Tag Archives: cohabitation

Kody’s Wives.

The Plymouth Brethren were, amongst all Christian fundamentalists, the most exclusive; amongst all Bible-believers, the most scholarly; amongst all patriarchal sub-groups, the most suppressive. They raised me. Clearly, I was conceived in the wrong ooze.

When not at this screen penning my life thoughts for all the world to [endure], and avoiding performance deadlines, I binge the occasional Tv series.  And, Kody’s “Sister Wives” has had me since day one.

For benefit of the uninitiated, Kody is a polygamist. Hailing from some derivation of the Mormon throng, he has, to date, four wives. They share some seventeen children, each wife with her own, newly-built home in a cul de sac in a remote corner of Las Vegas.

Meri is Kody’s first wife. Meri and Kody have one daughter, Mariah. Meri is particular, in noticeable need of some degree of control over her domain; even when a whole house is built for her, with no publicly disclosed financial contribution toward it on her part, she still insists that its every angle and accoutrement be exactly as specified. Meri says to the Tv interviewer that she is completely happy in her relationship with Kody. But, although Meri does not say so, I wonder how content or happy Meri is with her life, taken as a whole. Meri may never fully disclose herself. She reminds me of a man I once knew.

Janelle is Kody’s second. I am not privy to the circumstances which have led to Janelle’s appearance on Kody’s scene, having missed the first few episodes and played catch up thereafter. I do however know, and notice, the stark contrast between Janelle and Meri; Janelle is laid back, accepting of the big picture, never sweating the small stuff. While Meri has somewhat of a designer’s aesthetic, Janelle appears to have no regard for any. But, Janelle has produced several children, close in age, and perhaps her hormone panel is what distinguishes her most from Meri. She reminds me of a girl I once knew. Interestingly, Kody has enjoyed a kind of second honeymoon with Janelle, of late, reasons about which we viewers can only wonder. Perhaps Janelle’s active attempts to get her overweight body in shape have inspired her husband. And, Kody has never tired of her kisses – something he’s told the world.

Again, I can’t comment as to the time lapse between Kody’s marriages, only that I must point out that Meri is Kody’s only legal spouse. The other three wives are spiritually committed to him and the family, recognized as his wives only from within the parameters of the belief system they all share. A belief system, namely one they call a faith in God, their heavenly father, and Christ, God’s son. Go. Figure.

As such, I don’t know when or why Christine joined the family. But, Christine also has several children with Kody and, while she seems to struggle with either personality or emotional mood issues, seems equally happy being mother not only to her own but the entire collective of children. At family gatherings, she is clearly the leader, reveling in entertaining them all with carefully planned games and activities. She reminds me of all the good elementary school teachers I have known. I notice that, when Christine goes into her act, Janelle sits back comfortably in her seat on the sofa, and Meri looks on from what seems to be an emotional distance, perhaps with gracious tolerance of what she would otherwise be uninterested to endure. Meri is not a team player or a social animal, and Janelle is just happy to remain quietly entertained. Christine, however, together with Kody, gets highly involved in all the childrens’ reactions and responses whenever the whole family is in the room.

Robyn is wife number four. We can all tell, those of us who have ever been in love or married or both, that Robyn is still enjoying her role as Kody’s newly-wed. She may also be of the belief that her position is powerful. When Kody presents all the wives their custom made jewelry pieces, she makes each wife’s receipt of his gift a matter of her own interest, exuberantly commenting with praise even as the wife in question quietly opens her own gift. Robyn is probably unaware of her own transparency, and we gently forgive her because, well, to expose her might be hurtful or damaging. She reminds me of myself, at about age thirty four.

That was right before I met my ex-husband, and everything changed for me. Before that, I’d felt socially empowered, my career on the rise, important figures in my sphere taking notice, my personal life showing promise. But, we aren’t talking about me, right now.

Or, maybe we are. I have recently, and with significant surprise, fallen in love again. The man who enjoys being the object of my affections claims the same about me. And, he possesses nearly every trait I’ve ever admired or sought in a man, with the possible exception of a degree of inner peace. About that last part, I should probably withhold judgment as, after all, who ever accused me of possessing inner peace?! Nevertheless, he is very nearly the perfect man for me, and I adore him.

I, on the other hand, having been raised by those aforementioned patriarchs, was taught to assume that men in their trek toward becoming Christ-like could achieve a form of sinless perfection; women, of which I had been born to become, would have a far deeper and more individual struggle for value. As such, I hesitate to reveal to my beloved the full scope of my shortcomings. He cannot know the degree to which I see myself as undeserving. He must never know how disparate the woman I was expected to become is from who I really am.

Meantime, it’s compelling to ruminate about the numerous variations on cohabitation which American society tolerates. What about polygamy? What might it be like to have three or four husbands, on my own cul de sac, in a corner of neverland? I am, after all, completely aware that I am probably as particular and socially wary as Meri; as teacherly and child oriented as Christine; as interested in devotion to my man as Robyn, and a real kisser with encroaching weight issues, like Janelle. But, to spend a lifetime with only me, if history is any indicator, would wear a man down to a shell of what he ever thought he could be. I’d easily share him with somebody else, if only to get him out of the house when we both become intolerable. That, I would do.

But, right now, I’ll enjoy my bliss. It’s been a long time coming, indeed. Maybe society will move its unwieldy ass, in the meantime, toward some broader magnanimity. But, I can wait for that.

“Apres Un Reve” beckons from the music stand and my cello sits, quietly floating in resonant frequency with the room, until I am ready to let it sing. The Plymouth Brethren still meet, fewer, yet much more globally integrated than ever before, a haven for the disenfranchised of every culture, still earnestly dictating reality at every breath. And, outside, mainstream society lumbers along, thinking itself the real mover yet, always, about ten years behind the Bohemians, who really know.

Yes; we can wait. About that, we really have no choice. Or, do we?

Staying (Take 2).

(*previously posted as “Staying”, with references to a fellow blogger.)


It is June. Fully flowering, fertile June. The season for weddings.

In 1993, I got married. I was 36. My husband, a sweet man, didn’t love me – and, I knew it. My mother adored him, because he was a.) blonde; b.) white collar; c.) his parents went to Camp O’ the Woods; and d.) he was truly kind and attentive toward her. The night before my wedding, I stayed up til 2a.m. crying my eyes out with my BFForever, Lisa. Mum had made all the gowns, the fresh flowers I selected were due first thing in the morning, Aunt Margie had made a two foot liver pate carp with paper thin cucumber scales for the hor d’oeurves, and all the groom’s relatives had flown in from California. I prayed. I told God that, if this marriage were truly ordained, He[God] would sustain it; conversely, if not, would God, please, take care of it?

Apparently, God did.
Two years later, Mum died of brain cancer, and my husband left. One piece of paper filed in the state of Indiana, 100 bucks, sign on the line, relinquish the Oneida and the PC/keep the printer, and done. Feelings? Null. Void. Mum was dead. Who cared?

In the years prior to and since that wedding, I played the whiner like nobody.

And, I was hideous.

Wenhhhhh……”Should [he, the latest] stay, or should I go?” Was anybody listening? It’s a wonder I have any girlfriends left. Oh. Wait.

Here’s what. As soon as we find someone we care about, seems we get stuck on this notion of Staying.

Why? What is Staying, really? Stay where? in the house? in the bed? in the room? What?

Stasis. Cessation of flow. Or, equilibrium. But, the acute absence of: growth?

Symbiosis. Two disparate, living beings coexisting in mutual agreement. Is that what we want? If we stay, that’s pretty much what we’ll get. Stasis. Or, symbiosis. They’re natural laws.

Stop spending so much energy deconstructing. If you come, come as often as you like, whatever, aftershocks, cry a little, get dressed. But, after you come? Go.
Go, joyously, exuberantly, spurred by the experience of being together, as far and as long as you like. Then, Return. Return to that which brought you in the first place. You might find that you both want to. How easy does that sound?

Love, the force that draws us, repeatedly, irresistibly, magnetically. But, it’s kind of a circular thing, and we should just submit to its movement. Not like hamsters in a wheel, repetitively, endlessly, to dissolution. I mean, ever forward, so that we never end up where we started. No; far beyond that place. Letting the circle take us, until we become it. I think somebody else said something like this a long time ago. You’ll pardon my reconstitution. The channeling vessel, and all that.

There’s a lot being said about Space – making some, needing some. But, maybe space is just a place in the whole movement through the relationship. Maybe it’s in the center of the circle. And, maybe, if we come, and go, and return, there’ll be plenty of space provided for us. We won’t even have to ask.

Dad married Mum, left, returned, and stayed. But, after that, he came and went effortlessly. He walked 2 miles a day. He ran marathons. He knew everybody. Somehow, he managed to live both responsibly toward his family, and freely as an individual. His devotion to each of us went without saying. And, he was joyful.

I am now old. Finally. Irrefutably. Not degeneratively. Not decrepit, not shriveled. Not quite yet. Just of age. I’ve reached the finishing stage, and with very great relief, thank you. No longer interested in asking for, or offering, any kind of promise to stay that interrupts growth. Because, yes; even old people can grow, and love had better.





© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

3/21/15  All rights to this piece the author’s. Please, request permission to share. Thank you!