The Forgiving Nature of January
Seventeen Januaries ago, when I was a teenager, my mother and I got into an argument on a Sunday night. The arguing was not unusual (I was not the best daughter back then), nor was it unusual for my father to try and console me when the fight was over. What was unusual was that on this January night, in the darkened kitchen, the dishwasher gurgling behind us, my father said that I had to try harder to get along with my mother.
“I’m going away for awhile,” he said. “I’m going to rehab tomorrow.”
I was stunned. Not because he was going to rehab, but because I wasn’t sure if he would’ve told me if the night hadn’t imploded in argument. We stood in the darkness, not thinking to turn on a light. My brother was in the living room. My mother was in her bedroom. I’d been raised to include alcoholism as a family member, a terrible handicap that shadowed the great love we all had for each other. You could adjust your vision against that shadow, but it eventually tinted darker, slowly, over time. That Sunday night was also the night before school resumed after winter break. I was in the tenth grade, and I’d procrastinated reading The Great Gatsby until that night. After my father told me he was going away, I went upstairs and read The Great Gatsby in one sitting, my legs falling asleep beneath me as I curled up on my bed. It was close to midnight when I finished. I took my Discman from my backpack, tiptoed downstairs, and picked some of my father’s favorite CDs from his collection. Miles Davis. The Fabulous Thunderbirds. The Red Hot & Rio compilation. Then I stacked the CDs on the kitchen counter, with a pair of AA batteries, my Discman, and a note. I wanted my father to borrow my Discman while he was away. I knew he loved music the way I loved music. He often gardened in a patch of dirt on the steep incline of our driveway. He’d park his red pickup truck on the grass and turn the volume up on our local public radio station, doors open, while he worked. It’s how I liked to picture him. Whistling. Hands in the dirt.
The next morning, when I woke up, he was gone. I came into the kitchen and found that my Discman and the CDs were still there. My father had flipped my note over and left his own, in his capital letter handwriting so distinct, I can picture it in my head, like a font. Court, it said, Thanks so much but I don’t think I’m allowed to bring this where I’m going. I love you. Be good.
I went to school. I aced my Great Gatsby quiz. I told absolutely no one where my father had gone.
I’ve written this story many times, trying to find where it belongs. It’s a moment that I go back to over and over, trying to see if I can unearth new details, find new memories. It was, arguably, the one of the hardest days in my family’s narrative. January 4, 1999. I’m writing it today because I believe in the power of grace, and time, and calendars, and anniversaries, and the forgiving nature of January. That awful day was the beginning of the hard journey to our best selves; I can say that now as a thirty-three year old daughter who has done a lot of work to love my family for who we are. I’m proud of my father. I’m proud of all of us. The shadows in my family began to recede that day, even though it would take years and years to notice it.
The word January comes from ancient Latin for the month of Janus. Janus was an Italic (Italian) deity and the guardian of doors, gates, portals. Beginnings. It’s also said that Janus had two faces, one on either side of his head. Looking backwards. Looking forwards. Simultaneously.
Happy January. Happy 2016. To love and forgiveness.
xoxo,
c
Post Scripts:
* I’ll be co-hosting the next Hustle reading on January 10th at 2PM at WORD Brooklyn. I’m very excited for our three guests: D. Watkins (author of THE BEAST SIDE), Erika Anderson & Mensah Demary. As always, there will be books, donuts + mimosas. C’mon out!
* Do you all know the incredible Jennifer Baker? She hosts the Minorities in Publishing podcast, and invited me to be part of a curated Hi Fi Reading Series in November, which she recorded. You can hear me read around the 33 minute mark. (Beloved aunts, uncles, parents, cousins + family friends: this story is NSFF (Not Safe For Family), so while I’m proud of it, I suggest you skip this one! xo)
* Looking for a 2016 reading challenge? Check out this awesome list from Book Riot and play along.
* In light of bettering ourselves, may I offer this excellent list: 28 Common Racist Attitudes & Behaviors. There were several habits on this list that I hadn’t before realized I was participating in. It’s really worth reading. Hat tip to Candace Williams for posting it.
* Best thing I signed up for in 2015: Digit, the automatic savings site. I’m terrible at saving money, and I started using Digit on a whim. It takes out small amounts of money (which you control, how much or how little), and put it into a Digit-held savings account. You can get the money at any time, but honestly, having it out of sight means that I save so much more than I could on my own, just by little piddling amounts (a latte, a fancy shampoo, a manicure that I don’t totally need). Highly recommended. Plus, if you sign up with my code, I get five bucks (yay): https://digit.co/r/-1Q7V?wn
* Here are my cats. God love cats.
