My daughter is eight and going through the drama of resisting the new reality that is upper elementary school homework. Every evening is fraught with her angsty whining about being too tired to do her math and reading. Tonight as we gave her a break before working more, my husband asked me what I was doing at that age, and it hit me hard how heavy that year was for me.
You see, I was her age was the year dad left. When I was eight, I remember sobbing as he took box after box out of the house. Clinging to his feet hoping that he would stay, while he worked without pause. I remember standing in the temple, somber as the leader publicly denounced and expelled my father and his mistress from the congregation.
At eight, when the sun set every evening, my mother used her meager last bit of money to buy and drink a bottle of wine. I remember the shadows growing in the house as she drifted to a fitful sleep. I remember when we waited for money from dad, running out. The last bit of money in the house was mine. Years of allowance I only used once, to buy a fancy hamster cage. Money I had tucked my metal Little Twin Stars bank. I quietly handed that cash to her so we can survive a few extra weeks.
I remember a kind neighbor who took us in. We lived in her basement for a few months until we could move to the island. Her name was Nellie, and I promised to buy her and mom each a house one day. Nellie had a son named Eddiejoe. I got in trouble for fibbing and telling him that I liked hard rock and heavy metal. We would play Sonic the Hedgehog and Duck Hunt and eat bag after bag of cheese twists. I remember blushing when Baby Got Back Back played on MTV. Watching My Girl and feeling embarrased that I was weeping at the end.
At eight, I gave away the hamster cage and the gerbils it held. I tried to learn to ride a bike with Eddiejoe, but he let go at the top of the hill. I flew down screaming in terror. I never did learn to ride.
When I became nine, I finished my third grade. I remember barely finishing the school year before we were rushing to the Newark airport. I recall looking out the plane window as the clouds got closer. I resented having to leave New Jersey. I liked my school. I was proud that I knew who Nicholas Copernicus, whom the school was named after, was. I felt sad that I'd never see the NJ's blazingly bright sunsets against the gray factories again. That I'd never dip my mouth to catch the cheese from Vinnie's pizza or look shady “smoking" candy cigarettes in the corner next to the candy shop again.
I was eight. I was learning that safety was an illusion. That no matter how good of a little girl I was, I was not immune to loss or grief.
I don't think I was ever carefree again... It makes me happy to see my daughter complain about her homework. Such a wonderful, mundane, and normal pain to bear at eight. I’ll be damned if I let her ever have a year like the one I had when I was her age.
At the end of my suffering
there was a door.
– Louise Glück (The Wild Iris)