Greetings From the Misbegotten

Hellos and goodbyes used to be difficult for me to navigate. I tend to walk into any room looking for the exit. When I am there with you, I’m a 100% present, but when we’re done, I avoid the goodbye by slipping out the back or sparking up the conversation again, trying to escape the final farewell.

My first flirtation with solicitations happened when my mother forced me to kiss every relative no matter how old, gnarled or handsy they got. I was admonished to feign some kind of excitement at having to see them, which I may have had, but not enough to throw my arms around them and snuggle into their perfumed scent as if I were a bridge to some era I would never know. Even if I wanted to.

There were the dry lips of my grandfather we visited every week though he had no idea who we were. His name was Sam, as was his roommate’s, a cousin who lost a leg to diabetes, but whose grip between dried sausage fingers was unforgiving. My mother acted as if they’d been waiting all week just to steal youth I was obliged to offer them. Which I would have, had that been an option.

Nana Jean

I was told to be compliant. Not too compliant of course. Because I didn’t want to give anyone any ideas, lest they be “wrong,” which was code for keeping distance from Uncle Danny who respected no one’s boundaries. No matter. Say hi with a pleasant smile and an uncomplaining, upturned face. G’day kind sir, thanks for not groping, but do try again soon. Haven’t women been accepting this for generations? Until recently. I hope.

As a natural born hugger, I was confused. There were also good, heartfelt, interested, how-do-you-do’s given by those precious elders in my world who hit on the right formula to love me. My grandmother never met me without giant hugs and wet kisses. Her love was earnest, excited and freely displayed even if she had a husband who slut shamed my sister when she dared to come in wearing a skirt with knock-off Keds bought in the Avenue I flea market for $2. He believed a dress without the proper footwear is a sin. My grandmother, sister and I hid in the bathroom until we were beyond the goodbye.

Like with a good wine, age ushered in richer and more nuanced meanings this two-buck-chuck girl couldn’t comprehend. I thought it was mature and exciting to say things like, ciao and kiss my friends hello, especially the boys, but that landed me in a mess. In my corner of Brooklyn crack and weed were king and plentiful; consent was optional. Precious few accepted a peck on the cheek as anything other than an invitation to try and cop a feel, an opening gambit that left everyone powerless.

I met my husband for the first time in an airport after we’d spoken online for months. I explained that people who patted my back instead of hugging made me nervous, forced me to wonder if they ever cared at all. As we met for the first time in the Southwest terminal at LAX, he gathered me in his arms like a collection of freshly clean laundry and breathed me in. I burrowed into his chest, determined not to say goodbye until we died. Or I was ready.

People aren’t grabbing me anymore in assurance of my existence, not strangers, friends or somewhat sadly, even my kids. More iterations of what it is to be a woman have lumbered beyond my viewfinder to park themselves as memories offered thankfully, albeit relentlessly, by Google Photos.

Whenever I left my father I told him I loved him. Out of habit. Mostly to make him uncomfortable. All right, he’d say, enough of this, but that night before he died he said he loved me too. I’ve held it as precious, neither of us knowing that it would be our permanent bon voyage. A tiny parting gift I know few get.

I’ve grown into myself or my age. Time and self assurance make everything easier. I am curious to visit the places I do and am excited by the people I choose to keep me company. 

All told, I’m better than my father, who would leave a place mid sentence and never look back — which embarrassed the hell out of me then, but I now admire a little. My kids swore when I said it was time to go, they still had time to finish off the dessert table, knowing it would be a while.

Either way, I‘ve learned it’s not the hello and goodbye that count so much as what happens in between. In the meantime, bring that baby here. Those cheeks look good enough to eat!