proof, but I couldn’t get the nerve to talk to my mom that night. Instead, I barricaded myself in my room. I had all this emotion inside me that wanted to come out, and I was dying to write a song. That’s how it works with me. When I’m emotional, it’s like a song is inside me, and if I can just pull the song out, the anxiety and anger and pain flow out, too. But I was ukeless, and that made me more frustrated and angry.
I got out the uke songbook Fin had given me and decided to learn some chords, but it was hard without something physical to put my fingers on. Finally, I got a ruler, covered it with masking tape, drew lines on it with a permanent marker to look like the frets and strings on the neck of a uke, and attached it to a cookie tin with duct tape. A handy-dandy DIY practice uke.
I sat down with it and made the shapes of the chords on the neck with my left hand while I strummed against the cookie-tin part with my right hand, singing along.
Okay. Truly pathetic.
S OMEHOW , I GOT through the night, and I woke up the next morning, Saturday, to find a note on thekitchen counter from my mom:
Getting haircut and bagels.
If you don’t have the nerve to confront, then at least you can snoop
, I said to myself.
One by one, I went through my mother’s dresser drawers. Nothing. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for — photos, official documents … anything that might help me find proof of my dad’s identity.
I scanned the photo albums in the bookshelf by my mom’s bed. She had one for every year, starting with the year of my birth. I flipped through each page of the first two books, even though I knew there weren’t any pictures of my dad in them. I’d gone through a phase, when I was eight, when I ripped a page out of an L. L. Bean catalogue, picturing a fatherly looking, black-haired guy sitting by a fireplace, and tried to convince myself it was him. I’d kept it under my pillow until, one day, I came home to find clean sheets and no trace of Mr. Bean.
I opened my mom’s closet. Pink plastic storage boxes were stacked on the shelf above the clothes rack, all labeled in her neat handwriting. CDS. COSMETICS. DVDS. EYEGLASSES. GIFT CARDS. HAIR SUPPLIES.OFFICE SUPPLIES . I opened the boxes, careful to put them back exactly where I found them, not finding any surprises. Big storage containers were under the bed, one labeled FALL/WINTER QUILTS — empty now — and the other labeled SPRING/SUMMER BEDSPREADS , which had our lightweight blankets in it. Clearly, if my mother ever lost her job, she could get one as a professional closet organizer. I peeked between the stored bedspreads, just to make absolutely sure nothing was hidden there.
“What are you doing?” My mom was standing in the doorway.
Talk about shock. I tried to smile innocently. “I didn’t hear you come up. I was looking for my red sweater.” I slid the storage box back under the bed. “I wanted to wear it, but it’s not in my room.”
“I don’t store sweaters under there. Your room is a disaster, Minny. It’s no wonder you can’t find anything.”
“Did you get bagels?” I asked to change the subject.
“Yes.” She glanced at herself in the mirror.
“Yum. Thanks, Mommy. Hey, your coif looks great. Nice color.”
Her face perked up. “Thank you, honey. That was nice of you to notice.”
A horribly cheap trick — throw a compliment at your mom to make her go away.
Who am I?
I thought I had a clue.
Now I find someone new
Is hiding in my DNA.
What’s a girl to do?
Call Nancy Drew?
Become a spy?
Hire a private eye?
Call the FBI?
Reply or say good-bye?
Cut the ties
And everything that implies?
Does someone
Who denied my life
Deserve a second try?
It’s a twisted staircase
I have to climb
,
A twisted staircase
Inside my mind.
6
GETTING THE JOB & MAKING A DECISION
“Y OU JUST NEED one little thing to hold on to and you can get through the day.”
That’s something my aunt Joan said. One
I got out the uke songbook Fin had given me and decided to learn some chords, but it was hard without something physical to put my fingers on. Finally, I got a ruler, covered it with masking tape, drew lines on it with a permanent marker to look like the frets and strings on the neck of a uke, and attached it to a cookie tin with duct tape. A handy-dandy DIY practice uke.
I sat down with it and made the shapes of the chords on the neck with my left hand while I strummed against the cookie-tin part with my right hand, singing along.
Okay. Truly pathetic.
S OMEHOW , I GOT through the night, and I woke up the next morning, Saturday, to find a note on thekitchen counter from my mom:
Getting haircut and bagels.
If you don’t have the nerve to confront, then at least you can snoop
, I said to myself.
One by one, I went through my mother’s dresser drawers. Nothing. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for — photos, official documents … anything that might help me find proof of my dad’s identity.
I scanned the photo albums in the bookshelf by my mom’s bed. She had one for every year, starting with the year of my birth. I flipped through each page of the first two books, even though I knew there weren’t any pictures of my dad in them. I’d gone through a phase, when I was eight, when I ripped a page out of an L. L. Bean catalogue, picturing a fatherly looking, black-haired guy sitting by a fireplace, and tried to convince myself it was him. I’d kept it under my pillow until, one day, I came home to find clean sheets and no trace of Mr. Bean.
I opened my mom’s closet. Pink plastic storage boxes were stacked on the shelf above the clothes rack, all labeled in her neat handwriting. CDS. COSMETICS. DVDS. EYEGLASSES. GIFT CARDS. HAIR SUPPLIES.OFFICE SUPPLIES . I opened the boxes, careful to put them back exactly where I found them, not finding any surprises. Big storage containers were under the bed, one labeled FALL/WINTER QUILTS — empty now — and the other labeled SPRING/SUMMER BEDSPREADS , which had our lightweight blankets in it. Clearly, if my mother ever lost her job, she could get one as a professional closet organizer. I peeked between the stored bedspreads, just to make absolutely sure nothing was hidden there.
“What are you doing?” My mom was standing in the doorway.
Talk about shock. I tried to smile innocently. “I didn’t hear you come up. I was looking for my red sweater.” I slid the storage box back under the bed. “I wanted to wear it, but it’s not in my room.”
“I don’t store sweaters under there. Your room is a disaster, Minny. It’s no wonder you can’t find anything.”
“Did you get bagels?” I asked to change the subject.
“Yes.” She glanced at herself in the mirror.
“Yum. Thanks, Mommy. Hey, your coif looks great. Nice color.”
Her face perked up. “Thank you, honey. That was nice of you to notice.”
A horribly cheap trick — throw a compliment at your mom to make her go away.
Who am I?
I thought I had a clue.
Now I find someone new
Is hiding in my DNA.
What’s a girl to do?
Call Nancy Drew?
Become a spy?
Hire a private eye?
Call the FBI?
Reply or say good-bye?
Cut the ties
And everything that implies?
Does someone
Who denied my life
Deserve a second try?
It’s a twisted staircase
I have to climb
,
A twisted staircase
Inside my mind.
6
GETTING THE JOB & MAKING A DECISION
“Y OU JUST NEED one little thing to hold on to and you can get through the day.”
That’s something my aunt Joan said. One
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