“Hi, there,” said Ms. Cella, my Morality teacher, from behind a table. “And where do you think you’re going?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just kidding. No, umm, do you know where you want to go?”
“I have no idea.” I shook my head. I couldn’t say where I was going in the future when I didn’t even know where I was presently. I had no sense of home or feeling rooted in school or on Pheasant Lane. I was overwhelmed, helpless, with no direction.
“Maybe Northern Illinois or downstate somewhere?” I replied, more as a question than a statement.
“How about Marquette? They’re in Milwaukee. I went there. It’s really a great school. I think—no, I know you’d like it.”
After talking more about the school to Ms. Cella, I believed her. I was swept away by her excitement and looked forward to visiting this college.
My lack of direction had found a course. I had an idea of where to go, and I even had someone to talk to. But I faced another problem—my mother didn’t drive beyond a ten-mile radius of Pheasant Lane, which meant no expressways and certainly no tollways. I’m not sure where Dad was. I don’t remember him helping with my college decisions or planning.
I knew I would attend Marquette University even before I got there; it just felt right. I acknowledged the timing, alleviating my anxiety and hopelessness after a brief conversation with someone sitting behind a table. Optimism lifted my spirits, and I clung to hope to guide me forward. I had prayed for answers to my questions and for direction to my aimless wandering, and I’d received both. But how quickly my college visit on a raw, windy, gray autumn day killed the spirit I’d been granted. Mom’s best friend came to our aid as driver, support to Mom, and my savior.
“Finally, some lunch,” Mom said. She breathed a deep sigh and plopped on her seat in the Student Union cafeteria.
“We’ve got a couple of stops to make afterward. We’ll need to meet up with someone in the dorm who will walk us around,” I said.
Mom stopped eating, dropped her ham sandwich on its wrapper, and looked at me.
“More walking?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh.”
I waited out Mom’s pokey eating pace until we could continue our trek through campus.
“Oh, the wind. It’s cold. Are we almost there?” Mom pleaded in halting words, trying to overcome the wind’s strength as we struggled to walk up Wisconsin Avenue.
“We’re on Twelfth Street. We need to go to Fifteenth.”
“That far? Aren’t there any buildings closer that we could see?” I was angry and disappointed. Why couldn’t just one time, one day be about me? Why couldn’t we enjoy this fall day, being excited—together? I wanted to make her see the positive things about the day, to make her realize that I hoped to be traipsing as a college student the very sidewalks we were navigating. I didn’t bother to bicker, as I knew it would have been futile.
“Oh, why couldn’t it have been a nicer day? It would have been more enjoyable to be touring when it’s sunny out and not so windy and …” she said, struggling to keep up with my hurried pace.
“We’re almost there,” I said. “This will be our last stop, and then we can go home.”
Our tour concluded late that afternoon, and I saw what was necessary to make my decision. I replayed the campus tour in my head, walking that route again as a student in just two years. The car ride home was quiet; the silence was for different reasons. Mom’s silence was because of her exhaustion; I was silent while imagining my new life.
That summer would be my last summer to enjoy before leaving for college. I was content to sit at the pool, not alone but with myself.
Jim, a shy lifeguard, worked the evening shift. He was stocky and muscular with dark skin that tanned quickly and moppy brown hair lightened at the crown. We were young adults brought together in occasional poolside conversation because of our ages. He asked, “Are you doing anything tonight? I know this is kind of short notice, but I was wondering if you wanted to come with us—that would be me and Mike, you know, the one who works before me, and a couple of his friends and their girlfriends. I thought we’d all go to an outdoor movie or something. Maybe pack a cooler. What do you think? It is Friday.”
“Sure, I think that would be fun.”
An uh-oh thought popped, making me think twice about what I had said.
The problem I faced wasn’t my hesitancy about going in a car with someone I hardly knew; it was telling my mother.
“You’re what?” she screamed while standing in my bedroom doorway watching me change clothes.
“I’m going out tonight with Jim and some of his friends. Jim, he’s the lifeguard across the street.”
“No you’re not. It’s too late. You can’t. You don’t know any of these boys. You’re going in a stranger’s car. You could get stuck, in trouble, and then you wouldn’t be able to get home.”
I walked past Mom and out of the bedroom. “I’m going out, Mom. I’m old enough, and nothing is going to happen.”
I tried to shake the uneasiness and lack of confidence that she had just instilled like osmosis. Could I be feeling this way because she’d told me to? Frightened? Uneasy?
The outdoor movie venue was dark with the screen’s reflection of light bouncing off car roofs. Jim pulled into an available spot at the end of a row.
I didn’t know what to do as we sat parked. The darkness drew out the silence among us. Maybe I’ll just sit here while we’re all in here kind of tight? I sat until someone gave me direction.
“I’m gonna get the cooler out,” Jim said, getting out of the brown Mustang and heading to the trunk.
I was nervous. I anticipated the pressure to submit, to conform when the cooler’s lid was opened. I’d never had even a sip of beer before, and wasn’t sure I wanted to start then. My distraction by possible altered states of coherency made me unable to follow the conversation of the other passengers. I calculated in my head how long we’d been there, how long the movie was going to run, and then how long it would take to drive us home. It was going to be a long night. I was feeling stuck with no escape, should I need one, you know, just like Mom had said. But no one liked the movie. Jim drove us home. I walked in the door at 11:00 p.m. My fears were dismissed, but not without considering what Mom had said to me before I left.
That night I was startled to realize I was eighteen years old, ready to go to college, and uncomfortable with meeting new people my age. I had never been out just doing what friends do on Friday nights. I tried to dismiss my social ineptness by looking at the evening as a trial run, an example of a similar social encounter I was bound to have in college. I wanted to make friends, and this was an opportunity. I was also realizing my mother’s words were in discord with the inner harmony I was trying to establish when meeting new people.
I turned to thoughts of conviction, to discover more of myself through connecting to others and, in turn, to my home.
My beloved part of my day remained five o’clock in the evening when the pool and sun deck had cleared. The chlorinated water calmed to intermittent ripples and bloomed teal as the sun lowered. I smelled the sweetness of summer when the calm winds sneaked through the open fields to greet me as I lay spread-eagle on the lounge chair. My world was heavy with the scent of wildflowers and freshly cut grass, with an added dried thorny-brush smell. Hints of chlorine were picked up as the fragrance wafted over the pool, piquing my concentration as the sensory bloom floated over me. I looked up as if I were being tapped on the shoulder. My serenity lasted for two hours. I didn’t mind being alone while living in the moment. I could declare again, just as I had when that young girl posed for her picture, that life was truly good.
I realized home might not be limited in definition to a physical place. My first meaning of home was learned as a young girl when Carlisle, my birch tree, yellow walls, and all the physical remnants inside and out became the details to draw a picture as I had seen it once on blueprints. But it wasn’
t just being in a place. Friendships were also important to home.
I longed for a peace of heart and a settling of my spirit. Mom worked. Tim had his own place, and I didn’t belong anywhere. The more I acknowledged my lack of belonging, the more alone I felt. It was as if I had big wad of gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I could peel it off, but there would always be a sticky residue that would never wear away.
But I would be off to college soon, and I wasn’t going to let any end-of-summer rendezvous at the outdoor movie theater concern me enough to add to any social ineptness I already harbored. Perhaps if I let it go, ceased dwelling on what I lacked and how the deficits were holding me back, and tossed it all into the stratosphere to be blasted into tiny bits and disbursed into nothingness, I could be open to the start of a new life. I realized the past would be too heavy to carry to a bright new beginning. A renewed fervor inspired me to see that things weren’t really that bad.
I struggled with what to say or do every time I saw Mom’s face, which wore a defeated look that grew in sync with her sad demeanor. I tried to find ways to divert her unhappiness and loneliness to a different place. “Can’t you find something to do, something to join where you could meet people? To get out and get involved in something?” I asked. She would chuckle, “I can’t, oh, no,” as if I were the silly one. This negation was her mantra whenever she considered doing something for herself. I realized I could never satisfy her needs, no matter how uncomfortable or out of my control they were. I could no longer be the fixer of what went wrong, dissipate the negative cloud that clung to her, or free her from self-pity brought about by her woe-is-me attitude. I believed now was the time for me. My heart smiled with the joy of expectation. I had permission to put myself first and to no longer be responsible for my mother’s happiness. I never thought of this as being selfish in a vindictive way, but rather as the best way for us. Moving away from home gave me hope and a reason to believe I was going to be fine.
I thought of my birch buddy and wondered after all these years not only if it was still standing but also how it was standing. Was it ever held back? Did it decide one day that it was going to spread out and grow with the budding of new branches? I hoped it had experienced growth spurts just as I had.
After the pool closed for the season, I walked to fill idle time ordinarily spent within the confines of a chain-link fence, among sights and sounds of clustered connections to home. I had been a good walker around the house on Carlisle and took up the practice again easily. Early in my trek, I spotted tennis courts, their green surfaces aglow from bright white lights atop tall poles spraying illumination outside the courts and onto the remaining backyards of the last townhouse unit. I followed the high beams’ beckoning call. I had reached the end of the path and the construction complex of townhouses and greeted the beginning of wild, growing things—a prairie with trees and waist-high weeds and the smell of sweet wildflowers and damp rye grass. What a contrast between a two-story structure painted in muddy greens and browns and an open, airy field of light, to see breezes tickle wild growth of diverse heights and densities moving in tandem with the wind’s direction. Illumination from the lights and the stars took the lead for me to follow and to discover. Silvery tree trunk skins reflected their positions in the field. Birch trees! I heard their leaves dancing together when the humid breeze kicked up and moved the wild growth from right to left. I had never ventured this far since living here. Discovering the patch of birches that filled a wild field made me smile. The light from above told me my connections to home were not limited to my immediate surroundings but extended overhead to high places and beyond. I just needed to look up to the heavens to see a message of memories sent from a once-secure place I had known as home. The site told me I was in a better place. I too, like my birch buddy, was adaptable, taking root in once-empty space. The birch trees weren’t quite full grown, but they had a good start in a new place, and so did I.
part 3
branching out
the blue and gold
Grabbing the mail on a cold but sunny January day was a blind pull from the box that hung just outside the front door. The familiar blue-and-gold logo of Marquette University popped from the white envelope. My acceptance letter is here. I just know it. My doubts about my acceptance converged when I heard my mother’s voice in my head chime in: This may not happen, you know. I stared at my packet with analytical angst.
The director of admissions at Marquette University got right to the point in my acceptance letter: “Test scores and other data you have sent to us … certain of these items were slightly below the average of most of the students who enter our College of Journalism … concerned about the number of college-prep courses attempted during the past two years. A number of students comparable have been successful.” I yelled at the letter, Don’t compare me to others. I am a good student. I proved it with my grades! I looked past the words “below average,” which normally would have deemed me a failure, to see what was important: I had been accepted, and that was all that mattered.
It was mid-August and time to prepare to move—again. This time, it was a bittersweet change: part of me was happy and optimistic because I was moving on and away, yet another part of me saw loss and separation that had mirrored my experiences from the Carlisle move. Once again, I was faced with making new connections, rallying them behind me in support of finding home.
While I packed, I reduced my valued possessions to a concentrated home. Designated piles, some coming with me, others staying, were mounded on the floor. In addition to hauling bulging suitcases with four seasons of clothes neatly compressed into my Diane von Furstenberg luggage collection, I lugged a trunk. I thought this rectangular box to be a tidy, temporary home for personal possessions. It was like a time capsule whose contents would always stay in their original condition, telling a story about their owner. Encapsulated time would be a reminder of the days when home wrapped herself around me in comfort and security. Carefully selected remnants of home were concentrated because, of all the pieces I could have collected, the ones in the box—two houseplants, my journal, and a desk lamp, to name a few—were my strongest. Living things, my best friend, and a light to shine on it all were to merge with my adulthood. They would be plugs to be joined to new connections. Upon a lift of the hinged cover, my home and all its contents would be released to settle in a new place. Would they fit in? Would I fit in? Prospects of everything new—home, studies, teachers, friends—obscured my doubts. Newness implied a starting over and a pass that it was okay to leave behind the only home I knew for a place where I would learn more about me and the person I was going to become.
On a warm day in late August, I headed to college. Though Dad did not help me with my college search or preparation, he did deliver me to school. I simply needed transportation, and he was it. Dad drove, and Mom sat silently in the back seat of his Cadillac Coupe de Ville. He loaded the von Furstenbergs, trunk, record player, and speakers in the Caddy’s roomy trunk. I didn’t look back at what I was leaving but looked forward to the idea of traveling with my possessions contained in a trunk in the car’s back seat as an exciting new adventure.
I had to endure my present state of living with every mile traveled and every tick of ninety minutes before I could get to the side of new connections. The car’s air conditioning failed to alleviate the leaden air contributed by three heavy breathers filling an enclosure of family members in name only. We traveled silently as if our minds were hosting private thoughts. I was relieved to acknowledge any interruption to our mindfulness.
Mom asked, “Did you take enough winter clothes?”
“It’s only Wisconsin. It’s the same weather.”
I acknowledged the emotions that played out on her face, but I elected to not have them affect me. I was no longer responsible for her happiness. I was on my own, focused on a new course. I felt the way Dad looked: attention straight ahead, mesmerized by the traveling speed. I stared out the window to photograph the scenes
and store them in memory while my eyes followed the roadside.
Neither Mom nor Dad had seized the opportunity to talk to me about being responsible or studying hard and getting good grades—conversation I had expected, if not encouraged. There were no warnings about dating and being aware of boys or of drinking too much. There were no wishes to have the best times of my life. There were no proud words or feelings expressed or emotions displayed. I wasn’t surprised to witness another playing out of silence where the lack of conversation was a missing connection among us, the loss of a last chance to see that I had grown up. I was disappointed that they did not take advantage of the chance, solidifying any remnants of connection.
We exited the highway, and after circling a few blocks, Dad managed to park the car in front of my all-female dorm.
“Hey, this is it,” he announced. He sounded excited, probably not because we had arrived but because it was finally time to get busy.
“We’re here,” Mom mumbled.
I’m here—I’m actually here.
Warmth and comfort greeted me in the small, cozy lobby with its charm in old wood and worn furniture in rustic browns. Mom and Dad followed at my heels.
“And we’re not the only ones,” Dad declared.
Mom added, “Yeah, look at everyone arriving, all your dorm mates. Looks busy. You really want to do this?” No, Mom, I want to go home and stay there and never come out. I never knew how to answer Mom’s questions like this, other than sarcastically.
Under the Birch Tree Page 8