I'm Katie (Not Joseph)

Do you know Joseph? The one with the coat? One of the songs came up on shuffle as I was listening to my iPod yesterday and I paused to consider it.

If you’re not familiar, allow me to summarize rather glibly from memory. Joseph’s a bit much in the beginning – a bit superior and all. So his brothers don’t like him for several reasons. Instead of murder, they sell him and he is taken to Egypt. He does relatively well for himself, hits another snag and ends up in prison. The faith he displays there broke my little heart. And much as I wanted to cuddle and comfort the actor who played Joseph (whose name was Andrew, actually. I have his autograph on a madrigal dinner program. He graduated from my high school and while I’d have rather met him in something other than a wench costume, I was glad to have been graced by a smile by such a beautiful man.), I was moved by that moment and listen to that song most often.

Intermission, blah blah blah, somehow events align such that Joseph’s talent (he interprets dreams, of course) is the one that Pharaoh requires to save Egypt from years of famine. Joseph’s skill at predicting the future means the Egyptians plan ahead, Joseph wins favor and is quite happy. The brothers, of course, are punished (and not even by Joseph). Starving, they decide to travel to Egypt (because they have food) where Joseph takes a bit of revenge. When satisfied that they’re actually OK guys, he helps them out, they bring Jacob to see his favored son and everyone’s thrilled. Sing another song, dance around, put on the coat again, everybody goes home happy.

I find with some dismay that I am not Joseph. Our lives bear little resemblance, and though I never identified with him overly much, the realization of the fact that I don't seem to share many of his characteristics leaves me a bit surprised. Let’s review.

Joseph’s early confidence was justified – he had quite the talent and was correct in predicting the future appreciation for said talent. I too was a bit of a brat growing up – I thought I was quite precious, smart, funny and all around darling. I have yet to find the audience who appreciates my talent though.

My thought – if you’re curious as to the reason behind the post – was that we are truly appreciated and understood by those who love us. When Winnie died, Carrie soothed me by saying that very few people matter to the world. While we’re here and when we’re gone, however, we do touch people’s lives. While we giggled together, pouted over disappointments, gossiped about our officemates, shared cheese dip at our favorite Mexican restaurant, we made a profound connection amidst the daily silliness.

As I sat on my parents’ back patio, weeping in the darkness, Carrie sighed on the other end of the phone line. “Sweetheart.” She said, then paused. “Look. Her family and friends will miss her – they know what the world lost. And it would break my heart if you died. I would cry and cry and would miss you like crazy. You matter. Not to everyone, but to the people you love. The world wouldn’t stop if something happened to you, but it would be terribly different and wrong for those of us who love you. OK?”

I nodded and gulped back sobs. I don’t have to save Egypt or cure cancer. I just want to matter to a few people. To know and be known, to feel mutual appreciation, respect, affection.

I ask very few people to know me. Elle and Rachel from college. M and Carrie from grad school. Dave to a lesser degree. Friend from here. My parents. Brother.

Peter.

“I miss him.” I told Dr. Counselor. “I’m not angry anymore and I’m sad that I don’t get to know him. I really did like him.”

He did well, I thought, sat back in his chair and nodded while he listened as I talked and explained and rationalized. Then he sat forward and considered me. “Do you want my opinion? Can I tell you what I think?”

“Sure.” I said, sitting back and preparing myself with a smile.

He quoted poetry – better to have loved and lost, something about a flower in a granite wall – sang songs about letting go. Then he said he felt it was best to let it go (hence the songs, I thought). To be grateful that the anger was gone and to release what was to prepare for what might be. I nodded – Dr. Counselor is tricky in that I roll my eyes over the weirdness (songs and poems), then he says something that is true. Not good or bad – just very true.

“But I don’t like very many people.” I said.

He nodded and said there would be others.

“But I liked him.” I insisted.

“Did he like you?” He asked and I nodded immediately. “I think he did. At some point, I think he really did understand and like me.”

“And so you think he misses you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I said, trying to decide.

“Does he contact you? Indicate he’s interested in remaining friends?”

“No.” I said, frowning. “But maybe he doesn’t want to hurt me. Perhaps it’s up to me to decide if I’m ready to be friends. Since he hurt me. And I think I’m ready. I don’t want to date him. I don’t need him in my life. But given the choice, I’d rather be able to talk to him sometimes. To not lose him completely.”

“It would be off balance.” Dr. Counselor pronounced. “You can’t know for sure he misses you or liked you at all. It could be true-“

I interrupted him, offended. “You don’t know that it isn’t true.” I said firmly. “I’d rather think that when I fell in love with someone, it was with someone who liked me and misses having me in his life.” Then I glared and he backed off.

But before I left he said he’d like me to release the situation. Move on.

“I’m not ready.” I said, folding my arms and lifting my chin, then changing positions when I realized I was being a bit silly. I smiled sheepishly and he smiled at me in return. “I’ll try to get ready.” I offered and he nodded, offered me a hug, then I left with an appointment to return in two weeks.

It was OK, I told myself. Things would work out. In the end, I think I want to believe that my talents are the important ones. If Pharaoh has bad dreams, that I can be the one who knows their meaning. If something needs to be written, I’ll have to right words and the ability to place them in the right order. When it comes time to cure cancer, my particular research area will emerge as highly relevant and valuable. I just like to think I’m important. That I matter. That there is a purpose for my being here, and that said purpose is rather impressive and profound. A husband and family. Important work. A growing faith. I can pull that off.

Feeling strong from a nice Easter weekend, a chapter that was coming along beautifully, work that was going well, I decided to send an email. I didn’t need him to respond. I was just curious – wanted reinforcement that I had liked someone who could like me in return, albeit in a friendly way. But that was OK – I don’t want to date the man. I just want to avoid the pang of sadness when I think of him. So I drafted a note, sent it, then went about my life with the vague expectation that I’d soon have a reply to read.

“Oh.” I said yesterday when I realized that none was coming. I blinked in surprise, which I find funny in a sad sort of way. Despite all the insecurity, I still see myself as important. I was surprised that he didn’t want to be my friend. That Dr. Counselor was right in saying I was not, in fact, missed at all. Even after the miserable experience several months ago, I thought… I don’t know. Not that we’d fall deeply in love – those feelings really are gone. But that we’d somehow matter to each other in some way. The realization that I don’t – he knew me and really did opt out, not out of some mistake or problem, but out of disinterest.

It’s OK. I’m not angry or really all that hurt. It is, oddly enough, really fine and I feel some pride in the fact that I haven't dissolved into a weeping mass of ick over the situation. I don’t blame him at all. It’s the odd feeling of surprise that continues to tug at my attention.

But I’m delightful, I think. I’m funny and smart and can write relatively well when I try. I like people, though I let few of them in. I work and go to church and think about life. I take walks and watch TV and understand many of the jokes I hear. I even vaguely comprehend random field theory. Not everyone should want to know and befriend me, but the people I pick usually do. And to have someone not react as I expected is surprising. In a sad sort of way.

I overcompensated, trying to bolster my feelings of self-worth by bragging about my super-cool chapter at dinner last night. Steve is wonderful – I like him a lot. His girlfriend is also fantastic – I’ve always thought a great deal of her. So we were talking about work and life and houses, then Steve asked how my chapter was coming along. He’d read my abstract before its submission, and I started to chatter about the different sections, the sample dataset, how much I love Microsoft Equation. Then I wondered if my document was complete enough and started to talk about how lucky it was that I had extra data that wasn’t suitable for journal publication. It left me open to write a book chapter!

“I used to spend weeks on chapters.” Steve’s girlfriend mused. “Then one of the girls in my lab asked me who I thought was actually going to read it. So I started just throwing stuff together.”

Steve shot her a look, then smiled at me. “I’m sure your chapter is great.” He said. “But those texts don’t get a wide audience. But if you’re learning from it, that’s great! I’m glad you’re able to use the data.”

“Oh.” I said. I recovered quickly and nodded. “I am learning a lot, getting to play with Microsoft Equation, all that good stuff. I’m glad I did it.”

His girlfriend looked briefly abashed. “I’m in a different field.” She explained. “I’m sure things work differently for you guys.”

“No.” I smiled at her and shook my head. “You’re right, and I know it’s not likely to be critical to the field. It was good for me to write it, but the person who references it to figure out how to guide research will likely be me.”

It’s not as though I should be surprised – by either situation, actually. I knew going in that book chapters counted less than journal articles. This data isn’t useful in another format for various reasons, so I’m thrilled I can make it work in this context. But I wrapped up the chapter this morning and sent it to Boss. It’s a huge body of literature and I could work on the document for months. But it’s not that big a deal, so I called it good after doing some final editing.

My feeling is that I am neither as bad or good as I think I am. I haven’t Joseph’s ability to interpret dreams to predict the future. I neither have his faith that I’m never alone and will be cared for, at least not to the depth that he displayed. Though I like to think that the world will – despite a few glitches – bow to my best interest, it seems not to be happening of late. Or perhaps it is and I just haven't the faith to see it. I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll ever be able to save those I love or even those who might have wronged me. Oddly, people don’t appear to be bringing me a multi-colored coat.

Perhaps I should stop – even subconsciously – expecting it and being surprised when it fails to materialize. (This makes it sound as though I'm miserable - I'm really not. I'm just bothered and amused by the fact that I thought I was more important than I seem to be.)