the kid at the RV park
on memories, Ted Lasso, and cat boxes
Last Summer while on a road trip, I parked overnight at a vineyard in Kansas where I met a retired couple from Vermont who were touring National Parks with their 11 year old granddaughter.
“5th graders get a National Parks pass” she tells me, not looking up from her cell phone.
“The donkey’s friendly” her grandfather follows.
It takes me an embarrassingly long time to stop trying to figure out if maybe that is a “touring national parks” term before I realize he means an actual donkey, Sam, who I then realize is standing a car length’s in front of us.
After a chat with the Kansans, I walk back to my van recalling some camping memories from my girlhood; memories of belonging, of loneliness, of boredom, of when I was filled with effervescence, of when I felt wronged.
And soon I found myself wondering what Leah, their 11 year-old granddaughter, will remember about the trip: the grievance of no wifi? the tedium of endless days in a truck? the dampness of Carlsbad cavern? A hurt feeling? the one argument? or the thing they thought was so funny at the Grand Canyon?
What I really wondered was: will her memory be selective like mine - sifting through the past for the one shitty thing that happened - like turds in an emotional cat box?
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about my memories - about the stories I tell myself about the past. Some of us tend to only select the good memories. Some of us only select the bad. And neither of these strategies seem to me a path to actual healing.
I love that scene in season 2 of Ted Lasso when Ted finally is honest about how angry he is at his father (who died by suicide when Ted was 16).
“He quit on his family and he quit on himself”, he tells his therapist.
He goes on to tell her about the events of that unimaginable day.
She takes it in, waits a beat, and then says,
“I’m curious, Ted. What did you love about him?”
“Why?” Lasso asks, looking hesitant, maybe even a little betrayed.
“Because you told me what you hate about him, now tell me something you loved about him.
It takes a moment, but eventually he grins and then goes on to tell a delightful story of his dad showing him tremendous grace when Ted was 8 even though it cost his dad an entire night of sleep.
It can feel as if saying something, even just one positive thing about someone who hurt us is an act of self-betrayal, but often, it is an act of self-love. That is not to suggest that what they did was OK. But to allow for the complexity of another human being is ultimately to also allow for our own.
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READ my NYT bestselling memoirs: Pastrix; The Cranky, Beautiful Faith Of A Sinner & Saint (Re-released 2021), Accidental Saints; Finding God In All The Wrong People(2015) and SHAMELESS; A Sexual Reformation (2019).
As someone who writes memoir, largely fueled by a complicated, violent, and abuse-ridden childhood, I have had to spend a lot of time figuring out how to allow other people their humanity and complexity. What I have come around to is this: I can only ever say who someone was to me. Who they were, or are, is way above my pay grade. This allows me to hold the complexity that they may have been a menace in my life, and yet someone else loved them dearly. Both can be true at the same time; one does not negate the other. I used to resent this tremendously, I'm not gonna lie, but now it just fills me with an amazing peace.
While having an MRI, I was listening to James Taylor (comforting for me) and he began to sing Moon River. This took me back to my Mom, who loved the Andy Williams version. I began to wonder what things she had longed for in life, and why she loved the song. I was sad that I never knew these things about her. It made me think of her in a different way, who was she before she was the overwhelmed and angry drinking Mom that I remember. Perhaps later in life we might have been able to have that conversation. I always felt I had to protect myself from her, so this didn't happen. Since she has been gone for almost 20 years now, I can see us both differently, and with more compassion now.