Truth in Nonfiction discussion

While beginning to read Mark Slouka's The Visible World, I could not help but notice the beautiful art and craft of Slouka's storytelling. He tells us stories of his mother and father when they were young, as well as stories of when he was a young boy himself. We can look at these stories and see them only as they appear to us on the page; old memories and moments, but if we look close enough Slouka is telling us these stories for a reason. He is trying to get a point across to us about a particular person, place, or significance of a moment.
A particular example of how Slouka portrays this is when his father tells him the story of how Mark's mother got, and soon after lost, her first dog. The story of Mark's mother going after and trying to find her dog could be remembered just as a childhood tale, but it was meant to mean more. Slouka writes, "He had only told me this story about my mother and her dog because, he said, he wanted me to know something about my mother" (50). Later on towards the end of this chapter, the story is brought up to Mark agian, 25 years later by friends of his parents. Although the ending to the story is altered, they still agreed, "the story said something about her character. How strong she was" (53). A lot of the time we tell stories about someone to make others realize something they hadn't before about that person. To make others see, feel, and believe something they hadn't before. A lot of the time we tell stories to make an impact on others.

Which brings me to what I would like you all to do...think of a story that has been told to you, or one that you have told to others, that has been told for the purpose of trying to make others understand a particular person or situation better. It can be a story that has been altered and changed over time, one that is fairly new, one from childhoodm, etc.... Any story you would like to tell that tells us something of a person, or even yourself, that we wouldn't have known otherwise. A story that shows somebody's character.

Hope you're all enjoying the reading on this snowy, windy, and cold day! It's the perfect day to curl up, read, and reminisice back on stories we've heard and told throughout the years.

My best friend, Tracy, and I have known each other since junior high, been best friends since senior year of high school. As is often the case with best friends, the respective boys and men (and boy-men and man-boys) we've loved or been with have often created much friction. Either one of us doesn't like the guy or the guy doesn't like one of us. When I began dating Kenny, Indie's father, he didn't like Tracy--at all. I like to think it's natural--that our loves and our friends are jealous of each other.

We were all camping along the Poudre River, Kenny, me, Tracy, Kenny's roommate (and now husband of ten years). We were zipping up our tent to go to sleep, and I started telling Kenny all the times that Tracy and I had camped through the years, how she took care of me--how she put my shoes near the zipper with a flashlight--told me if I needed to go out at night to pee that she had put those things there for me. I was just sleepily relating the story because I cannot camp without thinking of how Tracy taught me how to do it, and how, every year, when we camped at Bottomless Lakes in New Mexico, how we skipped rocks at dusk, something I love to do and have to do when I'm near water. Anyway, Tracy would roam the water, staring, finding the best, the flattest, thinnest rocks, and give them to me to skip. When I finished telling Kenny these two stories--the shoes/flashlight and the best rocks--he said, I'll never forget it, "Well, I like her more now. I may even love her for those things."

I'd like to mention something rather recent. Even though it will sound like a minor thing, this incident made me realize something about myself. It is about my best friend Erica whom I have known since the very first day of FYP. Though it took us a little while to get warmed up to each other, we became the best of friends. But when Spring semester happened (to make a long story short), she had to leave St. Lawrence due to medical reasons and I was distraught. I don't want to get into too much detail, but I will say that I was with her the whole time that she was incapacitated in the psych ward in Ogdensburg and to this day remains the most horrifying time of my life. Luckily, she came back this semester and all has been well.

On April 13th, we went to a party being held in the Winston Room. She had been on some new prescribed medicine that she wasn't used to and it gave her a nervous tick. While dancing, I noticed that her tick began...and it never stopped. She was having a severe panic attack. Quickly thinking, I got her outside where she collapsed on the ground, twitching uncontrollably. I went to get help, but that only provoked her to sprint away from me. I found her by the side of Payson Hall where I felt incredibly helpless. Not knowing what to do, I called security which I knew was going to be a bad thing. When they showed up, she became very angry and frightened that they would take her away again. And I had the very same thought, which scared me even more because it could have jepordized our friendship. In the end, I escorted her home and listened to her laments over what happened.

She told me that people were scared of her, scared that she might snap again even accusing me of being scared. I told her that "if I was scared, then why am I still here to support you?" And that's when I realized how important I am to her. I am the one who stayed, the one who helped when everyone had turned their backs on her. I saw that night that it wasn't going to take a trip to the ward or a panic attack to push me away from who my friends are and who deserves compassion.

Which brings me to what I would like you all to do...think of a story that has been told to you, or one that you have told to others, that has been told for the purpose of trying to make others understand a particular person or situation better. It can be a story that has been altered and changed over time, one that is fairly new, one from childhoodm, etc.... Any story you would like to tell that tells us something of a person, or even yourself, that we wouldn't have known otherwise. A story that shows somebody's character.

This is a tough one, even though life is made up of stories it's hard to just pick one. I was debating wether to tell the story of my epic journey up and down the east coast this summer, with 4 friends, a pirate flag, a fishing pole, and kittens we bought on the side of the road. But let's save that for another rainy day. I'll tell a story that happened right before my journey, it's about my dad. my dad has been working for the Navy as a civilian worker for about 5 years now, he is away from home anywhere from 3-6 months at a time, even more when it's needed. Last year I was ending my Tabor Academy career, a school that I loved, and my dad loved even more. Going to Tabor brought my dad closer than ever, he believed in Tabor, he loved that it was the "school by the sea." It was my last semester, which meant that it was a last for a lot of things for me. Especially my last crew race, while I don't row now, I did for 4 years. And my dad loved it, it was our thing. We could talk for hours about it. My last race was the weekend before graduation, it was New Englands, and I knew my dad was away, but I thought he'd be back. I got a call from him about a week before the race, and he said his tour had been given more time, and that he wouldn't be making it to the race, I was crushed, but in my mind that also meant that he would miss my graduation. And that killed me. I didn't want to walk across that stage, a stage that it took me 4 years to get to, and a lot of "what am I doing moments," to finally cross and not have my dad and bestfriend there to smile and wave his big dumb grin at me. We raced a week later and as my boat crossed the finish line, I didn't see him... But I did get an email from him with his big dumb grin wearing his Tabor crew hat on the side of the ship. It was a quick week, and the day finally came, a day that Ihonestly believe for awhile wasn't going to happen, but my dad always believed I couldn't deal with him not being there. I met my family in the dining hall for Senior Lunch, we were all sitting at a table with my friends and their family, we were sitting at the same table we sat at on our first day at Tabor. All of a sudden my friend Paige and her mom start crying, and my mom gasps... My dad has just walked into the dining hall. I couldn't even deal with it, everyone was crying ( my friends and their families all love this big dufus) I was just standing with my dad. I graduated that day, and the first person I saw when I walked off the stage was my dad. It took him 12 days to get home, he'd been planning it all along. 12 days, 3 ships, 2 helicopters and one rental car. He stayed for not even 24 hours then went back. He is awesome.

When my father was two years old, he was sitting on the beach with his seven siblings and went blank in the face and didn't respond to anybody. Some of his brothers ran home and took him to the hospital because he was blank in body and mind. It turned out that he had spinal meningitis and he went into a month long coma. He came out of it with complete loss of hearing in his right ear and partial hearing in his right one. He also lost some of his vision in both eyes.

My father didn't come from the wealthiest of families, but was able to work hard enough to pay for both his undergraduate and graduate studies by himself. He is one of the most admirable men I know in terms of his work ethic and his drive to complete what he has started with the greatest of attitudes. Although he could be considered a handicapped individual, he has demonstrated great strength, both physical and mental, throughout his whole life. I am grateful to him for passing on his work ethic, anything is possible with hard work with a great attitude. Unfortunately my fathers mothers sister had a son with spinal meningitis as well, but was not fortunate enough to survive the ordeal.

My father has helped me out tremendously throughout my life so far, and I truly admire his strength as a person.

On a much different note, I too have really enjoyed Slouka's writing.

My mom always reminds me of this time when she was driving past the elementary school and saw a girl in my grade being beat up by her older brother. She was probably eight or nine and he was probably fourteen or so. My mom stopped the car and told him to cut it out and go home. She later approached their mother and warned her about what she had seen, only to hear in response, "He was beating her up? Oh, that happens all the time". My mom was mildly appalled, but let it go as it wasn't really her business.

My mom still tells me this story, not to show that she tried to help a young girl, but to remind me that my older brother would never did anything like that to me and I should appreciate him. I always knew I was lucky to have him but some memories remind me more than others.

There was this time in ninth grade when I had a huge project on Islam due for history class. I had built this big mosque out of boxes and balls and paper towel rolls and light bulbs and spray painted the whole thing gold. I was walking through the crowded parking lot, holding my mosque on the day it was due, and slipped on a patch of ice. I fell to the ground and the mosque broke in every way. I started to cry and panic in front of everyone, and my brother, who was a senior at the time, came over and pulled me up and picked up my broken mosque. He told me everything was going to be okay and walked me into my classroom before going to his own.

I love this story because it never fails to remind me of what a good brother he is.

Like Caroline and John, I have a story about my father.

When my dad quit his job about eight years ago, his co-workers threw him a going-away party. Everyone in the office building attended: secretaries, delivery men, mailmen, janitors, co-workers, etc. So many people came, many whom he barely knew, because my dad treated everyone he encountered with genuine kindness. His simple acts of selflessness, generosity, and patience impacted people enough to show up at that party to recognize him and this hard work.

When I think about this story, originally told to me by my mom, I not only feel proud to have a father that was able to impact so many people, but I remember how important it is to be kind and respectful to anyone, regardless of whether or not I like them or know them.

My parents are amazing.

About a month ago my older brother, Matt, was kicked in the mouth by a horse. He was hospitalized. His mouth was wired shut; he couldn't talk or eat.

Matt goes to The University of Alabama and my dad was on a business trip in Tennessee. My dad drove five hours to visit my brother in the hospital each day after meetings and five hours back to his hotel to prepare for business meetings the following morning. He did this for five days.

The roles were then switched.

Someone was always home taking care of my little brother.

My mom couldn't stand the thought of not being there to help her "little boy." So, my dad got home one night and the next morning my mom was on a flight down to see Matt. My mom stayed six days, until everything was as smooth as it could be for him.

Then it was my turn to need my mom... not that I ever stop needing her. I got a concussion and needed to be taken home. My mom flew home from Alabama one night (arriving at our house around midnight) and drove six hours to get me from SLU the next morning. She was here at eleven. We did a quick turn around, leaving the school around 11:15; she drove another six hours to get me home. She was my own private nurse the whole two and a half weeks I was home. Meanwhile, she still made it to all of my little brother's lacrosse games and had hot meals ready for our family dinners when my dad got home from work.

Wow. What a mom I have.

I’ve always admired my two older brothers more than anything. They are such smart, strong, and caring individuals who have already accomplished so much in their lives. They have both been such positive role models for me my whole life. This prompt reminded me of a particular story about my brother Bronson. When he was a sophomore in high school and I was a freshman, his best friend was killed in a car accident on the way to a basketball game. Not only was my brother supposed to be in the car with them, but his other best friend was the driver. The driver survived, but was badly injured. I still remember the look on his face when he came down the stairs and told us the news. It was as if the life had left his body too. Never before had I seen him this way, and it was almost like seeing my parents cry for the first time. I didn’t know how to respond to it. This accident was undoubtedly one of the hardest things for any of us to deal with, as we had all known both of them since they were little. That night, my brother decided on his own that he needed to go see both boys’ parents. My parents asked him if he wanted them to go with him, but he told them it was something he needed to do on his own. They knew he was nervous, but they followed his wishes and he ended up being out all night. As Lauren described, it was like the roles were reversed. We only found out what happened that night when both sets of parents told us much later. Both describe themselves as children, and Bronson as the adult. They are both broken and forever will be, but I believe my brother made it easier on them that night, knowing both of their sons had a friend like him. I think this experience showed how my brother has always been mature beyond his years, and I’m proud he’s my brother.

Over winter break I was spending the night with two of my best and closest friends, Alyssa and Leah. The three of us had planned a quiet girls night on the couch with pizza and a movie (Blue Valentine- probably one of the most depressing movies I've ever seen. Just a heads up). It was probably like 11 or 12 at night when I got a call from Kate, another one of our best friends. Things were really messy with her ex, and Kate was having a complete breakdown. Leah drove to Kate's house and picked her up, and the four of us spent the rest of the night cuddling and consoling Kate. There's a picture from that night that is one of my favorites- it's of me, Alyssa, and Kate all sleeping on Leah's couch together, and even though she was the one who took the picture Leah might as well be in the shot as well. I know this isn't a story about just one person, but it's exemplary of the friendship we have. It could have been any of us who needed company at some midnight hour, and we would've been there for each other.

I have many stories but one of my favorites is when I travelled to Iceland to fly fish on the Swarta River. It is one of the world foremost sought after rivers and my father and I had two days that we were able to fish a section, or beat, on the river. The rest of the time was for my fathers profession, art dealing. So we fished from the crack of dawn until dark, ate well and drank plentiful. There we few fish being caught during the time considering the large amount of rainfall in the farmlands and the water level was running rather high. Out of seven fishermen only four fish were caught. It just so happened that one of those fish was an beautiful Atlantic salmon that weighed nearly 22 pounds, and I caught it. It was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life to this day. It felt like a log and surfaced over and over again in hopes that my fly would come loose. It did not! In Iceland it is a tradition that every first Atlantic salmon caught must have its fin eaten by the fisherman--and so-- I ate. It was delicious, thrilling, and better yet my father was standing only a few meters away from me capturing a memory that will never be forgotten.

The summer after 11th grade, my friends and I got into a car accident that almost killed the three of us. We had snuck out of our houses, lied to our parents, drank a lot of alcohol, and tried returning home that same night. We didn’t make it through the hour-long drive though; we had hit a road sign, and then drove into a ditch. My car was totaled and the police said we were lucky to be alive.

Lauren was in the back seat sleeping without her seat belt on when this accident occurred, and only woke up after the numbness of her buzz had worn off. She awoke and began laughing after discovering what had just happened, while Carol and I remained in repeated states of shock and panic.

Days later, once news spread, I watched as Lauren relayed her side of the story to some of our friends. I saw her face light up as she told them how she had flew up, hit the backs of our seats, and landed on the ground. She excitedly answered questions and made up stories on the spot about how the car had swerved sharply, and how she woke up to find the headlights pointed toward a field of grass. She talked about how she was still drunk when the police asked her to walk a straight line and describe the situation. I looked on in astonishment, and in disgust, at the lies she was telling these people. Was she trying to act brave, or worse, trying to impress them? After a good twenty minutes of her storytelling, one friend asked me about how I remembered the situation. My response, “The accident, or Lauren’s melodrama?” I then told her the truth of the situation, how Lauren was asleep the whole time, and was only awake to watch the police question Carol and myself. I was desperately trying to explain how Lauren had made that entire night up, and how she didn’t deserve their sympathy. After hearing the truth about the night, our friend simply replied with a, “Damn.”

My great Uncle Andy has always taken the place of a grandfather for my brother and I, since both of ours had passed away before we had the chance to meet them. Uncle Andy is a ninety-year-old, six and a half foot tall, cranky, yet lovable WWII veteran who lives at a nursing home not far from where I live. All my life he has been telling me stories; they range on topic from anything from the current state of the stock market, how the nurses messed up his dinner order, the endless stories of growing up in Granville with immigrant parents, or becoming a man when he joined the Navy. Before he lived in the nursing home, and after my Aunt Jo passed away, he ate every lunch and dinner at the same restaurant. Some nights after practice my mom would pick my up and we would see him eating dinner in the front window of Bernardo’s, all alone. We couldn’t just drive by, so instead we pulled in; I would run to the window and knock, anxious to see the surprise and delight once he realized that he wouldn’t be eating dinner alone that night. He told me stories of being at war all the time. My favorite was of his homecoming. His parents had emigrated from Czechoslovakia and soon built a large family in the states. He explained how poor they were, how much of a struggle it was to provide for a family with five children, one of which was mentally retarded, yet how important it was for each one of them to graduate high school and then do something meaningful afterwards. My Uncle Andy’s choice, join the Navy. He would write home on occasion, but did not always get mail back. When he went to war, he had to leave his dog, a boxer, under the care of his parents. When he came home, no one in his family knew he was coming. He was walking through town, and turned down Pacific Avenue, the street that he lived on all his life. Mere steps down the road he saw his dog sprinting down the street towards him. Once they heard the dog barking down the street, his father ran out the front door to call the dog back. When he saw my Uncle Andy walking towards him he cried, and soon the entire family was at the doorstep to meet him. On the multiple occasions that he told me this story it seemed like one of those fairytales that had been made into a movie. But the uncommon sincerity that was so clear on my Uncle’s face was something that taught me the importance of family, education, and dedication to doing something positive in life. Ever since I was a little girl, my Uncle Andy has been one of my biggest fans, my strongest motivators, and without a doubt a role model. The day that I wont have him there to tell me stories of how life can be changed around, and how much hard work pays off, I will never forget what he has told me to make me realize the importance of life and family.

Sorry this is so long:

When I was in 6th grade, both my parents took the day off from work to be at my annual doctor’s appointment at the orthopedic surgeon who I had been seeing ever since my pediatrician noticed at an early age that I had severe scoliosis (curvature of the spine). I was potentially nearing the growth spurt that my years of x-rays and doctor’s appointments had been waiting for, which would be the signal to send me to Boston Children's Hospital for a thick, custom-made removable plastic back brace to help my spine grow straighter.

I ended up sitting on my mom’s lap because there weren’t enough chairs for all of us in the tiny examination room, even though I was way too big to still sit on my parents’ laps. It was at this appointment that my doctor told me that he had simply missed my growth spurt, after all these years of expensive appointments and x-rays. My mom wrapped her arms tightly around me and rocked me back and forth as I watched her tears form tiny droplets on my jeans.

My back officially had a curvature of 39.5 degrees at this appointment. At 40 degrees, many specialists suggest surgically implanting a metal rod to realign the spine, meaning no physical activity for the one-year duration of the bar, as well as scars and lots and lots of pain and discomfort, even years after the bar is removed. My doctor told us that this was the only option for me -- a little 12 year old girl who hadn't even entered middle school yet. He wanted to place that giant metal rod in my back after we spent so much time trying to prevent exactly this.

My mom cried and cried while hugging me so tightly from behind. I had never seen her cry and I remember how foreign those droplets of tears looked on my jeaned thighs. I remember being embarrassed that this was such a big deal to her; besides consistent back cramps that had always been present throughout my entire life, I was completely unbothered by my crooked back. I didn’t know any different lifestyle than this imperfect one. I didn’t understand why she was so upset about something that seemed so small in the grand scheme of things.

For the record, my parents scheduled an appointment at Boston Children’s Hopsital soon after leaving the orthopedic surgeon’s office (who we decided to never see again). In Boston, more-advanced/ specialized doctors created a thick, custom-made removable plastic back brace for me to wear for the next three years. My curvature was reduced to about 13 degrees, which none of the doctors thought would be possible because of my missed growth spurt.

I think this story shows the issues of perfection vs. imperfection that have surrounded my entire life, as well as the conflicting expectations between me and my parents. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this day and how my mom just wouldn’t let go of me. It makes me think about how much of a little girl I still am in her mind. Even that one day when I was 12, she was holding me and rocking me back in forth like a tiny little girl. But my feet could touch the ground and I had already reached my big growth spurt. I wasn’t (and am not today) as little as she tends to think I am. This story additionally shows how my parents really just want the best for me and push until they get it. Even if I think it’s overbearing and annoying and embarrassing, they’re just trying to help me live the best possible life. I guess I should be grateful.

My favorite story is the one of how my parents met. I suppose my family is more tight-knit than most, especially since we're the only members of our extended family that made it to America. Anyways, I was around six or seven when I first heard this story, and I 'illustrated' the scene as best I could at school. One day, they were arguing about bills or vegetables or something, and I waved the picture in their face, going, "LOOK LOOK REMEMBER THIS???" and they looked at me and laughed and stopped arguing over whatever petty marital issue it was.

I think I love this story so much because it reminds me of how lucky I am to have the father that I do. We disagree more often than we get along, but I think that's because we're the same person, and both of us hate to see ourselves from a third-person point of view. My dad is a lot of things, including stubborn and annoyingly smart, but mostly he's a big romantic who tries his best to show us how much he loves us in some pretty unique ways.

My parents were in college in Xi'an, the Chinese city where I was born. It was a school for future engineers and scientists, and as such, had a much higher percentage of men than women. My mom's parents made her go to that school (she lived in that same city and they wanted her close to home, even though she got into Peking University, which is China's Harvard), but my dad had worked really hard to get himself out of rural China (where he grew up) and into a good university.

I'm sure everyone has seen those ridiculous videos of Chinese people getting onto trains/buses/any other form of public transportation... having 1.2 billion people in your country makes for some pretty crowded vehicles. It was no different for the university bus, which was always packed with students trying to get to class.

My mom was waiting at the bus stop, and my dad got to the bus stop and started waiting too. When the bus came, the expected tidal wave of students started swarming the bus door. My dad saw my mom (five feet tall, pretty much how I look now), took her by the hand, and fought valiantly through the crowd (okay, I'm embellishing a little, but it's so much fun to imagine him fighting bravely through the deluge of people with my bewildered mother hanging on for dear life), eventually getting her on the bus and making sure she had a seat.

I like telling that story.

I've been thinking about this story a lot lately. I can still remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. I've never told anyone before.

It was 8:30 am on Thursday, December 6, 2007. Kirk Wulf walked into the classroom and said we better come downstairs to an emergency assembly. When everyone was there the principal got up in front of the school and explained that there had been a fire this morning at about 4 at a Park student's house. It was Matt Young's house. His younger sister had died in the fire and Matt and his father were in the hospital in critical condition. His mother was alright. I cried. I had known Matt since we were four years old. We went to the same elementary school and both transferred to Park for high school. Matt died two days later in the hospital of complications from smoke inhalation. His father survived and made a full recovery.

A few months passed. One spring morning, on the way to school my mom turned to me and said she had just talked to Matt's parents a few days earlier. "I have to tell you something" she said. She told me that when the family woke up and realized what was going on they all tried to get out of the house. Matt's mom made it out safely. His dad jumped off the second floor balcony because he was trapped, and broke both his legs. Matt had a clear path to the door, but Abby, his little sister, was trapped, and Matt tried to go back to save her. Neither of them made it out and since it had just snowed the night before the ambulances couldn't get to the house. He could have lived but he stayed inside to help Abby instead. He could have survived but he stayed with his little sister to the end.

I don't know if I could have done it.

My family is a beach family and we love the ocean, except when it almost swallowed us whole. The beach we go to, Plum Island, cautions beachgoers of the strong undertows and riptides; people who venture out too far have gone missing, their bodies never recovered. Every summer, it seems, my Mom goes over the proper procedure if and when one finds himself in this kind of situation. “If you fight the current by swimming against it, you’ll get tired,” she says, “So I’ve heard it’s better to float on your back and let the current bring you parallel to the shore.” I imagine myself calmly floating on my back and drifting along the shore as if I’m in one of those Sandals commercials with “Time of My Life” playing in the background. I repeat what she says like a parrot so she knows I understand. My sister, Meredith, nods.

I was at Plum Island with my Mom and Dad two summers ago when it almost swallowed us whole. I remember that it was late afternoon and the waves were rolling in one after the other. The three of us happily plopped in the 65 degree water and when our bodies adjusted to the temperature we started to swim deeper to get beyond the wave breaks. I don’t remember ever looking back at the shore, but something caused my Mom to turn her head and realize that we had drifted. “Oh my God, we’re way far out! We need to head back in,” she gasped. We were completely beyond touching the sandy bottom and the people in their beach chairs looked like little specs. In a shoked panic, we started taking long strokes with our arms against the current which was dragging us farther from the shore. Making no progress my Mom said rather calmly, “This is not good, I’m going to get tired.” I knew there was truth to her statement because she was in no shape to swim like that and my Dad, although strong, had suffered from a shattered leg and hip. Did I mention there are no lifeguards at this beach? I felt numb; I looked at the blank faces of my parents and surprisingly I didn’t feel anxious or scared. I felt calm. Somehow it’s easy to go over proper procedure when you’re not in the situation: I don’t want to float on my back, I thought, I can fight this. As time elapsed, I knew I was doing just fine swimming, but my Mom stopped to tread instead. My Dad, farther ahead of us, broke free and made his way to the shore while angry waves broke on his shoulders. Eventually I swam ahead of my Mom and watched as he made a brisk walk for my boogie board by our chairs. When he threw it at me I hopped on and paddled back in the current toward my Mom, giving it to her when I was close enough and then pulling on the rim, leading us to safety. We were all silent, except for the heavy breathing rushing in and out of our lungs. My Mom, usually a Chatty Cathy, didn’t say a thing. I looked at her, gazing at her fearful eyes, and all I could say, “Wait ‘till we tell Meredith.”

Later in the summer my grandparents were over for dinner and I brought up the riptide, pleading my Mom to tell them the story. She looked at me as if it was something she didn’t want to talk about, as if it was a bigger deal than I thought it was. She explained the event in terrifying details. She expressed how horrified she felt and how she didn’t know if we’d survive. “I wasn’t scared,” I said concerned, “Mom, you were that scared?” “Well yeah,” she said, “the current was so strong I didn’t think we would break free from it.” “Wow Mom,” I said nervously, “I had no idea that’s how you felt.” “I didn’t want to upset you,” she replied.