Becoming Bear

“My name is Amber, but I sometimes go by Bear. I’ll answer to both.”

“Which one are you going by today?”

I fumbled for an answer, my mind sorting through my patterns, too much to review in milliseconds.

“Hmmmm…” A purchase of seconds. 

When do I decide to go by Bear? Lately, it’s been just at places that ask for a name to go with my order. Maybe that’s because it’s an interaction that doesn’t require an explanation, but allows me a brief reminder that love exists. Is that just a cop out? Do I want to change my name to Bear? Should I start telling people my name is Bear more often? Do I have to pick one? Is Bear associated with certain character traits or gender presentation? Who am I today, in this moment? Do I feel like Amber? Do I feel like Bear? I’m feeling very awkward and I’m interrupting and excluding these other people and I’m here alone. Don’t think about that.

I don’t remember how I responded, but Devin knows Franny, and I told Franny my name was Bear. I’m honest and real, even if that leaves me open to a question I fumble over. It’s a stone that’s tumbling in my mind, unpolished. It’s tumbling, fumbling, stumbling. I do remember my answer didn’t feel accurate, but it was the best I could manage in the moment.

Bear is a name given to me, like a hug. My cousin, Jenny, started it as AmBear, which was swiftly shortened to Bear. It stuck.

I was seeing someone who used to call me Bear, adding honey to it. “Bear” already existed as a name of affection apart from this person, but with them it greeted me like the sun.

The sun disappeared over the winter. Though it shone bright some days, it was no match for the polar vortex. The stores of honey were rationed out, then depleted. We hibernated and winter drew herself out long. You know I’m not actually talking about the sun.

They said they didn’t want to break up. They said they loved me, but stopped calling me Bear, stopped touching me, stopped looking me in the eyes, stopped connecting. I did work for them, extending and overextending myself.

In early April, we attended Franny Choi’s book release party in Detroit. We were trying to be friends like normal, but I wasn’t allowed to talk about my feelings anymore, which is to say, I wasn’t allowed to talk about myself or to tell the truth. I wasn’t going to be called Bear anymore. I wasn’t safe.

Standing in line to get my new copy of “Soft Science” autographed, I started thinking about how I should introduce myself to Franny. I was feeling the weighty absence of human affection, and decided that I would introduce myself as Bear. I was claiming the affection that exists for me in the universe, even if the human sources of that affection weren’t physically present, even if the human that was physically present was no longer a source of affection. It was a small and mighty attempt to defy the looming void, to escape the phantom chill of winter.

The book release was our last adventure, and we didn’t even get a proper meal out of it. That dear person is now a stranger to me, and not for lack of effort on my part. Reconciliation work is not for those who let Fear occupy the driver’s seat. My own stubborn bravery won’t unseat someone else’s driver, as much as I want to claw my way in through the window. 

“For Bear! with love & sharp teeth”

I haven’t done it this way before. I’ve let relationships drift away with distance and time and the opiate of social media. But this one, the choice to direct my labor back towards myself and not to the withering friendship, the choice to draw a line and say, “I love you and I can’t have a dishonest relationship with you. I love myself and won’t subject myself to toxic levels of cognitive dissonance for your comfort. I miss you and I need to direct my emotional resources to tending my little garden of new friendships that yield the fruit of authenticity and vulnerability. If you don’t want to participate in that work because it may require some discomfort, I can’t help you, not without breaking myself.”

Becoming Bear is choosing that authenticity over appearances, choosing Peace over keeping the peace.

That still hasn’t answered the question. Which one am I today- Amber or Bear? I’m both. I exist in the in between spaces, one foot very much here, one foot inching towards the next step. I have remarkably itchy feet, but Bear is someone grounded and present. But even Bear gets caught.

The rage clamps down on me, metal teeth digging into bone – hook to fish, trap to Bear. I’m attached to this abandonment, to old abandonments, to the way I’ve abandoned, to moving, moving, moving. Running away keeps me stuck. I’m dragging it along, this rusty old rage trap, but it won’t loosen until I push into it, get to the center of the trigger. I’ll push into the discomfort and spring open the latch.

I’m finding freedom in staying put and foraging. Then, perhaps, I’ll encounter my own honey.