Le maudit Mo D.

the day molly died

I was driving my Corolla between Half Price and Bookpeople contemplating my future as a writer. For most of my life, I have gotten away with being deliciously selfish, and tonight was no exception. Not finding the secret code for literary success in any fiction Bob owns (which is all nihilism and sci-fi--no thanks), I had blown off two opportunities for improv goodness to indulge my muse, feeling like an asshole and a spoiled baby, when a voice on the radio announced that Molly Ivins had died. I started crying. I usually don't cry when celebrities die, but tonight, feeling pre-menstrual and childish, I made an exception. I knew she had cancer; the circumstances weren't shocking. But as I felt the weight of this loss, the tears followed. Gravity prevailed.

I started crying harder when I remembered that Molly, like Gloria and Betty and this Thelma Golden Golden Girl I keep reading about, was one of the numerous Grand Ladies of the College whose successes were paraded around to us back in the 'Hamp who, for better or worse, inspired me to set impossibly lofty goals for myself and then run screaming from all of them. But unlike Gloria and Betty and Golden Golden, she was a true Texan and therefore real, down-to-earth and even more of an inspiration. In my youth I wanted nothing more than bricks and ivy, silver spoons cupping delicious desserts, snow and privilege and clangy radiators to keep me warm and awake at night. But I left all that for reasons I can only assume were subconscious, to move to Texas in 2000. Though I've never felt like a true Texan (I've described my regional lineage as "Calitexan Yankee"), I've always felt at home here. That said, I've often felt like I've been wasting something by being here.

I always felt cheated that Molly never spoke at Smith when I was a student there. She, if anyone, could have knocked some damn sense into us fool girls.

A few months ago I was on the phone with my mother when she let this zinger go.

"I've never told you this, but when you were younger I had your I.Q. tested, and your score was really high?"

Dare I ask, how high?

"180. But I never wanted you to know."

"Then why are you telling me now?"

I arrive at Bookpeople, mop up my tears with the sleeve of my coat, and head inside. I am intending to purchase "The Anti-9 to 5 Handbook," a recent Seal Press release, but they don't have it. Either it hasn't been released yet, or some other greedy bitches came in before me and scooped up all available copies. Whenever I am at the Peeps, I always walk through the fiction aisle trying to divine the answers to why these fucknuts got published. They are all fucknuts to me, as I am feeling particularly misanthropic tonight, and am astonished at the unfairness of everything. As I am combing through the stacks, I recall another conversation I had with my mother once, where she revealed to me that she has trouble respecting women who aren't mothers. She made an allowance for women who wanted children, but due to medical constraints, couldn't have them. I felt she was accusing me of being selfish for not wanting children, even though I know in my heart of hearts I'd be an ass mother. When I see other women oogle and coo at other people's babies, I am dumbfounded. I don't wish to do that. I thought about my medical constraint and how, should my PE surgery be successful, in two or three years I am free and clear to populate the world with my mother's grandchildren, but I won't because I mostly dislike children, though I love exceptional children. Average children irritate me. I told my mother this, and she accused me of being an elitist, which I am.

Therein my alibi: 180 IQ.

I really want this book that will help me with my career choices. I already got the marriage thing down, and might I say, SCORE, but I'm not done being mean to myself. I went to Smith, my goals are in line with their teachings, which, it is not okay to be average.

Molly was only 62, I think. That's not old. Not much older than my mom.

I wished, for a second, Molly could have been my mom. I would be better off with a feisty mom. I did not get a feisty mom. I got the opposite. Would my life be different if I had been raised to have a voice? If my mother hadn't kept my IQ test scores to herself all these years? If I had a voice like Molly's, would I have what I so desperately want in my life?

You punished me for speaking the truth. For speaking up. I was thirty years old when I finally realized this.

When I get home, my inbox is flooded with the news from the Austin Smith Club. My e-mails been acting wonky. There is also an e-mail from Val, with her notes for my novel.

I decide to cry again, and write this. Because it's all I really wanted to do tonight. And I usually get to do whatever I want.

Posted by Zerd at January 31, 2007 08:55 PM