Going Home

I don’t know who came up with the phrase, “You can never go home,” but, man, that person was onto something. I mean, you CAN go home. You can physically get yourself there. But, oh boy, it’s not the same.

I grew up in New York City, in Queens. I left my parents’ home to go away to college when I was barely sixteen. I was not happy living there, for a long time. There were so many arguments, so much yelling. There was a lack of kindness and extreme imposed austerity. My dominant motivating force had always been fear. Do well in school — or else. Clean your room — or else. Place the needle on the record and ever so carefully lower the plexiglass lid on the turntable so as not to disturb the needle — or else.

I want to be clear here. There are some wonderful, indelible memories I have of my childhood. Great stuff. Yes, it was a mixed bag. But, I was driven to save myself. I know this.

I remember pacing in my bedroom, at 8 or 9 years old, counting the years before I could go away to college. My oldest sister had just left for school, and it lit a fire in me. “5th, 6th, 7th…Only 8 more years to go!” That became my raison d’être.

I did whatever I had to do. My anxiety level was always high, knowing that excellence was my only way out.

I did well, I put my head down, I worked my heart out.

In the 6th grade, we took a test that would determine our junior high school path. I, like both of my older sisters, scored well enough to give me the option to do the SP, Special Progress. There was a choice: I could do the 2-year SP, where I’d do 7th and 8th grades in one year, and then the 9th grade the next. Or, I could do the 3-year SP, where each year was enriched.

Both of my sisters had done the 2-year SP. I was determined to do it, as well. It would get me one year closer to getting away to college. Since my sisters had set the precedent, it seemed like it was a given.

For some reason, my mother didn’t want me to do the 2-year SP. I’m not sure why. Maybe she saw how anxious I was, and she thought that the 3-year program would be a better pace for me.

I was adamant. The kids in the 3-year were “nerdy”. I just couldn’t be in class for three years with them! (In retrospect, they were incredibly smart, and did very well in life). I simply had to speed up my path. I would die if my mother made me do the 3-year. I was desperate.

Well, my mother saw how much this meant to me, and she relented. (Thank you, mom). I didn’t quite understand why she was pushing me to do the 3-year plan. I don’t recall her ever explaining it to me, having a conversation. I wonder if her perspective would have influenced me. I’m guessing no. My mother knew how difficult it was to live with my father. I think that the unspoken was clear.

So, I shaved a year off my sentence.

I barely remember high school, which started in the 10th grade. I didn’t have much to do with anyone. I had friends, but, not close ones. Rhonda. From elementary school. She and I would have pizza often after we got off the city bus. But, that’s all I remember. It’s fuzzy. And I think I have an excellent memory. But, I guess we remember what is memorable. And high school was an unhappy time for me, particularly at home. My father was more than strict. He kept me on a short rope.

I found out in my junior year that I could graduate in January of my senior year if I took the required courses. I leapt on this. I told Mom that I wanted to do it. I don’t really remember her reaction. If I had to guess, I’d say she was not pleased. I was, after all, extremely young. She knew how unhappy I was, at school and at home. I think she was afraid for me out in the world. But, I don’t remember there being much of an argument from her. I went about setting things up for my early graduation.

“You can go to a state school, or you can go to a city school, for free! That’s your choice! That’s it!” That was my father’s commentary, spoken in anger, for some reason. Anger was his m.o. Look, New York City has some fine city colleges, but there was no fucking way I was staying in that house for four more years. I had been unhappy and constrained for no reason for too long.

I applied to every state university: Albany, Buffalo, Binghamton. And I waited. I heard nothing. It was the autumn of my senior year.

I turned sixteen in October. I shunned the notion of a Sweet Sixteen party, like many girls at the time were having. I asked for an entry-level stereo, instead. It made me happy.

It was December already, and I hadn’t heard anything. I’d be finishing high school in a month, and I didn’t know where I was going to go. I don’t even know if I’d gotten any rejection letters. It was just silence.

Finally, in mid-December, I got an acceptance letter from Albany! Finally! I was so relieved, excited! Thrilled! I told them at my job, at Waldbaum’s supermarket that I’d be leaving work soon. Yay!! I was going away!

My parents drove me up to school in January. It was about a 3-hour drive from Queens. My dorm was at the old, downtown campus, the same place my oldest sister had been about seven years before. I was nervous. I was young. But I knew that I was doing the right thing for me.

SUNYA — State University of New York at Albany — was where I spread my wings. It was where I met people of different backgrounds, where I made great friends, where I fell for guys, where I had my heart broken, where I lost my virginity. I worked moderately hard at most of my classes, really engaged with some others, dropped out of a few. It was where my love for movies deepened, where I smoked pot, dropped acid, had deep conversations. SUNYA was where I found myself, at least a part of myself that was never accessed before. I had fun. I was passionate about things around me. I was actually happy.

After college, in my early 20’s, I was in and out of my parents’ house a few times. It was a very tough time in my life. (More on this in another story). But, when I was able to leave and follow my heart, I knew I was on the right path. I lived in Manhattan, and I fell in love with my city of birth.

Then I moved to Los Angeles in 1985. I used to get back to New York about four times a year, I think. My work took me there. Now, I get back less and less often. And when I’m there, I see how I’ve changed.

The dynamics of my family system are still in motion. I’ve worked hard to figure it out, and to extricate myself from the patterns that were not working for my well-being. Today, when I’m there, when I say what I need, when I stand up for myself, I’m pretty unpopular. It’s hard. I want to belong. And I guess I still do, but in a different way, on different terms.

I suppose I can’t go home, not in the way that it was. I won’t allow myself to get swept into that current anymore. It happens in all families. We open the front door, and we begin to dance the dance that we’ve done with our relatives for years. I’ve worked so hard to learn, to not take the bait, to change. I still take it, sometimes, but not nearly as often. And what happens when you don’t take the bait? You’re hungry. But, then, you find better, more nourishing food.

It’s different at now at home. The house where we grew up, where my parents lived for 51 years, is gone. We gather at my sister and brother-in-law’s beautiful home now. Some of it makes me sad. I see the passage of time, my life, their lives, where we’ve all been, where we all are.

I’m also glad to know that I’ve found a lot of myself, and that I’m aware there’s more to come. It isn’t always easy. Jesus Christ, it is not. There are lean times, confusing times, times when I don’t know which way is up. It’s like when I’ve been tumbled by a wave, and I’m panicking because I don’t know where the surface is. I need to find it, so that I can break through and take a deep breath again. I finally do, I breathe, gratefully, and I stand up to face the next wave.

I’ve chosen a path that I was not raised to choose. Yet, my family and my past inform most of my work. Funny. And for that, I’m grateful.

What is home, anyway? I think it might be a place that is in constant motion. As one changes, home changes. Home is within me.

I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out. I’ll get back to you.