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Monday, May 11, 1981, University City—Graduation was yesterday. It’s hard to believe four years have passed since Jackson and I struck out on our own.
I saw the “Ning” sisters—they looked radiant and healthy. They, like nearly every other graduate, were surrounded by their beaming parents and a bevy of older people I assumed were grandparents. Jackson was the only one in my corner, cheering as I received my diploma. He and I went out to lunch to celebrate. Then we went to MJ’s parents for a proper family celebration, as her mother termed it when she called to invite us.
MJ opened the door, looking spectacular in a violet sheathe dress with exaggerated shoulders that hugged curves her perpetual coveralls had hidden. Her subtle makeup—again, a new addition—highlighted her prettiness without softening the strength of her character; her pale-pink lipstick accentuated her full mouth so capable of speaking hard truths and breaking bad news compassionately.She’ll be an excellent anchorwoman someday, I thought.
Jackson recovered first. “Well, look at you,” he said. “Looking like a real girl. And where were you hiding those?” he asked finally, pointing at her cleavage. She slapped his hand away.
Over the last four years, I have watched their relationship morph from acquaintances to that of siblings who delight in needling each other. She was the big, sophisticated sister, he the annoying younger brother determined to remind her he knew her beforeshe was a sophisticate and that they were bound to each other, afamily—because they both loved me.
Later, when we were alone, I told her how great she looked—not that she looked bad before, but she was different somehow.
“It’s because I’m finally comfortable with myself,” she said. “And that’s because of you.”
I asked how that was.
“Freshman year, I remember admiring how comfortable you were in your skin—with being gay and in love with Jackson. You told me you had eczema and were uncomfortable in your literal skin, so you couldn’t be uncomfortable in your metaphorical skin as well. Do you remember telling me that?”
“Kind of, I think,” I said.
“That really resonated with me because I’d been uncomfortable in my own skin—”
“How so?”
She sighed. “I was fine till puberty hit—a little tomboy, my father’s companion. I guess I was the son he never had. Then puberty hit. I grew breasts, only they kept growing. By high school, they were enormous. My back hurt all the time. My shoulders were literally raw from where my bra straps cut into my skin. But the worst of it was the way people treated me. Boys pointed and giggled and seemed to think that my breasts were an invitation for them to try to flirt with me. The girls assumed the size of my breasts made me a slut. So finally, I convinced my parents to let me have breast reduction surgery the summer before we started college. One of the reasons I wore coveralls was to hide the surgical bra I had to wear for months and toprotect my breasts from accidental touch—they were incredibly sensitive post-surgery.”
“Oh, MJ, I had no idea…”
“I thought everything would be better after surgery, but then I found everyone ignored me—well, mostly boys. I went from too much attention to none at all. But then I met you…”
“Wait. You had to convince your parents to let you have the surgery?”
“Yes. There were concerns. Because of the scar tissue that forms, there was the distinct possibility that I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Well, as it turns out, it was a pointless fear. You see, I am as barren as earth that has been burned and salted,” MJ explained ruthlessly. Her confession caught me off guard, but I wasn’t fooled by her callousness; beneath her words, I could hear hurt and disappointment. I remembered sophomore year, she was always going home to consult with a gynecologist, but I’d assumed this was normal for young women her age. I was surprised and to a degree flattered that she chose to confide in me. I wanted to comfort her but realized this would ruin her trust in me; like me, she doesn’t do vulnerable.
Before I could decide on a response, MJ said, “I feel like a failure as a woman. Even a tree grew in Brooklyn. Nothing will ever grow in me.”
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, with its often-hungry protagonist, and Kristin Hunter Lattany’sGod Bless the Child—both books I’d had to borrow from the library the next town over from the farm because I hadn’t the means or ability to buythem for myself—did the most to form my character and my determination to go to college, to achieve, to leave generational poverty behind.
Now, I said, “Oh, honey. First of all, you’re not a failure as a woman, or as a human being. You’re beautiful and smart and kind. It pains me that you think your worth is based on the viability of your womb. You’re so much more than an incubator for new life.”
She hugged me then. Her breasts pressed against me; I resisted the urge to pull away.Is this, I wondered,what being an adult means? Are these the kinds of conversations adults have?I felt my childhood slip irretrievably from my grasp.
“Can you go round everyone up?” MJ said. “I have to go touch up my makeup.” It was only then I realized she’d been crying. “I want to take a photo of all of us together and have a toast before the fireworks begin. We’ve been a tribe for four years, and who knows when we’ll all be together again.”
It was then that I remembered our gang of seven was about to disburse: MJ has landeda job as a reporter with a news station in Virginia; DAX has joined the Peace Corps, of all things; Faiz is headed home for the summer and then on to Oxford in the fall; Sue P is going home to North Dakota, presumably to mourn the loss of Faiz’s near-constant presence; Perils is going to the Wharton School of Business for her MBA; and Jackson and I are moving into Center City to begin our lives again.
I stepped through the living room’s French doors onto the patio and found Jackson standing holding a drink. The drink told me he was nervous. I took the glass from his hands and drank from it: rum and Coke. I surveyed the scene: there were a couple of dogs and laughing children splashing about in the pool, which was littered with flotation devices, and a handful ofsmiling adults indulging their antics and allowing themselves to be dunked and splashed with water. All in all, there were throngs of people—around the pool, in the house behind us, spilling onto the lawns—aunts and uncles and cousins and neighbors and friends and MJ’s roommates from boarding school. I looked in wonder at all of these people who had come together expressly to celebrate MJ. Jackson, standing beside me, instinctively wrapped his arm around my waist and, leaning his head on my shoulder, murmured, “I know, right?”
MJ re-emerged and joined us—by then, we’d managed to round up our gang of seven. Together, we surveyed the party in the fading light as MJ handed us glasses of Champagne. She paused for a moment, studying each of us in turn, then, raising her glass, said, “To the future.”
“To the future,” we all agreed, clinking glasses as the first fireworks lit up the sky. The first set spelled out the year: 1981.
Saturday, June 13, 1981, University City—MJ left today to begin her new post-graduation life in Virginia. Jackson and I helped Claude pack up Thing—MJ’s reliable but ugly Volvo. Neither MJ nor her father were any help. MJ alternated fighting tears and giving in to her emotions and hugging each of us repeatedly as we struggled with boxes and clothing bags. Her father remained committed to his grief and sat sobbing in the middle of the driveway until Claude dragged him to his feet and away so MJ, who had regained control of herself, could back down the driveway.
As MJ waved and drove away, I realized I would miss Thing. She’d driven us in Thing countless times to have dinner with her parents and to theRusty Scupperto celebrate special occasions like birthdays or acing our finals; and to Chinatown for a Fridaynight meal after Jackson got paid overtime. These excursions typically ended with me standing in the passenger seat and sticking my head through the open sunroof to sing—poorly but vigorously—along with whatever was playing on the radio, usually Donna Summer or Prince or Rick James.
