Whatever...Love Is Love

DEDICATION

For Jackson—

I will always love you more. . . .

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

1.
    
AM I A PARTNER?

2.
    
AM I A CATHOLIC?

3.
    
AM I FORGIVING?

4.
    
AM I A BAD GIRL?

5.
    
AM I PERFECT?

6.
    
AM I A GOOD MOM?

7.
    
AM I A HUMANITARIAN?

8.
    
AM I CINDERELLA?

9.
    
AM I DAMAGED?

10.
  
AM I A FEMINIST?

11.
  
AM I LGBT OR W?

12.
  
AM I RESILIENT?

13.
  
AM I A WRITER?

14.
  
AM I ENOUGH?

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

RESOURCES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE

CREDITS

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

PROLOGUE

T
he first thing I did after I fell to the floor on my knees in agony was reach for the black rosary beads that Father Ray had given me, just before he died. In between the retches and the stabbing pains in my chest, I said the Hail Mary, something I had not done in many years.

I said the prayer over and over again. The pain would stop every three minutes, and Clare would lift me back into bed and tell me to breathe. At one point I bolted straight upright, like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.
I clutched my beads, screaming, “Something inside of me is killing me! Something is trying to come out of me! Something needs to come out of me!!”

After months of emergency room visits, tests and an operation, we did find there was something trying to come out of me; it was a previously undiagnosed parasite I had picked up from my many years in Haiti. This parasite had, in fact, been eating me alive. And while recovering in bed for the next three months, I realized there was something else eating me alive, something that also needed to come out. It was much more powerful than the parasite.

It was my story.

In the summer of 2013, while I struggled in the hospital, I realized that waiting to do something isn't always an option. In a moment, everything could end, and my stories would be lost—stories of love, partnerships, miracles, and madness that filled the hundreds of notebooks beneath my bed. During my months of recovery, I read through each one of my trusted journals, collections of my thoughts since I was a teenager.

I started with one of my favorite journals—an old, beat-up green notebook plastered with hearts. At first, I thought reading it was going to be a classic trip down memory lane. You know, stories of teenage heartbreak, details of crazy antics, and confessions of my hopes and dreams. But something unexpected happened as I read. I began to ask myself questions. And once I started asking those questions I couldn't stop. Instead of just recovering from my illness, I found myself in the process of
un
covering who I was and who I had become.

Was I a partner?

Was I Catholic?

Was I damaged?

Were the words that I was reading the essence of who I was then, and were they still defining me now?

Who was the main character in the book of my life?

Was it the 13-year-old girl who first decided to write in her notebook covered with hearts? Was it the 19-year-old young woman whose only friend in college was an Augustinian priest? (Thank you again for those rosary beads, Father Ray.)

Was it the 20-something blonde in a ponytail marching around NYC in her army boots, pissed off at her past and anxious about her future?

Was it the 30-something woman who sounded like a teenager, thinking that every man she met would turn into Prince Charming?

Was it the woman who gave birth to an amazing kid and yet continually questioned if she was a good enough mom?

I started to see a common thread in all of the characters I had played throughout the years: a woman who was both ashamed and proud of her own truth. But, was I brave enough to let her speak?

Nope. Not exactly. Not the whole truth.

IT'S A GOOD THING MY THEN 12-YEAR-OLD SON, JACKSON, KNEW
how to ask questions. Not long after my recovery, he asked me a question that would change my life forever.

My parents were visiting from Philly. Jack had willingly given up his room, adorned with a life-sized mural of a soccer player on the wall, so that his grandparents could be more comfortable. He slept in my room at the foot of the bed on a blow-up mattress at our house in Venice, CA. Surrounded by their suitcases, my dad's snoring apparatus, and my mom's prayer books, my parents dreamed away as Jack prepared to confront me one night as we were getting ready for bed.

Out of the blue, he asked me if I was currently romantically involved with anyone.

In all of 30 seconds, I flashed back across the thousands of pages in my journals. What could I tell him? Could I tell him about who I was when I was 13 years old? Or about the kind of adult I was at 32? At 47? Could I tell him the truth? The truth of how I had become the mother, lover, and woman that I am today? Could I own every bit of myself and make him understand that I will constantly evolve and change, just like he will?

I started with what he really wanted to know about—the present. His simple response when I told him I was involved with the woman who was like a godmother to him was, “Whatever, Mom . . . love is love.”

JACKSON WOKE ME UP, LITERALLY AND METAPHORICALLY, WITH
his statement. Our conversation opened up a door that not only led me to be brave enough to admit my truth to him, but also to proclaim it to others in a very public way.

“Whatever, love is love” was the basis of my
New York Times
article “Coming Out as a Modern Family,” which was published in the Modern Love column around Thanksgiving 2013. In the article, I raised questions about the meaning of partnership, modern family, and the labels we all carry.

At the time, I had no idea how many modern families and unconventional partnerships were out there. And I didn't realize how many people did not have labels to describe themselves or the structure of their lives. So the phrase “being a whatever” came to describe them. According to the
Concise Oxford English Dictionary,
whatever
is a pronoun “used to emphasize a lack of restriction in referring to anything.” And because I am not interested in restricting myself or anyone else with a particular label, I decided that I am a “whatever,” too.

Apparently I wasn't the only whatever out there. Within a day of publication, we received 273,000 Facebook posts. It was amazing that my questioning had resonated with so many people. Because of the response to my column, the
New York Times
asked me to write a second piece about why I had decided to write that first article, and to share more of my ideas.

As I read through all the blog posts, tweets, e-mails, letters, and media responses, I learned that many people in our world today are having different experiences of partnership and aren't sure how to label these different kinds of love.

Echoing the thoughts of many, one person wrote, “I've been feeling ‘whatever' and I didn't know what to call it. I'm a whatever too.” Another said, “Being a divorced mom I sometimes don't know where my life fits, and your story brought to light that everything doesn't always have to be black and white. There can be ex-husbands who are still partners in our and our children's lives, friends who could be lovers—whatever it is.”

I was immersed in stories that were so different from mine, but also very similar. It seems that many of us have the same ideas and questions about partnerships, about family, race, religion, values, etc. I realized that there was a new conversation to be had about the labels society gives us and the labels we give ourselves.

Traditional labels just don't seem to fit anymore. These labels are limiting the possibility for people to question more and become who they are meant to be. By asking questions and challenging our own beliefs, I feel we can update all of our outdated labels and realize that labels need to evolve just like people do.

Thinking about being a whatever opened up a whole new world of intriguing questions for me. My romantic partner is fourth-generation African, so why can't she call herself an African American? My cousin Marty has dark skin but is Italian, so does she call herself African Italian? Can a gay couple consider themselves Catholic even though they are excluded from the church? Is a man who is married to a woman but kissed a boy when he was 12 considered bisexual? Are all those historical heroes of mine who also had extramarital affairs bad guys?

This book is about questions, rather than answers. Ever notice how the person who claims to have all the answers is usually a cult leader, a dictator, or just a really pushy salesperson? I am not any of those, nor am I a doctor, scientist, or therapist—even though I have actually played them on TV and in movies. What I do know is that if we keep asking really good questions about all these labels in our world, we may just come up with really good answers on how to change them. I hope that this book, and the questions posed in it, will inspire all of you to push away those labels that have been weighing you down, and force you to revel in your own experience and embrace love, family, and partnership in all possible forms.

1

AM I A PARTNER?

W
ho is your partner? Please take a minute to think about this question, and your most likely answer.

Looking at the people rallying around me when I was sick, I often asked myself who my partner was. To most, a partner can only be the person you are in a committed relationship with, or a business associate. Not for me. And not for my 12-year-old son, who so succinctly challenged that idea.

Two years ago, Jackson asked me if there was something I wasn't telling him. I replied, “There are a lot of things I don't tell you.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Adult stuff.”

He persisted. “What kind of adult stuff?”

This was the moment I had been anticipating, even dreading for months.

“Like romantic stuff,” I said, fumbling for words.

“What kind of romantic stuff?”

“Well,” I said. “Like how sometimes you can be friends with someone, and then it turns romantic. Or you can be romantic, and then go back to being friends. Like with Dad and me. Or romantic like Bryn and I were, and then we became friends.”

“So, are you romantic with anyone right now?” Jackson asked.

I took a deep breath, knowing that my answer, and his response, would have an impact on our lives for a very long time.

Jackson was right. There was something I hadn't told him. I was newly romantically involved, and he didn't know about the relationship yet.

I had become involved with a woman who was my best friend, and, as it happens, the person who is like a godmother to my son.