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by Spike Gillespie "Hello? Naomi? It's me. Um, I noticed when I woke up this morning you were already gone. I'm sorry, did I make a pass at you in my sleep or something?" Naomi laughs. "No, actually my new tattoo was so sore I couldn't sleep, and Henry kept kicking me. I know your bed is big, but it's not big enough for the three of us." At the time, Naomi was my regular babysitter; she slept over nights I had to work late. Henry, my son, was three. And the only problem the three of us had sharing a bed was due to space, not some silly rule that suggests that women who sleep with their toddlers are fucked up. And that women who sleep with their female teenage babysitters are even more fucked up. And that women who sleep with both probably deserve a visit from Child Protective Services. We're all familiar with the concept of "wacky aunt," right? The one who is spoken of at reunions in the most hushed of tones. "We just don't know what happened to her. She was such a good girl growing up." Meet Aunt Spike. And it's not just my family that speaks of me like this — I've had it said to my face too many times to ignore it or get defensive. My lifestyle is what is known as fringe, and fringe went out for a whole lot of people in the early seventies. It's not something I brag about. Or even something that I think about much. Because what others consider odd is my version of normal. It's just who I am, and who I've been, going on two decades now. Such a big portion of my friend pie consists of other "outcasts" and "different" thinkers that I often make the mistake of believing the rest of the world is exactly like us. I forget that not everyone informs their kids that Santa is dead, Christianity is not necessarily right, and sex is something we can talk about over dinner. That we're not all pro-choice, pro-gay, pro-homeopathy, and pro-anti-corporation. Until, that is, I venture out of my liberal home city to somwhere besides a metropolis like New York or San Francisco (where I maintain satellite contingents of the freakish who also feed my warped notion of what is "normal"). Then, I find that my straightforward answers to polite conversation net me stares that suggest anything from, "now that's interesting," to, "you're a fucking nut." Apparently, some folks are appalled that I seriously entertained my son's request to pierce his ear at the age of five. (Granted, I dissuaded him, but I would've given in.) Others are shocked that he and I attended a home birth together. And the time I responded to him calmly, in a public park, when he loudly hurled a profanity at me — hey, he used it in proper context — made even allegedly apathetic New Yorkers look up from their papers. Toss in the odd hours we keep and the fact that I give him freedom of choice in many areas where other parents dictate, and you can see how people are always asking me to explain myself.
Did I emulate them, ultimately joining their ranks completely, just to prove I was cool? I blush as I say quite possibly — at first. But I have a hunch that much of who I am was hardwired. That I found these people and joined them because I had some homing device that led me to them. You know, like a freak gene. Because while I've grown up, I've never outgrown what my family likes to call my "different lifestyle" — "a phase" they still hope I'll move beyond. So far, regardless of what led me to the fringe, nothing has led me back. Long after Belinda Carlisle grew her hair, married a Republican, and moved to France, I still have this thing in me. No, I'm not stuck in adolescence. And the anger and thrill that once drove me to seek "non-normalcy," at least in part, were exorcised ages ago. I decided I wanted more for my kid than hoping to make enough tips in one shift for both a six-pack and a new toy, and I've done all sorts of "normal" things since. I live in a tony neighborhood, I (gasp) have given up vintage and switched to the Gap, I raise a child and have a career and pay my taxes. If you passed me on the street and my tattoos were covered, you might mistake me for a soccer mom (again I gasp). Still, I know that I remain in some minority, and a very pleasant minority at that. There's no set formula to identify a fringester, so I'm not going to try. Nor am I here to pigeon-hole the non-fringers, to take them down or make some cynical evaluation of their lives (though there was a time that was one of my favorite sports). Nah, these days I've mellowed. I can even recall times I've practically envied the more conventional members of society. Occasions when I thought to myself that maybe if I hadn't moved so many times, maybe if I had started my career sooner, maybe if I had "settled down" and shut my mouth more often, maybe if I'd gone along — well, my life would be less chaotic. But I just cannot see having been able to do things any other way. Like, say, the way my sisters have with their husbands and their mortgages and their calmness. The best way I can explain my specific marginal lifestyle, as it is now, is by example. For starters, I'm a single mom. While the census bureau reports that there are no fewer than 10 million of us in this exclusive club, I am definitely a minority among the other parents at my son's school. And I always seem to register bonus points (you can tell by the slightly raised eyebrows) when I mention that I never bothered to marry the kid's father. The kicker, though, is when I try to explain our "family." Not the one that birthed and raised me, but the one we adopted here in Austin. To me, our family dynamic is so old hat, I don't dwell on it. Until people ask me how I manage to run a business and raise a child on my own. I answer that I don't do it on my own.
There are also a good number of non-fringe members in our group. Yuppies, church-goers, doctors, lawyers — even families with two straight, married parents. (Can you imagine? How utterly dull!) Uh-oh, it feels like I'm moving toward some big moral here. Probably because I am. No, I'm not going to say, "See, we are so hip and open-minded that we invite the unhip." I think that, for as much as my "normal" friends are attracted to what they perceive as my bohemian lifestyle, I am equally intrigued by their contentment to live quieter lives. I'm pretty sure that all of us share at least a little of the "other" team's ideals. Me? I swear to you, I have a normal streak inside a mile wide. You oughta see me when I get on a domestic tear, or have to speak professionally on the phone. Likewise, lurking in all of my non-fringe friends is, I'm convinced, some fabulous layer of fringe. Maybe in our past lives we held each other in contempt. Now, though, we've all been at our respective lifestyles so long, there's no need to hold one lifestyle up as somehow being "better." Sure, the unattainable (me with matching furniture!) will always hold some level of appeal. But mostly we just respect each other's choices (granted, with liberal doses of mock-shock tossed in for good debate measure) and admit in the end that we're most happy with the hands we've been dealt. I'm too settled over here in Wacky Aunt Land to ever seriously attempt to pull off normal for more than 24 hours at a time. But I can't wait for the day my nieces and nephews beg me to tell them stories from the life my siblings have labeled wild. "Oh, that time Henry and I ran away and joined the circus?" I'll laugh. "Why, that was just normal for us..." Last we heard, Spike Gillespie was living on the fringe in Austin, Texas. She is the single mother of the most darling child in the world. Illustration by Federico Jordan |
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