Assumptions Make an Ass out of . . . Well . . . Me

As I sat down at the table with 4 other women at my new(ish) place of employment, all the socially awkward nerves fluttered in my belly, making my I’m-trying-to-leave-enough-for-everyone-else tiny scoops of salad and apparently-one-more-than-everyone-else tiny pieces of cheese bread no longer seem appetizing. They all seemed to know each other well, and quickly proceeded to dive into a conversation across the table about the various sports in which their children are involved. Neither having children nor interest in sports, I tried to look approachable and pleasant as I sat there with little to contribute. Until the moment one of the women turned to me, recognized my first name from elementary school (Fawn tends to stick in people’s minds), and proceeded to ask one of the more awkward questions I’ve gotten:

“Fawn . . . Fawn . . . hmmm . . . and what was your maiden name again?”

Flustered by a question I’ve literally never been asked before, I sputtered something along the lines of “um, Kemble? I mean, it’s the same. Kemble. I mean I don’t/didn’t have a maiden name?” And I may have vaguely pointed to the prominent work nametag I had on my shirt proudly proclaiming “Miss Kemble” in a room full of Mrs.

Returning to work at a school I attended as a child, in a city I’ve been away from for over a decade has been an interesting experience. And while I’ve been met with nothing but kindness, an adorable library to make my own, and excited students, I’ve also been met with an endless pit of awkward questions.

I get it. I’m vaguely recognizable to many people here. My mom taught here for a bit. My dad was beloved in one of the local churches, and a couple local businesses. And I attended church and school there until, well, until I didn’t. So the assumptions make sense. In this world where our city likes to pretend it’s a small town, and this protective local white evangelical bubble many never left, assumptions hold a certain logic.

“And what grade are your kids in?” Most of the people who work for this school have or once had children (plural, almost always plural) who go or went to this school. Makes sense. You get a discount if you’re on staff. So my “oh, I don’t have kids” often leads to looks of surprise and even confusion.

“What year did you graduate from here, again?” leads to my awkward grimace and the “um . . . well . . . I didn’t graduate from here. I graduated from one of the local public schools. I left here in the middle of my freshman year.” This one either entirely shuts down the conversation, or requires further explanation on my part which I usually answer partially, relying on my family’s poverty and inability to pay for private education once my mother no longer worked there. I don’t go into the rest of it, as I just met these people (or re-met them after 15+ year) and am pretty sure they wouldn’t like my full answer.

There are also the well-meaning yet slightly painful references to my parents, and how much they were loved back in the day, and by the way, how are they? Which requires my stuttered reply along the lines of, “ah, well, yes, um, my dad died? When I was 24? It’ll be 16 years ago this month. But mom’s good, she’s retired and loving being a grandma . . . “

There’s the “and what does your husband do?” question. And the surprised “you look a lot younger than you are!” when my reply to their “don’t worry, there’s still time to get married and have kids” is “I’m 40 and pretty sure it’s not going to happen, and am pretty content with that.”

And, since I’m now a librarian instead of a teacher, there’s the inevitable teacher-splaining from other educators who expect all non-teaching staff to be less educated/experienced and are therefore shocked when I say “when I was a classroom teacher for 8 years . . . “ or “when I was getting my Master’s degree . . . “ or “actually, the latest research in early childhood education says . . . “ And I know I shouldn’t do that, that I’ve got nothing to prove or whatever. But I kind of do have something to prove, don’t I? Prove that I’m worthy of the job I’ve been given. That I know what I’m talking about when it comes to their kids. Prove that there is thought and research and experience behind my decisions in the library.

That’s the thing about assumptions. When they’re made about me because I am in a conservative Christian environment in a “small” (not small at all) “town” (actually a city), I end up having to awkwardly defend myself for not aligning with them. I didn’t adore each and every moment as a student here, graduate from the high school, go on to Christian college, get married young, have babies, slap an NRA sticker on the back of my SUV or truck, vote republican, buy a MAGA hat, remodel my house from Hobby Lobby in the style of Chip and Joanna Gaines, and invest in a month’s supply of capri pants.

Okay, so I guess I have some assumptions about others to break through myself.

I guess we all have to deal with assumptions made about us by others. Married, or single, parents or childless, old or young, liberal or conservative, men or women, we are all viewed through other people’s expectations. I’m working on trying to remove the cultural lens through which I view people, and replace with the love and grace of Christ. For each person is Christ’s workmanship (Ephesians 2:10) and bears the image of God (Genesis 1:27). The only assumption I should make is that every person I come across is the beloved child of my heavenly father. Cheesy, yes, but wouldn’t that be an amazing way to see the world?

What are some of the assumptions you’ve had made about you, and how did you respond?

On Cousins and Capitals

I wasn’t expecting to like Washington DC as much as I did. I mean, I’m no fan of the current administration, and thought it was a little sad that this is the first time I’d see the capital. I’ve always struggled with patriotism because my love of country is not a blind love; I am all too aware of the bodies we left behind and continue to break in the name of power. Yet there I was, wandering around the city with my mum, uncle, and cousin and enjoying every bit of it (and not just because the Library of Congress is my little librarian heart’s national home).

Everywhere we turned there were great buildings inscribed with noble, courageous, and beautiful quotes reminding me that some of the dreams this country was built on were beautiful. It’s been hard to remember that lately. In a time with Truth is NOT Truth, it’s easy to get more and more jaded about America.

There are also reminders of some of the worst our country had and has to offer. Exhibits in various Smithsonian museums revealing our poverty, racism, sexism, and cruelty. Memorials and monuments honoring brave men and women who sacrificed their own lives for mine.

But also memorials and monuments to some pretty vicious, violent, selfish people as well.

Portraits of presidents both good and bad, but mostly men with mixtures of both; all men, no women, all white, save one. Somehow, this district manages to be inspiring and sobering simultaneously.

It was in this environment that I got to know my cousin, who I had only met once before when I was 11 and she was 17. I was worried it would be awkward, but instead it felt like we’d always known each other. I consider this smart, kind, kick-ass single mom yet another answer to my prayer for family made 2 years ago.

As we wandered around DC and then various cities in Virginia, chatting and laughing together, there were so many moments when we realized how many things we have in common which must either be genetic or from the fact that my mum and her dad grew up together and therefore raised us with some commonalities. Gringo tacos. A love of Bob Ross and his happy little trees and clouds. A passion for reading. Wanderlust. A Puritan work ethic. Shared memories of our grandparents.

I’m sorry it took me so long to visit DC, and even more sorry it took so many years to get to know my cousin. But God is good and it wasn’t too late. I flew back to my beloved LA with more hope for my country and my family. With the reminder that the current president is not (yet) a dictator and my voice of dissent can still be expressed (for now). With the conviction that I must not stop praying and marching and voting and calling and caring. With the joy of knowing my cousin, new-to-me, is just a text away.

God is good; I’m working on remembering this, praying to grow in faith, hope, and love.

Here’s to the Picky Ones and the Sufferers of Unrequited Love

I have fallen in love at least once in my life, possibly more depending on your definition. And I’ve had many a crush. Yet here I am, still single. Always single. So what happened?

For most of you who are married or who have life partners, you once fell in love with someone and they happened to love you back at the same time in the same way. But there are a few of us out there who have loved those who never loved us back, not in the same way. And perhaps people have fallen for us who we just could not love back. That’s all it takes to be single.

Yes, I could have married someone I wasn’t in love with in the hopes love would grow (it happens) or a “good man” who’d make a good father and provider in order to have the traditional family. I’m not judging this. I know people who have done so and seem happy.

Since I don’t view marriage and parenthood as the main way to glorify God in life, as necessary for happiness, as a woman’s only role in the world, or as God’s will for each and every person I have the freedom to choose whether I want to marry or not.

Because I live in a country and time when a single woman is quite capable of providing for herself, when I do not need to rely upon a husband, brother, or father for safety, housing, and food, when I don’t need to bear children to farm my land, when I can vote and work and earn I do not NEED to marry.

My heart has yearned for marriage, and it has been broken more times than I would have liked. There was the beautiful boy in high school with his long hair, his all black wardrobe, his quiet demeanor. The lead guitarist of my favorite local band who was too old for me, but still wonderful. There was the man in college who had traveled farther than anyone I had met before, an adventurer who loved God and life, the one I know I fell in love with. There was my dear friend who changed so much, going from kind and sweet to harsh and lost, breaking my heart more than I thought was possible. The always laughing Scottish guy in Australia. The intellectual artist who flirted well but meant nothing by it. The funny guy with hidden depths who I was just getting to know better when he passed away suddenly, crushing all of our hearts. But you see, none of these men loved me back. Not as more than a friend, a sister.

And this is the way it goes for some of us. And it is fine. These men were not required to fall for me. In fact, some of them have since married beautiful, intelligent, kind, amazing women who I approve of endlessly. I’m glad they waited for someone they fell madly in love with.

There have been men who seemed to love me (not many, but a couple) but who I could not see myself living forever with. And I do not regret this decision. Even the proposal I turned down from my boyfriend in Australia (I must sheepishly admit he was NOT the Scottish guy mentioned above) because I didn’t trust him, didn’t think his faith was true, didn’t think his commitment would be real. And sure enough, his marriage to the woman he dated after me crumbled quickly due to his infidelity so my instincts were solid.

So yes, I am picky. I have been picky. But I think everyone should be picky in this regard. I know many Christians are told they have unrealistic expectations and should lower their standards if they want to get married. I know friends, women mostly, who have been told this by pastors, counselors, and professors, like they are sinning by holding out for a person they can love deeply. I disagree with this. I’m sure there are some naive people out there holding out for a knight in shining armor or a supermodel, but that has not been my experience with singleness.

Some of us are Charlotte Lucases, willing to be more pragmatic for a family and home and security, even if it means being married to a fool of a man like Mr. Collins.

And some of us are more like Elizabeth Bennett – only willing to marry for the deepest of love, and perfectly ready to be the spinster aunt if that never happens. Sadly, there isn’t a Mr. Darcy for all of us.

My father always said it was better to be single than married to the wrong person. This has steered me well so far, so I have no intention of living any other way any time soon.

So here’s to the picky ones, those who would rather be single forever than settle for a loveless marriage, an awkward partnership, or a spouse with lackluster faith. May our lives glorify God in the special way he has planned for us, and may we stand strong in our faith that this plan is best for us even if it doesn’t look traditional