You are here
“You are here.”
I’ve often encountered this phrase – usually accompanied with a thick red arrow, star and/or circle – on airport, subway, bus station, mall and hiking trail maps. And I always feel relief when I do: “I know where I am; I know where I have been and where I can go; I have a direction.”
On Monday I was in Manhattan; these words once again steered me in the right direction.
New York University (one of the four schools that rejected me from their English literature Ph.D. program) sent me a letter two weeks ago asking me to consider applying to the John W. Draper Interdisciplinary Master’s Program (a branch of NYU in Humanities and Social Thought).
To give prospective students the opportunity to meet with Draper staff and learn more about the program, several open houses will be held during the summer. Monday, May 18 was one of those dates. And so, Mark and I decided to take a one-day vacation to the city.
The Sunday before our trip (the day after I graduated from Fredonia), my mother held a graduation party for me at my childhood home. Mark and I slept over the night before to help her set up for the party.
As we dusted, picked lilacs and cooked Sunday morning, the two of us mapped out different locations we wanted to visit the following day: Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, The Crocodile Lounge (a bar on 325E 14th St. where customers get a free personal pizza with every drink!), Blues clubs on Bleecker Street, and other general locations.
Our mental mapmaking was cut short when my Aunt Bonnie (my mother’s brother’s wife), Uncle Rob and cousin Jaimee arrived to our house early.
“They came before everyone else because we have a special gift for you,” my mother told me. They led me to her bedroom (I noticed earlier that it was odd that the door was closed) and told me to shut my eyes.
The door squeaked open and my mom said, “OK, open them.”
Draped across my parent’s bed was a blanket – created from patches of my father’s old dress and flannel work shirts, ties and jeans – my aunt quilted. In addition, ironed on sporadic ivory patches were family photos and favorite quotes of my mother’s, father’s and mine.
Inspired by a column I wrote about my dad titled, “Always wish upon the stars” on Nov. 2, 2008 (), Aunt Bonnie quilted and stitched star patterns as part of the blanket’s design.
It was the closest I’d ever be to him again, I thought while wiping away mascara rivers that were streaming down my cheeks.
“Are you going to use it or hang it up on the wall,” several damp-eyed guests asked during the party.
The decision was impossible for me to make at the time. How could I decide between hanging the quilt on a wall (to preserve it from my cats and general wear and tear) and wrapping it – pieces of my life with my father – around me?
This thought was fleeting though. After the party, Mark and I went to bed early so that we could drive at sunrise into the city.
After hours (and miles) of walking around Manhattan on Monday, we decided to part ways for a bit so that he could meet with old SUNY Fredonia SRT (sound recording technology) buddies at one end of the city and I could attend the open house at the other.
“We are here,” Mark said. “And this is the area you want to go.” He pointed at a subway map. I looked nervous/confused.
“I’ll draw you a map,” he laughed. But I refused. I wanted to find my way on my own.
My heart raced while I watched the subway (with him in it) disappear down the tracks. But I breathed deep, and with the help of maps (and thick red stars), I figured out where I was going.
The following day, I drove back to Dunkirk.
After I washed the city from my clothes, face and feet, I draped the quilt on my bed and ran my hands across the star patterns. Looking at pictures of me growing up with my family and remembering different times spent with my father (depending on what clothes he was wearing), I considered that each star-stitched patch is an invisible “You are here.”
Whether I hang it on the wall or use it for warmth in the future, I know that I’ll have this map reminding me where I have been and encouraging me where I can go.
Posted in A scribbling woman's Limbo