Girls

1973.

I can see it clearly – me in my page(girl) haircut at three years old, walking into the nursery at church in Canoga Park, CA.  We had just moved from Chicago.  My parents, avid and dedicated church goers, were faithfully going to church right as we were beginning to get settled into a new place and space.

I’ve heard that memory is a remembering of the story you told of the story you told of the story you told of the memory itself.  (And so on.)

I’m not sure I believe that, but I have no proof.  Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure that this image I have burned on my mind and heart is exactly like I remember it to be.  Why think otherwise?

Sitting at a round, child-size table were two girls and I can see them as if they were right before me now.

(Note:  I will use the word girl for a while here even though the word has been used to demean and belittle me as an adult.  When men call you a “girl” when, in fact, you are a womyn, they are saying that they are way up there on the hierarchy and that you should know your place.  It irritates the shit out of me.)

One of those girls had dark, beautiful, think and full hair.  The other, tight blonde hair pulled up and brushed to perfection into curls held by those hair ties with plastic balls on them. 

Why, in my memory, the only thing I remember about that morning is their hair, I’ll never know.  But it is.  Clear as day.  Dark Brown and Blonde.  And me, right between the two. I think the word for my hair back then was:  Mousey.  I can’t disagree.

No matter our beginning, we became the best of friends.  I see us even now:

Riding in the back of the Volvo station wagon my parents owned, legs outstretched, driving to lunch or home to play.

Gluing our arms together with Elmers’s glue so we could tell our parents that, unfortunately, we had to go home together after church, because we were forever stuck and were now a pair.  Or a three.

Eating at Pizza Cookery, sawdust at our feet.

Fighting over a boy with an actual shove into the bushes in the front of his house.  (what were we thinking, J?)

Sitting on the top of bunkbeds listening to the Starland Vocal Band singing about Afternoon Delight.  How were we supposed to know exactly what that meant? We listened to the record, over and over, hopping up onto the top bunk after it started and then, hopping down to re-start it when it was over.  A rhythm that was both comforting and unnecessary.

Vacationing together.  Playing together.  Singing and doing church plays together. 

Attending church camp together where I learned the ridiculousness of forcing kids to bow their heads and close their eyes before the prayer for breakfast.  I still think it is ridiculous.  Just pray.  Jesus doesn’t care.

Climbing rocks and walking trails and swimming in pools.  Being baptized.  Twelve girls that day, all lined up in our white dresses, heading towards our fate, something which would free us and haunt us all at the same time.

Side note:  I flunked table setting and was taken aside into the church kitchen to sit on a stool and practice, over and over until I got it right.  I can see the other girls playing this game where you had to be on your knees., tapping a balloon back and forth over a low net like balloon tennis.  Oh how I wanted to be a balloon tapper instead of a napkin folder!

We were, in all the best moments of those years of childhood, together.

Time goes by.  I moved six years later to the Midwest, and they stayed behind.  They forged a best-friendship that I am jealous of.  I didn’t get to be a part of their story for decades.  There was no “three of us” then.  Just life, passing time, going on about our days and years.

J got married and I flew back to California to attend her wedding.  I slept on the bottom bunk the night before and J, the top.  What I remember about that trip is getting lost driving the LA highway in the LA traffic and missing J’s house by miles and miles, stopping at a pay phone to call and figure out where the hell I was.  I also remember how beautiful she was, my dear friend, as she walked down that aisle.

M and I went to college together but didn’t exist in the same groups and so those memories are throw aways for me.  She may feel differently.  She probably feels like I was unkind towards her.  I can’t think of any reason we didn’t connect except that my severe depression kept me closed to the world.  In fact, maybe we did have a relationship there.  I have no idea.  Mental illness is a bitch that steals joy and memory.

And then M turned 50.  I’m sure that I was invited to her party because of our chcildhood and I was thrilled to go.  I flew to California and J and I attended the party together.  It was a blast from the past. 

Another side note:  I was wearing the ever-fashionable ripped jeans.  When M’s mom saw me (after decades) she asked my in a growl if I couldn’t have found pants that weren’t torn to wear to the party.  I loved her for the comment.  The party was pure delight and it reopened our friendship in beautiful ways.

I won’t take the time to tell you all about how we have rebuilt that which had collapsed with time and a lack of attention, but please be assured that float tanks, Lake Tahoe, pedicures, and laughter have all been involved.

Over time, one of us has bravely come out and married her beloved, a woman who brings her deep joy.  One of us has lost her mother, a loss that cuts deep. And one of us is facing a progressive disease, something that feels more manageable when I am with them and less manageable when I am not.

I’m telling you this story because those two girls are on a plane coming to spend this valentine’s weekend with me.  It has been getting harder for me to travel so they are coming here.  I’m also telling you this, before they land in Missouri, because I will be unavailable over the next few days.  I will be laughing and maybe crying and definitely loving the memory of the girls we were and loving the promise of the womyn we are now.

Our hair is different now.  Well, two of us.  M’s hair is still luxurious, untamed and wild.  J’s hair is free of the confines of those tight bands and curls.  And my hair is a little more blonde and a little longer (a shag – still with a nod to the decade that created us).  Maybe, actually, we are exactly the same.

What I want you to know is that old friends are the best friends.  I want you to know that our stories matter.  Even if they are pain.  Even if they are love.

I want you to know that I love those girls, just beginning our journey of life and I love us still, just past the middle, still exploring what it means to be friends and beloveds to one another.

They land at 10:30 tonight and I already know what our first topic of conversation will be:

Matching tattoos.

The answer will be no.  But the conversation as we explore the possibility, will bring me pure delight.

See you soon, girls.  Fly safe.