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You most likely have already read the introduction to Part One. We will
not bother you with redundancy. Read on, enjoy, write us at
<TheMrLee@hotmail.com>. Visit us at <http://pages.ripco.net/~metrdesn>

The Uncertainty of the Meek

by the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization

Part Two: Thereıs Nothing Sublime in You Absence

Sarah continued her guise of straightness. She dated boys until they
insisted on either too much time (say, two dates in a two-week period), or
wanted some kind of sexual satisfaction. Then they were gone. Her mask hid
me even more than her, as any rumorıs of Sarahıs sexuality would
immediately draw very undesirable attention to me, which I was
ill-prepared to deal with. With the protection of Sarahıs false love life,
we were free to show some affection in public, and, more importantly, our
parents never questions our sleep-overs, which evolved into three or four
times a week activity.

I could catalog every point on Sarahıs body that gives her pleasure, along
with exactly the right stroke, the precise pressure to draw her to the
height of ecstasy. As for me, Sarah discovered more of my erogenous zones
than I did.

I have, of course, given you only the oyster, while retaining the pearl
for myself. Our loving was the least wonderful aspect of our love, but the
moments of silent hand-holding, of hugs after her sports victories, her
joyous awe at my stories, all the things which measure the wealth we
had--they are narrative wisps, invisible to the outsider, floating only in
breaths we alone shared.

Briefly, in college, I saw a therapist. It was a short-lived relationship,
as she insisted that my relationship with Sarah was codependent and, thus,
bad. Her orthodoxy could not encompass what we had. I suspect my
relationship with Sarah was like one of those flowers that blossoms only
once in a century, so that most people who encounter it assume that it is
some more common bloom, never to realize how precious that singular moment
is. Certainly my therapist would have trampled a field of Century flowers
whilest on her way for a cheap red rose.

My therapist was correct in only one thing. You must continue to move when
even the earth beneath you is exploding with spears of lava and ash. My
ground began to erupt seven weeks before Sarah and I were to leave for
Columbia University, our first choice in a list that we constructed
carefully together, school for school.

My father was downsized in an era of high unemployment and grand malaise.
There was no hope to be found anywhere on the continent--outside Sarahıs
heart and my own, of course--so the prospect of paying for an expensive
private university education was selfish and imprudent, in my motherıs
words. We--a world consisting of my immediate family, but not Sarah--would
have to weather the storm together, and by staying at home and attending
UC-Davis, I would be pulling my share. I had enough scholarships to get a
de facto free ride at a California school, but not Columbia. I could cry,
but not argue the logic.

Sarah immediately planned on joining me, but her parents insisted, with
the same unshakable logic my parents employed, that she would not pass up
the opportunity Columbia represented.

Two years of catastrophic telephone bills and a summer of intense loving
was all we had left. Sarah left for France for her Junior year, and
returned out of the closet with a French lover.

The only memory of the rest of my college years was learning that my
parents knew Sarah and I had been lovers since we were in high school. The
night Sarah destroyed me, I blurted out to my mother that Sarah left me.
She pulled me into her arms while I cried for how many hours it was,
leaving me only to get me water and tissues. After my crying calmed to a
minor storm, she stroked my hair and said, ³Michi, my sweetest, youıll
find another love, I know.²

³No, thereıs nobody like Sarah. I canıt love anybody. . .² And then it hit
me. My mother just described Sarah as my love. I knew that, but I didnıt
think she did. The surprise momentarily took me out of my grief.

She read my mind. ³When you were sixteen, I saw you and Sarah kissing
rather, well, passionately. I was shocked, but wanted to think about what
I was going to say. I talked with your dad, and, well, we couldnıt think
of a better solution than ignoring it. We came to accept it, and then even
be happy for you that you found a lover like. . .² She knew as soon as she
said it that she was returning me to my grief. It took me a week to be
able to thank her for handling everything so well and for her to tell me
the whole story. 

Of my post-Sarah life, I think there is no memory I treasure more than the
calm, even happy look on her face as she described seeing Sarah and I for
the first time, and then starting to notice our hand-holding. I think my
mother loved Sarah, just as so many parents love their childıs spouse for
bringing their offspring such joy.

~~~~~~~~~~

My life continued on an unremarkable path once I graduated from college. I
decided to attend graduate school, quite possibly only because I was
particularly talented with languages (in their written form--my oral
communication skills remain to this day very limited, passable only
because I have a natural ear which takes to language lab tapes well). My
love was the classics: Ovid, Virgil, Cicero, Homer, Theucydides. I would
probably be a professor today if I could stand teaching. But teaching is
an extrovertıs game, so I found translation, an introvertıs sport. I have
published a translation of Cicero Iım quite proud of, but my main work
comes from translating legal and business documents into French and
Italian. There is shockingly little demand for legal documents in Latin,
despite the millenniums-old legal tradition arising from Latin texts.
Cıest la vie.

I settled in Portland, Oregon with my partner, Anne, who I met while I was
still in graduate school. Several years after buying a house together, we
decided we wanted a child. Adoption was the obvious answer, but at that
time gays and lesbians were having a difficult time getting adoptions
approved, and we both wanted a child which carried the blood of at least
one of us, if science couldnıt manufacture a sperm from our eggs.

Anne, my partner, and I, briefly enraptured by the I-ching, sat around a
tile-covered table, watching the dust whirls in the sun, as we focused our
energy on the sticks we were about to throw. Anne held the sticks, while
my hands encased her other hand. Anneıs raised hand hung in the bright
sunlight, the sun highlighting each of the divining sticks in turn, before
she thrust her hand down and sealed my fate more than even Sarahıs French
lover. The sticks splayed out before us, and we both could read the sign.
I was to bear the child. Life would dwell in me, life would come from me.
And, more important, we would know the father.

Anne was disappointed--I knew her too well to not notice--but she didnıt
complain. In so many ways, it seemed at the time not to matter who bore
our child, as we both were creatures of the meek, and our child was sure
to inherit the earth as had we. Of course, it did matter.

Anne and I took our I-ching very seriously. We had placed our energy into
it, we had studied carefully, so the decision would be right. Not only had
the prediction been that I would bear the child, but that we would know
the father. This proved a difficult matter.

Anne and I both knew men, of course. I had male coworkers, as did Anne,
and we both had friends who had friends, but there were no men in our life
who we were the slightest bit intimate with. No, we werenıt the
stereotypical man-hating dykes that everyone seems to want to portray
lesbians as, but when youıve gotten comfortable with women, men seem odd
and threatening, especially for the meek. But we were to know the
father--we couldnıt have a child without knowing him, and knowing him
intimately.

Now, lesbians would probably never take the direction Anne and I did. Most
major cities have sperm-banks and willing physicians who will assist
desiring woman in becoming pregnant. There are sophisticated screening
procedures ensuring that not only do you get top-grade sperm, but that
your child will have a greater chance of being President one day than
locating her father, if you or he so choose. Men can be involved in only a
jerk-off way. Most of our friends felt that was the way men should be
involved. Sleeping with a man, well, lesbians donıt do that once theyıve
left the closet. Bisexuals are a bit of a pariah in the les/gay community,
suggesting that perhaps our sexuality isnıt as fast as weıd like. But the
I-ching gave us no option.

~~~~~~~~~~

We met Tom in a gay-friendly coffeehouse. Not over the top with pink
triangles and dyke-power banners, but definitely out. A friend of a friend
of a friend recommended him through the chain. Heıd been scrutinized by a
dozen suspicious lesbians before he even learned our names. He looked good
on paper--no family history of any icky illnesses, intelligent,
calm-tempered, reportedly a very good guy all around.

While I donıt have a great appreciation for male beauty, it was obvious
that Tom was an attractive man, and he carried that assurance with him
when he greeted us. The way he slid the chair out from the table reminded
me of Sarah claiming her spot at the table--a sense of belonging carved
out by a gesture of grace.

Anne had been more critical of the candidates we had met than I, and I was
no pushover. Her posture said stay-away from me, her answers were
monosyllabic, and usually negative. However, Tom was a charmer, and soon
Anneıs shoulders had loosened, and an occasional smile found its way to
her lips. A second round of tea was followed by a third, and we started to
get excited.

Tom met all of our requirements. He wanted limited time with his child,
since he felt it is important for a child to know her biological parents,
but he didnıt want to interfere with our parenting decisions. The
interview process was for him a chance to decide if we could raise his
child the way heıd want to. If not, heıd walk away. He was willing to
provide some financial support, but expected that weıd take the bulk of
it. He was very charming. Very charming. We wanted a charming child.

-- 
This story is copyright 1999 the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization. Reposting is expressly forbidden, except with permission.

We at the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization adore feedback. Tell us what you liked, tell us what you hated, or just tell us you read the story. e-mail us at: TheMrLee@hotmail.com

Visit our wonderful Website at <http://pages.ripco.net/~metrdesn>

-- 
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