dreams deferred

Show me the child at 7 and I will show you the man.

I've been watching the 7-Up series (that BBC documentary series that followed a variety of wee Brits from differing social classes every seven years) in preparation for the latest release, 49-Up. Who was I at seven? I don't remember much. It wasn't one of those break out years. I was in second grade. I had had the same teacher Mrs. Chase, for first and second. Second grade felt safe. Felt like I was getting into the swing of things. It was in second grade that I realized I would be in school for a long, long time. Six more years here and then four years after that. It felt unfathomable. It was the same time I began to grapple with the concept of forever. It would keep me up at night. At night, I always slept with the my door cracked open, the light from the hallway shining in. I lulled myself to sleep with the sounds of late-night television. It was comforting: a muffled laugh track, Johnny Carson fading into the distance. Just as I was about to drift away the thought would come to me: what happens when you die? The answers the nuns gave never satisfied. Heaven seemed nice enough. But nice enough for an eternity seemed like hell. Time would just go on and on. There was nothing before it and nothing behind it. I would hold out for as long as I could and then I would hear myself screaming, MOOOOOOMMMM!

It was our ritual.
What happens after you die?
You go to heaven.
And then what happens?
You are with your loved ones: your father, your grandmother, me.
And then what?
And then you are happy. You do what you want. You don't think about time. You look down at earth.
And then what?
That's it. You're in heaven forever.
What happens after forever?
Forever never ends. It just keeps going on.

I tried to imagine it. I tried to imagine being seven forever. Or doing something I really liked like swimming forever. I tried to imagine the longest amount of time I could and then doubling that and then doubling that. It made me uncomfortable. Like practicing my scales. It made me feel scared and nauseous at the same time. Whether it was heaven or a cold plot of dirt made no difference in my mind.

When I was seven I received my first communion. I remember wearing a frill-less eyelet dress when all the other girls got petticoats and frills. I remember taking it very seriously. I remember rehearsing how to walk down the aisle. I remember holding my hands together very carefully. I remember learning how to do the rosary. I remember my Miniature Stories of the Saints. I still have it.

When I was seven my grandmother got sick. My mother was her only daughter and it meant I never saw my mom anymore. She lived at the hospital and I lived at the babysitters. When I did go to the hospital I did not recognize my grandmother. When she came out she had to wear a wig and she still did not look like my grandmother. I overheard conversations about wounds and infections and surgeries. I remember my mother on the phone a lot. Frustrated, exhausted and, above all, sad.

At seven I was quiet. I lived inside my head. I did not need a lot of attention. I was not used to big families. I was not used to being around other kids. I wanted to be a martyr. I loved to read about the saints. I wanted God to accept me. I wanted to make my mother happy. I wanted to please my teachers. I wanted to be good.

I am not sure how different I am. I no longer want to be a saint. And I no longer believe in heaven. But the thought of eternity still humbles me. And sometimes, I am still afraid of the dark.