The ink hadn’t dried on my divorce papers when people started asking me why I wasn’t dating. Their pitying eyes seemed to say, “So, you don’t have a man? Oh, there must be something wrong with you.”
I’ve always known I’m not normal. In fact, there’s a very good chance that I’m not an Earthling. Life on Earth has never come naturally to me. It’s as if everybody around me got a memo that I missed.
For starters, I’m the most clueless person on the planet. I wish I had a dollar for every well-intentioned person giving me directions who said, “You can’t miss it.” And of course I missed “it”–– whatever “it” was. It’s a miracle I didn’t get myself killed when I first started driving––I was constantly going the wrong way on one-way streets and changing lanes on the highway without checking my blind spot. (Turning my head made my hands swing on the steering wheel, so to change lanes, I just did the sign of the cross and prayed I wouldn’t hear the thump of hitting a car.)
I’ve spent my life nodding and smiling, pretending I knew what people were talking about. Whether it’s reality TV or the newest government official who called the president a name––I’m always disconnected from current events.
So just imagine my terror when my divorce came through and I had to re-integrate myself into society.
I’d been sheltered. I was a mother of FOUR little kids. Those four little creatures had no choice but to consider whatever I did and said as normal––they had no point of reference. So I was happy to stay in my cave with them and have an alien party every night, hiding from the world.
But now, my four little alien friends had another house to go regularly. And when they spent days with their Dad, I was alone.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed the hours of solitude, journaling and reading––especially between the separation and the divorce, when the kids’ visits to their dad were less common. But after a while, the grave-like silent place started to get me.
Having young kids, my definition of “having a drink” was grabbing an apple juice box, and a “fancy night out” meant watching a Disney-Pixar Movie––If I was lucky we could get it on-demand instead, so I didn’t have to leave my couch.
But even before kids, I was never a normal young woman. I was a medical student––and then a resident, and then a fellow. By then I didn’t know how to begin an adult conversation that didn’t start with something like “Tell me about your symptoms” or “65-year-old male with a past medical history of…”
(Taking a deep breath). Don’t panic. It wasn’t a big deal––right? I’m sure everybody recovering from a divorce goes through it.
Maybe it started because I was two years younger than all my classmates. When you’re five and your classmates are seven, those two years make a huge difference––also when you’re eleven and still want to play with dolls, while your thirteen-year-old girlfriends are already getting into makeup and boys.
And why was I two years younger than my classmates? That’s a long story. For now, suffice it to say I was a nerd from the crib. And that didn’t help the Alien complex either! I was the weird girl who couldn’t wait to go to school an got excited to learn new things (and here my classmates were throwing freaked-out looks at me). I was the one student to whom the exhausted, underpaid teachers desperately clung, as a proof that not all was lost.
“See?” my poor teachers would say “Diely got it! She scored an A on the test! So, it’s not my fault you all failed it…Please someone tell me it’s not my fault!” (and here my classmates threw hateful glares at me).
Or maybe the Alien-complex had to do with moving to that new city when I was eight. I was happy in my small town, Salcedo, where everybody knew me and I could be out at night because the neighbors would make sure I made it home safely. Then I was uprooted and moved to that “Big city” (big for Dominican standards) “San Francisco de Macorís,” infamous for its crime, drugs and political upheaval. My parents didn’t let me out of the house––especially not after dark. While all the kids in my class got together regularly, I was the one who never made it. I listened to their stories the next day, feeling like an outsider. I remember one day, looking through the bars on the windows, watching with longing eyes a group of younger kids playing together––fantasizing that I was a little princess locked in the tower of a castle, envying the village kids.
Or maybe the Alien complex had to do with my atypical family. My family had a penniless-blue-blooded complex (but that’s another story). My parents would rather go hungry than quit traveling. They had expanded their horizons by traveling to Puerto Rico, the continental US, Canada, and Europe, and had developed more cosmopolitan tastes than the average Dominican. We listened to Mozart, talked about Renaissance European art, and got together with the uncles and aunts to sing harmonies–– while everybody around us listened to bachata, talked about the latest mistress-and-wife catfight in the neighborhood, and got together to drink rum.
And of course I shouldn’t complain for being different in that regard! We were the lucky ones! Everybody else didn’t know of all the fun they were missing! Yay!
Yet I’ll never forget the look of horror and disgust on my high-school friend Ivette’s face the day she saw me take a bite from something as weird to her as a tuna salad sandwich.
I remember my mother’s attempt to console me once. “Stop worrying so much about being different, Diely. Nobody really cares. Have you ever seen friends gathering to look at a group picture? Everybody goes straight to their own face to obsess about whether they closed their eyes, or didn’t smile well, or they got red eyes. Nobody’s looking at anybody else. It’s the same in life. Most people are only thinking about themselves and not sparing a thought on you.”
Which may be true, by the way. Have you ever been in one of those bathrooms with fancy sensors which are supposed to know when to flush the toilet when you’re done, or when to dispense water from the faucet, or hand soap? They never seem to see me! Everybody around me is washing their hands with no problem, while I’m desperately waving in front of a sensor that doesn’t know I’m there.
And of course, there’s being the middle child–– rarely ever noticed between a witty older sister and a cute younger one.
So, I grew up convinced that I wasn’t normal. And like law of attraction says, whatever you believe will come true.
In my case it came true the day I got a letter in the mail from the “Center for Immigration and Naturalization services” (now called Department of Homeland Security). The letter enclosed my new student’s visa papers saying, “This is your new Alien number.”
Years later I got rid of “The Alien number” by becoming an American Citizen. Still, my blunders trying to catch up with the American culture, and to hide what a misfit I am, would take a whole book. One example? The shocked look on the face of the first patient I greeted with a hug and a kiss––Latin style––without realizing Americans don’t do that.
I never fit anywhere. When I’m surrounded by other doctors in the hospital––the “real ones,” who have wives at home putting the kids to bed so they can see patients all day and night, (while I insist on going home by five), I feel like a Mom pretending to be a Doctor. Yet, whenever I am at any of my kids’ school activities, surrounded by other mothers, I often feel like a Doctor who’s pretending to be a Mom. I’ve gotten dirty looks from other moms for showing up in high heels and a work dress while they showed up in pajamas. Some have even shown a chip on their shoulder for not having a paid-job. If they only knew! They’re the ones putting me to shame with their home-made cookies and their volunteering and their chaperoning the school trip. Full-time Mothers are the true heroes who don’t have the escape I have––a work to go to when the kids drive you crazier than ever.
And the syndrome continues. I sometimes feel self-conscious about being a Fake child of the United States––a naturalized American Citizen, as opposed to the “real, natural children”––Americans born here. Yet, when I travel back to the DR, I often find myself out of place––no longer used to the chaotic traffic, the daily bread of expected corruption and crime, or even the lack of electricity and water. Then I feel (you guessed) like a Fake Dominican.
Well, the good thing was that now, each time my kids took off, I was forced to spend time with myself. I had to get to know me better. And that was vital. Because if I ever wanted to find love, I had to start by re-discovering self-love.
Was there ever a time when I liked myself? A time before children and medical school atrophied my capacity to socialize? Before the horrified look in my friend Ivette’s eyes when she saw me eat the tuna-fish sandwich? Before the little princess got locked in the castle tower? Before the looks of hate I got from my little classmates for acing the test?
Other people’s eyes become the mirror we use to develop our first sense of self. And in adulthood, people around us help us see the parts of ourselves we can’t see.
I realized that, until now, I had had all the wrong mirrors. Fun-house-mirrors reflecting a distorted image. From my loving, but distracted parents, to my little classmates, to my ex-husband. I’ve believed people who saw the bad parts of me, without reflecting the good ones. Or even worse, people who didn’t see me at all.
So, to my first commitment of finding again my self-love, I had to add another. I couldn’t try to save myself in isolation. I needed other people. I needed new mirrors.
I could no longer hide from the world with the excuse of being from another planet––I had to get out precisely because without others, I’d never stop believing that I was.
The Misadventures of a visitor from another (third) world in a new millennium, re-entering the world of modern dating.
Jeffery Lamar Bennett, 55, of Jasper, passed away Thursday, May 11, 2017 at Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta. He was born August 12, 1961 to the late Claude and Faye Bennett in Pickens County.
Jeff worked in the food service industry in Pickens County with the Pickens County School System, Amicalola House, Jasper Family Steak House; owner of Bennett’s Restaurant; and co-owner of Dough Boys. He also worked at Roper Funeral Home and most recently with the Pickens County Probate Court.
Jeff is survived by his spouse, Mike Degolier of Jasper; step-son, Mackenzie Degolier of Jasper; brother and sister-in-law, Dwayne Mark and Annette Bennett of Cleveland, Tennessee; nephew, Dylan Zachary Bennett of Jasper; niece, Lyndsey Claudia Bennett of Jasper; aunts and uncles, Dorthy Jean Bennett, Mary Lou Qualls, Mildred Taylor, Geneva Atkins, Bonnie Millians, Jerry Bennett, Louis Bennett, Don Duncan; and several cousins.
A celebration of Jeff’s life was held at 7 p.m. Saturday, May 13, 2017 in the Chapel of Roper Funeral Home.
The family requests in lieu of flowers, make a donation in Jeff’s name to the charity of your choice.
Richard Arthur Cole ( Dick) -passed away May 12th, 2017 in Jasper, Ga. He is survived by his wife, Janet Cole, and his daughter, Jamie Cole Morris (Thad), both of Jasper.
He was preceded in death by his youngest son, Airman First Class Richard A. Cole II. He was also a father to two step sons, Richard Lewis (Shelley) of Westerville Ohio and Michael Lewis of Eatonton, Ga. He was also a respected grandfather to three grandsons, Police Officer Taylor Lilley (Brianna) of Canton,Ga., log home builder Max Lilley (Hannah), and amazing student and Elvis tribute artist, Cole Posey. Two beautiful great-granddaughters, Stella Lilley and Raeleigh Lilley. And his pride and joy a spoiled rotten Golden Retriever "Sir Arthur's Ezekiel" aka ZEKE.
Richard also had three children from his first marriage, David, William, and Marla Cole, and multiple grandchildren, all from Ohio.
He was a faithful husband and provider to his family. He worked as a home builder, general contractor and a jack of all trades and mastered them all!
He loved cars, planes, dogs, the Ohio State Buckeyes and most waitresses that didn't spit in his food.
Richard was best known for his morning ritual of aggravating waitresses, cooks, and most democrats at the Waffle House, Maryanne's, The Carriage House and The "ROMEO" Guys at Bojangles. He was also well know at The Home Depot which was a daily stop to visit helpful and often cute sales associates for an item to fix or repair something his wife drug home from the thrift store, or to complete a home remodeling project his daughter dreamt up after looking at Pinterest. He also enjoyed mowing his five acres of grass and working in his garage.
Richard was an honest man that met very few strangers, always had a quick wit and a snappy comical comeback and an amazing ability to solve any problem or issue with logical advice or the threat of a few bullets.....he was a lifelong NRA member, a protector of his wife and daughter, proud Republican, Trump supporter and NASCAR fan...until they allowed Toyotas in the races. Some of his best advice was "Buy the best you can afford so you won't have to replace it often," "Do what makes you happy because if you don't you will regret it when you are older" and "Stay single and raise your kids up the same way" -funny coming from a man who was married the majority of his life......
He will be greatly missed, especially by his daughter who has a lot of projects and always went to him for advice on everything, a loving and extremely patient wife that has taken care of him for 35 years and served him dinner in his recliner nightly unless she set off a smoke detector or was "stalling" claiming to not know what to cook so he would take her to dinner. He loved the lord and we know he is rejoicing in heaven and finally home.
By request Richard chose to be cremated and placed next to his son and parents in his hometown of Wintersville, Ohio.
Our family would like to give a special thank you to all of the healthcare workers, nurses and CNAs that were so caring and patient with him over the past few months (especially when he was stubborn and grumpy!), and also Pruitt Nursing and Rehab and Hospice.
Instead of flowers please tip your waitresses in his memory or donate to Pickens County Animal Rescue or Foothills Golden Retriever Rescue FHGRR, Inc. - P.O. Box 9077 - Greenville, SC 29604
Cheyanne Nicole Hass, 22, of Raleigh, NC and Murphy, NC passed away Sunday, May 7, 2017 in Raleigh, NC.
She was a native of Cherokee County, NC and the daughter of Eric Hass and wife Maria of Murphy, NC and Dana Taylor Stone and husband Travis of Jasper, GA. Cheyanne was valedictorian of her graduating class at Hiwassee Dam High School in 2013 and then she became a student at North Carolina State University where she majored in Electrical Engineering. She was most recently an undergraduate researcher at the ASSIST Center Biointerface Lab. Cheyanne earned a spot on the Dean's List for six semesters. She held internships in her field the past two summers. The first was being a Control/Systems Engineering Intern for Corning Incorporated and also she was an Electrical Engineering Intern at Eastman Chemical Company. Cheyanne graduated from North Carolina State University in May 2017 and also earned a full scholarship to Duke University to earn her PhD in Biomedical Engineering. Cheyanne could always be found on campus eating with her brother, Austin Hass. She loved changing the world. Cheyanne had a great smile.
Funeral Services were held at 11 a.m., Thursday, May 11, 2017 at the Townson-Rose Funeral Home Chapel in Murphy. Rev. Ronnie Crisp officiated. Music was provided by Diane Crowder. Burial was held in the Oak Grove Baptist Church Cemetery. Pallbearers were Terail Clonts, Isaac Hayes, Lucas Hayes, Tucker Tenbarge, Lee Hughes and Bob Hughes.
Our hearts are full of gratitude when we say many thanks to family members, friends and neighbors for all acts of kindness and sympathy: food, flowers, donations to The Hinton Community Cementary, cards, visits, and kind words spoken to or family regarding the recent passing of a wonderful husband, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, D. H. (Ham) Childers.
We want to express special appreciation to Reverend’s Buck Parker and Gene Childers and to Johnny Barnes for their many kind words of comfort. To the Hightower family (Broken Ground Ministries) for the beautiful singing and to Cagle Funeral Home for their professional arrangements and caring service.