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Kitabı oku: «The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo», sayfa 4
At this particular time, my dad was on a kick of wanting to do “dad stuff” for me, so he asked if he could drive me to the airport. When you have MS “dad stuff” becomes playing bingo or giving you rides places. It was midafternoon when he picked me up to head to JFK.
When we got there, I pulled my giant suitcase out of the trunk of his car and navigated the airport entrance without his help. This must have looked strange to other people, seeing this strapping man watch his eighteen-year-old daughter lift and tote her giant suitcase all by herself, but they didn’t know he was sick. I didn’t really understand the symptoms of the disease, but I did know that it slowed him down, that even if he looked normal he could still be in a lot of pain, unable to do the small physical acts he used to do with ease.
My dad accompanied me as I juggled my bags and checked in, and everything seemed fine. It was pre-9/11 so he could walk me to the gate, and that’s exactly what he wanted to do. He kept saying, “I’m going to walk you to the gate.” I think it was a big deal for him, because he never did stuff like that for me. That was a mom-type job. But I was glad for his company, because even though my list of fears had definitely gotten smaller by this point in my life, I was still pretty terrified of flying.
We both went through security, shoes on – the good ol’ days – and started walking down the long hall to my gate. That particular terminal was under heavy construction at the time, so we had to be careful where we walked. We still had a ways to go when my dad took a sharp right turn and beelined it to the side of the hall. I stopped walking and turned to see what he was doing. He shot me a pained look, pulled his pants down, and peed shit out of his ass for about thirty seconds. Thirty seconds is an eternity, by the way, when you’re watching your dad volcanically erupt from his behind. Think about it now. One Mississippi. That’s just one.
People quickly walked past, horrified. One woman shielded her child’s eyes. They stared. I yelled at one chick passing by, “WHAT?! Keep it moving!”
After he had finished, my dad stood up straight and said, “Aim, do you have any shorts in your bag?”
I opened my suitcase and grabbed a pair of lacrosse shorts. I handed them over, thinking, Damn, those were my favorite. He threw his pants in the trash and put the shorts on. I went in for a top-body hug good-bye. I didn’t cry, I didn’t laugh, I just smiled and said, “I love you, Dad. I won’t tell Mom.”
I started to walk away from the whole scene when I heard, “I said I’d walk you to the gate!”
I turned around to see if he was joking; he was not. To the gate we walked. I was mouth breathing and shooting dirty looks at anyone who dared to stare at him. Once we got to the very last gate in the goddamn terminal, at the end of a very long hall, he kissed me good-bye and left.
Normally when I would board a plane, the first thing I would do was worry about how scary takeoff would be and try to think of ways to distract myself from the anxiety. But that day, I sat on the plane thinking about nothing. My mind went blank. It was too painful. I didn’t think about my fearless father, who was dealing with a mysterious disease. He used to breeze through the airport in a cloud of expensive cologne and flashy watches, and now he’d been transformed into this anonymous, helpless guy who lost control of his bowels in the airport while his teenage daughter watched. He didn’t wince or let me see him sweat even once. I mean, he was drenched in sweat. Physically he was being taken over by MS, yet on the inside he was still as brazen as ever. But I didn’t think about any of that. I just stared out the window for five hours, fully numb, until I got off the plane in Montana and hugged my brother longer than he would have liked.
I tried to talk about these two shitting incidents onstage. So many parts of these stories are so disturbing that they make me laugh – because it’s too much to digest any other way. The image of Kim’s head leaning out of the car, the image of me standing next to my pantsless father and the trolley that carted people around Adventureland. I look at the saddest things in life and laugh at how awful they are, because they are hilarious and it’s all we can do with moments that are painful. My dad is the same way. He’s always laughed at the things that are too dark for other people to laugh at. Even now, when his memory and mental functioning have been severely impaired by his MS, I’ll tell him his mind is a pile of scrambled eggs and he will still laugh hysterically and say, “Too true, too true!”
My dad never shows any sign that he pities himself. He never has. He’s not afraid to look dead-on at the grim facts of his life. I hope I’ve inherited this quality of his. I’ve only seen him cry once about his disease, and that was very recently – when he learned he’d be getting stem cell treatments that would help him feel a lot better, and maybe even help him walk again. That day, he sobbed like a baby. But never before.
I have wonderful early memories of spending time with him at the beach. We were beach bums, and he was a sun worshipper. If it was January and the sun was shining, he’d douse himself in baby oil and sit outside in a lawn chair. He was tan year-round. And if it was summer, we’d get in the ocean early in the morning and get out after the sun went down. We’d body-surf together; that was our thing. All I wanted to do was take a wave in further than him, but it never happened. I even cheated, standing up and running a little to catch up, but no, he always won.
The most joy I remember feeling as a kid was when a storm was coming and the waves were big. Other people were scared and stayed out of the water, but not us. Not even when the ocean was angry and pulling us sideways. We would have to get out and walk half a football field on the beach before it swept us all the way down the shore again. We swam out against the current and caught the best waves of the day. Nothing kept us out – not rain, not my mom yelling, nothing. I can still picture him looking young and healthy and strong, with his bronzed skin and his black hair soaking. For some reason, I wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was because I was with him. Next to him, I was invincible.
Excerpt from My Journal in 1994 (Age Thirteen) with Footnotes from 2016
I’ve decided to get a journal because some things you just can’t say out loud.1 I’m 13 years old, and I have several problems. My brother Jason is a senior in high school. He’s my half brother, meaning we have the same mother, but his dad died when he was 11. When Jason was two years old our mom married my dad. My dad didn’t like my brother, and as a matter of fact, he wished Jason wasn’t a part of our family.2 I never noticed, but my Dad actually never went on our “family trips.”3 My mom just recently pointed all of this out to me. She said she tried to keep everyone happy by having my dad go in one car and me and my brother and sister go in the other car with her.4
Jason’s dad was a very big part of his life. My mom informed me that when he died, my dad made no effort to become Jason’s stepfather.5 They seemed to be acquaintances. This left my mom a single parent, basically, with no help from my father. I’m so glad she pointed this out to me, because I never knew. She allowed Jason to withdraw from our family,6 which is no longer a family.
My sister Kim is nine years old and in fourth grade. She is very mature for her age. I think she’s so mature because I don’t permit her to act her age. In her grade there are a few girls who are total &*&*.7 They treat her like dirt. It doesn’t help that Kim is extremely sensitive. These girls do horrible things to her, like one day they were all sitting at the lunch table, and when Kim sat down, they all got up and left. When my mom told me about it, tears started streaming down my cheeks before she even finished her sentence. My heart broke for Kim. So I hopped on my bike and road straight to those #$#$’s8 houses and yelled at them. And told them to leave my sister alone OR ELSE!9
Kim sometimes acts really phony.10 She’ll act so innocent and fragile,11 and I’ll get really mad at her and treat her like crap. My mom tells her to just express herself when someone at school hurts her feelings. I say, “No way. You have to be tough and don’t show them they hurt you.”12
About 8 weeks ago I found out that my parents were getting a divorce.13 My dad travels a lot, so I wasn’t majorly depressed. My sister was, though. After the first five years that my parents were married my mom realized she wasn’t in love and never had been.14 But she stayed with my dad another five years because of me and Jay and Kim, and also because my dad developed a condition with -osis at the end of the word.15 Anyone who knows my mom will tell you she’s the nicest person you’ll ever meet.16 But they’re getting a divorce.
I’m going to see a psychologist this Thursday. I don’t want to, but I know it’s necessary.17
I have another problem: my friends. Lauren, Becky, and Kate. I guess you can say we’re the athletic, smart, pretty girls of our grade.18 Becky is sort of slow; she has a moon shaped face with light freckles and pin straight, shoulder length, dirty blonde hair. She’s as tall as me but a little slimmer. She thinks she’s totally gorgeous and wishes she was Lauren. She’s also a snob.19 Then there’s Jen; she’s excellent at soccer and totally dedicated, but she’s also a ditz and always the last to know what we’re talking about. She’s 5 foot 3ish and has mousy brown hair and looks very Irish. Everyone does, I guess.20
I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned my other best friend, Mark. His hair is chin length and he’s always showered and clean. He’s a really good soccer player, and he’s an excellent drummer. I met him in 5th grade. He started a band this summer, and I was interested in being the lead singer. When it was just me and Mark in the band I was fine, but when it became a real thing I backed away. I strive to be more like Mark.21 I think I care too much about how people feel about me. Mark isn’t like that at all. If I wasn’t friends with him, I wouldn’t be half as happy. Now that I think about it, he may be my only real friend.22
Now about boys.23There are several boys I like, but the two I’m concentrated on are Kevin Williams and Joshua Walsch. Kevin is shy, funny, and cool. He has shaggy brown hair and is over six feet tall. He has gorgeous blue cat eyes and a mouth like the joker. I told him that once in biology and he smirked and said he knew. Joshua is a year younger than me, but he’s so sweet and adorable. He has black hair and a smaller frame than me, but he’s strong and has porcelain skin covered in freckles. He looks like he just hopped off the boat from Ireland.24
Both boys have little speech impediments, I’ve noticed. Joshua has a speech impediment that makes him sound like the Kennedys. The real ones!25 And Kevin has a gap in his front teeth and a lisp. Uhhh soo cute.26
I’ve gotten to first base, which is French Kissing, but I think I’m ready for 2nd.27
1 I obviously don’t subscribe to this advice anymore, as someone who onstage has gone into great detail about an encounter with an unexpected uncircumcised penis.
2 Yikes, was that true? There is a lot of heavy brainwashing from good ol’ mom in this entry. I don’t think my dad particularly cared for my brother, but it wasn’t personal. He just only liked children that at one point were shot out from his own penis.
3 I don’t know why “family trips” is in quotes. They were just family trips; this sounds like my mom was using us to mule drugs. We would go to Florida or Lake George or our farmhouse. I never once held a balloon filled with heroin.
4 You know that old saying … the family that drives separately, crumbles and shatters soon after.
5 This was true, but maybe pointing this out to a tween isn’t the best move from a parent.
6 As I previously mentioned, Jason talked his way out of his senior year of high school and got to leave home and roam the country.
7 If I wrote this now I would use the word “cunts.”
8 CUNTS!
9 We recently Googled the girl who was the meanest to my sister. We found her on Facebook. She’s now a Pilates instructor, of course, and if I had her current address, I’d ride my bike to her house again and tell her she’s still a worthless mean girl in my mind.
10 Wow, I was just saying how great she was.
11 Innocent and fragile? Dude, she was nine … What did I expect her to act like? Slutty and hardened?
12 I stand by this. Never let those cunts see you sweat, which is good advice and a good name for an eighties hip-hop album.
13 Whaaaaat? But Mom kept us all happy by having us drive in separate cars!
14 Again, damn, Mom, lot to lay on a kid who’s still in middle school, but okay.
15 It was multiple sclerosis. You couldn’t look stuff up on your phone back then, so I just left it at -osis … makes sense.
16 “Brainnnnnwasssshhhhh, at the brainwash yeah” (singing this to the tune of “Car Wash” …).
17 I still say this exact same thing every single week.
18 Guess I wasn’t afraid of feelin’ myself.
19 Never too young to talk shit about your friends.
20 Jen is a nurse with three kids now, and we’re still close.
21 I was in love with him.
22 Mark is now the drummer in the band Taking Back Sunday.
23 Sorry, Mark!
24 I was real obsessed with the Irish. Pretty sure I’d either just done a book report on them or watched Far and Away at a slumber party.
25 As opposed to those hack, bullshit, fake Kennedys?
26 I have always been turned on by a good impediment, like a baby arm or a stutter.
27 I wasn’t.
Officially a Woman
Everyone says you become a woman when you start your period or lose your virginity. In Judaism, you’re deemed a woman when you have your bat mitzvah. I of course saw this ceremony as an opportunity not only to chant my Torah portion but also to make my big stage debut in the temple. I’d been doing musicals since I was five, and I was ready to steal the show. I’m gonna show these Jews what I’m made of, I thought in an unracist way. All eyes were on me – just the way I liked it – as I looked out into the crowd from the bimah. My mom was crying tears of joy next to my dad, who was absolutely bursting with pride. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they gave me a standing O before I finished. I was nailing it.
I sang those Hebrew words like the little half-Jew angel that I was – without the slightest idea what I was saying. I could have been chanting a call to action to continue apartheid. In Hebrew school they taught us two things: how to read Hebrew and how to read Hebrew. A year before my bat mitzvah I was in class with my teacher, Mr. Fischer, a frightening, expressionless man, the kind who would look the same sleeping or in an earthquake. I was sitting in the first row, and Mr. Fischer called on me to read aloud from the Torah. After about three minutes, I stopped and asked, “What does this mean?” For the first time ever, he showed emotion. He slammed his catcher’s-mitt-like hand onto his desk right next to my head and shouted, “Go to the principal’s office!” I never asked again.
I’m sure this wasn’t the first time I got in trouble for asking a question, and it certainly wasn’t the last. In school we were encouraged to ask questions, but sometimes when we did, we were accused of being provocative or rude. Now that I’m out of school and there’s no threat of a principal’s office looming down the hall, I ask whatever the fuck questions I want. It feels pretty good. Pretty womanly, too.
But none of that mattered on my big day. I didn’t care what I was singing; I just wanted to blow everyone’s socks off. I belted out the last couple lines of my portion – move over, cast of Fiddler on the Roof, your jobs are all in jeopardy – and on my final note, I let loose with all my might. That was when my dream turned into my nightmare. My voice cracked. I William Hunged my last note. My heart started to pound too quickly, and I could feel my face turning into a beet the way it loved to do. Silence filled the room, and I thought I might cry.
Then came the first laugh. Then another. And the rest. I looked out at the people in the seats, and they were all laughing – and looking at me with adoration. I saw Kim nervously giggling, waiting to see how I’d react. I realized that even though it was an accident, I’d made everyone happy, and I wanted to let Kim know that it was okay to laugh, so I joined in. I laughed hard. I was laughing at myself. We were all laughing together – a real laugh that went on for a while.
I’m pretty sure that’s why I officially became a woman that day. Not because of the dumb ancient ceremony where children are gifted bonds they can’t cash until they’re twenty-five (by which time they have lost them). No, I became a woman because I turned a solemn, quiet room into a place filled with unexpected laughter. I became a woman because I did, for the first time, what I was supposed to be doing for the rest of my life. I may not have had that exact thought in the moment, but in retrospect it is so clear to me.
There are lots of “firsts” like this in life, little flashpoints here and there when you’re unknowingly becoming a woman. And it’s not the clichéd shit, like when you have your first kiss or drive your first car. You become a woman the first time you stand up for yourself when they get your order wrong at a diner, or when you first realize your parents are full of shit. You become a woman the first time you get fitted for a bra and realize you’ve been wearing a very wrong size your whole fucking life. You become a woman the first time you fart in front of a boyfriend. The first time your heart breaks. The first time you break someone else’s heart. The first time someone you love dies. The first time you lie and make yourself look bad so a friend you love can look better. And less dramatic things are meaningful too, like the first time a guy tries to put a finger in your ass. The first time you express the reality that you don’t want that finger in your ass. That you really don’t want anything in your ass at all. Or to have any creative, adventurous sex for that matter. That you just want to be fucked missionary sometimes and without any nonsense. You will remember all these moments later as the moments that made you the woman you are. Everyone tells you it happens when you get your first period, but really it happens when you insert your first tampon and teach your best friend to do the same.
Speaking of menstrual blood, let’s get back to becoming a woman in the temple. After I brought the house down by dropping the ball on my Torah portion, it was time for the rabbi to walk over and speak to me in front of everyone – not unlike a sermon, but tailored to me. I’d been told that most people hated this kind of attention, but I thought, Bring it on. Let the compliments begin.
Rabbi Shlomo was a tall man, and he had to reach down to put his hands on both of my shoulders. I gazed up at him and prepared to look humble. He began, “Amy …,” and that’s the last thing I heard. His breath was so bad, I literally couldn’t listen to a word. It took all my strength not to pass out from the stench he was sending my way. I figured out quickly that I needed to gasp for breath while he was inhaling. He was giving me heartfelt words of wisdom and I was doing Lamaze. What did he eat for breakfast? I thought. An adult diaper? A cadaver?
The speech went on for hours. It was probably only five minutes, but when you’re in the panic room of someone’s dragon mouth the clock really stops. Just as I was getting dizzy from lack of oxygen, I could tell from his body language that he was wrapping it up. Everyone applauded. I turned away, filled my lungs with fresh air, and smiled out into oblivion. It was official: I was a woman.
Now I could have a short luncheon with smoked fish and bagels and take my closest friends to Medieval Times in New Jersey. Just as God and Golda Meir intended.
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