In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.
I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”
It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.”
Sometimes someone says something, so simple, so pure…and you’re sure they believe it — so sure that you believe it too. And so you say it. The words roll in your mouth, and you start to believe it, sing it even, willing it to be true.
“I had a feeling I could be someone. Be someone. Be someone.”
That was Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” I was in my own state of becoming. Not even making a small splash in this small pond. It played on the radio. Not enough. I raced to hit record on the boombox that I got for my college graduation. Two fingers. Press. Got it. I couldn’t afford the real cassette tape, but listening to the lyrics, I thought maybe she would understand. And I made a promise to buy the original when I did in fact have enough money, when I did become someone.
I took my own fast car to Minneapolis. Created my own soundtrack. Bit by bit. Job by job. I don’t know the exact time, the exact year, but my boom box was obsolete. There were cds now. And I had enough money to buy them. Drinking my coffee, browsing through the music section of Barnes and Noble, I saw it — Tracy Chapman. I bought it.
I have made splashes in bigger ponds since then. Even crossed them. Fast cars. Faster planes. All fueled by small words that made a giant difference. Some I heard on the radio. Some came from teachers. A lot came from my mother’s mouth. But they all carried me. They still do. Because my heart hit record.
