Sarah’s Birthday Party

There was, some time ago, a real birthday party for a real Sarah, a dear friend of mine. 

I admire Sarah for her spirited way of being the sort of woman who can easily and with comfort throw a party for herself; a woman having no doubt her friends will come and will enjoy themselves.  I am not such a woman. 

But I took permission from our friendship and Sarah being such a woman to ignite the story of this second act.  Its origins are here, in this throwing-a-party-for-herself woman who becomes the character in our story who rushes forward to welcome Daughter as she enters the dance party.

As for Madison and Kimberly, although I did meet that day two people with those names, I confess mine is a rather ruthlessness use of them for my own reasons.  I have no doubt my characters in no way resemble these real friends of Sarah. 

I did fall into an immediately intense conversation about literature with the young man named Madison.  And I did feel, as I sometimes do in these intellectual exchanges, challenged by him.  My authority placed in doubt by the question hung implicit between us, who was I to speak?  I belonged to no critical or educational institution that he, or anyone, might recognize.  And he, who had worked so hard to create a legitimizing place for himself felt compelled, even felt a duty I suppose, to pose the question, who was this woman to speak with such certainty about writers and writing?  

This is a recurring message for me.  Whenever I speak up passionately about ideas or cultural themes, although I have spent my life in in these realms, my travel there is illegitimate – from a certain point of view – because I go there without voucher or endorsement.  I float unattached, a spinster one might say, in my relation to our social institutions. 

For as far back as I can remember I have taken courage for this float from my father’s perception of my ability for it.  I’ve thought lately he may have willed my intellectual being into existence.  He was a standard bearer for enlightenment who held precious the joy of discourse.  He always, always encouraged every human’s desire, and mine in particular, to read and research, think and write.  His message, do the work, inform yourself, give a damn because this pursuit of consciousness and learning and evolving thought matters.  And let the passion fly. 

Audacious.  I know.  But who can blame me, a thinking daughter, for feeling as if I did not need any other permission?