Daughters

I don’t have any biological children. This happened because I tried to marry twice, and both times I chose people I thought I could end their suffering.

Funny thing that. Unless you’re the one causing somebody’s suffering, you can’t end it. I learned that we all suffer. We all have pain and burdens from our lives before. I’ve never been strong enough to take that burden from somebody, and God knows I’ve tried.

Many times, when you try to end somebody’s suffering and fail, they’ll blame you for it. That doesn’t seem fair, but it’s logical. “You offered me hope, but delivered nothing.” What I did wrong was saying I could solve the problem in the first place.

What you can do is love somebody through and despite their suffering. More often than not, that’s enough.

I don’t have any children, but I have a thousand, thousand daughters. Some of them read my column. I have sons too, but there’s a difference. Daughters have the potential to bring new life into the world. A twist of biology made men physically stronger than women. That makes many men believe they have dominion over daughters and wives. To me, because they can make life, and I cannot, this twist of biology makes me their servant. If I’m strong, it’s so I can be their protector.

This Fall, My Boy Sam put on “The Revolutionists” with three remarkably young actors from Millsaps. To be a female theater kid at Millsaps, you automatically become my daughter. Ask Gabby or The Everything Kid. Watching little Dakota mop up the stage as Marie Antoinette, I thought, one day, these daughters will all be mothers. The cycle continues.

There are four daughters who mean more to me than the others. My wife had two daughters. I haven’t spoken to them in a while. I can’t really blame them. I was husband three of four, and counting. Their biological father decided to be a part of their lives. That’s enough.

My sister’s child loved me almost as if I were an imaginary creature. She was so small when I went into the cave. I missed most of her young life. As a child, she sent me the gifts of a child. They’re in my cabinet of treasures, and always have been. It wasn’t hard for me to feel love in the cave, but I’m pretty sure it was hard for her to feel the love I had for her.

The Little Bird came into my life because, as my social media presence exploded, Facebook and Instagram started recommending all these people I never met, including this child with raven hair and crystal eyes. “She looks like somebody.” I thought. Indeed, she did. Since then, I’ve made drawings to emphasize how much.

There are so many historical and almost spooky spiritual things that link me to the Little Bird. She is my protegee, my best friend, and my protector. Among the characters in my stories, most of which are real people, The Little Bird is hands down the most popular. Little old ladies ask about the Little Bird when I see them. One asked if she’s real, or imaginary like feist-dog. I said, “She’s pretty real. She has red boots.”

Red boots have become a test of something. In the years when I was really deeply struggling with my agnosticism, Minka Sprague came to my rescue. She did it, mostly in Greek. Language is important. Wearing her clerical collar and liturgical shawl, she often wore red cowboy boots. I miss her profoundly. Little Bird’s red boots remind me of her.

“How are you doing with agnosticism now, Boyd?” Well, I take communion. That’s a start. I pray, but I always prayed. I’ve never prayed for myself. That sounds like asking Santa Claus for presents. “Dear God, I want a Red Ryder BB Gun.” Not for me. When I go to bed at night, I pray for my sister and her children. The little Bird and her Mom, and the stepdaughters I lost in the divorce, who let go of ties when their momma started talking about getting married again.

I am a christian. I always was. I always tried to live as a christian, even if I didn’t know what that meant. As the fabric of my life began to break, I began to wonder what I had done wrong. Maybe I wasn’t worthy of God’s love. Not being worthy of the Eucharist, I refused to share the Lord’s Table. Maybe that meant I was more christian than the people who took it without thinking. Either way, Jesus and I are pretty cool now. I listen for his guidance. It’s usually not very loud.

Alice Cooper wrote a song, “Only Women Bleed.” When I was in sixth grade, the boys all said it was about the menstrual cycle and said, “Eww, gross.” Obviously, the title does evoke the biological cycles in women that create life, but it’s about the horrible things men do to women.

Yesterday, I wrote about how, when my friend Maria was planning to come to Millsaps, the boys started making pretty gross plans for her. I put my foot down, and said “No. This one’s under my protection.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t protect them all. College can be tough on young people as they figure out life’s rules. Don’t misunderstand me to say this goes only one way. Women can do some pretty terrible things to men (like me) and to each other. Other than saying, “He’s a nice boy. Don’t do that,” there’s not much I could do.

Women have a protective nature, too. In fairly recent days, we’ve seen women get shot, arrested, and assaulted for trying to protect people weaker than them. In each case, it was a man who did it.

I saw a meme recently:

Woman: “I’m dreaming of a world without men.”

Man: “Who would protect you then?”

Woman: “Protect me from whom?”

Reposting it, I caused a flurry of protests and support.

I’ve been handled pretty roughly by women. There’s no denying that. One even physically assaulted me several times. I don’t know how to feel about that. She was so small, and I was so big. It wasn’t going to hurt me, at least not where you could see it. Reaching out to a counselor for help resolving this, he said it was my fault. I’m not sure how it’s my fault since I never, and would never, strike her, but he said it was. I never spoke to him again.

The world is filled with daughters, and there’s only one Uncle Boyd. About the best I can do for them is to write about how I see them, I really, really see them, and it’s important to me. More important than you can imagine.

I’ve learned that, when people die, their love doesn’t die. I feel my parents’ love all the time. I hear Robert Wingate telling me to tighten up. I hear the whirrrrrrrr tik tik tik tik tik of Charlie Deaton’s fishing rod. I have conversations with the very dead Lance Goss several times a week. Love doesn’t die. It changes form.

When I die, (knock wood) a thousand, thousand daughters will feel my countenance over them, and their children, and their children’s children. It’s how I was made.