What Are You Afraid Of?
You’re going where? my mother asks me.
To Texas. To meet some of the women I blog with.
Don’t do anything daring, she warns
Like what? I say.
It is 1960’s New Orleans. My mother stands in front of a full length mirror in a dressing room reminiscent of Blanche DuBois. The air ripples from the merciless summer heat as a breeze stirs the curtains and blows warm air in through the windows and balcony doors that are carelessly thrown open in a way that suggests decadence and revelry and women of ill repute. It is early evening, and Jazz and Zydeco music dance on the air into the hotel room from the French Quarter below.
I don’t like you staying in a hotel. Always keep your door locked. Do you know any of these women? I don’t like this.
She is there on holiday with four girlfriends, and it is a time when everyone left their doors open when they weren’t sleeping and people wandered through, drunk and friendly and lively with infectious spirits. Her hair is short and coiffed and stylish. She wears a white sleeveless blouse, with a collar and buttons paired with pink pedal pushers and a floral scarf around her head that nearly completes the ensemble. She is not sweating. There are no armpit stains, nor is there fabric stuck to her back. She is cool and calm, even as her young face is intent and frustrated as she tries to clasp a pearl choker around her neck. It is her third try, and her arms are starting to ache from the awkward position behind her.
Men target women who travel alone. I don’t like this. Don’t talk to any men.
She feels a pair of hands touch hers and startles with a polite sound of alarm as a voice says I’ve got that, as the ends of the necklace are expertly paired and she turns to see a handsome young man with friendly brown eyes and a rakish smile. The kind your mother warns you about.
She thanks him demurely, and they have a brief, flirtatious exchange where he invites her and her friends to join his group later, and he takes his leave with a kiss on the cheek.
Someone tells her that he is Patrick Wayne, movie and television star – but most famous for being John Wayne’s son.
A few days earlier, my father, whom she had been dating a short while, told her that while he liked her more than any girl he’d dated, he wasn’t ready to commit. She said that was fine, she was never getting married. Off she went to New Orleans, without him.
Don’t drink too much. And don’t get behind the wheel of a car.
Don’t go anywhere in a car with someone you don’t know. I don’t like this.
She and her friends spent a week on the Quarter, much of it with Mr. Wayne and entourage, dancing and drinking and riding the riverboats, wandering the Quarter and finding excuses to bump into each other. It was impulsive and bold and fun and completely uncharacteristic of the woman I know now. She returned to my father, who had celebrated his hard-won freedom with one mediocre date with a neighbor girl. My mother eventually reneged on her stance against marriage and my fate was sealed, (How’s your girlfriend? she would ask him, every now and then, for the next 39 years. Fine, I expect, he would respond. How’s Sinbad?)
Fifteen years ago this October I rushed home early from my New Orleans honeymoon to say goodbye to my father for the last time. I will miss him forever – a word that I now understand.
But he left behind a woman who could not put gas in a car. Who couldn’t use a debit card. Who will not go anywhere alone. Who’s anxiety-induced behaviors had been so enabled, and that were so intensified by the realization of her greatest fear – being alone – that she can’t imagine the world any other way.
She wanted to be a writer, too.
She submitted to two magazines. Two rejection letters was all it took. I tell myself she must not have wanted it very badly, that it is so easy to let life distract us from our dreams, to convince us that what we have is enough – and given that I was part of what had to be enough for her, I hope that she made peace with that decision.
I received my first rejection letter from a magazine that no longer exists. I can’t remember the name. It took me twenty years to try again.
I don’t want my children to wonder why I never did.
I hate making mistakes, particularly in front of people. I am afraid of losing, because I’m afraid that’s all anyone will see.
But I try anyway.
I am terrified of being lost. When I drive long distances, I obsessively check my directions, to the point where it distracts me from the road, because I fear missing my exit and the Big Bad Wolf that awaits me at the next one.
But I go anyway.
I don’t like confrontation. I fear being outgunned, outsmarted, out trash-talked.
But if you leave me no other choice, I will fight.
The world will always be there to tell why you are going to fail.
You can’t listen.
Even when it’s your mother.
Even when it’s MY mother.
Don’t do anything daring.
Like what?
My mum was ahead of her time. She and her sister went abroad for their holidays, at a time when this was not done, never mind two women travelling alone – this was in the late fifties. This was at a time in the UK when cycling and staying in youth hostels was the thing to do – they did this as well; travelling all around Scotland, staying in youth hostels with strangers. My Mum’s friend has indicated that she was quite the flirt. But the Mum I knew was not this woman at all. I knew a woman who lost all her confidence, who was a woman of circumstances, and of her time. After my Dad died, she taught herself how to change a plug.
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Very brave indeed! I always said I wish I’d done more of that when I was younger. Independence is easy to let slip away, and hard to get back. Thanks for the read! 🙂
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Renee, this is incredible. It left me feeling proud because I have a gazillion doubts a day and (most of the time) I do it anyway, too. I’m nervous as fuck about next week. Hell, I’m nervous about seeing Lizzi tomorrow. TOMORROW.
But I will do it, because I want to live life. I want to experience it. I want to be bold and fearless. You inspire me. xoxo
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Thank you my dear sister! It’s funny how something that shouldn’t be scary turns that way, somehow. I am not bold and fearless. I am obnoxious and sarcastic. And occasionally brave. 🙂 I can’t wait to meet you all! ❤
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Ah, just lovely. So beautifully told, so deeply felt. And such a great reminder that we are not our parents and that every day is a new day to take a wild chance. Thank you for this bit of morning inspiration. Now go rock the world.
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Thank you thank you thank you. I will do my best. 🙂 I appreciate the kind words!
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This was glorious. DO all the daring things, you were made for them.
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Thank you my friend! We all are. Now, if I can find my glasses I’ll get started. 😉
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Oh my, so wonderful. Thank you for a heart-moving read this morning.
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Thank you for reading. 🙂
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As long as someone has bail money ready.
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I have my husband of standby. For next weekend only, beyond that, you’re on your own. 🙂
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Hot damn I wish I was coming.
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Not too late!!!!
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My Mom, shy and raised very conservatively, took off with a friend in 1965 on a round the world tour where she went to Japan (she was a 6 foot tall blonde woman), Nepal, Vietnam, Germany, Russia, India, and other far flung places. She ended up spending a year working in a ocean paradise as a nurse where she tells me tales of boys she dating, seeing Jimi Hendrix live, and hearing Otis Redding croon about a dock on the bay whilst actually sitting on a dock by the ocean.
I’ve only come to fully appreciate my Mom’s fearlessness as I’ve tackled it myself as a recently single 40 something. I am no longer afraid (http://annstvincent.com/2015/08/03/i-am-not-afraid/) and it feels pretty amazing.
This is beautifully written.
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See? I’ve done none of those things. Most of my questionable decisions end…questionably. I read your post, and good….for…you! 🙂
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Thank you!
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It is pretty easy to warn your children of the dangers of life to the point where it paralyzes them. But you can’t send a toddler into the garden without mentioning rose thorns and wasps.
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And those freaking gnomes! Yes, that is true, but you can’t let it own you. All I’m sayin’. 🙂
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Right, in some ways it is up to the kid not to let the parents mess them up too much… ha!
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With much gratitude to both fate and Master, i can humbly say that i am fearless once again! ~~ slave tasha💜
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Thanks for the read! 😉
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My mom and I are the opposite. When she was 15, she moved by herself from America to Canada to finish high school. And she’s still just as fearless. I’m not timid by any means, but I do worry about her.
These comparisons were so well written, Renee. I hope the Sister Wives meet up is everything you’ve dreamed and nothing your mother anticipates.
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Thank you! I’m sorry you are missing it! Yes, I love it when she’s wrong, when she’s right I never hear the end of it. And yes the line between brave and stupid is sometimes unclear. 🙂 ❤
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I love this so much. My mother always encouraged the path of least resistance. She encouraged me to play it safe. I’ve been working so hard to break out of that thinking.
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No kidding! I did a lot of things out of defiance, like most daughters, but as I get older I find I have to really push through rising anxiety. It’s not easy, and sometimes fear wins – but I’m working on it.
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I looooove the way you wrote this. So so so much love. Cannot wait. 6 days!! SIX DAYS!!
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PS don’t tell your mom that you’re going to be riding in an uber. Because none of us is driving. Period. Oh and also, I’m not really a woman. I’m a 50 year old man with a beer belly and a mustache, and I hang out in my basement a lot. In my mother’s house. She is scared for you too.
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I’m riding in an Uber????!!!!
The rest, I knew…..
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We don’t drink and drive. And we will be drinking. Drunking
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I’ll bring the vat of Sangria and the You Go Girls. Wait do we still need those?
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This is beautiful. So well-written, with all the jumping around in the timeline of the story. It’s the hardest thing to be fearless. Life is worth living.
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Thank you my friend! 🙂 I appreciate the reblog!
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Reblogged this on Her Headache and commented:
I posted pretty much every day last week, but I’m taking a bit of a blogging break, for a week or so, to work on some writing assignments for other places. This weekend I’m facing some fears and this essay is all about that.
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Gorgeous. I want more of this, I want to be transported to that hotel in New Orleans in 1960… It sounds like there’s more story there and you took me there in a matter of a few sentences.
And you will be fearless with your writing and you won’t give up and you will be sure of yourself when you’re navigating and you won’t get lost. And you will have an amazing time because OHMYGODI’MSOEXCITED!!!!!! *****breathe***** It will be amazing! *giddiness is already kicking in. I’m going to be obnoxious. You’ve been warned.*
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If there’s more there, she’s not telling. Of course in high school, the story was that she never met up with the group at all. I wonder why she did that. 🙂
Her plan failed. I’m probably luckier than I like to admit. OHMYGODI’MSOEXCITEDTOO! 🙂 ❤
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**I am terrified of being lost.**
Not in your “WRITING,” darling.
This kicked ass beautifully & ferociously & fearlessly!!
Now, that’s what I live for!
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Thank you my friend! I appreciate the support! 🙂 ❤
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My favourite, daring woman enjoyed this. My mother took herself to Spain for holidays at age 15 and didn’t stop traveling.
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Now I wish I were that brave, I’ve always envied those people. Thank you for the read!
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I loved this story — and I had a crush on Patrick Wayne from the instant I saw him in the movie “Big Jake” when I was a pre-teen. I’m incredibly jealous that you mom got to hang out with him!
The one thing I am afraid of is not being able to be open and vulnerable in a relationship. I’ve developed a hard outer shell after heartbreak from two failed marriages and, while I’m trying hard, I don’t know if I can love the way someone needs to in order to have a healthy relationship. But, one good thing did come out of that traumatic breakup of my first marriage – I became very independent – I had to, I had two little girls to care for and a new job in a new city across the country. Still, a lot of the decisions I made in my life were based on fear, which was unfortunate.
My goal now is to live a braver and more honest life. That’s not to say I’m not sometimes frightened when I’m alone or in a bad spot – but overall, I think I’ve become pretty brave.
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I think that heartbreak always leaves some scar tissue and makes you more protective. Some of that’s probably healthy. I think you have to operate within your comfort zone until you feel safe to step out of it, on your own terms. Thank you for reading!
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I love this! My mother was once more daring and a world traveler, but then became fearful and paranoid, then descended into dementia. Live now, even when you’re scared. 🙂
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