Whose Life Is It, Anyway?
Complicated feelings about my nana & not a Drew Carey reboot, I promise.
Peruse the aisles of a TJ Maxx and you’ll have no problem finding greeting cards devoted to “grandma’s famous cookies” or plaques and trinkets praising her cooking. The shared image of a grandma is one of abundance, one who says take, take, eat, eat.
One of the first memories I have of my grandma — er, nana — is us sitting in a big back booth in the smoking section at the now closed Plaza Diner in Fort Lee, New Jersey. It was all orange tinged and big windows and endless menu and the cloud of smoke swirling off the end of her only partially put out, impossibly long cigarette, most of which sat in the ashtray until the ash grew as long as the cigarette itself.
My mom recently bought nana a carton of regular length cigarettes in her usual brand, arguing she typically only smokes half of one at a time anyway. She wasn’t having it. Has to be impossibly long. Has to be impossibly thin.
At the diner I’d have chicken fingers off of the kids menu. Or, I’d have some chicken fingers, until she’d get to a breaking point and whisper “that’s enough” in my ear. This moment, I have learned over the years, comes almost involuntarily, after spending much of the meal silently yet carefully examining the journey of each crumb from your plate to your fork to your mouth until she can no longer keep to herself her belief that you’ve eaten too much.
She wants me to take, take, eat, eat. Just, you know, not that much.
I never really gave this exchange, or the fact that I grew up believing you had to leave at least something on your plate during a meal, much thought. Except for the fact that, during a childhood in which I have suppressed many things, this memory rings crystal clear. Huh.
I love my nana — so very much. She has many redeeming qualities and we’re very close. But I could write buckets of chicken fingers’ worth of analysis about the instilled fat-phobia and detriment to my body image this caused over the years.
What I’ve been meditating on recently, though, is just one of the root causes as to why, why in her mind should I have been wasting perfectly good diner chicken fingers?
It’s that, in her mind and the world she knows (and in the world of many grandmas, I imagine) the end goal is always to find, attract and try your gosh darndest to keep a man. Only a man can provide for you financially, of course, not to mention “finding one” would fulfill her ultimate goal of seeing me get married to — IDK, whoever!!
And to do all of that, you have to be thin. And to be thin you have to leave some chicken fingers on the table. Right?
Sure, she’d never put it quite that way. But I know how she thinks.
As I grew up and watched a lot of people around me fulfill their families (and/or their own!) fantasies of holy matrimony by commemorating their love in purple-y lit rooms with killer cocktail hours, I always felt like maybe I was fighting against something that seemed like it was supposed to be my destiny.
Don’t get me wrong — I go hard for a cocktail hour. I love a wedding. There is nothing wrong with any of these things or any of these paths. But I had it all wrong. I wasn’t fighting against the path. I was on Nana’s path.
There are many complicated reasons that I won’t unpack with you (unless you’re my therapist reading this in which case, see you Friday <3) as to why I’ve lived on this path for so long. Trauma prevents me from fully detaching from my family, arrested development means I’m experiencing feelings now that many adults feel when they’re teenagers.
I bring this up now because I am reminded of it especially whenever I go to Los Angeles, where I just got back from this week. I really, really, really like Los Angeles. And it confuses me. I mean, not really. It’s beautiful weather and there are great hikes and great food and palm trees and beautiful beaches and amazing sushi oh yeah how about that beautiful weather?
It confuses me because New York is my identity. When I was young and dumb and didn’t appreciate Queens enough yet I proudly told anyone who would listen that I! Went! To! High! School! In! Manhattan!
When I got older and realized how dumb not appreciating Queens was I told anyone who would listen. I want you to know that I’m from New York, like really from New York. I’m so proud of it.
I love this city so much — too much. When you get snowed in at a cozy restaurant. Walking and walking and walking forever and always finding something new and interesting. When the subway car is waiting. Standing over the AC with no pants on every time you return home in summer. Yada, yada, yada.
But then. I find myself fantasizing about living there. What it would feel and look like to live not in New York. What it would feel like not to live within a 20 mile radius of my family. No matter that most people don’t live near their families at least at some point in their lives. How could I ever do that?
Is New York my identity or is New York another way to stay on her path instead of my own? Granted — I feel very lucky to live here and there are a lot worse paths (er, blocks). I’m just realizing more and more that I never even really considered a different one. Ever!
I think a lot about how much more romantic things sound in books or look on screen than they actually feel in real life. Like, Carrie Bradshaw eating a slice of pizza is an art form. Actually eating a slice of pizza is not nearly as glamorous. Drinking a beer always sounds so sexy, a refreshing beer on a hot day. And sure, it is refreshing. But it also makes me feel bloated and a little tired.
Driving through the west coast and our national parks, on the heels of two weeks in LA, was actually as romantic as I could have written it. Long stretches of silence in the vast, ever-changing and expansive landscape had both my mom and I just muttering “wow” over and over again under our breath. The still daylight at 9:00 PM, the 15 MPH winding mountain roads with no guard rails that I held my breath curving our car around with the payoff of yet another stunning view — it was overwhelming.
Sorry, east coast but you can’t compete with this.
Vacation is not real life and I know there are pros and cons to living basically anywhere and I also know you can’t get a sandwich in LA at 2:00 AM (no matter that I haven’t wanted a sandwich at 2:00 AM since probably my early twenties, I could still get one). I love New York and I love my life and I love my family and I’m not complaining. I’m just sharing this in hopes that if you’ve ever felt you’re on a path for someone who is not you, try your hardest to maybe, I don’t know, veer to the west a bit.
Truthfully I love my new wallpaper too much to really leave Brooklyn permanently. But just acknowledging that I can choose whatever path is right for me is a powerful feeling. One that took me a long time to figure out.
Also now I want chicken fingers. Was this all over the place enough for you? Can I cite jet lag when I drove home? I’m citing jet lag even though I drove home.
Love Always,
Jamie AF
Loved this!
Ahhhh another amazing writing journey! LITERALLY! Loved sharing this epic adventure with you. I’m kinda sad it’s over but ohhhhh, so grateful it happened.
Follow the path! Wherever it may lead you (as long as there’s a guest room available). I’ll bring the chicken fingers! LOTS of them …
xoxo 💋
Your F#1F