Soda With That Slice?

I confessed to her that when I was a teenager and used to babysit her kids, I’d found some of her husband Jack’s Playboy magazines.

I started the day with a plan and a purpose. I was visiting Long Island for a special occasion, and decided that while I was there, I’d take a drive and visit the place that informed much of my life. The place where I grew up. The place that fueled many of the resentments, sadness, and anger I’ve carried for over fifty years.

There aren’t many people left there that I knew back then, but there was one person I had to see. Our neighbor, Phyllis. She was family for me. She and her husband and kids were a constant in my daily life. I hadn’t seen her in years, and I felt anxious because I’ve gained so much weight since the last time I saw her. I walked into the shop where she works and she didn’t recognize me at first. I knew it. I was right. But when we finished hugging and squeezing the stuffing out of each other, and telling each other how much we loved the other, she said my longer hair threw her. Still, my body shame lingered a bit, and I wondered if she was being polite. But I shifted my attention and grounded myself, and was mindful of who I was with. I was with this woman who loved me and saw me for who I am. When I did that I was filled with the love and gratitude I’ve always felt for her. Phyllis is a sparkly person. Happy, self-assured, takes no shit from anyone. I confessed to her that when I was a teenager and used to babysit her kids, I’d found some of her husband Jack’s Playboy magazines. I’d sit and leaf through the magazines, amazed at the size of Bunny boobs. It was titillating (sorry, not sorry for the pun). When I told her she roared with laughter, told me she still had them, and offered them to me! Apparently she never threw them away after Jack died. I passed but wonder what I could get for those antiques on eBay.

When we wrapped up our visit I was flying high. Then I drove to my high school, feeling a little trepidation. I pulled over to the front entrance, and took a photo. Something stirred inside. So many memories, some good, some not so good. I expected to be flooded with the bad ones. But instead, pleasant thoughts moved through me. I remembered school plays, debate tournaments, my job as editor-in-chief of the school’s literary magazine. I felt happy, I was fine.

Then I headed over to the junior high. Taking a deep breath, I grounded myself again. I’d gone there with the intention of letting something go. It was the time this boy I knew spread lies about me because I told him I wouldn’t be his girlfriend. He’d told horrible lies to everyone, that left me socially isolated for years. I took another breath, firmly planted in the present, and thought about the work I’m doing in therapy and in my 12 Step group. I’m turning toward love and away from fear. In those moments of quiet reflection, the anger and resentment I’d felt toward him since I was 13-years old just evaporated. I was able to think of him with compassion, to think that he might have felt pain over my rejection. He didn’t have the tools to handle his feelings in an appropriate way. I never imagined that I could forgive him. I briefly wondered if I was deluding myself, but I really did feel calm and free.  

Next stop, the elementary school, a place that was fraught with loneliness and frustration for me. I looked out the car window, thinking about the school principal who would stand at the school entrance every morning, her hands clasped behind her back, her apple-shaped torso perched atop toothpick-thin legs, greeting everyone as we got off the buses to start the day.  I saw the field that borders the school and remembered getting 3^rd place in the high jump competition for 6^th grade Field Day. The excitement I felt at winning a sport came rushing back. I was not a jock. At all. I was filled with tenderness for that little girl, Nan. Me.

Then I started to drive to my old house. I passed the Catholic church I’d totally forgotten about where I played CYO softball. I was not just the only Jewish girl on the team, I was the only Jewish girl in the league, and I was a terrible player. I always played right field so I could do less harm. I remembered that my dad volunteered to be a coach. He was terrible at it. He knew nothing about sports, but he showed up for me, because I wanted to play.

When I got to the house I grew up in it was unrecognizable. A new (and ugly) façade obscured the lovely home I remembered. I was amazed at how short the driveway was. I thought about the snow I had to shovel, and how endless that chore felt. The hill on our front lawn, where my brother and I went sledding, was barely a swelling of earth. I laughed out loud. Everything seemed so much smaller than I recalled. The length of the streets, the distance between the houses.

There’s a sentence I love in a favorite prayer––the 9^th Step Promises––from my 12 Step program:

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

Looking at my house I realized that I can hold my memories with love and compassion. The good ones and the bad. Compassion for myself and the people in my world. I don’t need the angry stories anymore. I wonder if some of those stories have become amplified over time, like my perception of how huge that hill was, that driveway.

The promise in that prayer had come true for me. I felt peaceful.

My last stop was the pizza parlor of my childhood. Established in 1969, it’s still there, in the same location. I sat in a booth, a steaming hot slice of pizza on the table in front of me, too hot to taste, a ginger ale waiting by its side. A sense of joy was infusing my heart. It was the perfect finish to a day filled with surprises and recovered memories. As I sat, taking in the people around me, the garlicky smell of the food, the noise of the cash register opening and closing, 80s music playing a bit too loudly, I marveled at how much the town I grew up in has changed, and also how it hasn’t. I marvel at how much I’ve changed, and how I haven’t. The fear and anger are falling away, and the “me” who was always there––but hid herself––is shining through.

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