Fifteen Years in Fifteen Minutes

John Jankowski

·

I was married one year for every minute I spent in divorce court two years ago. Still think there’s something wrong with that. Not that I would have necessarily enjoyed spending more time in the Jo Daviess County court house that morning, but there seemed to be something lacking. I guess one could argue that this is the logical outcome of when a holy sacrament is secularized: judges replace clergy, legal argument trumps holy writ. Everything was so pro forma, so sterile. Not that I would have preferred a whole lot of drama either. As bad as my marriage ended, things could have been much worse, turned much uglier. Thankfully, all of that transpired prior to our official date with the judge.

Fifteen years is a long time, especially these days when nearly everything’s obsolescence is planned and calculated in days, not decades. Or even a decade and a half, as was my case. While I prayed my marriage would last my life time, I also knew the odds were against it and us. Not only did our bond have to endure the usual pressures of money and children (one stepson), but neither of us ever felt we had the support of extended family, which arguably could have softened the worst of blows to our relationship. Neither of our mothers took very fondly to our union; and both of us heard loud whispers from friends and family members that neither of us were good for each other. I always got the sense, though, that my worse critics were those who barely knew me. Same applied to my ex-wife. Those closest to us may have had their reservations but could also see and appreciate why things clicked.

I’ll never forget a dinner party that my ex and I attended, back when we lived in Chicago and had only been dating. The host of the engagement, who also happened to be my relatively new boss, was incessant in his querying as to why my date was with me. He never came outright and said it, but there was no getting around the feeling I had at the time as to what he was insinuating: I was dating way out of my league, and she was clearly too much of a catch for the likes of me. Well, anyone meeting his wife would not have necessarily wondered why she was with him, but certainly would have ruminated on why she was wearing a skirt and he was clad in pants.

This wasn’t the first of such occasions but it was the most obvious. And while I never felt any sort of inferiority complex while we dated or were married, there were more than a few uncomfortable moments like this. But what really bothered me was the fact that — regardless of how beautiful she was when I met her — neither of us were attracted to each other because of looks. She was “sold” on me because of a paper I’d written for a class while the two of us attended Shimer College; I took to her because of the love she showed for her son. (She had sacrificed a great deal in her life for his sake.) Neither of us were exactly novices when it came to relationships, so both understood what anything of seriousness was going to take. Looks are fleeting, of course, and subject to improvement. Plus, she had the welfare of a child to consider as well.

Where did love fit in all of this? Did we love each other? Though she rarely told me she loved me, I suppose she expressed it enough. More times than not, I felt it. I know I loved her; and as she did for her son, I made my share of sacrifices for her. And for him. I doubt that we would have lasted fifteen years if we didn’t love each other. Now that we’re over, though, it’s fair to wonder if we loved each other enough. Or if there was ever enough to sustain us any longer than fifteen years. Or was our marriage on borrowed time?

I don’t care to get into details, but I’d argue that we’d reached a point in our marriage where want supplanted need. She may have needed the security of our marriage for the sake of her and her son for at least the first twelve years. But once she had earned her degree and had attained a level of economic independence, there was a change in her. I’m sure some soul-searching must have begun, and whatever flaws I had/have, must have come in for some rather close scrutiny. Not being perfect, I’m sure she found plenty of them. And when someone presumed “better” entered her life, a need to be with me was replaced by a want of being with… um, well… “better.”

Given where I am today — single with no interest in romance, whatsoever — , it would be easy to believe that she’s the happy one and I’m the loser. Fair enough. But even though we’re friendly these days, I can only hope to presume she’s happy. And I can only hope that I don’t convey the impression of being too much of a loser. For not only am I through blaming her for the demise of our marriage, I’m done complaining about it, or even feeling bad about it. Because being alone, stuck with mostly me on a daily basis, has done me a lot of good.

This will sound strange, but I truly believe I’m living as I was meant to, experiencing things as I was intended to.

Marriage was NOT a detour, though, either. I WANTED and NEEDED that experience as well. I don’t regret loving. I don’t regret sacrificing. I don’t regret marrying. But would I or could I do it again? Hell no!

I was listening to the radio this morning, and a man claiming to be a reverend called the station, wanting to make his bid for the best “anti-Valentine’s Day” song. His suggestion? “The Wedding March.” I’ll leave that request for all of you young lovers to mull over.

Marriage

Divorce

Wouldn’t Let Go of Me

John Jankowski

·

I was raised Catholic in Chicago in a blue-collar family. My father was not religious, but my mother is a devout Catholic. Or believes she is. As she has aged, her Catholicism has taken some awkward, unorthodox twists and turns, including a claim she made recently, saying that it wouldn’t surprise her if Jesus turned out to have been gay. This followed a rather heated discussion we had regarding “gay marriage.” But it wasn’t said out of frustration with me — we’ve battled before; instead, maybe, it helps her understand why Mary Magdalene never became Mrs. Christ, or why women were never ordained as priests. Whatever the case may be, I’m wise enough to not push the issue with her, knowing full well that I won’t change her mind.

Of course, she still thinks she can change mine. Even though I’m fifty and pretty settled in my ways as well. Wasn’t always this way. I had my falling out with the Church in my early twenties, right around the time I moved out. By then, not only had I become “politically aware,” but I’d discovered punk rock. Dyed my hair, bought a leather jacket, went to gigs, learned about anarchism. In other words, I rebelled. A little later than some, but I’d like to think my version was a little more mature, a little more thoughtful. More thorough — as I broke ranks with not only my family, but my faith, too. Never became a full-blown atheist, though. An acerbic critic and agnostic instead, who spent more than a few weekend nights debating “born agains” in Bughouse Square, often reducing them to tears. Not my proudest moments….

After a rather lengthy flirtation with radical politics of the left that ended with my knocking holes in arguments that I’d made for myself, I guess you might say I hibernated for a few years, returning to a life of study that I’d haphazardly embraced from time to time in my late twenties. Read lots of books: philosophy, social theory, history, politics, and even a little theology. I did so because I was confronting the big questions, wondering the usual wonders. The sort of stuff prompted by self-reflection, the mounting of regrets, loves lost and found, and political disillusionment.

Three authors proved key to my moving on. They were Christopher Lasch, Charles Taylor and Alasdair MacIntyre. By the time I read Taylor, I’d read everything Lasch had written up until “The True and Only Heaven,” ( http://bonald.wordpress.com/book-reviews-politics/the-true-and-only-heaven/). Lasch had provided all the ammo I needed and more to develop a critique of the left, and to set me on a course that eventually had me landing on the shores of reading the work of the post-structuralists and post-modernists, along with their critics, which included the editors of a magazine called “Telos” and the writings of Charles Taylor. Taylor’s “Sources of the Self” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sources_of_the_Self) was instrumental in having me re-examine my refutation of religion, challenging me to find something better that best explains who I am and who I’d become, along with the what upon which I had found/founded myself. I had no easy “secular” answers to these profound questions.

As I look back now, I can see that I could have benefited from a eureka moment, an epiphonic episode, instead of the intellectual slog I took before reading MacIntyre’s “After Virtue.” (//en./Aft/whttp:wikipedia.orgikier_Virtue). MacIntyre’s critique of the Enlightenment was similar to that of the Frankfurt School critics, but his embrace of Aristotle held out hope for me and mankind. The Frankfurters did not. But more importantly, after reading MacIntyre’s classic work and a couple of his related texts, I began feeling the floor of my disbelief falling out from under me, the proverbial scales slowly but surely falling from my eyes.

Not too long after my self-imposed hibernation ended, I attended a conference hosted by “Touchstone” magazine. I can’t recall the title but it addressed a lot of the same questions I’d been asking myself. This event also followed hot on the heels of my decision to become a revert to Catholicism. Secular answers to “the Big Questions” would no longer do for me. The Church seemed like a welcoming place to seek what I sought. And I knew that I would be making the biggest mistake of my life if I turned my back on an opportunity to re-explore what I’d condemned.

While at the conference, I met a fellow by the name of Dennis Martin, who turned out to be not only one of (if not) THE most intelligent men I’d ever met but also one of the holiest. We hit it off right away, as it turned out that he was Catholic and a parishioner of St. John Cantius, one of the few parishes still celebrating the Latin Mass in Chicago. I’d heard whispers about St. John’s, and it was on my list of parishes to visit. Dennis invited me to attend Mass with him, which I did the following Sunday, launching my full return to the Church. I’ve never looked back.

One last thing I’d like to mention. It was at the Touchstone conference where I had a very engaging discussion with an older woman. Again, a very devout Catholic. Again, very knowledgeable. What struck me most about her, however, was her interest in me, an imperfect stranger, whom she soon realized was carrying around a LOT of baggage. She listened patiently to the details of my journey back to the Church; my still ongoing struggles with my faith. With my family. With my soon-to-be wife. She asked questions, but never embarrassing ones. And when I finally finished, with her eyes glistening, she gently took my hand and said, “John, I guess God just wouldn’t let go of you.”

I pray He never will.

Catholicism

Revert

Catholic Church

Spiritual Journey

Touchstone

Flag-Waiving

John Jankowski

·

I must confess: Even after 9/11, the waters of patriotism, wrung from the tears of a nation, never washed over me. Sure, I felt horrible for all of those killed and injured, along with the countless loved ones who were also affected; but I can’t claim to have felt even the slightest inclination to rally around the flag. That’s due only in part, by the way, to the identity of the buildings that had been targeted. Being a peace-monger, the attack on the Pentagon only brought tears for the wounded, mortally or otherwise, not for any structural damage incurred. Nothing screamed “chickens coming home to roost” than a shot at “War, Inc.” A shame that the insurance company didn’t just simply total the whole building out.

The words “World Trade Towers” don’t exactly smack of patriotism either. Tall buildings, to be sure, on, of course, American soil. But New York City is more a symbol of international capitalism or world finance than Americana, with the Twin Towers being its literal and de facto pinnacle. More George Soros than Uncle Sam; more scone and espresso than Apple Pie. The loss of life so much more important than loss of any sense of prestige that those two phallic columns of now molten steel represented. For us or to the rest of the world, dang nab it.

As a former Chicagoan, now Stocktonian, if I feel any sense of loyalty at all — beyond family, friends and my parish — it is to my urban birthplace, where remnants of family still reside. And perhaps gradually to my new rural home. I take great offense to suburbanites claiming to be urbanites, and sub- and urban- ites claiming to be hillbillies. Even those of us with fewer ideas than teeth don’t claim that ridiculous label here, so we sure as hell don’t appreciate “weekend warriors” latching on to it.

Nationalism and patriotism in this country are abstractions, intangibles out of necessity. Our “nation” of fifty still largely disunited states, founded by a motley crew of disaffected European mutts and misfits, can’t possibly hold a so-called patriot’s attention — let alone his allegiance — for very long. This country is geographically too big; demographically, too diverse; and governmentally-speaking, far too bureaucratic to do so.
We pledge allegiance to a flag woven of propositions. Blood spilled not of loyalty to a people, but to the ideals upon which those people have chosen to identify with. Either by birth, chance or oath.

Wars and the rumors of wars then serve the purpose of resolving an identity crisis for us, as identifying enemies, real or imagined, often do. But with a nation as phantasmagorical as ours, that need is all the more pressing; particularly when, due to occasional economic downturns, our identities as consumers are bound to suffer lapses as well.

I pray that God will one day bless America…with an ability for its people to recognize that they were never any more blessed — or cursed — than other people living on our fragile planet; and if one most love a place, let it be the one closest to where you have chosen to rest eternally. Forever peaceably.

Labels: 9/11, localism, nationalism, patriotism, peace