Glory Ho

In the early days of my pregnancy, I read Loving Frank, historical fiction which details the affair between architect Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick, a feminist at the turn of the century. It was magnificent. Everything I devour. A story with some truth. Real people from the past. Womanhood. Choices. Tragedy. Bits of my local Boulder. But most of all, it was a follow up feminist meets motherhood tale.

Growing up, I always thought I would be a Mom. Wasn’t that what women did? At the time, there were no childless couples in my small world. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening stirred my senses a bit in college. The heroine had children, but she dared to be as interested in her own passions as she was in them, and that was considered a scandal. Her conclusion was important. She said: I would die for my children, but I would not give my life for my children. This seemed to say that it was possible to have kids and maintain your self, too. I ran that by my Mom once as we were driving along I-80. She agreed wholeheartedly. And I was relieved.

As I evolved through my 20s, I always felt that feminism didn’t really work for me–couldn’t I be a good Mom AND my own person (with possibly a career) too? Why did feminism have to bash motherhood and why did motherhood have to bash feminism? Why was everyone so extreme? But this was the 90s, when a career just seemed like a good idea. I had yet to evolve.

From there, I began to settle into life, becoming enthralled with various pursuits–triathlons, non-profit volunteerism, book clubs, local feminism history, my own business and Buddhism.  I became so interested in life, that I realized I would fill it up–even without kids. It was strange to consider, but the notion eventually sounded normal instead of neanderthal. I met people without kids. And I liked them. I hadn’t made any decisions, but I realized that I had a choice. My mother, afraid to pressure me, encouraged me to do what was right for me. “Maybe you guys won’t have kids. That’s fine, too.”

Then we left the country. The idea of kids hovered overhead, sometimes part of the smog we inevitably breathed, other times, the very stars we wished we could see. We talked endlessly about future plans because that’s what you do in the Peace Corps. Would we live in DC and work for the campaigns? Teach English in Korea? Spend time in India? Move back into our house on Emerson?

It was such a paradox. We KNEW we wanted kids, but they were always the leftover screw after you thought you’d successfully put together the $99 entertainment center from Target. Where did they fit? But at that time, any ideas about home were far too surreal for concrete plans and we knew nothing could really happen until we were within a two mile radius of a Walgreens anyway. We’d successfully put it off again.

But Wanderlust or Bust opened portals to worlds we’d never even pondered. And although deep down, I knew the answer, there was a shift in my thought pattern that took me from “generally agreeable” to “ready”.

At first, I thought it was when a sick, sixteen month old Ugandan baby called Innocent fell asleep against my chest when we were living in a thatch-roof hut in West-Central UgandaLake Nkuruba teaching daily Social Studies classes and evening computer classes to orphans. But that’s not right. It was a week or so later, when we visited Sarah Burke, a Peace Corps volunteer. She was young, with naturally curly blonde hair, a subscription to Sun and a very optimistic aura. I was taking in her modest African bedroom–you know, the predictable photo of girlfriends gathered on the beach, demonstrating their loyalty through linked arms and tilted head smiles. And instead of reminding me of my own college memories, I instinctively thought: I hope our daughter one day has a bulletin board filled with the celebration of good friends and good times. I was thinking about a daughter I would one day have. I was instinctively projecting my own hopes onto someone other than myself. And I wasn’t pregnant.

That was the hour I first believed. The hour I first knew for sure, that I wanted to create a new life. Creation, no matter what you’re working with, is what life’s all about anyway. Right Brent?

Although there exist over 100 Egyptian pyramids, the three Giza structures, made of limestone, with the Sphyinx reigning amidst, remain the most famous.

The Pyramids are a full-on Monet. From far away, pretty cool. See above! You can see their swagger and hear their sexy voice say:

“I’m not sure how to tell you this, but uh, I’m kind of a big deal.”

And they are a big deal.

But up close, just as using your Canon 7 Pixel on your nose pores isn’t all that attractive, neither are the Pyramids. Why we expect a three thousand year old structure to be sanded just so and attract a celestial moonbeam spotlight is beyond me. This is our own mistake.

But Egypt has plenty of sand on their hands, too.

Around all three Giza suburb structures (Cheops, Mykerinus and Kephren) are trash, fallen stones, camel shit and genuine scam artists scarring the landscape made beautiful by MGM. Limp yellow ropes imply loose restrictions so that policeman can get bribes for allowing tourists to take a climb. Camel-posing for a picture will cost you a couple bucks, but no matter the price on which you agree, it’ll be double by the time you’re feet land back on the sand. Tomb ticket-takers demand tips for holding your camera while you crouch under the pyramids for a claustrophobic, but curiously creepy walk.(which unsurprisingly few people are comfortable leaving). At the Spinx-front, the touts were the most oppressive I’d ever seen in my life. Across the street is a Kentucky Fried Chicken where dirty barefoot children stare into the windows and begged for our fries by pantomime.

This is life, mixed in with a wonder of the world.

We all have our own fantasized images of life. Memories, for better or worse, are the most talented make-up artists, air-brushing the wrinkles, blemishes, scabs and annoyances out of ourselves, our family, our children and our friends. The further away these people really are, the more grand they become.

So it goes with these sandy slopes. Now, months after I wrote my original impressions, I wonder if I’ve been too harsh. Because upon reflection, although they’re not perfect, they’re still the Pyramids.

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Egypt could be the first country on our trip where we found the history more fascinating than current life. We’re talking about a land which was ruled by thirty dynasties and dozens of pharaohs for three thousand years. A civilization with customs so appealing that even the Romans played along for a century or two. Gold-plated and glowing with jewels only Carrie Bradshaw could successfully pull off, the ancient Egyptians were master planners and skilled project managers. They are what I call “china cabinet people”. Those who save their best pashmina, string of pearls or felt black hat for that special occasion which never comes. The Egyptians were saving it all for the afterlife, when they’d break out the marble game pieces, bejeweled thrones and papyrus-woven beds to play, pose and sleep like the rebels they truly were.

King Tutankhamun, which I recognize mainly from company logos was a lot like the Mona Lisa. So familiar from pop culture snapshots, that you must concentrate very hard to realize you are looking at his actual 24-carat gold casing. Little Tut took the throne at the ridiculous age of nine in the 14th century and ruled, I understand quite unremarkably, for no more than ten wild years (a shriveled, linen condom, required to keep mistresses from mixing their potential peasant lineage with royal blood, is on display). Yet because his tomb treasure were found in tact as recently as the 1920s, he’s the only pharaoh to get his own room at the museum and a nickname in popular culture. And it was impressive.

The Egyptian history, explained by our speed-talking tour guide, Tito, was a comprehensive overview of this ancient civilization—most of the world had taken a turn at Egypt—the Romans, the Muslims, the Ottomans, the British. Even Napoleon wanted to play. Alexander the Great is forever immortalized in Egypts northern namesake city. But our tour also included some dubious claims. Did you know that Ramses II’s 13th son perished after chasing the prophet Moses into the Red Sea (remember that whole “parting of thing”?) They know this because of the excessive salt found on his mummy (surely not a result of the mummification liquids) and the “bite” taken out of his foot by a sharkfish (surely not lopped off at the museum’s narrow second stairwell, my Dad suggested). I suppose depending on your audience, it’s tough to decide just where history and religion intersect.

As a fitting finale, the mummy room was my favorite. Eleven drying corpses, each kept at 22 degrees Celsius, lie still, awaiting their role in the next Indiana Jones movie. Wrapped in linen, arms crossed to indicate their royal blood, their black skin stretched like canvas across the brittle bones just beneath. Hair, some Rumpelstiltskin golden, the texture of a doll’s locks, clung like a last accessory to many heads.

Tomorrow we shall see the Pyramids.