13. Wind Song

I made it through my high school years, but barely.

I attended a large and nationally known high school that boasted 98% of graduates went on to college, mostly Ivy League institutions. Many of my fellow graduates were successful in areas of science, the arts, and political arenas. I’m not sure what happened to the other 2%, but I managed to get accepted to a small junior college in Missouri despite my deplorable grades. My parents were deeply relieved. Mom didn’t want another social embarrassment like the years I refused to go to summer camp.

Summer camp was THE thing in Winnetka. These were summer camps designed for the children of the wealthy. Anyone who was anyone sent their kids to these high-priced and elite camps that rested in a lake-blessed, glorious forest somewhere out east. It would have been a mark of social excellence if my parents could have joined the happy chorus of their friends laughing over their gin and tonics, sharing the letters of homesick children. Alas, I put my foot down and refused to go. It was enough that I had to spend my school days as an outsider; summer was an escape from my social outcast misery. 

My mother was furious with me, notwithstanding highly embarrassed that her daughter was at home, spending the summers hiding in her room. I believe my father understood my unspoken rebellion. He, of all people, would recognize social anxiety. He bought a boat with a wild outboard motor and presented me with an epic slalom waterski. Almost every weekend morning during the summers, he’d awaken me at 5:00, and by 6, I’d be skiing behind his magnificent boat on the glassy surface of Lake Michigan. When the water roughened, my dad and I would spend hours on the lake, following the shoreline north. By my senior year, I was one helluva water skier, and despite my father’s propensity to disrupt our family life, I will forever thank him for those Summers of Understanding. Mom was impressed with my water skills, but in the end, it was camp she wanted; she would remind me of her camp-disappointment well into my adulthood. My dad would reminisce of our summer days on the lake. 

Anyway, I attended the small 2-year junior college where to everyone’s surprise, including my own, I excelled. I graduated with honors in psychology and drama, a perfect combination for The Confused. Of course, my parents were thrilled by the many university acceptances I received to continue my education. I picked the University of Texas, much to Mom’s chagrin. She was right. I should have gone elsewhere because UT was a party school, y’all. My two-year excellence was replaced by malt liquor, parties, and poor decisions. One stupid choice was falling head over heels for a jerk of a guy who eventually dumped me for the daughter of the mayor of Biloxi, Mississippi. Heartbroken, I returned to Winnetka. 

About this time, my brother David was involved in a horrific car accident in Denver, resulting in multiple fractures of both legs. There was no doubt David would be in the hospital for months, so my parents decided to send their weeping heart daughter to Denver, believing that being near David would do us both good. David’s occupational therapist became my roommate, and his orthopedic doctor’s office became my place of employment. It wasn’t long before a couple of my co-workers asked me to join them in the weekly Friday night fun-fest in Central City, an old mining town turned tourist attraction located in the foothills. The locals were a bunch of hippies, dressed in muslin, headbands, and sandals. Just so you aware, we didn’t have hippies in Winnetka. We read about them, though.

And what an amazing bunch they were. Friendly, happy, carefree, and stoned out of their minds. Some were hanging out; others had jobs in gift shops and restaurants. It was on one such Friday night I met Bwana. Handsome, tall, and with the build of a Greek god, Bwana was a bartender at the Silver Slipper Saloon. He was also 31 years old, a lawyer with a wife and 3 kids. Bwana was a drop-out of the establishment and apparently of his family, too. I was 19 and screwed up. Never was there a more perfect couple. As I recall, I may have known his real name, but he preferred Bwana because of the pith helmet he always wore. Needless to say, Bwana and I started dating (why not?). He introduced me to all the locals who didn’t give a toke about who I was. They accepted me with open arms and a lot of dope. No one was dropping LSD or crazy drugs. Everyone happily kept to weed, dispensed through all sorts of amazing devices. During the week, I’d stay in Denver, visit Dave in the hospital, then head up to Central City on the weekends to hang out with Bwana. I never told my brother about Bwana as I wasn’t all that sure my brother would be overly excited I was dating a pith-helmet-wearing-31-year-old dropout. It turns out I didn’t have to. One Saturday morning, I walked into Dave’s hospital room, and the first thing I heard was, “Who the hell is Bwana?” Not too surprising, Bwana got into a brawl the previous night, which required patching Bwana’s remarkable face. And where else would Bwana be attended to but the same hospital where my brother was lying in leg casts. Bwana paid a visit to Dave that night of his facial repair. Wearing a bloodied shirt and battered face, Bwana introduced himself to my brother. “Hey, I’m Bwana. I’m dating your little sister.” It wasn’t like Dave could do anything about it, but my brother was not happy. 

As it turned out, my dream of becoming a hippy was never realized. Notwithstanding I would have blown up like a balloon with the munchies, I was a Winnetka girl at heart, never leaving the house without make-up, and certainly, dressing in long muslin skirts wasn’t part of the dress code. Eventually, Bwana broke up with me. He had another girlfriend somewhere, and he decided to go back to her. She was 16 years old. It would be the first time and only time I would be dumped for a younger woman. In retrospect, I think Bwana should have been arrested for child endangerment. Not long after Bwana, I met a new boyfriend who picked me up at a gas station. He was a bit of a creep but, hey, what the heck. That brief and damaging affair ended, so I quit my job, said goodbye to Dave, and went back to Winnetka. Again.

To be sure, there was a pattern in my life during these years. I’d take off on some crazy journey then come crawling back to Winnetka, licking my wounds. My parents welcomed me, but I think my boomerang behavior was a bit of annoyance (and perhaps worrying) for my mom. David, my hero brother, once wrote my parents a letter, voicing his concern over me. I never read the letter, but I knew he must have been imploring my parents to pay attention to me. Mom was aghast and asked, “Why would your brother write such a letter?” I was equally alarmed as I knew from long experience that the thought of rescuing me was a source of unease for my mother, and frankly, at that time, I didn’t want her help – not that she could have offered any. I wrote to David and pleaded with him to drop the subject of my well-being. He may have had a good idea of how messed up his baby sister was, but he had no conception of the life in Winnetka. Mom was already disappointed with me, and I was fervently against providing her further ammunition, regardless of my brother’s love for his sister.

As I look back on these years of confusion and seeking affection and acceptance in all the wrong places with all the wrong people, I realize that with every return to Winnetka, the operational base of my emotional afflictions, I would bring with me more “boxes” of stuff I had accumulated. Each box had a label: “self-deprecation” was one, another was labeled “verbal abuse”, one labeled “my past sucked” or “words that hurt me” or yet another box was filled with “stuff I’ll never let go.” The largest box was labeled “my shame.” Some boxes would not be unpacked for years yet to come, and some are just now being tossed. There’s one box with the scrawled words, “the day I decided to leave.” There’s nothing in it now, but I remember what the contents were. I was 16 and had planned down to the minute when I would take my own life. The night of action, I heard a “voice” whisper: “The sun will rise tomorrow, and it would be good if you were here to see it.”

The Light always shined through my shadows. 

I cannot imagine the Boxes of Sorrow that others may have in the basements of their lives. Gratefully, I was not the victim of violence or physical abuse. Yet, my story –  or yours  – cannot be thought of as less important because someone else’s story is worse.

This morning I took my dog, Charlie, for a walk. I let him attend to his important ground sniffing while I looked up to the bright blue sky. Nature was painting her autumnal artwork on the trees, the soft breeze grasping the colors and tossing them across my path as though just for fun. The morning was filled with the song of a new season, the letting go of what once was. 

I was reminded of one of my trips to Scotland, where I met with a genealogist who developed my ancestral family tree. Although there was little documentation before 1845, she turned her computer screen so I could view my heritage. The researcher pointed to my tree and asked, “Do you know who you are?” I almost burst out laughing. Of course, I had no idea who I was. She ignored me and said, “You come from a line of brave and courageous people who fought hard for their lives, who lost everything and built again. Their blood runs through you. So I’ll ask the question again. Do you know who you are?” Well, I’m still working on that answer, but I’m coming closer every day…

I may be the product of my family, good or bad, wrong or right. I may be the product of some poor decisions. Yet, here I am, alive, strong, and bravely writing my story. 

I am brave and courageous. I am more than a survivor. I’m a fighter, the first responder of my life, heading into the “dangers” of who I was, to save who I yet will be.

And I am blessed. For the Sun does rise in the morning, and the Wind sings its song of Joy. For me, and for you, too.