Who I am (why I am studying Creative Writing)

 

My young travels were always in a group of five. My father was in charge of the driving, while my mom sat to his immediate right, in charge of the map.  This never ended well.  My mom’s only experience with navigation was the subway maps of New York.  Every trip she got frustrated and crumble the map, throwing it to the floor muttering “fon gool,’ the only  Italian word I learned growing up. 

My younger brother Michael would sit directly behind my mom and would never relinquish reign over his window. My youngest and the  fairest brother Erik ,sat in the middle sleeping most of the trip.  Michael and I would push his sleeping head off our shoulders . A wooden box was attached to the roof carrying what did not fit in the trunk:  tent, down sleeping bags, and sterno stove. The nylon ties would flap the entire eithteen hundred miles from Colorado to New York.

When I was twelve years old, my parents decided to let me travel to New York alone.    My only fear was not the plane crashing but getting lost in the airplane terminal.  Middle school had been traumatic but a foreign airport was a nightmare.  I made my way down the tunnel connecting the airplane and the terminal.  I was guided by roped rails keeping us in line to the exit where my aunt Gloria  was waiting her gold earrings, and her hair dyed just for this occasion.    Many kisses and bear hugs were exchanged. She grabbed my hand and led me to the carousel where we picked up my luggage. I had the back seat to myself. I unrolled the window and inhaled the salty air and watched Shea stadium an the relics of the world fair fly by.

We parked the car in the driveway and entered my grandmother’s compact kitchen. Pots and pans lined walls and the smell of basil and oregano filled the air.  My bags were taken and more hugs and kisses and cheek pinching occurred.  I was surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins who were fascinated with my growth.  Voices were raised over each other in a competition to be heard.    We sat down to pasta and meatballs and later black coffee and cake.  I knew then I was home.  I pictured myself living in the bowery writing the great American novel and visiting with my grandmother. It took me a lifetime to return.  A marriage, a divorce, a daughter at college, but here I am pursuing my dream of writing.