Tide Pools

“Draw me a mermaid, Mommy.”

“Okay,” I answer my two-year old daughter. She watches me outline the figure in pencil on pink construction paper. The mermaid turns out to be feminine, unashamed of her bare breasts, and ready to swim in a dangerous ocean. I envy her.

My daughter pulls the bottle away from her mouth with a soft pop. “Draw a shark.” My shark is cartoonishly fierce. I am strict about media. No screens, no stories with villains or violence; my daughter has never seen anger depicted. 

“Now,” she says, “draw the shark eating a mermaid.”

My mouth opens to tell her that that would not be a nice picture, but I stop myself. On the one hand, telling her which drawings she should like doesn’t align with my feminist parenting agenda; on the other hand, neither does depicting violence against mermaids. While I'm working out this moral paradox, she’s staring at my hand holding the pencil, like a dog staring at a hand holding a tennis ball.     

Her brother snores gently against my breast in the green and white sling that has become a semi-permanent part of my body. Would I hesitate to draw a shark eating a pirate?

“Draw it, Mommy.”

I draw. The mermaid’s mouth is agape, and her hands flail like an old-fashioned damsel in distress. The shark’s teeth are clamped on her tail. Examining my drawing, I can hear the mermaid scream. Does she hear it too? Is she wondering if the shark is angry? Or simply hungry? She’s leaning over the table, her milk-smeared face inspecting my work, as if checking for typos. 

She sits back and says, “Draw another one.”  

“Another mermaid?”

“Another shark eating the mermaid.”

My heart sinking for the mermaid, I do as my daughter asks and create the same scene. She asks for another, and another. In all, I draw eight versions. And second guess myself with each one.

At last, she says, “Now draw the mermaid eating a shark.”

Barely hiding my relief, I produce a fanged and unapologetically vengeful mermaid. This mermaid is decidedly angry and takes no small joy in her revenge on the shark. Her hands claw around its body, and she grins above a semicircular chunk taken from behind the dorsal fin.

My daughter nods, says nothing, and wanders away. I am left with a pile of pink construction scraps, internal confusion, and a snoring baby.

She had refused to be born, preferring to swim inside me. After ten days, the doctor cut me open and reached in to fish her out of me. She bit him. She has her own names for things. That is a trink. This is my lega. Mommy, do you want a slusher-sludge? When I give her paints, her language transcends words. Pink washes to orange to yellow. Purple blends to blue to green. Bright reds strike against pale blues. She is Technicolor in my gray world. 

We drive over the ridge to the fogged-in beach and tote our picnic to the high tide line. She stamps across the sand, like she wants it to know she is there. Her brother’s eyes blink up at me from the shell of his sling. While he is focused on me, she is scanning the beach, the hills, and the horizon. 

We head to the tide pools. Mussels and barnacles are everywhere, impossible not to see. We’re looking for anemones and sea stars. I point out things to keep her close, while clutching my son against my body and trying to keep my own balance on the wet rocks. Checking every cranny for an interesting creature to peer at, I feel like I’m looking into other people’s apartments. At last, we find a purple sea star waiting for the tide. She looks at it, then shakes her head and I assume she’s frightened. I squat down awkwardly, take a breath and touch an animal I know nothing about. Running two fingers along the rough arm, I lie, "See, it’s not scary." 

At the touch of its prickled skin, I realize everything my daughter already seems to know. Its eyes may be at the ends of its arms, but the sea star looks right at me and my desperate-to-be-perfect parenting. These echinoderms creep on their hundreds of tiny tube feet across every inch of every ocean, from tide pools to twenty-thousand feet below, undisturbed by darkness, pressure, or the violence of predation. How many times has this creature lost an arm to a deceptively powerful mantis shrimp only to grow a new one? How often has it stretched its stomach out over a clam or a branch of coral, letting the enzymes slowly dissolve the prey before drawing the sated stomach back up into its body? I glance up at the seagulls circling; gulls who will eat anything with or without legs if they can catch it. I bristle at the meanness of nature. Then she is on the move again, and I have to blunder after her. I leave the sea star and the gulls to their conscience.

I roll up my jeans and push her leggings up over her knees and tell myself this means our clothes won’t get wet. One hand holding my daughter’s, the other resting on the bump that is her brother, we wade in. Splashing and laughing she pulls us farther in. The water rushes away from shore, pulling the sand out from under my feet, giving me the sensation that I’m moving. She wrenches free of me, throws her arms wide, and bursts into her siren song. A wild and joyful ululation.

I reach for her wrist, slippery now, and worry about those sneaker waves the news always warns about. My grip tightens but she gets away from me again, and again sings out, as if fetching her merfolk to come and take all three of us.

The fear seizes me. I see the three of us being sucked under the green water, past the tiny cove and the fishing boats, past the cargo ships. The waves tumble us past the twelve-mile territory sea, past the two-hundred-mile exclusive economic zone, and at last we bob into the open ocean that is owned by no one. 

Here, where she is at home, she will reach out for my arm. She will want to point things out to her brother. Circling around the axis of our joined hands, she will gaze about with contentment, and I will be frantic, desperate for the safety of my own small pond. Calmly, she will show me the whales singing below us. 

A wave hits her at waist height. She is soaked, but still upright. I get a hold of her wrist and with the promise of a snack, lure her back to our heap of belongings. I hand her a peanut butter sandwich and tell her she's frightened me. “The ocean wants to take you from me. Don't let it.”

“Oh, Mommy,” she scrunches her nose at me, “it's okay if the ocean takes me.”

I swallow my terror and say, “How about swim lessons? You can learn to swim like a mermaid.”

She ignores me, drops the peanut butter sandwich into the sand, and wanders off to play with a rope of brown kelp.

Days later, she chatters through the house while I tend to a thousand tasks and accomplish nothing. Mermaids are still a favorite. She is wearing her swimsuit, scarves, and beads.

As I answer her—not really listening but wanting her to think I’m listening—I am thinking about dinner and dishes, and if I should buy that sweater or save money, or go back to work even though I hated the job I had before. Through all this noise, I hear a small thing. My daughter’s voice, not chattering, but speaking to me. She says, “Mommy, you are the mermaid that eats sharks.” 

“What did you say?”

She’s gone already, dancing down the hallway, with scarves and beads dangling, and dripping milk on the floor. I look down at her brother, whose brown eyes blink back at me. I will never know if I heard her correctly, but the further away I am from that moment, the more I realize it doesn’t matter.

A neglected part of my brain has begun to shift, like a waking sea star creeping from twenty-thousand feet below. For a moment, I don’t see myself as a tired and gray woman, still so much like a girl, trapped in a small, safe pond.

For a moment, I see myself in Technicolor, fanged, and eating a shark.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Chaucer’s Wives Come Knocking

I first read the stories of the Wife of Bath and Patient Griselda[1] when I was sixteen, at the American School in London. I was there for a year while my father was on a sabbatical. He got a grant to leave his job in the Oncology unit at Kaiser Permanente Sunset in order to study new treatments for breast cancer at Guy’s Hospital. My mother sold our family home, the house in Los Angeles they bought for a song and traded in for what seemed like a fortune, wrangling places for me and my siblings at an American private school in St. John’s Wood. We settled into a series of short-term lets, and my sister, brother, and myself were set free as only carpooled children could be discovering a city with a safe public transportation system. My mother also felt loosened from the tight bonds of her role as wife and mother. She had been a second-generation Greek daughter of mountain peasants who fought against the expectations of her immigrant community to find her voice as a journalist and editor in Manhattan in the late 1950s. Then in 1962, she fell for my doctor father and followed him when he got a job in California. Having children, living in the infinite suburb of LA, she often loudly complained that her life in the desert city was a kind of death, a disappearing off the face of the earth. London was a chance for her to remake herself. She told me later she had no intention of ever going back, although that is not how things turned out. It was 1979, and like many other women, she was enjoying a new sense of freedom. She joined an amateur drama class and picked up a younger gay best friend. She met a lot of interesting bohemian Londoners who were also interested in her.

One of them was my English teacher, Don Jesse. We were encouraged to call him that, first and last, transforming the “Don” into an honorific, like Don Quixote or Don Juan. Don Jesse had grown up in Boston, the son of an immigrant Dutch maid and the princeling heir of her wealthy Jewish employers. At least that was the story. He was a self-invented character, bald and stocky with a rasping, deep laugh and a love of the tall tale. After a brief marriage to a Rothschild, he became an itinerant teacher, travelling the globe and landing in London where he lived for most of his life with a gentle-hearted man from Wales who could sew quilts and fix an engine. When it was time to teach us Chaucer, Don Jesse showed up wearing full courtly Medieval writer’s gear, complete with a sweeping velvet hat and wine-colored stockings. He made us memorize and recite the opening lines in the original:  

  Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
  the drocht of March hath perced to the rote
  and bathed every holt and heath in swicht liqueur
  of which vertu engendered is the fleur

The sound of the words rolled off his tongue and rumbled in our mouths with a satisfying, pebbly foreign sensation, close to familiar but far enough away to pull us along, and the images leaped into our minds. For the first time as a native Californian, I had lived through winter, and understood the drought of March, how worn down you could become by the sere, bare brownish grey, and the idea of sweet showers coming and piercing the earth, the way flowers suddenly crowded onto verges and front gardens: daffodils, tulips, lilacs; I loved it.

We read the tales; we had to write our own. I was drawn to the Wife of Bath, but at the same time, she embarrassed me, like my own mother did at sixteen. She seemed a comical character, played for laughs: a Lucille Ball broad, her young lover climbing the wall, her old rich husband, her appetites, her humiliating spillage. What did she have to be so boisterous about, I thought, furiously. She was fat and out of control, and it was easy to make fun of her. I wrote a mocking modern tale about a loud-mouthed woman in Los Angeles who sold real estate, like my mother did at the time. I got a good grade, and I proudly shared it with her. God forgive me.

The other character who really drew my attention was Patient Griselda. She seemed extreme in her masochistic acceptance of her fate, and yet venerated, there in the pages of the Clerk’s Tale. The peasant girl who got chosen by a powerful lord: a story as old as Cinderella. But after becoming a wife, Griselda was far from secure. She had one baby after another taken away, and still, she embodied fatalism and meek acceptance. Then the final twist: getting thrown out from her husband’s bed to the kitchens, while he told her he was marrying a younger, better version, a story I knew well enough from growing up in divorce-prone, self-discovery California of the 1970’s. After all that pain, Griselda achieved her reward: status, children, husband handed back on a platter. She was a model woman, held up in the pages of Medieval Literature to shine for all time. Old as it was, Griselda’s story circled like an electric fence around the idea of what waited for me in adult womanhood. There was something about Griselda that felt like fate. She horrified me, and she made me feel ashamed—not only of her, but of myself.  I understood already that part of being a woman was going to mean never feeling good enough.

It was about mid-way through the early child-rearing years that I started to hear the voice of Griselda in my head. I was living in London, yet again, having moved back across the Atlantic to marry a young British philosophy student I fell for in graduate school. By the time we started raising our family, I was a full-time writing teacher at a small American university in charge of two departments, publishing poetry and fiction, and felt secure and strong in my voice, as far from my mother and her fate, as far from Patient Griselda as I could get. With the birth of my second child, I stopped teaching “to give myself more time to write,” and soon I had stopped doing that, too. Years went by in the world of women and children, and I lost the thread to my former self. I felt delirious with love for my children, but also bereft and lost at times, living exactly the constrained, care-taking life my mother had so railed against.

During those sandbox years, Griselda’s voice insisted on my attention. She wanted to explain what it was really like, being picked out of the crowd by a handsome man on horseback, leaving her father’s cottage and moving into a distant castle, how her husband would go out into the wars of his times and slaughter other men as if fearlessly, and come back, drained and mud-caked, and how in the secret sanctuary of their marriage bed, he tossed and turned, woke up anxious, drenched in sweat, and how she tried to find a way to help him, to get him to pay attention to their children, to the life they were bringing into the world together. He did not trust her, and he started to find a way to test her, not believing she could really be as loyal as she seemed. I imagined what it must have been like for her to lose first her daughter, and then her son, the loneliness she must have felt, alone in her tower. She explained how even after that same man asked her to make way for a better wife, to leave their home and go down into the depths with all the other servants, she took up the dough between her hands and wrapped the scarf around her head and got to work. In the story, her final loyalty test involves her coming out with all the other servants to stand at the back of the chapel and watch her ex-husband get married to his new, young bride. Then a scene reminiscent of the Oscars; she is pulled forward, given her reward at last for having passed the tests he set: here was her daughter, here her son, here the warm embrace of family, husband waiting to place the crown back on her worthy head, his queen.

Why did Griselda rise up in me, insisting on her poem? Voiceless women in history and mythology have always drawn me. My first novel included re-imaginings of Greek myths from a woman’s point of view. Sometimes an imagined figure would start to speak, and I would follow her voice into myself. Ariadne, Persephone, Medea, Eve: all have visited me at times.

My husband was no cruel overlord. He was a sensitive and devoted father, who was a cheerleader for my work, my voice. We were equal in power, and before we had children, we promised each other we would remain so. Economics had pushed us into traditional roles. Motherhood felt messy and self-immolating. From the moment I started breastfeeding, I became as much liquid as solid. For years, I would travel with a change of clothes for three because both my children were prone to motion sickness, and one or all of us were liable to end any journey covered in vomit. Like many formerly cerebral mothers, I felt as if I were constantly fighting against a tide of rising chaos to find a few moments of quiet in my head, and I think I both embraced and resented my abject position. Maybe Griselda spoke to me about how I longed for the moment my sacrifice would be recognized for the marathon-level physical feat it really was, for some kind of medallion or trophy or even just a thank you. My husband, who was working hard, really hard, and had his own stress, sometimes seemed like the unwitting setter of tests I had to pass, tests that were about the loss of things that had once been precious: my work, my status, my girlhood, my girlfriends, my will, my voice.

When I think of those years, I seem to see Griselda all around me, in the women of my generation: not just in the mirror but also at the gym, at the school gates, in the culture. I remember one frail-looking woman I knew, a mother of four. She boasted that none of her children had ever eaten a store-bought biscuit or cake. Everything was baked with her own two hands, and her kids were enviably clear-skinned, kind, and energetic. She had been a senior nurse in a busy hospital but gave it up to raise a family with her salaried husband. One morning, she invited the class mothers over to tea. She dressed plainly, in smock-like dresses with no make-up, but her table was lavish: covered with multi-colored homemade cakes, biscuits, and pies we eyed up as if they were a field of mines. In those days, it seemed to me we were always bringing each other sweets we never ate. We were soldiers in a war whose rules we did not invent, willing to cut off our own arms to make sure we remained among the chosen, running businesses, running families, running in marathons while subsisting on pieces of watermelon. Many women I knew were half-recovered anorexics, still hooked on the habit of self-abnegation begun in high school. I wanted us to discover our strength, but all I saw were women putting themselves away. Griselda’s poem revealed that under her meekness was a fierce rage, a compressed and deeply packed away energy.

~

My mother used to say that Margaret Mead advised every woman to have three marriages: the first for love, the sexual attraction that helps you leave your family of origin; the second for co-habitation, to raise children; and the third for companionship. She claimed to have had all those marriages, but with the same husband. Probably around the third marriage with the man I have been with since I was 26, I began to think again about the Wife of Bath. Our two children were more or less grown; we had started to have noisy sex in the empty house. My newly discovered invisibility as an older woman felt liberating. I stopped dyeing my hair. I started to notice older women on the street, how beautiful they were, how settled into their bodies, how they carried their own weight with pride. At work, all the people who got things done seemed to be women of a certain age. I was looking forward to what the third or even fourth marriage with my husband might bring.

But all was not well with the wider world, I had not failed to notice. The two countries in which I held citizenship, the UK and the US, were in the grips of a kind of deadly return of the Griselda story: it was not just women, but the entire system of mutual care-giving, the rule of law, our ecological well-being, education—being pushed out of the bed of the heartless overlords of the new far-right. The years following 2016, the pink hat years you might call them, brought me back into an anxious engagement with politics, and maybe I needed to find a model from the start of capitalism in the West who seemed to stand up fearlessly in a full-throated voice, an archetype from Chaucer waiting all along. As I started to write a poem in her voice, I found I was not the only one who felt the Wife knocking on her inner door. I came across a new book about her as an enduring cultural character. According to the writer, we had misunderstood the ups and downs of women’s history. The Wife came from an era when English women were surprisingly empowered. It’s there in her lines: a businesswoman, a cloth trader, a traveler across Europe who fights the husband who tries to diminish her. Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor were a tribute to her. But soon afterwards, she slipped into the rising misogyny of the age of Enlightenment and colonialism. She became a hate figure, shunned and despised, feared and mocked. Up to the 1970s, you could find a version of her on an art house film poster, laid out as a frightening mass of rolling human flesh ready to swallow up the tiny male pilgrims who surround her. Recently, she has been given a new life—particularly by Black British women; she is the subject of extended poems and a play by Zadie Smith in which she is the absolute star.

Just as with Griselda, I started to see the Wife of Bath everywhere. She was marching beside me, holding a witty sign about the crimes of Boris Johnson. She was being interviewed on a TV program called Planet Sex in the body of a curvy, honeyed woman with silvery locs, talking about Tantric kissing between two adoring bear-like lovers: husband and boyfriend. On a train trip to Newcastle to visit my daughter, she was the voice in my ear of Iris De Menthe singing about “workin’ on a world” of a future we might never see; when my daughter and I went out for cocktails, I felt as if she were in the streets with her friends, wearing a tight tiger-striped dress over her enormous breasts, thighs as wide as the Tyne, gap-toothed, head thrown back, having the time of her life.

My poem about her though, was a bit stuck, until I put her into conversation with Griselda. Then it was hard to shut her up. She was the one who pointed out to me the way the two women were linked through time; they were two sides of a coin, two versions of being a woman, tamed and free—or so I thought. It was great to get rid of the rigidly formed Griselda and open myself up to the free-verse lines of the Wife of Bath. What value could meek Griselda have now in our fight to make the world safe for future generations? Even Margaret Atwood, published a story around this time in the New York Times: Impatient Griselda.

Then I took my poems and my commentary to my writing group.

“What about Griselda?” they asked me. “Have you short-changed her? Doesn’t she have anything else to say?”

Griselda! No way, I thought, I am well and truly finished with Griselda.

But sometimes criticism can open a new door, raise a question you did not know you had. When I got home to my own kitchen, as I made dinner and folded laundry, her voice in my head started speaking, and what she said truly surprised me.

Griselda asked me to consider if there was another role for her, beyond the Wife of Bath and her beautiful self-assertion. What did I think was going to move us forward into a better future if not some kind of enormous sacrifice of wants and desires, a tremendous act of care-giving, for each other, for the planet? She pointed out that she was there, during the Pandemic, when the economic engine of the world had shut down—she was making PPE in her kitchen for the nurses, stocking the supermarket shelves, picking up trash. The fight for the future Iris sang about was beyond gender, politics, or economics. It was something much bigger, what bell hooks calls an ethos of love[2]. When I hated myself for giving up my “real work” to look after my children when they were young, what was I telling myself about my own values? I painted Griselda as angry and energetic as a counter to a world that would have turned her into a doormat, stepping right over her in their getting and spending. I was so impressed by the Wife of Bath when I discovered she was a successful cloth trader and partner to five men, but Griselda might turn out to be a true revolutionary.

 ~

Griselda Speaks to the Wife of Bath

You were always on another page: a voice,
a threat, a joke, a bawd, a kind of girth:
gap-toothed, unbordered, queen of choice.
I was modesty herself, in needs, size, birth.

My one husband my entire tale: a Duke.
We had two kids, each lost in turn: a son,
daughter, ripped from my roots. Not a word
slipped from my lips. I never came undone.

Cast off to the kitchen, I kneaded sweet bread
for his new wedding and bride. Unprotesting,
pulled from the crowd, I bent my head down:
To find reward! Children grown; crown restored,

fame gained. To you alone I can boast my pride:
My coal heart was crushed to a diamond inside.

The Wife of Bath Explains a Thing or Two

Griselda, a sonnet! Why did you even try? It only makes things worse.
Loosen up your girdle and enjoy free verse—the lines should fit you,
not the other way around, no need to squeeze into some rule book,
cooked up by men to sing to their imaginary loves, who I am sure,
were well and truly sick of hearing their plaints: Beatrice, the Dark Lady—
give her a break and let her get on with unstrapping that old bra: idol,
pedestal. Climb right on down here. I felt for you, honey, all along—
so thin and wan, so mild and good. You never asked to be a prize,
a pawn in some man’s sick game of catch and release. He had it all,
and a great big hole inside, besides, and you don’t have to tell me:
golden toilet, golden tower, golden you at the top, it’s never enough!
He’s still around, sending his rockets to Mars, probing the oceans,
just like he plumbed his wife—the ultimate boundless mystery, right?
Now you’ve reached across the aisle after 600 years, and guess what?
We’re teamed up as ever! Chaucer gave me the most lines, but for ages,
you won first prize: Angel in the House, Madonna, Sacrifice. While I,
you’re right, remained the butt of laddish jokes, fat, loud, or worse,
hated and feared for my lusts, a figure of fun or the cunt with a bite,
held to account for my unruly appetite. Finally, the time’s come ripe
for us to muscle out the middleman, spill truths, grab the spotlight.
Personally, I knew you were more than you appeared. The self-denied
hold their own power: it’s modesty’s dark side. You were never
as simple as the tale told, good girl driven to distraction: dieting,
decluttering, working hard for your reward. A wife! Tricky business,
we both get that. I had five goes, and would have more. I salute you.
That Duke of yours, I bet you wiped his sweat at night, his psychic
sores. Under his great carapace, a trembling boy holding a sword.
He thought you might be keeping score. He had to lock you up, tight
knot we’ve all felt closing round our throats like prison walls.
Now you’ve busted out and want to talk, I’m here to cheer you on.
Let’s stop competing in a stupid game with rules we did not write:
chosen or mocked, virgin or whore, not enough or way too much.
This heartbroken old earth needs new songs and now’s our chance:
I’m an optimistic seller of new cloth, barging the barriers, my voice
getting louder and louder (and dear Griselda, welcome to yours.)
I hope a more ample table waits down the road for our hungry love.

Griselda Writes Back After a Long Time

Yes, my dear, a diamond is a hard rock.
Also, a form of light made out of dark.

You trussed me up in twelve tight lines,
but imagination is a wilder sort of ride.

Everything dies. People, ideas, sun, planet.
The self, however strong, will not save us.

Do you ever wonder if the universe may
be a woman breathing matter in and out,

here, not here, mothering and worrying,
coaxing out a bit more love each round?

Of course, I know you do. You worry so,
if that’s not too light a word—autocracy,

plutocracy, insect-empty fields and floods,
you long for some other story, a way out.

Maybe I can help. Self-sacrifice scares us;
it’s the role woman represents that we hate.

In a grabbing world, we show another way,
putting aside ourselves to make a path

for the generative future we call children:
not just womb, but some potential in us all.

As my friend, Sister Julian, promised, all
will be well and all manner of things well.

Thanks for the chance to stretch my legs.
You might not have seen me otherwise:

sewing PPE with other mothers, collecting
rubbish, emptying bedpans, shelving stock.

I hope you visit me again, visit with us both,
in the timeless where we are. The future’s yours.

[1] Marion Turner, The Wife of Bath: a Biography. Princeton University Press, January 17, 2023. 

[2] bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions. William Morrow Paperbacks, January 30, 2025.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Are You the One?

It was just before Christmas and the loop of carols played over the loudspeaker in the Mobile, Alabama airport. I had spent the day landing a client. My cheeks hurt from the smile I wore sitting across from him, side-eyeing the Auburn University Tigers football helmet, which served as the base for his desk lamp. My client’s office was decorated with photographs of him shaking hands with politicians including then President Jimmy Carter. On the wall was his university diploma, class of 1959. Doing the math, he was about ten years older than me. At thirty, I was a senior vice president of the mortgage banking firm I worked for. Seven years of hard labor traveling around the country over holidays and long weekends.

I listened attentively as my client shared his financial problems and addressed each one of them. And then I made the ask and waited. Silence. I glanced at my watch hoping that I wouldn’t miss my connecting flight. Bingo.

He leaned across his desk and shook my hand longer than was necessary. “We have a deal, Little Lady.”

I imagined myself picking up that lamp and throwing it at him for calling me “Little Lady.” I was hardly a Little Lady, standing 5 foot 7 inches in my bare feet. I thanked him for the confidence he had placed in us and told him I’d send a letter of engagement as soon as I was back in my office in Boston.

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” he said and shook my hand a moment longer than necessary. Was he flirting with me or was that just my imagination? He was hardly my type with his stomach hanging over his belt, his hair slicked back with too much pomade, and the cigar he pulled on during our meeting. He was much too old for me and geographically undesirable.

Why do unattractive men think every woman is fair game?

I should have been happy that my sales trip was a success, but I had done this one too many times. I missed my toddler son. I was tired of flying around the country, and I was still recovering from a messy divorce. Are there any other kinds (other than Gwyneth Paltrow style conscious uncouplings)? I often thought about quitting, but I needed the income. My ex couldn’t or wouldn’t pay me alimony, so it was up to me to keep a roof over our heads.

The Mobile airport was filled with passersby carrying shopping bags rushing to their gates to board flights or greet disembarking passengers. Men smiled at me as I walked through the terminal. Swinging my briefcase, I must have looked out of place, a “Little Lady” in a gray and white lynx fur coat.

I confirmed my reservation, filled out my company flight coupon, and gave it to the Eastern Airlines gate attendant. The short flight from Mobile to Atlanta was uneventful. We landed on time. I looked out the window as I climbed up the ramp; snowflakes were falling dusting the runways. I had never heard that there was snow in Atlanta. Waiting for my connecting flight to Boston, I settled into a seat in the Red Carpet lounge for frequent flyers of Eastern Airlines. Someone sat down in the empty seat next to me. I was reading a novel, or maybe it was TIME magazine. I was anxious to get home. The stranger addressed me, “Why is a stylish woman like you wearing a Mickey Mouse watch?” I looked up. The answer was that I had taken my son to Disneyland a few weeks earlier and wanted a souvenir.

While the announcement over the loudspeaker notified us of one delay after another with the snowstorm building in intensity, Stan introduced himself. He was a business consultant and had just had a meeting with the CEO of Coca-Cola. With thick brown hair and glasses, he stood 6’7” and was a smooth talker. He made me nervous, but I managed to hold my own telling him about the reason I was in the Atlanta airport. “I’m trying to get back to Boston, but it doesn’t look good.”

“I’m from Boston—Brookline, actually.” The street he lived on was three blocks from my house.

Stan asked, “If we get stuck here overnight, you want to stay at the same hotel? Separate rooms, of course.”

All flights up and down the eastern seaboard were cancelled. We had dinner paid for by Eastern Airlines and then walked around the Omni Hotel. It looked like a huge Tonka toy with an indoor ice-skating rink where skaters wobbled about and one or two feet as they practiced their figure eights and spins to organ grinder music.

“I love to skate,” I told him. “When I was growing up in Harrison, New York, my dad used to take us to an indoor rink, and when it was really cold, we went to one of the frozen ponds in our neighborhood at night. My sister and I took turns skating with my dad, and he loved to whistle as he glided around the pond. He was a good, all-around athlete. He taught me how to ski and play tennis.” Too much information? I looked at Stan, wondering if I was boring him.

“Sounds like you had a pretty nice childhood. I grew up in the Bronx. By the time I was sixteen, I was nearly the height I am today. Everyone thought I’d be a basketball player, but it was hard on my back. I swim. It’s good therapy for the mind and the body. There was an indoor roller-skating rink near our apartment where the gangs hung out. That was pretty much it.”

He added, “Different sides of the tracks, but things even out in the long run.” And then he surprised me with a strain from “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.” His soft baritone sounded rich and warm.

“One of my favorite Gershwin tunes,” he said. “Do you know it?”

I nodded. And he sings too, I thought.

We said our goodnights. At eleven p.m. the telephone rang. It was Stan. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep.”

“Want me to come to your room? I can sing you a lullaby or whistle.”

“No thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

There would have been worse things than having him wrap his arms around me. This time I didn’t judge a man for trying, but this was too aggressive. Years later he told me had I said “yes” that would have sealed the deal—a woman who took chances.

 ~

Seated next to one another on the plane (he had rearranged our seats), we were holding hands and the electricity between us was palpable. I stared at him while he had his nose in a book: deep brown eyes, perfect smooth skin, thick dark brown hair that was unlikely to fall out in old age, a trimmed mustache, and pillowy lower lip. He was dressed in a business suit—striped tie, starch white shirt, and navy-blue pants and jacket. He looked uncomfortable in his seat, which didn’t accommodate his tall frame. I was curious to know if all of him matched his height. I shivered. I turned away when he looked at my long reddish-brown hair, fair skin, hazel eyes, and Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.

“Are you cold? I can adjust the air.”

“It’s not the air.”

He smiled and went back to reading.

We shared a cab from the airport to Brookline. Stan asked for my telephone number and gave me his. “Feel free to call me in case I don’t get back to you soon enough.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. We didn’t mention his offer to come to my hotel room. Maybe we’d get to know one another well enough to talk about it.

I unlocked the front door, tiptoed up the stairs, and kissed Josh goodnight. He didn’t stir. I ripped off my clothes and fell into bed.

The next few days the snow continued falling. Public transportation was shut down into Boston. People with skis shushed along the Metro tracks, and old ladies slipped on the ice that built up in front of grocery stores and pharmacies. Power had been cut off. We relied upon our two fireplaces to keep the house warm. Fortunately, we had a stack of dry chopped wood. My mother-in-law was with us and took charge of my son Josh while I caught up on work at home. The postal service was still operating. I typed up a letter of engagement, read it over the phone to my boss, and then sent it off to our client in Mobile.

I waited for Stan to call. When the telephone rang, I was excited and relieved to hear his voice. I admitted that he had tried my patience.

“I’ve thrown my back out,” he said. “Would you mind coming over with some food? And I’d love to see you, but I’m not at my best.” I bundled up against the frigid air and carried a generous package to his apartment. I found him lying on the floor groaning in pain. “What happened?” I asked.

“It’s not easy navigating a world made for people shorter than me—which is mostly everyone. I leaned over my bathroom counter just to shave, and I felt a nasty twinge. The doctor told me to lie down on the floor, take some aspirin, and wait for the pain to pass. He forgot to say that I needed the company of a beautiful woman.”

I blushed. Somehow, in spite of his handicap, we spent the next hour kissing. Nothing like the parchment pecks that my ex-husband begrudging planted on my cheek. His hands were strong and assured—there was nothing tentative about him. Was this the man I had been looking for? Was Stan the reward for having endured a passionless seven-year marriage?

“Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Anything else before I go? My mother-in-law is staying with us. I don’t want her worrying.”

I stood up, put my sweater on, and buttoned my jeans. He grabbed my hand and pulled me back.

“Wait a minute Mister. I’ll be back, I promise.” He looked so helpless. “I hope the next time I see you, you’ll be standing up. This isn’t a good look.”

Stan laughed. “Don’t I know it? Just let yourself out. I can’t stand up or I’d walk you to the door.”

I slid home over the snow boots barely careening into other pedestrians out at ten o’clock in the evening. My body was on fire. I didn’t feel the cold and took off my scarf to let the air dry my neck. When I got home, everyone was asleep. I kissed Josh, tucked the covers around him, and turned off his nightlight, the stars vanishing from the ceiling. I was so happy I wanted to sing. I whispered, “Lullaby and Goodnight,” although he didn’t hear me.

I ran a bath and soaked in the warm water; it would have been easy to close my eyes and drift off. Instead, I toweled off and got into bed, pulled into a deep dreamless sleep. The next morning the sun poured into my bedroom window, and I heard the drip of icicles melting. I wondered if this was it—the storm had blown through, and we’d soon have electricity and heat. Josh crawled into bed with me, his hands gently caressing my face while he murmured, “Mama, Mama.” The sweetest sound. I curled my body around him.

I wasn’t looking forward to going back to work as soon as the streets were cleared of snow and the MTA was operating.

Stan and I became exclusive, dinners at quaint Cambridge restaurants, double dates with his best friend Howard Schwartz and his wife Jackie, art exhibits, and movies. One stands out—My Brilliant Career. Set in Australia, the film features a spunky young woman who plays tricks and dreams of becoming a writer. She questions the intentions of a wealthy landowner who proposes marriage.

“What did you think of the movie?” asked Stan preempting me.

“I can identify with the heroine’s feistiness, her passion to become a writer.” I stifled a sigh not wanting to seem a victim. “But right now I have bills to pay.”

He pressed me. “What do you think of her decision to reject her lover’s marriage proposal?”

“You first.”

Stan adjusted his glasses, which I had learned was his habit when he wanted to buy himself some time to think. “I guess every woman needs to choose her own path, but I think she could have had both. I don’t understand why she questioned his love.”

“Maybe she thought she didn’t deserve it.”

“I think she misinterpreted his intentions. I think he was in love.” As if ending the discussion, he leaned over and kissed me. Unlike the heroine, I felt in that moment that I deserved him—all of him.

Initially we had no intention of bringing our children together. It was much too soon for that happy “blended family.” Instead, we kept our romance under wraps.

 ~

 Stan made reservations at the Castle Hill Inn in Newport, Rhode Island for our first weekend away. What to wear? I chose a pink cashmere turtleneck, and pastel, paisley skirt with beige suede boots for the two-hour drive and packed two different outfits—one for dinner and the other for a walk on the beach.

“How do you know about this place?”

He was evasive. “I’ve been there.” I was curious to know if it was with another woman, or if he had taken off for a break after his divorce. I didn’t know much about his ex-wife, and I was glad. I would have had to share things about my ex, and the stories weren’t very flattering to me or to him.

Stan turned on the car radio; the classical music filled the comfortable silence between us.

The windows of our suite overlooked Narragansett Bay, and there was a claw foot tub, a nod to the inn’s beginnings in the late 1800s when grandees summered there. We didn’t bother unpacking and instead slid under the sheets. Stan was a masterful lover, one minute gentle and the next insistent. I discovered what his mustache was for. It sent shivers down my spine. Three hours later we showered, dressed, and went out to dinner at the White Horse Tavern in a red clapboard house. The main dining room was lit by candles in keeping with its seventeenth-century vintage. Stan ordered a dozen oysters. We were ravenous.

“What kind of wine do you like?’” he asked.

“I’m going to have the cod. What about a Pouilly Fuisse?”

“Let’s splurge. Why don’t we have a bottle of Pierre Jouet?”

“Are we celebrating something?”

The flame of the candles on the table lit up his face. “Every minute alone with you is reason enough to celebrate.” Bring it on.

I tipped an oyster and juice into my mouth. It was fresh and delicious.

The waiter came over to take our order. When he left, Stan asked, “Do you like to cook?”

“Chocolate souffle, Moroccan chicken, turkey with chestnut stuffing and sweet potato pudding, pot roast and latkes. Anything really, so long as I have a good recipe and can buy the ingredients.”

Stan ran his tongue across his mustache to catch the oyster juice. “I’m moving to a house in a few weeks. It’s right in our neighborhood. You’ll have to christen the kitchen, and I’ll do the dishes.”

I took a sip of champagne and nodded. Did he see a future for us? I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. I didn’t stop to think if he was right for me. I was being led by my beating heart, and not my head.

The next morning, we walked along the beach. Stan had a tape recorder and played Bach as the waves pounded the rocks along the shore. He pulled out a camera. “You look stunning in that heavy blue sweater. Let me take a picture.”

“Only if you let me take one of you.”

I let the wind blow my hair, partially hiding my face and then we switched positions. Looking at Stan through the lens, I had trouble catching all of him. I had to keep walking backwards. “Careful you don’t trip and fall.”

 ~

 Our next outing was to his cabin in Quechee Lake, New Hampshire. He warned me that the amenities were basic. We decided to bring his sons who were six and eight.

“Why don’t you bring Josh? He’ll have fun with the boys.”

His confidence was catching, so I agreed. Since we were moving in the direction of becoming a couple I decided to give it a try. The evening before I made a lasagna casserole and Josh helped me with the crocodile cake—green food coloring mixed into the cream cheese icing, corn candy for teeth, M&M’s for the eyes and a tail that wound back on itself and into its mouth.

“What do you think, Josh?”

“It’s scary.”

“Maybe but it won’t bite you, I promise, and it’s going to taste delicious.” I swiped my finger through the icing bowl and offered it to Josh.

“Yummy.”

“I promised.”

“Tomorrow we are going with my friend Stan and his boys to their cabin in Quechee Lake.” I editorialized hoping that he’d be excited. Instead, he looked at me with his chocolate brown eyes, puddling with tears, and said, “No, I don’t want to go.” And then he had a full out cry. I held him in my arms.

“Would you like to sleep in my bed just for tonight.”

He managed a silent nod. I wondered if I was rushing headlong into one imaginary, big happy family.

Stan picked us up in his 1967 brown Pontiac. Half-hearted introductions. Apparently, his sons, Ricky and Noah, were in the middle of an argument and didn’t want to be interrupted by his father’s girlfriend and her son. We didn’t say much on the ride to the cabin, which was exactly as advertised—basic—it’s saving grace was the spectacular view of the partially frozen lake.

“Everyone up for a vigorous hike around the lake?”

I put on my boots and dug Josh’s out of his suitcase. Stan was already wearing his, as were the boys. This must have been a ritual. One shouted, “To the top.” The other groaned. “I’m tired. Let’s go half-way.”

“All right. Half-way it is. Probably make it easier on Josh,” said Stan. Then he added, “But Loren is an experienced hiker. She’d probably get to the top without breaking a sweat.” I gave him the side eye. Was he mixing me up with a former girlfriend, his ex-wife, or was he trying to sell me to his sons? Up to this point the only athletic sport we indulged in was in the bedroom.

The trees were covered with a dusting of snow, and the March wind stung. I tied a scarf around my face and turned the collar up on Josh’s snow suit. Stan took long strides dodging the snowballs his sons threw at him. Stan seemed impatient that Josh was holding us back. I kept asking him to slow down, but he just wanted to give his boys a vigorous outing, so Josh and I lagged behind. I consoled myself by thinking that Josh would be exhausted and not mind sleeping alone in a sleeping bag in the living room. There were only two bedrooms, and the boys claimed the second bedroom without inviting Josh to join them. It was apparent they didn’t want anything to do with a five-year-old.

When we got back to the cabin, I put dinner together and the boys were directed to set the table. They groaned. “Dad, fork on right, spoon on left?”

“What do you think?”

“Fooled you,” said the older boy, Rick. The three of them laughed. I didn’t get the joke. This must have been another one of their rituals.

Even Josh scarfed down the lasagna. I brought out the crocodile cake. It was a big hit, well worth the effort we had made. Stan declared it a masterpiece. I was thrilled.

“Why don’t you play a board game with the boys? I’ll do the dishes.”

“I don’t mind that arrangement at all.” Stan gently touched my neck and whispered, “And after they go to bed, we’ll play our own game…”

The boys chose Chutes and Ladders. I let them win. Josh found a corner and turned the pages of Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, telling himself the story. Rick said, “He’s got it all wrong.” I told him that Josh didn’t read yet. “Would you like to read it to him?”

“Forget it.”

Lights out. The only sound in the cabin was light breathing. Outside, the sounds of the ice cracking echoed through the woods. “Do you think this was a good idea?” I asked Stan. “Maybe we should have waited or done something together less ambitious than a weekend here.” If I had doubts, I should have voiced them sooner, but Stan sounded so enthusiastic that I went along with it.

“Sure. They needed to meet one another soon or later.” He then ran his finger from between my breasts and down my stomach to his intended destination. I gasped. He covered my mouth with his.

Breakfast was an assortment of cereals. The older boys got into an argument and started throwing corn flakes at one another. Stan laughed. I wasn’t amused. I thought he should discipline them, but as with many weekend fathers he didn’t put a stop to their game. The table was covered with cereal. I cleaned it up while Stan did the dishes.

We didn’t discuss the weekend, which I voted an epic fail, except for the crocodile cake. Instead, we resumed our routine of going out on dates on the weekends without the boys. Three years into our relationship, we closed all the blinds and danced naked to “Saturday Night Fever.” We spun around and ended up on the floor making love. It was the glue that held us together.

Our conversations were highbrow. He was obsessed with quantum physics, which was well beyond what I could understand, but I’d nod and ask appropriate questions as if I knew what he was talking about. “Quantum physics operates on the atomic and subatomic level.” Huh? I did better with his lectures to me about “corporate culture,” a concept he made popular with a colleague at Harvard University.

“Why did you go into this field?” I asked, struggling to understand how his mind worked.

“When I got my masters in anthropology, I could have done research on indigenous tribes or family relationships. But there’s no money in that. I decided that studying corporations was the way to go. It’s been very lucrative. I get $25,000 a speech. You’ll have to come with me one of these days.” I did, and afterwards we had sex in the back of the limousine on the client’s dime.

 ~

 I was Stan’s plus one at a dinner party in the suburbs given by his associate, Jim Bailey, president of Cambridge Associates. “You’ll enjoy it,” he said. “Good food, good wine, and good company.”

“Who’s going to be there?” He explained that the guest list included Howard Schwartz and Jackie; Warren Benis, a professor in the business school at USC, who was in town for a conference; and Werner Erhard, the founder of est Training, and his wife Hannukah. “I sit on their board. The company is going through growing pains and Werner asked me to help him reorganize.”

“est—I didn’t know you were involved with it.”

“Yes, you might want take one of their seminars.”

I got defensive, “Do I need fixing?” He assured me that was not what he meant. “The skills they teach are beneficial for everyone. Even me.”

“So I might gain more insight into the way you think.” Silence.

The dinner party was as advertised. Howard sat across from me. He kept staring at me. Was it my white angora sweater and pearl necklace or something else? I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Howard surprised me. “I need to speak with you.”

“Sounds serious.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this. I am in love with you, totally and completely. I wish you had met me before you met Stan. He can be a hound dog. I don’t think he’s good for you.”

I was stunned. “Thanks, but I think I can take care of myself.”

Stan said he saw Howard following me. “What did he want? Did he hit on you?”

“No. He just wanted to catch up. See how you and I are doing.”

“You told him we are doing great, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

~

I was blind to Stan’s faults and ignored Howard’s warning. I was impressed with his accomplishments and addicted to the sex. I didn’t know where our relationship was going. I decided to explore job opportunities in Los Angeles so that Josh could be near his father—he wasn’t a good father but he was the only one Josh had, and I hoped that over time he would become more engaged with him as Josh got older. He was too busy building his career to give much thought to the son he had left behind. Ever the optimist, I interviewed a few firms and was made an offer to start work by June 1980.

I told Stan and gave him the chance to ask me to marry him, but he said, “I’m not going to tell you what to do. You have to make up your own mind.” It’s not what I wanted to hear. I wanted him to tell me that he couldn’t live without me, that I was the one. Instead, he accepted my decision once I accepted the best offer. He assured me that he’d visit me in Los Angeles. A year of bi-coastal trips later it was over. He had met another woman in Brookline with three children about the same ages as his two sons. Howard told me she was seven years older than he was, an interior designer, and an excellent cook. I forced a laugh, “He needs help in both departments.”

Howard added, “He’s really a mama’s boy. With three kids, she’s had plenty of practice.”

I was shocked that he gave up on me so easily. I wanted him to say he couldn’t live without me, that I was the one. That I shouldn’t move to Los Angeles. That we would make a life together.

Instead, he accepted my decision. His breakup gift was a book by Carl Sagan, which he inscribed: To one of the great ladies of the Cosmos, With love and affection, Stan, November 1980.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Still Standing

After over fifty years, Warren and I began corresponding—a term I use loosely, as Warren does not write. He does not speak. His IQ hovers below 20, and he does not know who I am. This is an excuse I saw my parents embrace most of their lives to alleviate the guilt of no contact, of giving up their parenthood, when it came to their fourth child and firstborn son.

Warren was about two years old when it became increasingly evident that something was wrong. He would spend hours sitting on the floor, with his head against the wall, rocking back and forth as if keeping time with the ticking of a metronome only he could hear. His hair had worn a little bald patch in the spot where it met the plaster. Words were not spoken; words were echoed, much like a parrot mimicking what it heard. No words came out of their own accord. No babbling two-year-old banter, the type we parents sometimes complain about. I’m sure there was no complaining by my parents. Only worry. Enough worry to make appointment after appointment with specialist after specialist. Diagnosis: Severe Mental Retardation. Age three.

~

“The Benches” was the place all the mothers of the building would meet with their toddlers and strollers to socialize and gossip. It was a long strip of a park adjacent to Henry Hudson Parkway with benches extending a city block. I remember playing there as a child with dozens of other kids from the building. I have very few memories of my childhood, but “The Benches” I always remember as a safe place. I have had recurring dreams in my adult life of various scenarios where someone is chasing me, trying to kill me, etc. I always knew that if I could just get back to “The Benches” and lay down on the concrete, I would always wake up in my bed. I would be safe.

Mom was embarrassed to have the other moms see her son, who was not quite the average child. So, instead of her usual routine with the older children, of going to The Benches with the other mothers, she would take Warren in the stroller and walk for hours, she told me, so her baby would not be seen, and apparently, she would not be embarrassed. It was the 1950s, but it is still hard for me to fathom.

The doctors, the specialists, and even the Catholic priests would all weigh in. It was decided that the best thing for all would be to place Warren in a home for the mentally ill. The decision was made that Warren, not yet four years old, would be sent to one of the best private institutions in the Greater New York area. I remember driving north, up the tree-lined Saw Mill River Parkway every Sunday afternoon to visit Warren. I was eight.

We would go to the Carvel ice cream stand down the road. Sad but true, this is the only concrete memory I have of my brother. Carvel on Sundays.

To be fair to my parents, it is what you did in the 1950s. Your pediatrician suggested it, and all the specialists recommended it. Many families faced these same choices. For some, it was a deep, dark family secret, not even knowing that their sibling or relative even existed. For others, there would be weekly visits. I know it was not easy for any of them.

My father was manic-depressive in the days before lithium. With three children of my own (all born within twenty-seven months of each other), I have often wondered, what would I have done? There are those who say that the parents were ashamed. Others say they just threw their children away and forgot about them. I do not pretend to know the answer. Unfortunately, what goes up must come down. The mania of my father, along with his record-breaking sales performance, came crashing down. When my father was in a manic stage, he could sell ice to the Eskimos. He was hospitalized, and the income dried up. The private institution had to give way to a state mental hospital, maybe the three most dreaded words in the English language.

Warren was transferred to Willowbrook State Hospital on Staten Island. It was actually called a school, and it was the largest institution for the developmentally disabled in the world at the time (and that was not a good thing).

~

 My brother spent about fifteen years of his life at Willowbrook, the place that Robert F. Kennedy called “a snake pit” in 1965. When Kennedy visited the site, he was horrified by what he saw and stated that “individuals in the overcrowded facility were living in filth and dirt, their clothing in rags, in rooms less comfortable and cheerful than the cages in which we put animals in a zoo.”

A combination of budget cuts by Governor Nelson Rockefeller and more demand for placements coupled with indifference led to most of Willowbrook’s problems. Some quote a ratio of seventy patients to two or three caregivers. I wonder how those caregivers could keep clothes on the backs of children with mental disabilities as severe as most residents, who would disrobe as fast as staff could dress them. How could they keep the feces and urine cleaned up when there were seventy other children to look after?

I visited Willowbrook once. It may have been more than once, but the first visit is all I can remember. It was the Fall of 1970. I was twenty years old. I had been visiting my brother from the time I was eight years old. My two sisters, ages 4 and 9, and I, would pack into my parent’s car and drive the half hour or so up the tree-lined highway to Ferncliff Manor in Yonkers. It was a beautiful place with acres of grass. We would lay a blanket out and have a picnic with our brother. We would run around and play, especially my younger sister, as they were the closest, only about a year and a half apart in age. She missed her baby brother.

Willowbrook, on the other hand, was far from the pretty, peaceful picnic grounds of Ferncliff. The antithesis. When I first entered Willowbrook in 1970, I was with my father. My mother would not or could not return. My senses were bombarded. The scent was sharp. A mixture of bleach and feces. The air was still. The halls were dimly lit so as not to see the chaos or the peeling paint. The sounds I could not quite place: murmurs, distant cries, quiet humming, the shuffle of feet. There was a sense of stillness that felt anything but peaceful. I had not prepared myself for what I saw that day, but even then, I had the sense this place was failing the very people it was meant to be helping. A kind of numbness settled in—not because I didn’t feel it, but because I felt too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Dunham as a child with her mother and siblings, photographed by Burton H. Halper

It wasn’t chaos. It was something softer and harder to bear—indifference. Neglect masked by the very rhythms of daily life.

That day left a lasting mark. It didn’t just shape my view of institutions—it asked me who we become when we are unseen. Does Warren know he has a family? A majority of the residents there have no visitors at all. Unfortunately, I did not pursue those questions or those feelings I had that day, for many years. I buried them with all the rest.

It breaks my heart when I look at this photo taken when Warren was just a few weeks old because I see such hope. Children with such great prospects, immense potential. A future not yet marred by illness and tragedy. We were all unaware of what lay ahead.

It saddens me now because I know the outcome. I lived through it. The memories feel like a slow echo that never quite fades. There would be two more children to come, and the youngest would, in essence, never have the opportunity to know two of her siblings pictured here. In fact, she was not even told of their existence for years.

Lorraine, my older sister on the right would become affected by schizophrenia in her teenage years and commit suicide in 1967. Warren, the newborn in momma’s lap, would be institutionalized by the age of three, and dad, the photographer, unbeknownst to me at the time, would suffer from Manic Depression/Bi-Polar I for the rest of his life. I was sixteen years old when lithium became FDA approved for his type of mental illness. I didn’t fully recognize my family situation for many years. Like all small children, I perceived my life as typical. Of course, it was the only family life I had known. I used to think I had a perfectly normal childhood growing up in an upper-middle-class family in a particularly good neighborhood of the Northwest Bronx. Still, all is not always as it seems.

So, it has been fifty years since that day at Willowbrook. Fifty years of distance is not just a timeline; it’s a slow layering of choices, silences, rationalizations, and even regret. I had always blamed or perhaps rationalized my parents’ behavior for not visiting and for moving 2500 miles away. But what about myself? Was it guilt for not challenging the patterns my parents set? Was the guilt shaped by family dynamics and motional survival?

When you believe someone doesn’t recognize you, especially someone you’re biologically and emotionally tied to, it can feel like the connection was broken before it even had a chance to be made. “What’s the point? He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t know me.” But underneath that logic is a powerful current of loss—not just of a relationship, but of significance, visibility, and possibly identity.

Saying “He didn’t know who I was” may have been a way to protect us all from pain. There’s grief for what never existed: no history, shared memories or stories passed between siblings. And that grief is quiet. It just lives silently under decades of rationalization.

~

Since 1985, at the age of thirty, my brother has been living in a group home in upstate New York. The Consumer Advisory Board (CAB) monitors his wellbeing, which provides necessary and appropriate representation and advocacy services on an individual basis for all Willowbrook Class members as long as they live.

Warren has been well taken care of for the past thirty-eight years of his life. He has his own advocate who makes sure that all the stipulations of the Willowbrook Decree of 1975 are being followed when it comes to someone from the Willowbrook Class, as is my brother. But I often wonder, what about the trauma of the past? What does he comprehend of the horrors of growing up in an institution such as Willowbrook?

I am in contact with his advocate as well as his local case worker. They say he seems happy but does tend to withdraw and isolate himself. He doesn’t trust people very much. I suppose I can’t blame him. He is electively mute. Not to mention that Warren is missing the tops of at least six fingers, and, sometime in the past, his nose has been broken. Warren also has no teeth. I read an account of a Willowbrook parent stating that the Willowbrook dentist was notorious for pulling teeth. Her child had no teeth because she would bite herself until she bled. Whether this is connected to Warren’s missing fingers or missing teeth or is a result of abuse or self-mutilation remains a mystery.

 ~

 Warren loves classic rock—a man after my own heart. Music therapy is essential in the lives of the mentally disabled, probably because music is nonverbal. It transcends language. My brother is nonverbal, and I like to think that the music he listens to speaks to him in some way. I know that music calms anxieties and relaxes us when we are overstimulated. I’m told he can spend hours sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch of his group home in Plattsburgh listening to his CDs: He likes everything to be in its correct place, such as furniture being arranged in a particular way, or the house phone hung up in a certain direction. They say he can be quite helpful in clearing things away, such as mats after PT, arranging and clearing the living room after various activities. Sometimes, amusingly enough, his arranging can happen while the activities are still in progress!  This brings a smile to my face!

Warren has a personal savings account that cannot accumulate over $2,000. When the account gets up there, they go shopping to spend it down. His basic needs are taken care of, so he can shop for things he especially likes. His caregiver said Warren has the most expensive taste of any man she’s ever met. They will go to JCPenney, and he will go directly to the silk shirts or the most expensive items they sell. He is a very “interesting and complex” person, she says. It shows the respect that he garners as an individual, not simply someone or something to be taken care of. Not forgotten.

   ~

It had been fifty years since I saw my brother, The last time was that visit to Willowbrook in 1970. Not long after, I left New York for the west coast at about the same time my parents left New York. While my mother was alive, she would get annual reports on his health and progress and always shared them with me.

My youngest sister, Stacey, had never met Warren. He was institutionalized eight years before she was even born. She can’t quite remember when she was told that she had another brother. It was probably when she was about seven or eight years old.

When I brought up my plan, she was hesitant at first, but we finalized our trip and met in Montreal for a three-day visit before driving to Plattsburgh, New York, together in October 2023 to meet our brother. We had also arranged to meet both Warren’s care manager and his advocate from the New York State Office for People with Developmental Disabilities (OPWDD) for lunch in a nearby café.

I was heartened to learn of the care that the State of New York is giving to those with developmental disabilities and the extra care for the “Willowbrook Class.” Meeting these two women in that café was proof enough of the care and concern that my brother is getting. They spent two hours with my sister and me talking about Warren, listening to us recount our own family history, and answering any questions that they were able. They could not have been more caring and sincere. I am so grateful to have met them. Not only did they spend those two hours talking with us, but they also went with us to meet Warren. He was familiar with both, so they carved out even more of their busy days to come along.

We arrived at the house on Turner Road. It was out in the country among the trees. The feeling was peaceful and bucolic. His house manager greeted us and let us know that the other housemates had gone out so that we would have more privacy and less chaos.

There are four male house members. I believe at age sixty-eight, Warren is the oldest. Two of the men are more high functioning and a bit outspoken, while Warren is selectively mute and very low functioning. The fourth member falls somewhere in between, and it all works.

The house manager told us that Warren had just gone to his room to lie down. His advocate went and peeked her head in his room to say, “Warren, you have some company. Do you want to come out and say hello?” No response. His habit is to get into his bed with his legs crossed in a yoga position, then pull the blanket over his head and lie down. He looked like a not so little cocoon. I then said, “Hello Warren, I brought you a present,” and he immediately popped up from his bed and ran down the hall to the dining room table. He moves very quickly (and apparently even quicker when there is a present involved).

A bit later, we went out to his favorite spot on the porch where he sits in his lounge chair to rock and listen to music. We went through his box of vinyl albums sitting next to the record player. I was a bit surprised. I had to laugh and think, He’s a man after my own heart. There was Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles (his favorite) and even AC/DC and Metallica!

So, Warren came out of his room to get his present. I brought him a Seattle Sweatshirt, as I know he loves sweatshirts. He went straight to the kitchen to get strawberry milk. The house manager poured his milk and then let him pour in the strawberry syrup and mix it up. They brought it to the table where he gulped it down as fast as he could and some of it spilled down the front of his shirt. All those years at Willowbrook ingrained in him that everyone would steal his food if they could, so eating or drinking as fast as he could was the only way to protect it. To this day, he must have someone watch him eat so the food doesn’t go down too fast and choke him. When a new member of the household is added, Warren will either bring his food to his room or else put his arm around the plate, protecting it from the would-be food thief. Once he is comfortable with the new house member, he will come back to the table for meals. It has been thirty-eight years since Warren left Willowbrook. Habits die hard. I only wish I knew what other horrible memories reside in his brain from spending his most formative years there.

He came to the dining room table and sat across from me.

We looked at each other. There was a connection of some sort. I asked if it was alright to take a picture. His advocate asked Warren if it would be ok, and he immediately jumped up from the table. I thought, oh no, he’s going to run back to his room, and turn back into a cocoon. To my surprise, however, he stood up, went to the middle of the room, and looked right at me, as if to say, “I’m ready for my picture now.” I thought I would quickly take advantage of the situation and handed my phone to Stacey and asked her to take a picture of both of us. I nonchalantly went over and stood next to Warren.

At one point Warren grabbed my arm and started pulling me towards the kitchen. I thought this was a real moment between us, but it turned out, he wanted more strawberry milk. When I realized, I just laughed and said, “Oh, he’s just using me.”

We had a total of twenty minutes or so until Warren decided to go back to his room, get in his bed, and pull the blanket back over his head. Stacey, for the most part, stayed in the background. But I know she was as moved as I was by the whole experience.

He reached out and touched my hand once. I really believe we did have a connection, my brother and I. I now have a new and wonderful memory that is gradually replacing the dark one that haunted me for fifty years.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.