Dirt

A funny thing happened to me as I researched my family tree. I was having lots of luck. I was the center of attention at family reunions with all of the family history I’d found. I was researching church and school records, old family letters and pictures, census rolls and public records in order to dig up all the information I could. And I found lots of interesting information, also known as dirt. I was having a blast.

But just today I remembered a conversation with my sister Diane from some time ago that stopped me in my tracks. She was working on my mother’s family tree. We didn’t have a lot of reliable information, but she wanted to record what she had found and present it to my mom as a surprise. There were a few dates she didn’t have. Could I tell her the date of my divorce?

No. I could not.

Did I know the date? No. I did not.

Would I look it up? No. I would not.

She was exasperated. Why not? She needed the date to make everything complete. Would I think about it? No. I thanked her for calling.

It was just too personal. Five solid years and at least one serious relationship had passed since my divorce. Still. No. I would not even consider it.

I have to face facts. I am obviously a hypocrite. I am delighted to jump into someone else’s life and stir up all manner of dirt in the name of “finding out what their lives were like” but I won’t even give my sister a date that she needs for basic record-keeping.

I’m not trying to keep my divorce a secret. There is no reason to, everyone knows I was married for years and have a wonderful 19-year-old son as a reminder. There aren’t lingering hard feelings. In fact, my ex sometimes shows up for holidays (to my family’s never-ending confusion) and he and I are in constant communication about our son. I’m willing to talk about my marriage and breakup with anyone who asks. In fact, I’ve been known to talk about it to people who have heard the story many times and wouldn’t mind changing the subject once and for all.

And what does a date tell you anyway? Nothing about what really happened, that’s for sure. Nothing about the agonizing years that it took to understand that it needed to end and then to make the move to end it. Nothing about the long painful process of the actual proceedings or about being held captive in a judge’s chambers while she reviewed our financials between taking phone calls and shout outs from people walking by the office. Nothing about how on the day, after it was over, my ex and I ended up in the same elevator, and all I could think about was the day we started. Or about how I went to lunch alone at a diner near the courthouse and called my mother to let her know it was over, like a surgery that had been successful in cutting out the cancer but was only the beginning of the healing.

Giving her the date seemed like giving up control of the story, making it part of the public domain when I wasn’t finished with it yet. It isn’t some funny anecdote; it is a powerfully charged, defining moment in my life. I couldn’t bear to reduce it to a date on a piece of paper where someone might look at it and find it slightly interesting or, worse yet, of no importance whatsoever. It’s water under the bridge, but it is still my bridge.

As my mother says, “You might want to look at that.”

I know. She’s right. I’ve obviously got unfinished business. Frankly, I’m not sure I will ever finish that particular business. Like everything else having to do with the breakup of my marriage, it will take as long as it takes for me to let it go. The dreams and regret and promises and pain are still closer to the surface than I like to admit. It wasn’t until my sister called that I realized how close it still is.

So, I’m thinking about these relatives whose vital statistics I am brandishing as if I created these characters in a novel. What facts have I uncovered that would have caused them pain to reveal? Do I have any right to violate their privacy in the name of “Tracing My Roots”? It’s all very respectable until you realize that I am simply a nosy private detective who happens to be related to these people.

I can’t kid myself. I’m addicted. There is no way I could stop this work now, even if my grandmother came back from the dead and threatened to disown me in the hereafter.

I’m not looking for gossip. I am truly looking for stories about who they were and what life was like. I can be respectful and resist the temptation to jump to conclusions about what I find and how they felt. And maybe I can give them something in return.

My divorce was final on December 20, 1999.

Go ahead, Diane. Add it to the tree.