straightens the towel, then goes to kiss her sleeping children. Folding herself into bed she tries once more to give positive logic a chance. Be grateful that you have a job to hate. Be grateful that you have a car that needs to be repaired. Be grateful that you have noodle soup. Be grateful that your home is filled with the love and laughter of children. She pulls the blankets closely around her. It all sounds like bunk, she thinks. It’s too hard – I just can’t do this…

~*~


It’s all about attitude. It is, and she knows it. Approach anything with a sense of dread and a negative attitude, and it will all fly right back in your face. Whatever task you are facing will be that much harder, and so much heavier. It will be a weight upon you so heavy that it becomes unbearable. The sheer weight of it. She knows this, and yet she can not influence a change. Not here in this shop where she has no choices, where she is tethered to the counter by an invisible cord that adds up to eight dollars an hour. She has stopped caring about anything. One day rolls into the next. Eat, sleep, work – machine. Eight dollars an hour… it costs twenty five an hour just to live.

~*~

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