What Belle Burden and I Have in Common
New York socialite Belle Burden’s book about her divorce has been so zeitgeisty for the past few months I’m ashamed to admit I only just finished the audiobook this week.
Burden narrates Stranger herself. In addition to being a mother of three teenagers, she practiced immigration law and was a former Big Law attorney. Her prose is clean, her narrative framing is fact-driven, and her chronology is precise. Such a lawyer.
The book is somehow soothing and devastating at the same time.
For the period of time while she was divorcing, Burden notes feeling particularly porous to social interactions. An acquaintance’s comment sympathizing with Burden’s unfaithful husband felt physically painful. An incident where a man she knew crossed the street upon her approach – presumably to avoid saying hello – was catalogued and dissected.
The vigilant tracking of her shifting place in the social order rings familiar. We’re social animals. It’s natural. Especially when so much of identity and connection to community is based on being part of a marriage and the cultural trappings that go alongside it. Who are we in the world when we stop being who we’ve always been?
Looking back on those fragile few years during and after divorce, I don’t remember the slights in much detail. They’re just…unremarkable. In contrast, the simple acts of kindness - in Burden’s story and in my own – are curiously outsized and sparkly.
A gift of divorce is that time seems to stop around tender, gentle moments. Burden recalls a man from her country club who she summed up as handsome, successful, and moderately famous. He was the last person she would expect to approach her, bring up her impending divorce, and give her proactive words of support. These are East Coast WASPs we’re talking about – the stoicism is genetic at this point.
But he did. She remembered every detail.
One act of generosity that comes to mind in my own story is decidedly more West Coast. When I told a dear friend and her husband that I was separated, her husband – a jovial big brother type - asked if I’d been out socially yet. The answer was no.
He insisted that I make my debut in the world - “I’m taking you out for your first drink!” The next week we went to a chic bar where he introduced me to strangers as “his friend who is getting divorced.” It was shocking for me to hear it out loud. It ripped the Band-Aid right off.
But he did it in a way that felt protective and kind in a fun, social environment. He created the circumstances for strangers to cheer me on – which they did.
LA is great in that way. A row full of strangers needs very little excuse to toast and cheer.
A detail that I knew, but had somehow lost over the years, was that he himself had been divorced with a story similar to mine. Met young, married for a long time, the first in his circle to get divorced. Maybe he gave me the kindness he had received. Or wished he would have received. Either way, it shines in my memory.
Here’s another one, but it takes some exposition – so bear with me for a few sentences.
Growing up in Los Angeles, if someone says you can lose twenty pounds without even trying, chances are you’d take that offer. Until you find out it’s because you’re getting divorced.
I would just forget to eat. That might be normal for some women in this city – but not me. I once singlehanded tried and ranked every fried chicken sandwich in LA just for fun. I’m doing it now with steak frites. (Send recommendations).
At one point, I had to make oatmeal every morning as a ritual so that I could be sure that something made it into my stomach. After several months of this, none of my pants fit anymore. I kept telling myself it was temporary, but at a certain point I just needed some pants.
I went to a denim boutique. When the woman working at the store asked my size, all I could do was stare at her. I had no idea. Then the words came – “well, I’m a 29. Sometimes I’m a 28. But nothing fits because I lost a lot of weight. But not because I was trying. It’s temporary. I’m. I’m. I’m getting divorced and I just don’t eat. Not on purpose. Anyway. It’s temporary.” I didn’t sound excited. I think I sounded anxious and tired.
She grabbed me a 27. Then a 26 and finally a 25.
As she passed me the last pair, she whispered, “It is temporary. This is normal. You’ll gain it back, but it’ll take a few years. You should buy yourself a few more new things.” Then she looked at me. She didn’t smile. She held my gaze as if to say “I’m familiar with your pain. It will be ok.”
I bought the jeans, got in the car, and cried. The kindness was overwhelming, as was my gratitude for it. Eight years later I remember every inch of her face.
So, here is my advice. Read Stranger, it’s good.
And if you know someone getting divorced, it’s ok to bring it up. It’s ok to say you don’t know what to say. It’s ok to bring them a little snack. It’s ok to invite them to do something even if you never have before. It’s ok for them to know you’re thinking of them.
Trust me, they won’t forget it.
