The story of a radically liberal Jesus follower: @strugglebus91 - Tumblr Blog

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At 30 years old, I have come into myself as a woman. Last night was the first time ever I wore a dress by choice to a casual event and liked, no loved the way I looked. I’ve arrived. I have stepped out from behind my mother. The pressure she put on me to be the type of woman she was: overtly feminine, gaudy, Italian culture. I spent my teenage years pushing back. Thinking I was too skinny, too shy, too nervous to wear anything that drew attention to me. I always wore baggy clothes to hide myself. To fit in the background while she had a spotlight on herself. She thought it would highlight me too. Here in 2021, almost 4 years without her, I am happy. And I do know she would be proud. I am proud of myself, my career, my marriage, my life. And I wonder, was she ever actually happy? I think she convinced herself she was. #mom #daughter #woman #grief #truth #memoirwriting #1990s https://www.instagram.com/p/CQWIN-XMNJI/?utm_medium=tumblr

#mom #daughter #woman #grief #truth #memoirwriting #1990s

May 9, 1976 • I gave my mother a glass set for Mother’s Day. Greg was looking at me at mass. We went to a go car track. I passed the same kid twice once, another time, I almost got hit. Reflection: It’s no surprise that in almost all of my Mom’s diary entries she had a tendency to start writing about someone else, maybe how they were feeling or what they did and then make an abrupt shift and continue focusing on herself. In the above entry she was 13 and I guess that’s the point of a teenage diary, to write about yourself and your life as you remembered it, but I can’t help but feel annoyed with her. It’s indicative of what it was like to coexist with Rosanna: we were just part of her world. She monopolized holidays and other special events. I remember Mother’s Day in 2012 when I decided to go with my Dad up to Maine to see his mother, my Grammie because it also happened to be her birthday. My mother threatened to shut off my cell phone and told me not to come home. “Go live with your father because you love him more.” To this day, I know Maine was the right choice, Grammie passed away this past March and that was the last time I saw her. The last 5 years, I’ve celebrated Geoff’s Mom and sister. It’s been so much easier and sometimes the guilt I feel about that is so heavy. One day in the near-ish future, it might be my turn to be celebrated. That terrifies me. I don’t want to be a mother that makes her child feel like any choice other than choosing her is wrong. #mom #grief #mothersday #1976 #diary #memoirwriting #divorce (at Rhode Island) https://www.instagram.com/p/COiRVYbAvzv/?igshid=1t7k97pbesnys

#mom #grief #mothersday #1976 #diary #memoirwriting #divorce

Feb. 28, 1976 • I went biking today. We went to Debbie’s. When we went biking we got lost 2 times and stopped to eat at three places. (A + W, Chelo’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken.) And we rode 16 miles. Greg told me that he’s not going to Religion. I had a flat on my bike and I had to go and get a new tire and tube. Now I gotta go. Reflection: Trout Brook Lane was the best neighborhood to ride bikes. I remember middle school summers waking up to the birds, throwing on some shorts and a t-shirt and packing a bag for an adventure. Nana would be over before my brother and I woke up, we’d come downstairs to see her sitting on a kitchen stool waiting, hand holding her chin and elbow resting on the counter. We’d argue with her about our plans for the day, she was always nervous about us hopping on our bikes disappearing, but we did it anyway and as revenge sometimes we’d be locked out of the house all day. We met up with the other kids to ride, stopping from time to time at someone’s house for the bathroom, a snack, or some GameCube. Other days we would work in the woods behind our house - my brother and I dug out an extensive dirt track - it would loop around trees and we fashioned a small jump. We suffered yellow jacket stings digging it out, but I think it was worth it. It was thrilling to turn into our driveway, pedal fast through the lawn and enter the wooded track; it took some skill to navigate the loop and then exit the trees in order to take off down the once street again. For the most part we were completely safe, our group took care of each other and we were rarely met by cars. Around 4, our parents would start arriving home and the group would split off with plans to reconvene in the morning. I am so grateful for the kids we grew up with. Except for the one time a boy shot me with a bee bee gun as I was practicing hoops in the driveway. Just like in The Sandlot, we never talked about not playing together anymore, time passed, we learned how to drive, got summer jobs, and quietly became adults. The neighborhood has turned over and new young families are moving in. Do kids even ride bikes anymore? #1976 #memoirwriting #childhood #TheSandlot #mom (at Hope) https://www.instagram.com/p/COQTK6TgAYt/?igshid=1gdyqcyy9vab6

#1976 #memoirwriting #childhood #thesandlot #mom

April 21, 2021 Today, my Dad is my hero. Growing up I was taught to believe he was a villain. I let another man stand in as my father. This stepfather moved into the house my Dad built. He was fun, he helped coach softball, and taught me how to drive. My friends loved him. My Dad didn’t come around much, only for big events: Holiday concerts and softball playoffs. I felt like I was forced to see him every other weekend. We didn’t have a real relationship. When my Mom passed, a door opened for us to understand each other, to reconnect. I learned the step back he took during my childhood was to protect me and himself. During her funeral services, Dad stood by me and my brother’s side. He brought Nana out to Colorado for my wedding, all expenses paid. He’s a man of patience and integrity. After my Mom’s services, this stepfather disappeared, cut us off, unmasking himself as the true villain. Last year as I emptied out the basement in her house, I pulled open heavy file cabinet drawers and found all the divorce files. I read primitive emails from 1999, absorbing the lies I was told about my Dad. I threw all the contents of the filing cabinet into a large dumpster that sat in the yard, making peace with my confusing childhood. This past week, my Dad met face to face with the man who occupied our house for 20 years. We can now step forward on our journey to restore the family home. Next month I will return to Ocean State for my birthday and for the first time in many years, it will feel like a true homecoming. That smiling little girl came out of that home, shaped by the light and dark years, grateful for it all. Ps. Happy early Birthday, Dad. #1990s #2021 #childhood #divorce #grief #poeticjustice #truth #home (at Hope) https://www.instagram.com/p/CN7rZb4gf3u/?igshid=t3hglzrueznu

#1990s #2021 #childhood #divorce #grief #poeticjustice #truth #home

December 15, 1979 • Last night was the X-Mas ball. The dance was excellent. I went crazy trying to find something to wear. I even went to Boston. I finally sprung $170.00 for a skirt and blazer. Reflection: My Mom loved shopping. She loved instant gratification. I’m going to be vulnerable here: my Mom and Nana both passed away leaving behind a war zone of credit card debt. It all rightfully belonged to my Mom. A lot of my childhood trauma is from financial insecurity and the anger I feel now is because it didn’t have to be that way. My Mom spent away every dollar she ever had in order to live in the moment. There was no retirement plan. I know now it is because she knew there would be no retirement. I have a clear memory of sitting in the car with her, we were in a drive-thru banking line, she intended to deposit one of my stepdad’s paychecks. I think I was about 14 or 15 and as she handed me the deposit receipt, I prayed that the available balance would be positive. I never understood why we lived paycheck to paycheck when the income seemed solid. I know now it’s because of her compulsion to make herself feel whole through material goods and over the top experiences. Today at almost 30, I am extremely guilty every time I spend money. I am afraid that one undisciplined spending decision will send me into a financial unrest. Logically, I know that won't happen, but the shame and guilt gut punch me. I beat myself up about landing myself in financial ruin. The truth is that I learned from her risky financial decisions and I am fortunate that my Dad set a different example. I am incredibly privileged in the life I live now. I am not afraid to have vulnerable conversations about finances with anyone and everyone. I know that my story is not unique, so many Americans, so many humans carry the heavy weight of credit card debt and financial despair. This is my plea that we better educate young adults about financial planning, credit, and debt. Talking about money should not be taboo and those with privilege owe it to society to facilitate meaningful economic change. #1979 #mom #grief #shame #debt #childhood #memoirwriting #vulnerability https://www.instagram.com/p/CNqv9QtAlsj/?igshid=iw8ymau00k6n

#1979 #mom #grief #shame #debt #childhood #memoirwriting #vulnerability

August 30, 1980 • I haven’t written for a while. But everything’s fine. In fact, they’re excellent. I’ve decided to get a high school equivalency instead of my diploma. Then I can go to college next year like I’m supposed to. Reflection: I always knew that my Mom got her GED. She missed a lot of school. Not always because of diabetes. She wanted to be anywhere besides sitting behind a small graffitied desk. My mom and her friends seemed to be like the Freaks of the show Freaks and Geeks, set in 1980. I say this next thought with love for my friends, but we were definitely geeks. Not in the ABC Family version of a geek that had no friends and got milk poured on their head; more like we knew we weren’t popular, but we had each other. We loved Harry Potter fanfiction and laying in the grass listening to Fall Out Boy. By no means would I want to go back to high school, but I reminisce fondly on my time in class, except for the intense nausea and tears math brought me. We were fortunate to have passionate teachers who encouraged deep conversation about literature and historical events. There was also a 4-week period where my best friend and I investigated the underground prison in which Josef Fritzel kept his daughter for 15 years instead of writing about the Alien and Sedition Acts. Sorry Mrs. B, but we did learn how to research and think critically about the human condition. I think that’s why I’ve been fascinated by my Mom’s diaries. I see how much she loved life. It’s easy to think about all the ways she hurt me. But as I uncover her youth, I’m left with a deeper understanding of why she did the things she did. Getting her GED was her ticket out of the terrible social experiment called high school. I am proud of her because she also knew how to make things happen for herself even when she veered from the straight and narrow road. She knew her time would be short. Her life embodied the idea that, “people are fighting battles we know nothing about.” We could all benefit from being more patient with our human condition. We are all broken but it’s our personal connections that make us whole. #1980 #memoirwriting #highschool #mom #grief #freaksandgeeks https://www.instagram.com/p/CNiBnj9gfIt/?igshid=14xxogb58wxg4

#1980 #memoirwriting #highschool #mom #grief #freaksandgeeks

January 22, 1979 • Barbara has permission to smoke. Well my mother knows I smoke but my father doesn’t. (I don’t think). She doesn’t care if I do. She does too. (Secretly, but I caught her). She doesn’t know I know. I even borrow her cigarettes. (Virginia Slims) Reflection: The weeks leading up to my departure for college were probably the most mischievous I had ever been. My friend who grew up the next street over helped me pull off a secret mission to get my first tattoo. A yellow softball on my right ankle. I think the artist ripped me off, there is no way it was worth $150. I covered it up for two weeks with a giant band aid and continued to hide it for nine months, the perks of going to college out of state. A week or two later that same friend and I had one last hurrah. She picked me up and a few of us spent the night hanging out, playing Kings. Someone kept putting the invisible little man on the edge of my beer can. I got pretty drunk. I was dropped off after midnight and stumbled up the stairs. My Mom emerged from her room in an old robe and followed me. She asked if I was drunk. I played it off and fell asleep on the floor in the middle of my room. It was one of the only times I ever really saw her act like a parent. She was always open about her wild nights in high school, and I felt like I wasn’t cool enough to be her daughter. Her parents turned a blind eye. These diaries are primary source materials. Reading it now, I process how her behavior was extremely dangerous. Even if I look past the underage drinking and driving, diabetes, smoking and binge drinking don’t mix. I still have to laugh a little though because whether you are an American teenager in 1980 or 2009, you think you can outsmart your parents. We all leave that part of our life with scars. For me it looks like an ugly yellow softball and some unspoken regrets. I can't help but wonder if her nights like that left invisible scars that shortened her time with us. #1979 #2009 #memoirwriting #grief #diabetes #mother #daugther #teengirl https://www.instagram.com/p/CNTe0Q8gXxu/?igshid=zlgy3d0nrsa1

#1979 #2009 #memoirwriting #grief #diabetes #mother #daugther #teengirl

September 4, 1979 • Today Deb and I went to Zayre to get a car wax. We saw a silver Camaro with the plate TN-743. So I parked near it. As we were walking in, he was walking out. We both kept looking at each other. So when we came out, he was waiting for us. He pulled up to my car and said, “hi.” So I said, “hi.” His name is D. He’s a senior at West. Reflection: It’s eerie to think that this brief encounter at a car wash is the backstory to my existence. When I found this diary, my Dad was with me. It was tucked in the back of the attic, in its original box. A square baby blue notebook, its contents secured by a small silver lock. No key to be found. My Dad handed me needle nose pliers and I broke it open. Standing in my childhood kitchen, I fanned through the pages, her handwriting almost the same as when she was my Mom. Blue pen, red pen, sometimes pencil. This entry is blue. For some reason I stopped here and read it aloud. My Dad joined me when I began to rattle off the Camaro’s license plate. His first car. We were standing in an abandoned kitchen in 2020, but his mind was in 1979. Though my parents were divorced almost 20 years, grief still strikes him. He can’t help but carry memories of her. In those few seconds of silence, his mind flashed through their entire relationship. Memories that are complicated to remember but even more complicated to suppress. I was on track to finish my master’s in December 2017. Mom and Dad both planned to attend the commencement in the awkward way that divorced parents do. Dad told me during a phone call around September 2017 that he was building up the courage to speak with my Mom while they were here in Denver. He wanted to tell her that he forgave her. He was ready to know how to be in a room with her again. He never got the chance. She never made it to my master’s ceremony. She died a few weeks after that phone call. He wanted to pass by her and say, “hi.” A missed moment. #1979 #divorce #parents #mom #memoirwriting #grief #parents #childhood #dad https://www.instagram.com/p/CND4DAbA18j/?igshid=1d4844vhdn9z4

#1979 #divorce #parents #mom #memoirwriting #grief #childhood #dad

October 14, 1980 • Sunday night I wanted to tell D that I am a diabetic. I told him I had something personal to tell him, then I froze and I couldn't tell him. He got so mad. He thought I liked someone else. Yesterday morning I called him and asked him to meet me somewhere so I could explain. We met at the Horseshoe at the reservoir. I got in his car. So I told him. He was so shocked! He couldn’t understand why I took so long to tell him. I explained that I wanted to prove to him that I am, “normal.” Reflection: It took my Mom almost a year to tell my Dad about her diabetes. Why? Self-created stigma. How often do we self-sabotage, driving wedges between loved ones? Day after day I sit at my kitchen counter, working to build affordable options within the Denver housing market. It mostly looks like compulsively checking my email. Anxiety runs high and I feel called to examine trauma and pursue long-term perseverance. People who experience intense trauma or loss at a young age run the risk of becoming mentally stuck. This was my mother’s fate. Diabetes was a life sentence in shame. Years passed, and she looked forward to adulthood. It’s clear that she was mentally stuck in the mind of a 10-year-old girl, afraid of her illness and desperate to wake up not sick, to wake up, “normal.” I turn 30 in a few weeks. I spent my late teens and early 20s struggling to feel accepted. I resisted facing my trauma caused by childhood emotional abuse. Like her, I was a master of self-sabotage. It feels like holding your breath for as long as you can. In 2012 I sputtered my lips and realized that I could continue life as a victim or accept my past and create a path forward. I want to talk to 18-year-old Rosanna and tell her she is not defined by diabetes. We spend so much time worrying about how others see us that we stifle dreams and stunt personal growth. My Mom needed someone to support and challenge her. I am grateful I have people who hold me on my dark days and call me out on my bullshit. She created chaos out of self-sabotage. She only had to convince herself that she was normal. #1980 #mom #grief #diabetes #normal #trauma #childhood https://www.instagram.com/p/CNBGJUYghJI/?igshid=1snyvvf81tui1

#1980 #mom #grief #diabetes #normal #trauma #childhood

Reflection: There is no diary entry to go with this post. My reflection comes from a stream of re-consciousness. Before bed, G and I watch the show American Pickers, two guys in a van driving around the US collecting things. I should have called them to pick my Mom’s house last year. Anyway, they love pinball machines. And that’s when I’m brought back to Lang’s AMF Bowling Alley. It’s a Wednesday night and my brother and I are there running in and out of vestibules and tracking down quarters with the other unaccompanied minors. We are trying to keep busy in the small video arcade by the front door. I always loved to play the Addams Family pinball machine that was tucked in the corner. Down below it’s league night and my Mom is playing three back-to-back games with co-workers and friends. It’s smokey and loud just like him. The man who would become our stepfather. Time moves forward a bit and now it’s a Thursday night. My Mom is out late, she’s been learning how to ride a motorcycle at night because of him. Dad has my brother and I at home, snacking on sleeves of Oreos as we wait for her to finally walk through the door. Another night Mom is out late again but this time little brother is with her - they are at Blue’s Clues Live while Dad and I are home watching 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the original 1954 film on the Disney Channel. This is the slow dissolution of a marriage, the intentional time apart unraveling two people thread by thread. She was out there sewing together a new life. For a little while longer my Dad kept me safe and sound at home. Her late nights out came and went.The real wave of destruction was gaining momentum behind us, waiting to break. #1990s #grief #mom #childhood #divorce #dad #memoirwriting https://www.instagram.com/p/CM7Xr52Ayjc/?igshid=1t2n8ba1g6qc3

#1990s #grief #mom #childhood #divorce #dad #memoirwriting

May 25, 1982 Carol and I are planning to drive to California this January. I wrote to 5 California acting schools and an apartment. I hope that works out. Carol and I are very serious about going - possibly to live - but nobody takes us seriously, hopefully we’ll show them! Reflection: I don’t know why but of all the things I’ve read in Mom’s diaries; this was one of the most shocking. I never knew she had dreams of life outside Rhode Island. What if she had really moved to California? She never again wrote about acting schools or California dreams. I’m not surprised she wanted to be an actress. She performed daily. Despite insecurities and inner turmoil, Mom always projected a loud personality. Sometimes it was Oscar worthy. I think she liked the idea of adventure, but she let her fears hold her back. She lived her dreams through me, first in toddler pageants and later as I played softball, took honors classes, and attempted Science Fair. By far she loved being a band parent the most, insisting on travelling with us for elite music festivals. This leaching suffocated me. At 18, I realized I had to love her from a distance, and I left the Ocean State for Virginia. She once told me she was surprised that I was the child that moved away. She thought I’d be too afraid to leave, and my more outgoing brother would be the one to leave. It was her attempt to groom me to stay by her side. I remember him at 5 years old, dressed as a 50s greaser, singing “Hound Dog '' for a camp talent show and I accepted that he would find life outside our small state and I would be left behind, afraid to make it on my own. He left for college but returned and today embraces life in Providence. For me, home is here in Colorado. We both ended up where we need to be. I chose to geographically separate myself from a chaotic childhood, taking hold of my anxiety and letting it carry me outside a state only 30 miles long. We can either let anxiety stall us or let it be fuel. My Mom liked the idea of leaving but could never do it. The older I get, I like the idea going back, but know I never can. #Mom #grief #memoirwriting #diary #childhood #anxiety #dreams #californiadreaming #growthmindset (at Littleton, Colorado) https://www.instagram.com/p/CM2OzUeAHBy/?igshid=han6xkcjvb1w

#mom #grief #memoirwriting #diary #childhood #anxiety #dreams #californiadreaming #growthmindset

April 14, 1981 • My mother left for Italy yesterday. She was crying cuz she didn’t want to leave my father and I. She called tonight to say everything was o.k. Reflection: I wonder why Nana went to Italy in 1981. After immigrating to the US in 1960, she only visited Italy a handful of times, the last being in 2006. I remember a conversation between Mom and her when she was planning to go - Nana was so nervous to change planes in Rome to get her final destination of Naples and then my Mom said, “you’ll be fine, you speak the language.” And Nana laughed and realized she would be okay. Nana was a nervous woman and never gave herself enough credit to realize the strength she carried within until someone pointed it out. I always saw her for the strong woman she was, the matriarch of our family. Raised in Italy during World War II, she always told us stories of fleeing occupation at 9 years old. She was the educated child, trained as a dressmaker and seamstress whose skills put today’s standards to shame. Nana was a devoted wife and mother, loyal sometimes to a fault which is why even though I love my mother, she was spoiled. Nana gave her money when there was no money to give. I think her parents carried heavy guilt because of her chronic illness. They made amends by fulfilling extravagant requests. And isn't that the hero’s journey of an immigrant parent? Give their modern children the American Dream even if that work becomes their identity. Nana never expected she’d have to live without her daugther. So a year and quarter after my mother’s death, Nana’s own death certificate should have read, cause of death: broken heart. #memoirwriting #grief #Mom #Nana #diary #AmericanDream #Italy #immigration https://www.instagram.com/p/CMw8qrjgmfT/?igshid=1f3n1paobsave

#memoirwriting #grief #mom #nana #diary #americandream #italy #immigration

October 16, 1978• We went to the baseball game. On the way we got a flat tire. Then the spare was also flat. So finally we got a ride to a gas station. Then during the game, Carl Yastrzemski threw a ball to me. But some fucking asshole pushed me out of the way. Reflection: My Mom and her father bought Red Sox season tickets in 1987 - the year after the infamous Bill Buckner blunder. Together they worshipped the Sox. After doing a little research, I can conclude that the game she wrote about took place on October 2, 1978 - a single game playoff between the Red Sox and the damn Yankees. Mom never let me go to Fenway when the Yankees were in town, she was worried things would get out of hand. It was a privilege to ship up to Boston for weekend games. My most cherished childhood memories live at Fenway Park. Closing my eyes, I navigate through the green underground of Fenway, pop up along the first base line and settle into seats 3 and 4 of row BB in Loge Box 120. I hear the crack of a bat and feel Fenway inhale, then exhale as innings come and go, time moving as if it was at half speed. I moved away from New England over a decade ago, but Boston will always feel like home. I take comfort knowing my Mom’s presence is part of every game now; she’s sitting in her seat, one earbud in so she can listen to the WEEI broadcast while she watches her boys. Grief bites when I try to write about the Red Sox. Hollywood likes to stereotype Red Sox fans as over the top martyrs like Jimmy Fallon in Fever Pitch. Not a far stretch of the truth. G and I tried to watch the movie the night of her death. I silently sobbed as the rom-com version of the 2004 season unfolded. Mom and I were actually there the day they filmed the Opening Day sequence. It’s so hard to string together words that will honor the lifelong romance between fan and team. For now, it’s better off that I keep them to myself. #1978 #childhood #mom #redsox #grief #fenwaypark #RoSox (at Fenway Park) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMsZtgSAp5J/?igshid=mwuui6oydc7m

#1978 #childhood #mom #redsox #grief #fenwaypark #rosox

Monday July 12, 1982 Well D and I went canoeing last Sunday. We had such a good day. We canoed up the river, into the reservoir property. We had a picnic on the rocks. After that we walked up the run-off and went swimming! If we ever got caught, we could have been arrested! Reflection: I didn’t realize how important the reservoir was to my parent’s relationship. My Mom wrote about spending time in Scituate and the restricted watershed property a lot so now it’s no surprise that they built a house in Scituate. I think everyone who grows up there has a trespassing story, it’s sort of a rite of passage to explore land changed by water laws and overgrowth. My last memory of my parents happily married is a weekend in 1999. My Dad and I pulled a green Old Town canoe from Grandpa’s shed and my Mom prepared the sandwiches for a canoe trip. The four of us, Dad, Mom, little brother, and I canoed up the reservoir. We picnicked on the rocks. I remember a cloudless sunny day, sitting in between my Dad’s legs as he paddled, sometimes letting me help. My brother sat with my Mom. Despite the risk of being discovered by a patrol truck, I felt so secure that day, winding up the river, trees hanging above us as we made our way to Hope Pond for a celebratory swim. That evening, as a family we went to see The Phantom Menace. I don’t know why I remember this, but it has always been so clear that this was the last time we were a family. And I just wonder, were my parents already driven apart by the narcissistic presence of a character as shady as Darth Maul? #1982 #memoirwriting #Mom #Diary #childhood #divorce (at Hope) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMmrwhcL1w9/?igshid=11wu1iea6ti26

#1982 #memoirwriting #mom #diary #childhood #divorce

Saturday April 3, 1982 • Rick Springfield was excellent! We left here at 3:30, got a pizza at Uncle Tony’s. We left for Hartford at 5:00. The Civic Center is really big. There must have been at least 25,000 screaming girls! We were two of them. (I couldn’t believe I was in the same room with him!) After the concert we were walking back to the car when we saw Rick’s limo pulling out - about 100 people including us ran after the car! I woke up hoarse this morning from screaming. We took a whole roll of film. I hope they come out. Reflection: In July 2017, my friends and I went to a free Rick Springfield show at Civic Center Park, Denver. I took a video and posted it to my Mom’s Facebook wall. She was so happy. As I experienced, “Jessie’s Girl,” I was unaware that she would be gone less than 3 months later. My Mom took me to my first concert in 1998. I, we were obsessed with Hanson. We drove to Albany, NY. The road trip to the venue made the live music experience for her. As a senior in high school, a few of us drove to Worcester, MA for a Nickelback concert. Don’t judge, they were hot shit in 2008. One friend was allowed to come because my parents chaperoned, or so her parents were told. In reality, we were three 17-year-old girls, driving 2 hours North on 95 for a sold-out show in a sketchy part of town. My Mom was so proud. A few weeks later our parents ran into each other. When asked how the concert was, my Mom replied, “loud.” Not a lie. She was in her element, seeking a thrill and part of my friend group. She valued being a friend and having many friends. Friendship is one of my core values too. She taught me to be a friend no matter the time zone or generation. #1982 #memoirwriting #Mom #Diary (at Hartford, Connecticut) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMj7QrwLQLJ/?igshid=w4wvibzoxx4

#1982 #memoirwriting #mom #diary

February 19, 1979 • Stayed up till 2AM between talking to Mike and studying for my permit test. Which brings us to today. This morning I was so nervous. I took the test and got a 95! I was so happy. When my Father got home from work we went driving. I drove up to Scituate. He got kinda pissed at me for going 60 in a 40 mph zone. Then we went out a little later to East Greenwich. I hope to go again tomorrow. I have my first lesson Wednesday. Well,more tomorrow. - Ro at 16! (I don’t feel any older.) Reflection: I got my permit May 30, 2007. My Mom called me out of school. 6 weeks prior, I had taken Driver’s Ed in a basement classroom at Cranston West - I got an 84 on the test. 4 days earlier, at the end of my birthday party, in front of all my friends, she unveiled a Black Pontiac Grand Am with a big red bow. She was really mad at me when we got home because I didn’t react as excited as she was. Which brings me back to May 30th, driving to the Warwick DMV in the Grand Am. A few hours later, permit in hand, we went to the Warwick Mall parking lot, the entrance by the Showcase movie theater and I got behind the wheel. I remember being so nervous that I gave it too much gas and ended up driving over a center median. 20 minutes later, I felt much more at ease inside FYE buying a Hellogoodbye CD for the car stereo. She counted down the days until I got my permit as if she were getting hers again. Driving for her was freedom, for me it was terrifying and yet another experience I had to share with her. I’m not saying I am not grateful for my first car; I just wish the moment didn’t have to live up to her own memory 28 years earlier. I still have the Boston Red Sox keychain that held the keys to the Grand Am. Today, it carries my Santa Fe fob and I know that she is present with me when I drive. We rock out to the stereo one click too loud and always slightly unsure of the next turn. #1979 #memoirwriting #Mom #Diary (at Warwick Mall) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMe_C3ULj_5/?igshid=awh8fqqvreu6

#1979 #memoirwriting #mom #diary

January 24, 1974 • I’ve been home sick from school. My mother is out mailing a package from me to my pen pal. I have a cold. I got a Monopoly game yesterday. My mother and father bought it and I gave them the money. I get $4 a week, $2 every Sunday. $1 from my mother on Wednesdays and $1 on Saturday from my father. That’s my allowance. May 13, 1974 I have been in the hospital with sugar diabetes. I am home now, I came home March 17, 1974. I am now 11 years old. I turned 11 on February 18, 1974. I went to Boston to see a baseball game on April 19, 1974. They won yesterday and yesterday was Mother’s Day. I gave her some roses and a little joke trophy. My father gave my mother a big billfold and a small one and a $17 pair of shoes. Reflection: I always knew that my Mom had diabetes. It happened when she was little. From a young age I could identify a diabetic crisis - sweaty upper lip, confusion, her eyes would glaze over and that’s when I would find the juice box or candy bar hidden in her purse or car’s glove compartment. This would bring her back to reality. In elementary school part of the morning routine was Mom injecting herself with insulin. Diabetes didn’t seem scary because she seemed to live life to the fullest. I didn’t realize how different from everyone else she actually felt. Last March I was in the basement pulling boxes off a high shelf when I found one labeled, “Rosanna’s shit.” Inside, her first diary, a small brightly covered autograph book with a zipper. The entries begin in December 1973, age 10, right before Christmas. A month later she wrote about being home sick from school. She didn’t know that this would change her life forever. By age 11 she was learning how to manage diabetes and navigate middle school. When I was 11, I saw my Mom as an overcomer; she seemed to handle her illness well. The older I get, the more I understand that as much as she tried, she let it define her life and relationships. There are 10 years of diaries. I met an insecure young woman who worried too much about everyone else. This is her story, a transition through daughter, wife, mother, repeat. It’s also my story and I have to tell it. #memoirwriting #Mom #1974 (at Cranston, Rhode Island) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMcZs2oLej4/?igshid=1ss3l92o06rkt

#memoirwriting #mom #1974

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