Our

Story

by

Lawrence Abby Gauthier

ace reporter

The Westphalia Periodic News

Mom’s ashes were buried next to Teddy. Teddy was still an infant when she found him lifeless, face down in his crib. I was three years old at the time. Dad has a spot reserved for himself in the same cemetery plot too. My brothers and sister and I have to make our own arrangements. I tell everybody that I want my ashes tossed into the wind out on the High Plains of America.

After two weeks in the old home town catching up, swapping stories and hugging family and old acquaintances, when the graveside services were ended, I knew it was time for me to get back to work.

Then I did something I feel bad about now — I pissed off the priest and I wanted to confess, but I couldn't remember the Latin Confiteor.

I was standing next to my pickup truck after the services and prayers when the priest came up to me, placing his hands on my shoulder. I can’t remember what he said, exactly, but I’m sure he intended his words to be soothing. But whatever they were, they put me on my high horse.

“Before he died, Lyndon Larouche often talked about ‘temporal immortality’,” I said. "Temporal immortality. Like ol' Ben Franklin still whispers in my ear: 'A penny saved is a penny earned.' Or Leibniz: 'There's no such thing as empty space.' No place to hide. No way to disappear. You've probably never heard of Lyndon Larouche, but I still vote for him and mom’s not off in some hypothetical world but is standing right here in front of you at this very instant telling me that it’s time to get back to work to do what I can to end the f*cking! wars.”

I can’t remember Mom being all for any of our wars, but she would not have used that word, f*cking, and right away I regretted saying it. The priest slowly removed his arm from my shoulder and walked away. I should have said something more diplomatic like: “I wish more priests were like the Berrigans, out on the streets, protesting their war.”

But I didn’t, so, if my sister happens to see this column, please tell the priest that I’m sorry.

Then I took off in my truck, 1,200 miles to Colorado, only stopping for gas and coffee.

Back in my own bed, I slept for 18 hours. And then it was time to go to work. Culley Jane had coffee ready and the cats led me downstairs to my office, where I write, my work.

Deadline was fast approaching, but I didn’t know what to say. So many stories swirling around in my head, all cluttered up, like my post-trip office… travel bags and suitcases and clothes strewn about like debris in space.

So many stories to tell. Where to start?

Then mom, in her temporal immortality, says to me: “Clean your room. Watch your language. And then the words will come.”

--30--

There are various sides to everyone. We all have masks that we wear; one we wear at work, one we wear with family, one we wear in public and one we wear with ourselves. So many masks and we move through them seamlessly. Almost unconsciously.

I think of mine as a protection of sorts. There is my public mask — the me that goes to the doctor and to the store. Very quiet, very unsure of my surroundings and people.

Then there is the mask I wear at the “Drop-In” treatment center where I volunteer. That mask is confident, self-assured, and ready to handle anything from a panic attack, a facility tour to talking to someone about trauma or suicide attempts. All with a steady voice.

My family mask is a little more difficult to navigate. It depends on who the family member is. In my given family, members usually get a mask that is colder, a little unfeeling and ready to confront. My chosen family gets a mask that is warm, comforting, playful and protective.

The mask I wear for my life partner is mostly transparent. Swirled with betrayal, hurt, pain, anger, self -doubt, fear, love, hope, my version of what truth and justice is, and dreams of a future only we can build. Sometimes, I know that I can be hard to deal with, I tend to see the world in stark black and white where he sees all the shades of gray.

The mask that I wear for myself is complicated. Part something just short of self-hatred. Part wild magic and Pentecostal worship songs. On bad days I am full of anger and tears; the vocabulary of a sailor at sea for two years, holding on to a pillow for dear life. I show my love through baking and constantly have ideas flow through my head. People who know me well can tell when my personal mask is slipping. Because my personal mask is also a visual mask. Most days my make up is softer and more neutral. The darker I go, the worse I am slipping. I disappear into my physical mask, as my emotional mask also becomes darker.

I wish that we didn’t need masks, that we could just be. But we learn at very early ages that masks are required in life and they are not optional. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if one day there wouldn’t be a need? People would just be accepted for who they are, disabilities or not? Rich family or poor? Wouldn’t it be nice if children didn’t have to learn to cover pain and humiliation with masks they can’t take off but throughout their lives must constantly change?