Looking for Lily

by Africa Fine

  I suspected that most of the class would want to refute Paglia’s assertion that women’s studies was “institutionalized sexism,” if only to justify our presence in the classroom. But I was interested in her take on women in pop culture, so I spoke before anyone else had the chance.

  “I think she’s right about Madonna. She’s a feminist, a role model. She’s sexual, and she controls her sexuality and how it is portrayed. It’s a performance-based marketing strategy, true, but it’s interesting and admirable.”

  I looked around the room. This was not long after Madonna released her book Sex, and people weren’t sure how to react to it. She’d placed women in a bind. If we called ourselves feminists, could we applaud what seemed like raw porn in places, even if it came from a woman? If we didn’t like it, were we prudes?

  The professor, a tiny woman with short blonde hair and a booming voice, looked around, waiting for someone to respond. She didn’t wait long.

  “Madonna cheapens sex, making it into a spectacle instead of a sensual experience. She is not a feminist. She is a joke.” Francisco’s tone left no room for dispute. I heard a couple of the other women gasp. It wasn’t proper academic form to speak in this way. We’d been taught that college was about debate. Francisco saw no reason to debate what seemed obvious.

  After he spoke, we looked at each other, and I almost smiled. I liked him.

  The class rolled on, with several women defending my view (more because they disliked Francisco than out of any sense of agreement with me, I suspected). At several points there was shouting before the professor turned the discussion to what I knew she would zero in on—the validity of women’s studies. I kept quiet, watching Francisco throw himself into that discussion with a vigor I admired (and would later loathe). We had our first date two days later, and it wasn’t long after that we were spending every free moment together.

  Francisco loved my Rubenesque body (he had been an art history major before choosing political science). The fact that he saw beauty where I saw fat made him even more appealing to me, and I began to see me the way he did. Not perfect, but appealing in my own right. When we talked about our pasts, he told me that he couldn’t imagine sex without love, and he declared his love for me in the same breath. I was suspicious of this, so I halved the number of men I’d slept with and told him nothing about my reasons for doing so.

  He was greedy for all types of cultural enlightenment, so we saw foreign films, went to art galleries, and listened to poetry at local slams. I soaked it all in, happy that I’d found someone who shared my love of Chinese films and Thai food. Francisco had an opinion on everything, and he seemed to know it all, arguing with me until I conceded that he was right.

  Some nights, we would go to the theater and then out for a late dinner, and I would agree with him only because I knew we wouldn’t eat until I did. We did what Francisco wanted, and I went along. I let him have the last word most of the time, not because I thought he was smarter than I was (he was the only one who believed that) but because when he was happy, he was charming, intelligent, and exhilarating. I loved being around him when he was in a good mood, and good moods came to Francisco only when he got his way. So in the beginning, I did my best to avoid conflict.

  But soon, his need to be right took a toll on me. After two months of constant exposure to his views on everything from the best ethnic cuisine (Bangladeshi) to the correct brand of toothpaste (Aquafresh), I’d had enough and the arguments began.

  We argued over politics. I was a Democrat, a quite liberal one, but Francisco felt that Clinton wasn’t doing enough to help the poor and to promote what he called “The Latino Agenda.” Not one to bother with details, he never specified what that agenda was, and when I joked that I’d like to get a hold of the Latino Manifesto so I could peruse the details of The Agenda, he refused to return my calls for three days.

  Francisco claimed that Clinton’s plan to focus more on health care, welfare reform, and other “bourgeois” issues was a coward’s way to avoid the reality of millions dying in bloody African civil wars and imperialist America doing nothing to stop it. I joked that he was the only twenty-two-year-old Georgetown student who sounded like Ché Guevara. He cancelled our Valentine’s Day plans and instead spent the weekend at his parents’ house in Reston. When he told me he was going, I considered pointing out the irony of his retreat to a bourgeois enclave of privilege and wealth where he was known as “Frank,” but I decided not to push it.

  When Clinton proposed the “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule for gays in the military, I said it was silly but better than nothing. This sent Francisco into a frenzy. It came up on a Sunday afternoon in March as we were reading The Washington Post coverage of the impending congressional hearings. We were at my tiny apartment near campus, where we spent most of our time together, since his roommates alternately blared “Beavis and Butthead” on the television and fake reggae/hip-hop on the stereo by some white guy named Snow.

  Francisco’s filibuster on the absurdity of Clinton, rampant homophobia, and my “hopelessly naïve” political views lasted for twenty-nine minutes, at which point I got up to make myself a roast beef sandwich. I sat at the table listening to Francisco’s shouting, eating my sandwich and wondering how long it would take him to either leave or shut up. For the record, it took twelve minutes for him to come into the kitchen and ask me to make him lunch.

  One of Francisco’s passions was poetry, but it was the only one he kept a secret. At least he kept it secret from me. When I asked to see his poems, he claimed that he was too sensitive about his art to expose it to the likes of me. I wouldn’t appreciate it, he insisted, not if I thought that Freud was wrong about the unconscious. I shrugged and said nothing. I would do many things for Francisco, but I drew the line at endorsing Freud.

  At the end of March, three months into our relationship, I noticed advertisements for a poetry reading on campus. Francisco hadn’t mentioned it, but he became very busy writing and I deduced that he would be reading from his own work. I was anxious to hear the one thing Francisco wouldn’t talk about, and I also wanted to show him that I was a supportive girlfriend, even if I did doubt the veracity of penis envy as a guiding theory of behavior.

  I arrived just late enough to the reading so that the room would be filled and I could hide in a corner where Francisco wouldn’t see me. I wanted to surprise him with my praise and support after the reading. I was a huge fan of poetry, and I already had plans to write my master’s thesis and dissertation on some form of poetry. I looked forward to hearing local writers, and I was not disappointed by the first three people who read, two women and a man, who were interesting and talented. Francisco’s name was announced next as a newcomer to the group. I held my breath.

  He slinked out to the microphone and without acknowledging the crowd’s polite applause, began reading.

  I can no longer remember Francisco’s actual words, but the specifics of the poem aren’t important. The important thing is that his first poem was one of the worst pieces of writing I’d ever heard. The topic was war or love, maybe both, I couldn’t quite tell. What I could understand of his writing was didactic and melodramatic.

  I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. It never occurred to me that Francisco had kept his poetry a secret because it was terrible. I suppose on some level I believed him when he said that I was the reason for his reticence. I swallowed my horror, and then I felt an almost irrepressible urge to giggle. Laugh. Chortle. Bend over holding my sides with tears in my eyes. The poem and Francisco were that bad. And that funny.

  I knew right then that it was over between us. I could be with someone who wrote bad poetry, but I couldn’t be with someone so full of himself, so self-righteous, so obnoxious. It took hearing him read his poetry for me to see him as he was. What I saw made me sad. Francisco, and his poetry, somehow helped me see that I didn’t have to accept what men were willing to give. I could, and should, demand more.

  He finished readi
ng his second poem, which I didn’t even hear, and the crowd clapped its polite thanks. I joined in, trying to figure out how soon I could leave without being spotted. Then, I saw him walk over to another woman, familiar from the same women’s studies class where we had met (which Francisco eventually dropped, claiming the professor was a reactionary). He embraced her with a passion that I should have suspected wasn’t reserved just for me.

  I felt little more than a bemused interest in this exchange, and I was relieved that breaking up with him would be much easier. I remembered her name, Monica Coleman, but not much else. She was quiet in class and said little, and until now, I hadn’t noticed how much she resembled me. Round figure, dark skin, short hair, pretty face. I laughed to myself as I snuck out before Francisco saw me. At least he had been honest about liking a Rubenesque woman.

  I broke up with Francisco the next morning. Five days later, Monica Coleman stopped me after class.

  “Can we talk?”

  I looked around for an escape. She seemed nice enough, but it was a beautiful April day, and I was in the midst of the most pleasant, relaxing week I’d had since I met Francisco. I was in no mood for any kind of drama.

  “Please.” She smiled, and something about her smile reassured me.

  I looked at my watch and saw what my stomach already knew—it was noon. “How about lunch?”

  Neither of us had any more classes that day, so we walked over to a nearby Indian restaurant and ordered samosas and spicy chicken curry. The poetry reading had been the last straw for Monica, too, and she and Francisco broke up that week. She made the mistake of calling his poem charming, for lack of a better word. He went ballistic and called her an ignorant cow.

  “Charming?” I smiled at the thought of Francisco’s reaction.

  Monica shrugged, laughing. “It was all I could think of. That, and ‘absolute dreck.’ ”

  We ordered beers and compared notes. She’d started seeing him last August, and I marveled that she had lasted that long.

  “Well, I’m nothing if not persistent. And masochistic.”

  I told her about his parents leaving a message for “Frank” on his answering machine. We made fun of him, and ordered more beer. It turned out that Monica Coleman and I had more than looks in common—she was also from the Midwest (Chicago) and was fighting a parental mandate to be a doctor. She was pre-law, had already been accepted at Maryland, and was delighted at her parents’ dismay. We fell into that type of platonic, all-encompassing friend-love that only women can share. We’ve been friends ever since.

  Chapter 11

  “I knew an easy bet when I saw one”

  I knew Jack for a year before I let Monica meet him. Or before I let him meet Monica. I wasn’t sure which one of them might embarrass me more. Jack could tell stories of my baggy swimsuit. Monica could tell stories about college, about Francisco. Either way, worlds would collide, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

  Of course, Monica wanted to meet him the moment I told her we had a date. She volunteered to fly down from Atlanta the next day if necessary. I discouraged this. I told Jack the basic details of the Francisco story, including the fact that I and the woman who was now my best friend were dating him at the same time. I did make some small adjustments, making myself sound much less vulnerable to his charms and making his bad poetry sound even worse.

  Jack was intrigued.

  “I have to meet the woman who could bond with you over a cheating man.”

  “Maybe someday,” I told him. At that time, we had only known each other for a few months, and I was not sure we would develop the type of relationship in which we met each other’s friends.

  After a year, I couldn’t fight off Monica anymore.

  “Are you ashamed of me?” she asked. She put just the right amount of melancholy in her voice to make me feel guilty. I knew it was a ploy, but I couldn’t resist.

  “Of course not. You’re my best friend.”

  “Am I? Then why wouldn’t you introduce your best friend to your new boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. I told you, we’re just friends.”

  She pounced. “Then why are you hiding him from me?”

  I put up a fight. “You live in Atlanta.”

  “It’s an hour’s flight away. I’m going online now to make reservations. How does next month sound?”

  It was over. Worlds would collide. I could only hope that the two most important people in my life would like each other.

  “Next month sounds perfect.”

  Monica picked a bad weekend to come to Florida. It was Super Bowl weekend, and Jack, a Panthers fan, was rabid because Carolina was playing the Patriots and he believed, against all reason and evidence, that his team would win.

  Football was one of the things Jack and I shared. We watched games every week, even during the preseason, and until he got TiVo, we argued over which games to watch when two good matchups were on satellite at the same time.

  My love of football went back to high school, when I tried to develop hobbies that would distract from the fact that I was fat. I couldn’t play any sports, but I learned everything I could about football. For a while, I thought it would get me dates, but then I realized that most guys don’t even want to watch football with their girlfriends. Football and sex occupy separate worlds for guys, and the less crossover the better.

  But sex was not on the agenda for me and Jack (at least, I didn’t think it was on his agenda), and when he found out I liked football, he was impressed. We were at the pool and I mentioned plans to watch on Sunday.

  “You like football?”

  I smirked. “What, I’m a woman so I can’t like football?”

  “No, it’s just, most women don’t.”

  “Well, I’m not most women.”

  He laughed. “So I’m learning.”

  From then on, we made plans to watch together, usually at his house because his television was bigger and he subscribed to a service that let him see any game he chose.

  On Super Bowl weekend, 2004, Jack and I had money on the game. He mistakenly believed that the Panthers would beat the Patriots, and while I wasn’t a fan of New England, I knew an easy bet when I saw one.

  “Why are you even a Panthers fan, anyway? You’re from St. Louis. You live in Florida,” I asked as we decided the terms of the bet.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I went to the University of North Carolina for undergrad.”

  “State school, huh?”

  “Just like Maryland. An inferior ACC opponent, by the way.”

  I feigned shock. “Inferior? Please. You’re in trouble when college hoops starts.”

  “Hoops? Aren’t you hip.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “No one says ‘hip.’ ”

  Jack waved me off. “Whatever. What’s the bet?”

  I pretended to ponder, even though I already knew what I wanted.

  “If New England wins, you have to cook and serve me dinner for a week. If Carolina triumphs, I cook for you.”

  He smiled as if he was getting the better end of the bargain. “All I can do is cook spaghetti and make sandwiches. And I prefer a more gourmet palate. I’ll find some recipes for you. Sucker.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  He was the sucker. Either way, I got to spend every night for a week with Jack.

  * * *

  The stakes were high that weekend, and Monica had chosen it as her weekend to visit, mostly because she knew nothing about sports. By the time I realized what she was planning, the tickets were bought.

  “Why would you come on Super Bowl weekend?” Monica had called to tell me her plans.

  “What’s the difference?”

  I sighed. She was such a girl.

  “The difference is, Jack and I will be watching the game. We have a bet. This is important.”

  Monica clicked her teeth. “It’s just a game, Tina. I can’t believe you want to put baseball ahead of me.”

 
She always played the guilt card, probably because I always fell for it. I gritted my teeth.

  “Football, Monica. The Super Bowl is football. Seriously.”

  “Whatever. I’ll watch the game with you,” she suggested, her voice bright. “So it’s all settled.”

  There is nothing a true sports fan hates more than watching an important game with someone who knows nothing about the sport. I decided not to tell Jack about Monica’s ignorance. He would be distracted by getting to meet her.

  “You just have to promise not to embarrass me by asking dumb questions.”

  “Like ‘where are the bats?’ ”

  We laughed. “Exactly.”

  * * *

  It was a perfect winter day when Monica arrived in West Palm Beach. It was cooler than normal, giving Floridians a chance to wear all those sweaters we didn’t need eleven months of the year. When Monica saw me waiting at the baggage claim, she burst out laughing.

  I looked around. “What?”

  “You actually own a leather jacket?” We both thought of the high-school guy I dated, the one with the leather jacket that my aunt hated. Well, my aunt hated them all, but this one offended more, his leather symbolizing a fatal character defect.

  “Guys can’t wear leather. For women, it’s fine.”

  Monica snorted. “Forget about that high-school guy, who probably was evil. You live in Florida.”

  “A Floridian can’t have leather?” I spread my arms wide. We both looked around, and at least five of the people waiting were wearing leather jackets.

  Monica shook her head. “You people are insane. It can’t be less than fifty degrees out there.”

  I grinned at her. “Forty-seven today.”

  Monica arrived Friday afternoon, and I asked Jack to come over for dinner that night. We would go sightseeing Saturday, since Monica hadn’t spent much time in South Florida, and Sunday was the game. I planned a full itinerary to cover all bases: If Monica and Jack liked each other, the weekend would be fun. If they didn’t, well, we would all be too busy to think much about it.