Car Rides, A Return to Childhood + Cannon Balls

When I was growing up in Brooklyn, we used to go and visit my Aunt Deb and Uncle Al on Long Island. The trips were primarily made on summer Saturday’s and involved what felt like a sweaty, traffic filled, ceremony of torture and teasing before we even arrived. My chubby young body was squished between both of my brother's hairy legs in the back seat of my dad’s navy blue Chrysler Fifth Avenue. While the back of my thighs stuck to the navy blue leather interior and adolescent male leg hair, I wondered if and when we’d ever arrive. I would tightly hug myself into a ball, my round belly squeezing into my ample thighs, I breathed heavily and imagined I was doing a cannon ball into a large, clear, blue swimming pool. The goal of my mental cannon ball was to suspend disbelief so much that I wouldn’t have to feel my brother’s leg hair grazing my own, but it didn’t work. I would inevitably yell, from my belly, “YOU’RE TOUCHING ME!” every time one of them moved their leg close to mine. In turn my father would scream, “DO YOU WANT ME TO TURN THIS CAR AROUND?!” The man spent 6 days a week driving an 18 wheeler or a limousine to make ends meet, so I didn’t blame him. for losing his shit. His gaze, aggravated and fierce, said it all in the reflection of the rearview mirror. Then my mother would chime in, “DO YOU WANT MY LEFT HAND?!” Mom sat in the passenger's seat, which meant her left arm was free swinging and could reach around to the backseat. Scary. Her left hand was adorned with her thick, gold, engraved leaf cut wedding band. If we tempted her enough, she and it would pack a wallop on our hairy legs; undoubtedly to be engraved with leaves - a branded tattoo memory. Let’s face it, I blamed my brothers but I was hairy too and these rides happened well before my oldest cousin led me to the pharmacy to purchase NAIR. My brother’s would then shout, placing blame on me, “SEE WHAT YOU STARTED, TINA?!” Well, if they would have manned up, gotten on school athletic teams and shaved their legs; or been gentlemanly enough to offer me the window seat so I could feel the warm Belt Parkway breeze sweep my full face, my long wavy hair and plastic charm necklaces, I wouldn’t have started anything. Maybe I should’ve yelled “CANNON BALL” and tried to fart. That probably would have won a window seat moving forward.

For what it’s worth, dad never turned around and we never got the left hand from mom, ok, maybe once and it didn’t leave a mark. She was too gentle. Mom liked a threat, but she didn’t have the heart to follow through. Her frustration won the best of her and still does. The pitch of her voice is distinctive and is 10 octaves pitchier than normal when annoyed or frustrated. What I’d do to hear dad say now, “DO YOU WANT ME TO TURN THIS CAR AROUND?!” but that will never happen again. Life goes on. 

Compared to our Brooklyn apartment, where my two older brothers shared a bedroom until I left for college, and where we were tormented by having a yard but couldn’t play on the grass - Italian grandfather’s rules - arriving at Aunt Deb and Uncle Al’s felt like freedom. And if victory had a smell, it would be the scent of freshly cut green grass. On the South Shore of Long Island there was freshly cut grass to be played on, and every house we passed looked to have miles of manicured property, a pool, and a barbecue located outside. We had grass in Brooklyn, but we were forbidden to play on it, a big, cement back yard with no pool, and my father - well - he set up a barbecue inside of our apartment - fashioning a ventilation system that was a failed mad scientist's experiment. Well meaning, but mad. May through September we lived in a summer smoke and heat infested inferno of potential death, but dad really loved barbecuing. I couldn’t fault the man, he worked a lot and he tried his best. Sometimes I wish he’d still try to smoke us all to death and then scream “IS EVERYBODY HAPPY?!” as we sat down at the dinner table, but that will never happen again. Life goes on. 

Long Island was other worldly. My cousin Danielle was an only child and I imagined how great solo backseat car rides must have been for her without boy leg hair clinging to her skin. How quiet it must have been to sit in the yard and read or eat outside without smoke burning her eyes out. How peaceful mealtime must have been without 3 uncles eating off of her plate at any given time.  All of my uncles lived in our house too. Three of them. With my grandmother, grandfather, uncles and us, we tallied at 11 people in the house. So, yeah, Long Island was idyllic. Glorious. We’d spend the day going from the pool to patio chairs, eating and playing outside, to getting in our pajamas for the car ride home. There was never any shouting, Uncle Al wouldn’t think about stealing a bite of my hamburger - only teaching me how to hold a football and throw a spiral. Aunt Deb felt like home, the closest person to my mother, the defender of my chubby honor when everyone else would make fun of me. Their home was safe. 

As we pulled away from the house, Aunt Deb, Uncle Al, Danielle and Sandy, their dog, would stand in front of their storm door waving goodbye. I hated this part, I always cried. They watched us pull away and down the street. I waved my meaty hand until I couldn’t see them anymore, knowing that they could no longer see me. I craned my neck until I lost sight of them and it was then that I knew the day was officially over. The car ride back to Brooklyn was quiet because we all passed out, a relief for my parents I’m sure, as 6 hairy legs silently rubbed one another in the backseat of the Chrysler Fifth Avenue. I imagine my parents delighted in the silence, a rare occasion in the car.  We’d pull into the driveway and mom would wake us up. One by one we’d file up the stairs to our apartment and head to our rooms. The next day we were back to ordinary life. No playing on the grass, no pool, burning eyes and screaming about hairy legs, and my little thunder thighs on the playground, chafing with delight as I ran on the soft turf at the local park. Chafed thighs were ok, it was chafed thighs and scraped knees, from the concrete, that was unbearable.

Today I’m 44 years old and feeling like 9 year old Tina, but with less body hair and no one’s hairy legs to rub up against mine, brother or male partner. I’m 44 years old and my Aunt Deb and Uncle Al have been caring for me following a surgery I needed to regain function of my shoulder. Who knew being 44 and doing hours of backbends, handstands and pushups  could lead to torn tendons and a torn heart? Mom and dad ended up leaving Brooklyn almost 20 years ago, my brothers, Thomas and Louis headed to live down south while I stayed in New York to soak up stress and slurp on wonton soup as I worked late hours in the television/media industry, then in news. Dad is now 80 with dementia, and he barely engages with us or life anymore. Even when he yelled, he was still one of my favorite people in the world. He’s hardly driving or moving and he we have the same conversation every time we speak. Mom will celebrate her 75th birthday and the stress of caregiving is causing her to age even faster. Her gold wedding band, engraved with leaves, branded to her finger in sickness and in health - committed to my father and their love. Thomas will be 50 and his diagnosis of Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis has haunted him and his body his whole life. Louis doesn’t say much of anything so I’m not sure what he’s thinking right now. They both still have hairy legs and we don’t speak nearly as much as I wish we did and could. And, well, my plan to leave New York and live in Mexico was foiled, but I’m not sad about it because I still accomplished being able to walk out of my life; to walk away from the Tina I was. 

Today I’m 44 years old and I’m little Tina hiding out in the attic at Aunt Deb and Uncle Al’s house. I’ve been granted the ability to time travel in my existing body; to go back in time and reflect on life. To feel young, but to be housing unwieldy DD boobs, it’s weird. And I’m crying a lot. Who knew perimenopause would be so much like feeling 9 years old, misunderstood, emotional, moody, and out of control? I love looking out the attic window to see the stretches of lawn and others backyards, to see the sunrise and the sunset. I’ve realized that I don’t need much to make me happy and that I never needed much to be whole. So, there’s that.

After watching the sun rise, every morning I descend from the attic where I’m greeted by my Uncle Al, reading the paper and sipping on coffee. Uncle Al would probably still throw a football with me in the backyard if my arm was working and if I asked, but instead we talk about lawns, working out, music and politics. I love spending time with him as a woman-child. And, yes, Aunt Deb continues to defend my honor, even if I’m no longer chubby and hairy. She supports my life decisions and desire to be free - even if she didn’t quite understand my choices at first. She’s also tying my shoe laces, cooking my food, cutting it and helping me do laundry. I love her as my mother. When I do the dishes I like to stare into their backyard, it’s still big and beautiful, sprawling and still. The pool is gone, but I can still see all of us in the pool, on the grass, hanging out on a summer Saturday - like it was yesterday. Sandy is no longer with us, but their dog Rocky lights up the house with joy. Together, we 4, sit in the living room every evening and watch tv before I retire to the attic. Our time together has been special. An extended summer weekend through Fall, Winter and Spring. We don’t get back time; or maybe we do? Maybe we do get back time. Danielle is married with a little girl, Riley, and a husband, Jon and they live on the North Shore of Long Island in a house with a pretty yard and green grass. It makes me happy to see her be a mom, to know she gave my Aunt and Uncle a grandchild.

Life has changed for all of us, but I’ve realized that we can always go home. We can always return to our true nature, to safety, even if we don’t understand what comes next. The past few months I’ve felt cared for, seen and loved, listened to and protected. Sometimes we need that to feel whole again. Especially if you’re like me and you struggled your whole life to know what whole even is. I guess I have at least come to understand that whole is not late night wonton soup after work or dating to fall in love, nor is it money and unlimited supply of red lipstick, black shirts and a well decorated apartment. Thought, all of those things served their purpose in my life. I’ve spent the last few weeks walking along Montauk Highway and circling a local lake like one of its seagull inhabitants. It’s been simple. It’s been a relief. It’s been strange to feel like a kid in a grown woman’s body and story, but I’m going with it.

Families change, part ways, age and then they’re gone. It’s all inevitable. I wish I knew at 9 years old how meaningful those car rides were. I know, this got terribly morbid. And while I longed to fall in love and get married, give my parents grandchildren and buy a house - it didn’t happen. I didn’t find that dead ringer of a career that gave me an identity either, but I am grateful for the time I have had to be present for my family and in my life even if I am swimming in the deep end of uncertainty soup with a side of health insurance fear and four suitcases. I can’t turn the car around, I won’t turn the car around - I don’t even drive. Fuck, I have to get on that. I can feel my belly pressing against my thighs right now as I breathe and sit in a tiny library chair. See what you started, Tina. What comes next?

CANNONBALL.