An Ode to the Women in my Life
Today’s my girlfriend’s 21st birthday. Four days ago, my mother turned another calendar. I won’t mention that age out of respect — and my own forgetfulness. My own ignorance toward these people inspired me to write this. While the jokes fly and my personality flows spontaneously through the days, I don’t show them enough how much I love them.
I constantly think, but always forget. I try and fall short (track-and-field practice vs. race applies here). Any level of self-sufficiency I own still lands me back at the doorstep asking for cash or an ear. As strong and confident as I am, it became possible by pulling from the incredible women in my life. My mother, aunt, grandmother, girlfriend and sister all support and inspire me more than anyone in my life.
Patricia Manning is a nurse manager, who fights many of my battles, heals my sickness and gels much of the extended family together. My half-agitating, half-exuberant personality stemmed from her — with a dose of self-deprecating humor. Every night growing up I fell asleep listening to her phone calls to family, friends and enemies that rang up through the stairway. That community she built comforted and inspired me to build wide bonds everywhere. Talk — talk — talk.
I probably wouldn’t interview people for a career, tweet all hours and constantly chat if it wasn’t for her lead. We’re both locked into what’s happening on social media. I can’t let a tweet slide past her.
Her spats with dad, both giving each other (sometimes harmless) crap resonates the most in my search to always find the funny side of stories. My mom routinely told Dad that the Goofy Police would take him down for acting ridiculous at Disney. I laughed my head off. Dad imitated the “it’s in the basement” refrain she responded with for every missing item he asked about.
There were serious ones. Like the thrown flower pot when my dad left with her brother bounced to a bar one night while she cooked dinner for them.
I haven’t confirmed that story.
Comedy and comfort shifted into stark reality when cancer struck Dad in 2016. One week we took our (unknown then) last ride on our boat, drove to Syracuse and began my college life. I cried when they left three years ago. I must’ve had a sense what news would drop two weeks after move-in.
Mom’s workday became 24/7. She drove to Boston each night to deliver packaged dinner and company to dad’s hospital room. She answered my calls between his complaints, to hear me vent my doubts about remaining at school.
She told me to stay. She was right. I met friends for life and another special person to-be-mentioned here.
When Dad’s health worsened that May — I finally had settled into Cuse — she told me to come home. I returned to the most memorable final few days with my father we could’ve had under those circumstances. We shared a first beer, final words and he affirmed that I made him proud.
We mourned him at a massive wake. Over 300 people poured through, displaying the massive support network my mom helped build. Two of my greatest idols, my dad and grandpa, died this decade. Without a brother, my immediate family boiled down to Mom, Ann (my sister) and auntie Kathleen. That femininity surrounding me empowered, healed and changed me into a person more unconcerned about hyper-masculinity.
My aunt survived breast cancer, and returned to helping cancer patients live their best lives. I started covering sports again quickly, went back to Syracuse, then left for Spain a year later. My sister moved to New Hampshire that same fall to become a nurse. We both raised money for cancer through the Boston Marathon and our high school, then kept it moving without much reflection.
Mom works. I write. Ann studies.
One night last basketball season, texting my mom, it finally hit me. How much she must be struggling. How it’s only been two years since we lost Dad. Crossing the world and rapid-paced days made it feel like forever. She’s done the best job anyone could’ve imagined to keep moving forward.
That did not mean we healed. We hurt badly. I feel it several times per week, weighing on my energy. It’s at its worst when I see what hasn’t moved or hasn’t changed that would’ve if he was around. Tools in the basement. The boat. Clothes in his closet. The possessions we sell off that he once owned hurt the most. Like when a world sailor from New Zealand scooped up his boat engine this summer.
I get to escape that, and drown myself in my work and ascension. Mom lives it daily, with Ann and I hours away. And it has effects on us we probably don’t even acknowledge — like anxiousness. It ensured I knew the fragility of life, and how much letting people you love know matters.
I’m trying to rebuild the bridge, eating dinners when I’m home. My host mom in Spain taught me the power of time for conversation (my real mom’s first lesson) at the table. The pace of American life, phones and other distractions make that difficult.
As I reach my 20s, with so much given to me from my mom each one of those years, I want to give back; make her feel supported and know that I’m not far.
The process forces me to solve my own difficulty with managing time and maintaining ties to everyone I know — but it’s become a top priority. I remember how far I felt from home, comfort, stability and what we had growing up the moment I arrived at Syracuse. I never want that feeling to transcend to Massachusetts.
Happy birthday Mom — remind me which one it is on the phone please.
October 6, 2018 — Segovia, Spain
Syracuse’s Madrid program sent a bus to nearby Segovia for a handful of euros early one Saturday. When we arrived, we broke into two tour groups — one in English, one in Spanish.
I’m addicted to Spanish. I love the words, flow, prevalence around the world and challenge of speaking it. Unfortunately this Irishman didn’t receive the best accent. The RR sound doesn’t work on my tongue. I went to Spain largely to immerse myself in that world, and few fellow novices can beat me at vocab. Even Dylon Goris, of Dominican descent. We’ll get to him.
It’s funny to look back on the what-if moments where you remember waffling. Because I looked back-and-forth between my friends in the English group, and maybe four people I vaguely knew in the Spanish group that day. Luckily the encouraging teacher and my priorities pulled me to Spanish.
Bella Grella still lets me hear it for the fact that I don’t distinctly remember our first conversation in that tiny group. It’s one of the many ways I fail to appreciate her enough. Our shared, struggle-filled Spanish ambitions brought us together initially. And I never imagined my first love revealing so much about me to myself through her high-pitched, passionate voice.
Bella and I only talked briefly that day — so I’m told. Weeks went by before Dylon, our friend group and I landed in the Kapital club one night. I hated that place; it’s overpriced, egotistical, self-important doormen stand outside in suits and a line wraps around the corner due to the hype — like Seltzers and Popeyes sandwiches sat inside. I sucked it up and went that night.
For some reason nobody can answer to this day, Dylon told me to go talk to Bella inside. I did, we took a selfie, but didn’t think much would happen.
I’d talked to girls before. Those rejections instilled in me doubt that I was cut for that world. I’ve had great friends in my life — however much they clown me, and that masculinity cloud prevents emotional conversations. It didn’t feel like I needed a girlfriend — my friend Ashley told me it’d happen naturally if it ever did. Another dose of wise feminine wisdom that I didn’t buy at the time.
That haze lifted in Madrid. I felt empowered to at least try in this new world. I did and whiffed a few more times. Then landed on the one.
Who knows if one means the one. It implies a one. Bella’s 5'2", with skin that appears lightly cooked in olive oil. Her black hair curls backward from the top of her big, bright forehead. She has sharp, biting brown eyes, chubby cheeks; a white smile and a cute nose with two sharp points on the side. And dimples!
It’s a beautiful face, more so than anyone I imagined dating before. Two weeks after someone else in that club told me to steer clear, she walked into the Madrid center’s cafeteria while I sat in there alone making a playlist.
I asked her out without really thinking about it, and here we are many Spanish bars later.
She loves music, filling me in on R&B while I school her on hip-hop. She’s fascinated by the political world, with different positions. I knew New Jersey and Massachusetts were different. The sports thing isn’t there, but it’s a nice break from that world when we’re together. And we’re together often.
We’ve traveled to Canada, Cape Cod and Anderson .Paak in NYC. I try to soak up her lowest moments. She’s taught me to not hold in emotional weight — whether anger, fighting back, or sadness. And so much about facial moisturizing that my toiletry bag is packed beyond capacity.
She convinced me I’m more physically fit than I see, more accomplished than I imagine and a better person than I judge myself. The king of beating himself up needed that check. She helped me find grounding between confidence and self-criticism.
Other times our interaction reveals my worst sides. Important things that she tells me fly over my head. I’ve repeated mistakes that hurt her. My quirky and oddball ways thrust her into embarrassing situations. But for the first time, I met someone who fully understands that side of me.
She mentioned a random, contextless Instagram story her friends didn’t understand that clicked with her immediately, about wine on a train and my frustration at what kind it was. I knew I had something special then, enough to scare me when I misstep that I’d lose one of the few people that can see through me.
There’s so much greatness within her. She’s a brilliant singer with an ear for who can and can’t sing. She wrote an excellent piece about the rise of Spanish language in popular music. Her interest in cancel culture and modern social phenomenons raise conversations I couldn’t imagine having with anyone else. It’s ok she can’t think of the perfect Twitter bio.
We trip. We hurt. We struggle through the changes. Coming back from Spain killed. Moodiness and mistakes swing back and forth. I don’t hammer her when she frustrates me. I repeat mistakes. This thing’s far from perfect.
But I love it, and I love her. The entire process, day after day. Nobody makes me feel warmer. Mmm.
Thank you Ann and Auntie, and happy birthday Bell and Mom. The four great women who allow me to be who I am — proudly.
