When I was little, I had a tantrum. Just one my whole childhood, but it was mythic, the stuff of bemused family lore. On the surface, it was over a toy, a stuffed monkey I wanted, just around Christmastime, as it happens. But it couldn't be dismissed as a simple case of the Yuletide gimmies -- I wasn't normally an acquisitive child, and incapable (until my Vesuvian teens) of stridency. So my meltdown was affectionately relegated to the Lesko family cold case file.
Until I wrote about it recently -- used it as an evolving model for writing small moment personal narratives and memoir with one of my fourth grade classes. As I added back story to the small Macy's moment, to demonstrate how separate vignettes can be tied together thematically into memoir, I came to understand what it all had really meant.
I had fallen in love.
Why do we love the people we fall madly for? My daughter says when the thud is hard and first-sight, it is always because they remind you of someone else. With adult hindsight, I can see that my monkey reminded me of me in many ways, but so much better. We were both dreamy, sort of discombobulated and unassuming. But he was firmly self-satisfied, unconcerned with the doings and opinions of others, and his edge of sadness was just that, an edge only, with no seeping bleed. He kept that at safe bay by pleasing, entertaining, loving himself -- with a soulful gleam that said I can be hurt, but I will laugh again, so what? And I felt enveloped and held aloft by my better half, by this love.
So I went to dinner with my new friend Kymm from my Linguistics of Bilingualism class, the lovely lady in the DOE ad. I would like to say I fell madly for Kymm at first sight, but the truth is that I was too busy squinting headachily at the professor, then rushing off to catch the 7:30 bus home to a late dinner and a hungry husband. But at second and third sight, when I stopped to notice her snarky twinkle and her passion for her students on a few bus rides home together, I was pretty smitten. So I asked if she wanted to catch a meal after our last class, and she squealed, "Yay!"
I was in a bad mood after a crappy domino chain day, but she took me to Mobay, a fun and funky Caribbean/soul restaurant on 125th Street. We drank two "Mood Adjusters"apiece, ate all kinds of rich deliciousness. We talked -- about work, relationships, whether I should return to my old school -- nonstop, deeply, hilariously. She spoke disarmingly of heartbreaks, but also of the strength and resilience in her well-exercised, independent, upbeat ticker. Kymm is going to get tired of my saying this, but she glows, and my mood was SO adjusted.
She invited me a couple of days later to see the LaGuardia High School production of Hairspray, which was breathtaking, professional, a trippy real-life episode of Glee. What a great show, too, about good things like fat acceptance and racial integration, gender fluidity and just plain, gorgeous lunacy. Kymm told me, during intermission, how she had orchestrated her presence as a dean at this artsy academic phenom by force of both lucky accident and a spirit of I-will-take-nothing-less, and made it sound like quite a reasonable modus operandi. She glowed some more. I sent her the link to my log, and she WOWED excitedly that I was talented enough to just forget about deciding what school to work in after the sabbatical, and write full time. I can't and won't do this, but adore her for nudging me further outside my well-settled box. I imagine this is something she might do, indeed has, in many ways.
I don't know that Kymmie reminds me of me, or anyone else. I don't even think I like her for reasons I can enumerate, exactly, though I'm sure -- and reassured -- that the folks we love have a lot to tell us about ourselves. What a wonderful, just perfect all-I want-for-Christmas gift my excellent new friend is -- why would anyone covet a Wii? I am enveloped and held aloft by her company, her soulful gleam that says I can be hurt, but I will laugh again, so what?
Thud.
Some of you have read my Monkey story, but I am reprinting it again, below.
My mother tugged my chubby arm briskly, my little feet practically leaving the ground. Her lips were pulled tight, her eyes looked distant, as if her body were beside me but her thoughts someplace else. “Quickly, Joany, Macy’s closes at 6 tonight,” she muttered quietly, without much expression. She whisked me through the heavy glass and bronze revolving doors, and my head began to spin.
A forest of grown-up legs was all I could see as we rushed toward the slatted moving stairs. As we got closer, the crowd cleared a bit, and I could just about make out the tops of a few display cases -- some with sweaters neatly laid out, some with soaps and perfumes, all pink, too sweet and frilly. But there was one case, one case that seemed to hold my gaze like a magnet as I scampered by quickly but reluctantly to keep up with my mother. There sat a colorful community of stuffed animals, all bedecked in vests, suspenders and top hats. Some were smiling, some pouting thoughtfully, blubbery bears and jittery giraffes. Toward one corner of the case, leaning haphazardly against a rather self-important fat black cat, was a red monkey with a black and white bow tie. His eyes were wide and dreamy, his scrawny, spidery body looked playful and warm. But the way he was sitting looked accidental, not neat and purposeful like the others. He looked alone and forgotten, as if some hurried child had brushed him aside in pursuit of a better toy. I felt sorry for him. But the imaginative sparkle in his eyes and the small, almost-smiling mouth made it look as if he had some private joke he could enjoy all by himself, that he wouldn’t mind being left alone to bemusedly tune out the noise of angry, grown-up voices, the sight and smell of day-old dinner dishes and quarrelsome, unbathed kids. No, he wouldn’t even notice. He would be a good friend, no matter what.
As we moved just past the display, I planted my feet firmly on the marble tiled floor, unaware that I had stopped my mother’s anxious rush toward Kitchen Supplies.
“I want that monkey,” I said looking back, talking quietly, almost to myself.
“What? What’s the matter?” my mother snapped distractedly.
“I want that monkey,” I stated matter-of-factly, but a bit louder.
My mother’s “No,” was short, annoyed but unconcerned. She must have mistaken this for a run-of the-mill case of the gimmies. She made, with my hand still in hers, a move toward the escalator. I would not budge.
“Jo- -,” she started.
“I want the monkey,” I said, louder, quivering.
My mother, sensing that her usually placid, compliant child had fallen under some sort of spell, knelt down to reason with me sensitively and convincingly.
“Joany,” she began softly, firmly, “I can see how much you want the toy, but I don’t have the money right now. You know your father- -“
Realizing that she could not actually see how much I really wanted, needed that monkey, I let flow the rising tide of tears dammed up at the back of my throat and eyes. I opened my mouth to try to explain to her, to help her understand that this was not just a toy I wanted. But what came out of my mouth was a warbly, unintelligible, piercing, “I WANT THE MONKEY!!!” My mother’s eyes darted self-consciously around her as she grabbed the monkey and headed swiftly for the cashier, while I snuffled breathlessly in tow.
Indeed, he was a good friend, my monkey, for many years, through my parents’ divorce, through restuffings and patchings, until one day he could be patched no longer. And though I cried on that day, too, it was not with desperation or need or fear. These were loving tears of goodbye to a friend who had taught me how not to be pushed aside, how to hold onto humor and imagination amid chaos, how to enjoy being myself even when no one else seemed to notice. A friend who stuck by me till the end, a friend I never really did lose.
A forest of grown-up legs was all I could see as we rushed toward the slatted moving stairs. As we got closer, the crowd cleared a bit, and I could just about make out the tops of a few display cases -- some with sweaters neatly laid out, some with soaps and perfumes, all pink, too sweet and frilly. But there was one case, one case that seemed to hold my gaze like a magnet as I scampered by quickly but reluctantly to keep up with my mother. There sat a colorful community of stuffed animals, all bedecked in vests, suspenders and top hats. Some were smiling, some pouting thoughtfully, blubbery bears and jittery giraffes. Toward one corner of the case, leaning haphazardly against a rather self-important fat black cat, was a red monkey with a black and white bow tie. His eyes were wide and dreamy, his scrawny, spidery body looked playful and warm. But the way he was sitting looked accidental, not neat and purposeful like the others. He looked alone and forgotten, as if some hurried child had brushed him aside in pursuit of a better toy. I felt sorry for him. But the imaginative sparkle in his eyes and the small, almost-smiling mouth made it look as if he had some private joke he could enjoy all by himself, that he wouldn’t mind being left alone to bemusedly tune out the noise of angry, grown-up voices, the sight and smell of day-old dinner dishes and quarrelsome, unbathed kids. No, he wouldn’t even notice. He would be a good friend, no matter what.
As we moved just past the display, I planted my feet firmly on the marble tiled floor, unaware that I had stopped my mother’s anxious rush toward Kitchen Supplies.
“I want that monkey,” I said looking back, talking quietly, almost to myself.
“What? What’s the matter?” my mother snapped distractedly.
“I want that monkey,” I stated matter-of-factly, but a bit louder.
My mother’s “No,” was short, annoyed but unconcerned. She must have mistaken this for a run-of the-mill case of the gimmies. She made, with my hand still in hers, a move toward the escalator. I would not budge.
“Jo- -,” she started.
“I want the monkey,” I said, louder, quivering.
My mother, sensing that her usually placid, compliant child had fallen under some sort of spell, knelt down to reason with me sensitively and convincingly.
“Joany,” she began softly, firmly, “I can see how much you want the toy, but I don’t have the money right now. You know your father- -“
Realizing that she could not actually see how much I really wanted, needed that monkey, I let flow the rising tide of tears dammed up at the back of my throat and eyes. I opened my mouth to try to explain to her, to help her understand that this was not just a toy I wanted. But what came out of my mouth was a warbly, unintelligible, piercing, “I WANT THE MONKEY!!!” My mother’s eyes darted self-consciously around her as she grabbed the monkey and headed swiftly for the cashier, while I snuffled breathlessly in tow.
Indeed, he was a good friend, my monkey, for many years, through my parents’ divorce, through restuffings and patchings, until one day he could be patched no longer. And though I cried on that day, too, it was not with desperation or need or fear. These were loving tears of goodbye to a friend who had taught me how not to be pushed aside, how to hold onto humor and imagination amid chaos, how to enjoy being myself even when no one else seemed to notice. A friend who stuck by me till the end, a friend I never really did lose.
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