I started the day with a plan, with 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. My hometown. The place that fueled my resentments, sadness, anger, and the hard memories 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. The mother I didn’t have but wanted. She and her husband, Jack and their kids were a constant in my daily life. Their house was a little messy, a little chaotic. Nothing like ours. It was a place where I could relax. Where I didn’t have to worry about plumping the cushions every time I stood up from the sofa. Where the bathroom didn’t have to sparkle every minute of every day. Her house was a place where it felt safe to be me.
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. I was trying to grow it out. My go-to haircut has always been quite short. Still, my body shame lingered, and I wondered if she was just being polite. I shifted my attention and reminded myself 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. A beautiful woman. Happy, self-assured, takes no shit from anyone. While we were together, I confessed to her that when I was a teenager and babysat her kids, I’d found some of Jack’s Playboy magazines. I’d sit and leaf through them, amazed and overwhelmed at the size of Bunny boobs. It was titillating, exciting, and a little disturbing, all at once. Sorry, not sorry for the very bad pun. When I told her, she roared with laughter and told me she still had them and said I could have them if I wanted them. Apparently, she never threw them away after Jack died. I passed on her generous offer but wondered what I could get for those antiques on eBay.
When we wrapped up our visit, I was flying high. Filled with love. Next, I drove to my high school, feeling some trepidation. I pulled over to the front entrance and took a photo. Something stirred inside me, a fluttery feeling, a little dizziness. There were 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 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.
And next, my elementary school, a place that was fraught with loneliness and frustration for me. I looked out the car window, thinking about the school principal, Miss Cass, 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 3rd place in the high jump competition for 6th 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. They made me play right field so I could do less harm. I remembered that my dad volunteered to be a coach. He was terrible at it. He spent most of his time yelling at me when I was a bad sport. He knew nothing about softball, 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, the height of the trees.
As I sat in my car, looking at the house, a sentence I love in a favorite prayer––the 9th Step Promises––from my 12 Step program, popped into my head.
We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.
Sitting there, 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 as much as I used to. I wonder if some of those stories have become amplified over time, like my perception of how huge that hill was, how long and steep the 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. Mario’s. 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 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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