In this world he was one of six kids. He and his brothers wore their hair high and tight and his sisters wore theirs long and none of them had anything to say about it. His father was some sort of business man and his mother was just that, a mother. There was no crying for the boys and no back talk from the girls…not in this house. For him there were high school sports and church and after school jobs and plenty of girlfriends and middle class security. His father said that the world was going to hell on account of the spics and niggers and hippies and voted for Nixon. His mother made chicken salad and voted as she was told. Silence moved through the house, impossible to escape or slice through, not that anyone tried.
In this world he went to college, met a girl, fell in love, got married, got drafted, got her pregnant and went to Viet Nam. When he left for Southeast Asia, he believed in love. He came home different. His father never managed to crush his spirit, but war broke him. He no longer believed in anything. He stayed with his wife and had four more kids. He worked, and then couldn’t work. He attempted to ease his suffering by micromanaging the lives of everyone around him. On a Monday there would be a three page list posted on the fridge detailing everyone’s chores and a family meeting about the fucking mess in this house and why can’t people keep their rooms squared away? By Wednesday none of it mattered because he was hiding in the basement and only speaking to the dog. He jumped from religion to religion, relationship to relationship, forever disappointed, but desperate for something to put him back together. He was fragile and frightening, a devoted father and a tyrant, a model neighbor and bastard of a husband. He eventually ended up in a psychiatric hospital for awhile, got a little bit better and managed to create a life for himself, one that he could stand. But he will always be sad.
Somewhere else, he was recognized as a sensitive child. His parents saw his love for music and fostered his abilities. His father adored him, spent time with him, really knew him. His mother was strong and clear and taught him to respect women.
Even as a little boy, he was heard and valued. He knew he was cared for and safe. He was held. He married for love and valued his wife as artistic and intelligent and beautiful; as an equal partner. He shared himself with her honestly and accepted her help when he needed it.
Somewhere else, there was no war. He wasn’t terrified that his kids would find out the awful things he knew about. He gave his family room to make mistakes and in doing so, made room for imperfection in himself. Somewhere else, his wife and children trusted that he could hear the truth, and they told him who they were.
* * *
In this world she grew up in South Jersey. Her sisters were Wanda Lou and Leila Estelle, her brother, Brown Macmillan. Their last name was Thigpen. As if this wasn’t punishment enough, her mother was a loudmouth and fat. There was usually Jell-O with squares of canned fruit or sponge cake from a box with Cool Whip for dessert, which they had every night without fail. She adored her daddy who made sophisticated airplane parts for the government and kept bees in the backyard. He was always somewhere else, though. Even in his own chair, right there in the living room, he was unreachable. She had a sex club with her siblings and the neighborhood kids where her sister Wanda had actual sex with boys. She was the middle girl and she liked school and she wasn’t any trouble to anyone.
In this world she went to college, met a boy, fell in love, got married, got pregnant and sent her husband off to war. She had her first baby in the Philadelphia Naval Hospital with an epidural and a bunch of strangers. She audio taped the whole thing and sent it off to Viet Nam where the soldiers wore it out listening over and over to what hope sounds like. The man she loved left pieces of himself overseas, but he managed to get his body home which was better than the alternative. She loved him and saw his pain and she sacrificed the rest of her life in a wasted attempt to fix him. She lost one sister to cancer and her brother to the Mormons. They cut pieces off of her mother until she died one morning getting onto the toilet. Her daddy passed away respectably in his sleep and she still didn’t know him. She had more babies, kept her mouth shut, tried to read her husband’s moods, and taught her kids to do the same.
A few years ago she joined women’s workshop that met once a week in the evening. Her husband thought it was ridiculous and told her so. He gave her the silent treatment and eventually she found that it was easier to just quit than to defend herself. She figured that maybe he was right, maybe it was stupid. They are still married and she tells herself and her children that no relationship is perfect, we all make sacrifices.
Somewhere else, her dad didn’t ration his affection. Her mom never dressed her in humiliating holiday outfits. She never jumped through hoops to prove she was loveable. She went to college to uncover herself, not to escape the crushing weight of South Jersey. She met a man there who adored the things she was and didn’t need the things she was not. She always knew she was enough.
Somewhere else, there was time for painting and singing and writing, not just working and making lunches and keeping the peace. She was opinionated and confident. She taught her children to find their voices and use them. She told her husband to go to hell when he cheated on her. She was big and brave and true. She loved with abandon and it never let her down.
* * *
In this world I was an only child for six years. It suited me. After that, I was the oldest child and not pleased at all. While my parents spent their time and energy trying not to be their parents, I busied myself with creative ways of hoarding precious attention. I spent most of my childhood wishing I was someone else, anyone else, and getting into trouble. When I was eight, I got caught stealing and went to a psychologist who wanted me to draw magic marker pictures of my family on a newsprint easel. When I was ten, my babysitter fell in love with me and made me promise not to tell anyone. When I was eleven, I met a creepy old guy at Sacandaga Bible Camp who kissed me with his tongue and wanted me to call him Uncle Linus. At thirteen I started using drugs and throwing up everything I ate.
In this world I quit school, left my family, got high, moved frequently, got jobs, had boyfriends, got pregnant, had abortions, lied, cheated, robbed people and went to jail. I spent time in mental institutions and detox hospitals and shelters. I was raped, mugged and two times, at the New England Medical center emergency room, I died, and the nice doctors shot me in the heart with adrenaline and brought me back to life so I could get high some more. I sold my soul and hated myself and everyone else.
And in this world, not somewhere else, I found redemption. I peered over the edge of my choices and jumped off into the waiting arms of grace. I got honest, asked for help, stopped using, took risks, made mistakes and kept on trying. Right here in this world, people held me while I healed. Here, I began to understand my responsibility to myself and my family. I decided to change.
Somewhere else, the phone rang on Lily Farm Road at 3:17 am on a Winter Tuesday. A mother answered and her greatest fear was realized. A father was consumed by uncertainty and regret. One sister vowed she would never trust again. One sister’s anger hardened and cracked her in half. One sister quietly accepted that she was alone. The brother cried and cried and tried not to drown. Somewhere else, people shook their heads and commented on how sad and such potential and what a waste.
Somewhere else, it was just too late, but in this world, I lived.