Category Archives: FAMILY STORIES

MY FIRST AND ONLY CONFESSION

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Confession is good for the soul.

I have been told.

My first confession

at the age of seven

Took Sister Mary Claude,

whose diligence I applaud,

months to abate my fear.

First in line, I strode near

the confessional where Fr. Torre

waited to hear blood and gore

from little ones whose blame-game

only recently became a cause of shame.

With whispering words I began to confess.

“Father, forgive me.”( I felt such stress.)

“This is my first confession.”

Father stopped me right there

as I sat on the edge of the chair.

He was behind the screen,

a solemn, still figure barely seen.

“Please speak up so I can hear.”

And, so I did, and started to enumerate

all my sins, expecting him to strongly berate.

His words caused me even greater fear,

“Louise, not so loud, or all will hear.”

No longer did I worry who heard what.

He knew me, when I had been taught,

confession is anonymous.

Now, I felt infamous.

How could I face him across my Mother’s table

when he came each week that he was able

to eat her suga and Italian food;

and feel like family, with buoyant mood.

My only sin that day

was what I confessed every single Saturday,

“I disobeyed my Mother 10 times a day,

every day, of every week, of every year.

I was a disobedient child who shed no tears.

And over these many years

I have never changed my insolent creed

My father told me as I stood at his knee,

“Every man puts his pants on one leg at a time.

No one is better than you; (I liked that line)

and you are no better than anyone else.”

Equality set my soul free, made my heart pulse.

Equality became the base of all courage.

Equality kept me from being discouraged.

As a woman in a man’s world and profession.

I learned to speak up and out loud in my first confession.

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OLD CLASSMATE LUNCHEON

Time used to slip away.

Now it skips.

Soon, it will run.

From first grade through high school and beyond,

the bond with old classmates remains strong.

Their faces are still young, to me.

My heart carries the fraught memory

of times spent side-by-side,

as life pushed us away on its tide.

We carry their presence within us with pride.

The me no one ever knew resides in each of us openly now.

I marvel at the person we once hid inside.

Today, we rush ahead of reunion,

meeting for lunch and soulful communion.

Our thoughts and actions have become bolder

as each of us grew older,

except for those who sped ahead.

We honor the lives of those now dead.

We celebrate with impunity

those still part of our hearts’ community.

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MY MOTHERS TAKE TO THE STREETS

Angela Abbruzzi (Abbruzzese) Annarino, age 16, at her high school graduation from Curtis High School, Staten Island, NY, 1940.

“Her money is just as green as mine,”

my mother told the clerk who passed over

the African-American woman waiting

at the counter before we arrived.

“She was here before us, after all.”

The clerk then moved beyond us 

to a white woman who had just arrived.

My mother went to her side 

and told her politely,

“You must wait your turn,” 

to the woman’s surprise.

All commerce stopped 

at that counter

on that day.

And my mother taught me 

what I think of today.

Always speak up at injustice.

Always seek fairness for all.

Always let your voice be heard.

Always ask for others to join your cause.

Never leave anyone standing aside.

Never be afraid to act with pride.

Today, hundreds of thousand of women

such as my mother are on our streets

in thousands of protests 

for justice

for fairness

for democracy

for our pride

as Americans

whose strength resides

not in military strength

but in the Bill of Rights

threatened openly by a fool

who like all fools

thinks he is king

This fool says

Anyone who protests

his $45 million birthday parade

will face “very heavy force.”

He never met my mother !

He will today.

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D-DAY TODAY

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I learned of D-Day from newsreels

 shown in between double-features

at the Saturday morning movies

which cost a quarter

at our local theatre. 

I learned of D-Day listening

at the feet of my father

hidden under the kitchen table

where Daddy spoke with buddies

who went to war with him

after years of childhood friendship.

I learned of D-Day in school

where we studied WW II,

and ignored the study of Viet-Nam,

while fellow students were drafted

to go fight a different war.

Korea was seldom mentioned 

anywhere but among the men

like my cousin who survived the fight.

I learned of D-Day from movies

like OVERLORD, and later,

SAVING PRIVATE RYAN.

But, those images had already been ingrained

on the bank of memories lodged in my brain.

Images of certain death

where the words “last ditch effort”

were not mere metaphor, but a lesson to

never make war, nor allow it to cross our shore.

Today is D-Day, not in reverent remembrance,

but as a last-ditch call for the war

that we face against crony capitalism,

corruption, Putin international mobsters

posing as politicians; heads of national security,

homeland security, and even presidents.

Greed brought war within our shores.

This is our D-Day hidden inside fake news,

and Project 2025, and a budget reconciliation

package too large to read or report upon,

Too quickly pushed through by enemies

of state we call Republicans,

but who are nazis manning bunkers

Photo by Hub JACQU on Pexels.com

called The Great Wall like the one 

our fascists try to build  along our southern border.

To keep brown people out? Or keep us in?

Is America becoming a giant camp

concentrating those exercising free speech,

free movement and all dissent beneath the thumb

of authoritarian diatribe and power, making us numb

and willing to cooperate with endless hate?

I honor those who once fought to save the world

and keep it free from hate and bigotry,

and create a fair economy which served us all.

I see the last ditch in my mind with no need to recall.

It lives on every street, in every neighborhood,

in every school board meeting, and City Hall;

in governor’s mansions and courts of law.

It is still alive these many years

and brings anger along with tears

burning the back of my throat

as I mourn those who breached the fascist wall

and those whose bodies I imagine afloat

off Omaha and Utah Beaches, and now, in our cities.

And I remember, as if it is today. It is. Such a pity.

Community members clash with ICE, other federal officers, Minneapolis police, and other state officers as officials raid Las Cuatro Milpas in Minneapolis, Minnesota Tuesday, June 3, 2025. (Photo by Nicole Neri/Minnesota Reformer)

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MAKE THE BULLIES FLY

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In my childhood neighborhood

the most frequent phrase in use was this:

“Pick on someone your own size.”

Bullies ruled the playground

at the public elementary school around

the corner from our house

Munching through gardens 

along our alleyways, 

grapes the finest prize;

trees along the river inviting us to climb,

the railroad tracks we ran beside

to catch a three block ride 

to the railway station nearby

required forethought and planning

to avoid chiding voices and threats

to make us fly back home,

imprisoned in a tiny yard.

But, I refused to run and hide.

My mouth became a weapon

to make up for my small size.

I had such foolish pride.

I could outrun nearly everyone.

I had feet that could fly

beyond the reach of baseball bats,

grasping arms and kicks gone wide.

But, projectiles I had not foreseen

the day I took my toddler brother

to swing on swings. I pushed him, oh so high.

The rocks hit us both as I held him close

and sheltered his tiny body with my own.

Then, I flew at the bullies as they laughed

and pushed them to the ground.

“Pick on someone your own size!

have you no honor nor pride?”

They stopped, then shrugged,

went on their way, no laughter, just a sigh.

That was the last day they picked on me.

A glare alone was all I needed

to put them in their place and keep them there,

forcing them to snivel, drop their eyes, and hide.

Whenever they saw me coming

it was they who would fly.

Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com

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LITTLE AGITATOR,WHY? BECAUSE!

Louise Annarino, J.D.- The Little Agitator, age 2

Do you recall a nickname from your childhood? Perhaps what your mother called you, how she referred to you? What does it tell you about yourself now? Where do you feel it ? Can you find the love within it? Or, was it something that calls your identity into question ? Can you find humor in it? Or at least make peace with it ?

My Mom had 2 ways she frequently described me, called for me, referred to me. She told me and others I was her “Little Why-Because”. It was frustrating for her to have a daughter who questioned the “why” behind every order, demand or simple request. A daughter who could not accept a simple answer to why night happened.  Who persisted questioning every response, such as earth and sun rotation, with the question, “But, why does the earth rotate? and why around the sun?”. Her final answer was inevitably, “Because.” And, my final question was always, “But, why ‘because’?”.

The second nick-name and descriptor she used to define me to myself and to others was her “Little Agitator.” At first I was clueless at this description, for it seemed to upset her. The only agitator I knew was in the washing machine. It seemed to be  a wonderful thing because it helped make our clothes clean. I was flattered until I understood she did not intend to flatter me. Yet, it still seemed a fine thing to be. It challenged the dirt of lies and unkindness.It challenged the bullies in our neighborhood. It kept my brothers in their place. It seemed boys and men constantly picked apart girls and women. Agitating them seemed a fine way to clean up that mess. I became a stronger agitator with every effort to set thinks right.

So, despite fearing being an agitator in attempting to clean up the life and lives around me, I embraced the role. Despite exasperating family, friends, school teachers, professors, priests ( I was thrown out of religion class twice) and nuns by asking “why”, I relished the discussion and discovery in challenging the status quo. 

Being both a “why-because” and an “agitator” was a helpful combination. I was not a “know-it-all’; but, a “I know nothing so explain it, and you, to me.” Once I understood the place of conflict or hurt, I could agitate to make it better. Agitation alone is not enough to set things right. First we must take the time and ask enough questions to truly understand the need for change, and how to fix things without causing more pain.

American leaders in all walks of life are so focused on making money and attaining power they have not taken the time to ask questions and get to the final “because.” Why do we need a Dept. of Education? What does it do? Why do we need Social Security, SSI, Medicare and Medicaid? What do they do? Why do we need Affirmative Action, diversity and inclusion programs? What do they do? What messes have we Americans made? How do we clean them up? Why do we need courts, laws and regulations? What do they do?

You see my point. What is happening to our country now is an abomination. Elected leaders in the former Republican Party (now a dictatorship in the making) have never taken the time or made the effort to truly see the American people because they have not cared enough to do so, not cared enough to ask, “Why?” Their only concern is how can they reduce cost so we can give tax breaks to the wealthiest Americans we hope emulate. We look for scape-goats to explain why the “big boys” do not share with us, while we watch the crumbs from their table blow in the wind. Cost-cutting is a ruse because the Republican Administrations have repeatedly increased the national debt, while Democratic Administrations have repeatedly reduced the national debt. The tax cuts now headed our way will only increase the debt. The firing of government employees and dismantling of the watch-dog programs will only increase corruption and the national debt, as money disappears into the pockets of private contractors planning to take over education, the military, law enforcement, the postal service, health care and social services. Privatization introduces profit motive which increases costs, and provides greater investment returns for the wealthy who are being excused from tax burdens. Our middle class has been under a destruction plan since the 1980s. It is now coming to fruition. There cannot be a democracy without a strong middle class.

We need more agitators, asking more questions.

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A LETTER TO US ALL

Dear Us:

Did you ever hear of the Golden Rule?  “Treat others as you would be treated.” When asked which of the ten commandments Moses shared with the Israelites was the most important, Jesus advised questioners to “Love others as I have loved you.” In the 60s, even non-believers of any religion, or of even the existent of God, followed the precept “Lead with your heart.” “Flower children” believed in love, for everyone, at all times. And those were turbulent times. We watched freedom riders maimed and killed, their busses set on fire, their murdered bodies hidden and buried in shallow graves. We watched the perpetrators of violence go free; the Citizen Councils ( marketing change for KKK) often included law enforcement and local judges. This is the America currently referred to when Trump supporters urge us all to “Make America Great Again.” They no longer wear white robes nor hide their faces. They wear red ties, dark suits and sometimes red hats.They pretend to be news anchors on FOX News and elsewhere. They pretend to be president like Elon Musk. The delivery system of hate may have changed; the racism and sexism have not. We are experiencing a backlash to the progress made over the past 50 years. It took 50 years for it to grow this strong.

I was a resident student advisor (RA) at Lincoln Tower on the OSU campus in Columbus, Ohio in the late sixties and early 70s. I was also a student activist. I had to become one because I believed in the Golden Rule. I watched Black students, Jewish students and women students derided and demeaned. I was privy to racist commentary because white students assumed they could say them to my white face with my full agreement. White men also felt safe making sexist comments to me despite the fact I was a woman. As an Italian-American I was sometimes mistaken for Jewish and heard my share of anti-semitic remarks. Much of the time such hate-talk was passed off as a joke. Whenever I heard the joke I stopped the speaker and explained nothing they said was funny, nor factual. I demanded such language never be used while in my presence. Those who just joined in to feel safe in the crowd became serious and apologized. The bullies did not apologize. But they shut up. “Stand up to shut them up” became part of every day life on campus. That is activism at its core.

I had a few empty suites on my floor due to an on-going criminal investigation. A mentally ill student was on trial for arson, having set fire in a suite the year before. Once the case was resolved, those suites were re-opened and spaces filled, as were other vacancies on my floor. Who moved in to those spaces? Black women looking for a safe space. Some had repeatedly been locked out of their rooms by white roommates. Several had threatening notes nailed to their door; threats to rape or kill them because they were Black. Most were ostracized and demeaned daily by white roommates. Their complaint to Student Affairs fell on deaf ears. When the spaces opened on my floor, they found refuge there.

Our dorm was typical for OSU where Black students made up a tiny percentage of the student population. My floor was unique. I held floor meetings to discuss expectations that we would all follow the Golden Rule. When I saw or heard of a racial incident I immediately intervened. Soon, I was doing racial mediation on a regular basis. Black women entered the elevator and experienced white women moving close to the emergency call button, with hand hovering, ready to cry for help from women just like themselves  returning exhausted from a day of classes ? Time for mediation! Call everyone together and talk it through. Day after day. Incident after incident. It was exhausting for the Black women, and the Black men who visited them, to face daily racial challenges and outright discrimination.

Another RA and two students worked with me to develop a racial mediation program in our dorm. Whenever the Student Judicial Council was handed a case involving a white student and a Black student in dispute, it was handed off to us to mediate the conflict. Our efforts were not always welcomed, but we persisted. Incidents of violence, write-ups to judiciary, and racial conflict decreased. Today, this program would be outlawed by the President who gleefully extorts OSU by threatening loss of education grants and federal funds for programs and research. OSU has caved to the bullies. OSU is not standing up to shut up the racism. It would cost money. And money is god in America, and on college campuses.

OSU is caving to racists and bullies again. And, not just OSU. Columbia University, indeed nearly all colleges and universities, if not all, are caving to racist bullies under the guise of following the law, accepting the lawless and illegal actions of the current administration. Following the law would require universities to protect the free speech rights of faculty and students, to abide by employment contracts and civil service laws to protect both administrative employees and faculty. Universities with law schools had readily-available experts to stand up, speak out and take action. I was an Associate Director of Law at Ohio University. There is a national organization of such attorneys. Why are they so silent? Why have university presidents and provosts not joined arms to defend their campuses against illegal searches and seizures of students? Why did Columbia University not come to the aid of Mahmoud Khalil and his family? If they did so in any way, it was neither apparent nor sufficient. 

The Poster Boy President leading the racist mob of greedy Americans spoke at the DOJ recently. His racist and personal attacks on lawyers, prosecutors and judges, was accepted and even cheered. Racism and greed cross all boundaries and sexual preferences, exist within every profession, religion and community group. It is a constant and persistent threat to the principles of democracy. Those whose racism had been laid low, who crawled under rocks to hide their sins, have crawled back out, empowered by the greed for wealth and power, threatened by those they spurn who have finally found success on a more equal path, and undermined by their own sense of failure despite the promise of an American Dream. Instead of blaming the greedy power-brokers of industry, banking and finance, politics and education they blame their fellow victims. Their racism blinds them to truth, and they willingly embrace false-hoods and disinformation. They would not recognize a fact if it stared them in the face. They would prefer to attack the fact and the experts offering the truth of the fact.

As a lawyer, as an educator, as a writer, I am heart-broken over the loss of my country, my Constitution and its guarantees of personal freedom for all persons who are in this country…no matter where they came from, or how they got here. That is the promise of America. That is the American Dream. Shopping for cheap goods because your existence only matters if those power-brokers can make a buck off you cannot fill the place freedom once filled within the American heart and psyche. Woke? Woke is what is required to survive the on-slaught against a free people who simply want to find a good-paying job, buy a house, feed and educate their family. The power-brokers want us to stay asleep. Like children, we are angels in our sleep, causing them no discomfort, and quietly staying out of their way as they take over our economy, our government institutions, our military, our banking system, our educational systems and local/public schools…even our post office! 

Wake up, my fellow lawyers, my fellow professors, my fellow school teachers, my fellow social workers, my fellow  counselors, my fellow retail workers, my fellow waitresses and caterers, my fellow babysitters, my fellow students, my fellow Catholics and people of faith, my fellow Americans. Wake up and stay woke! We have work to do, if we can stay awake to do it loudly and persistently. This is no time to lie down and feign sleep. God knows, none of us sleep well theses days.

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AWAKE AT TWO

I started to wake when I was two.

Before I knew 

to look at anything or anyone

for something other than

who they were,  or

what they could do.

Color, gender, wealth or age

meant nothing to me.

I was almost brand new.

I had no context to see

why such differences

should matter to me.

Mom and I were shopping

in the bargain basement

of the Five and Dime store

when I suddenly awakened in awe

to the most beautiful woman I ever saw.

“Mommy, I shouted with delight.

Look at the chocolate lady.”

The lady smiled. Mommy frowned.

She took my hand, turned me around,

and bending down 

instructed me in a hushed voice,

“It is not nice to comment 

on how anyone looks.”

The Lady saw my distress and guessed

I felt I had done something bad.

But, she smiled as if she were glad

and simply asked me with tender care,

“Do you like chocolate, little one?”

In joyful glee I replied “it is my very favorite thing.”

Mommy sighed, and apologized 

for her daughter’s lack of manners.

“No need” was the reply. 

And with a loving smile she knelt at my side.

“Thank you,” she said, “for seeing me

and thinking of me so lovingly.

And so I learned that day to stay awake

and notice all the wonderful people

surrounding me,

sharing love so easily.

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1981-2025

In 1981 I was a Managing Attorney of the Senior Citizen Unit at The Legal Aid Society in Columbus, Ohio. Our ability to represent our clients was severely curtailed by President Reagan’s cut-off of funds to the Legal Service Corporation which distributed funds to agencies serving the legal needs of the poor, disabled and senior citizens through grants. Suddenly, we learned we could no longer be paid. Many left the agency. I remained, the sole attorney left to handle over 300 open cases. His reason? He disliked that our agencies sued the county, state and federal governments when benefits were illegally denied.

I found a part-time job at a toy store 5 nights a week and on Saturday and Sunday to pay my school loan. I became a live-in manager at two rooming houses for women students at The Ohio State University to provide a roof over my head. I took over the yard work and minor maintenance( I taught myself to tile the shower, repair locks and lay carpet)and installed soda machines in the basement to pay for transportation, phone service and medical care. My clients fared far worse.

Reagan laid off 2,840 workers, eliminated or reduced benefits to the poor. He also terminated every recipient of Social Security and SSI payments based on disability, requiring each person to reapply for benefits. He claimed massive fraud when the actual fraud rate for food stamps, for example, was one-tenth of 1 percent. This is the same time frame when a huge Savings and Loan fraud scandal decimated clients of Savings and Loans and saw bankers imprisoned for fraud.

Three of my clients died as a direct result of losing benefits. I was able file suit to get benefits restored. However, legal justice is a slow process. Court cases take time. Especially when hundreds thousands of cases increase docket constraints. Especially, when the attorneys who would represent persons with zero incomes also lost their jobs.

It was a brilliant strategy to reduce expenses so wealthy citizens and corporations could see a decrease in taxes. The public relations campaign his administration promoted claimed taxes were too high, public benefits too costly, and “those people” too lazy to work. He also claimed a Nuer to be illustrated massive fraud.

It is difficult to survive such programmatic loss of income, housing,food and healthcare. But, particularly horrendous for those disabled and unable to work, or those aged and too exhausted and ill to work. This were the clients I watched suffer and die. There were many more I did not know. Many more who suffered or died across the country. Yes, it was temporary. How quickly would die living on the street? Hungry and without sufficient food? Unable to buy your insulin or blood pressure medication? Would you even seek medical care?

We are watching a much more massive attack on our fellow citizens and the institutions in place to meet all of our needs. Those discussing the anti-fraud hunt by private citizen Elon Musk mistakenly buy into the story. Let me give you a few reasons why the stories you are hearing about fraud are meaningless.

If a person on Social Security does not survive the full month, the benefit they received at the start of their month becomes an overpayment. It then must be paid back to the SSA. If you have ever settled an estate you know it takes months, if not years, to settle the decedent’s death. In fact, it may be there is no survivor to even notify creditors, including SSA, that the person has died.

For example, my own mother died of cancer. She died on the 27th. Of February. As a result, the Social Security check she had received and used became an overpayment. If she had died on the 28th. She would have remained entitled to the check. How many of those the media says appear as overpayments are truly simple accounting practices in motion, some slower than others. Even when the overpayments are cleared and checks no longer mailed out or deposited because the recipient’s mail is returned or bank account is closed, there may have been no death notice to SSA so the person issued a SS card remains on the books even though they are no longer receiving benefits. What we are hearing on the news is an over simplistic analysis of complex situations handled by our pubic servants, civil service workers who know how to work their way through a system that covers every single person ever issued a SS card. Can you even balance your check book?

A second example illustrating the tendency to use propaganda rather than complex analysis delivering the “news”. As a law student I worked for IRS during tax season. I was one of thousands of temporary workers needed across the country to first help, print, count, package and ship tax forms. As the date arrived for returns to be filed, I shifted to a temporary location to review and approve returns, checking for errors and calculation for payments due or the issuance of refunds for individual taxpayers. Others were hired to audit the returns. And others handled more complex corporate returns. Inspectors reviewed our work on a daily basis. We were sworn to secrecy and not permitted to discuss or disclose any information on the forms we reviewed, even among ourselves.

Since that time the work forces at SSA and IRS have been greatly reduced. They are now being decimated. Who will guard our information? Who will assure the data describing our earnings and payments will be accurate and forthcoming? The Inspectors General have been fired. The leadership is being removed because they know they are required by law to hold the information in total confidentiality, and resist the prying eyes of non-employees demanding access for no stated purpose based on fact or substantiated cause. In trying to protect us and follow the law they are losing their jobs.

This is not business as usual. This is a continuation of attempts to hamstring care for our citizenry in order to benefit a few which began with a President Reagan and has been on-going for 40 years. Propaganda works. The attacks on, and underfunding of, public education over these 40 years has made it easier to believe propaganda. The attacks on labor unions and decrease in actual wages has left less time for self-education, civic involvement, and attention to detail in families now needing 2-4 jobs to keep a roof over their heads.

Do not listen to what is being said to you. Watch what is being done to you: increasing unemployment, un-regulated union-busting which decreases wages, more people losing housing, going hungry, unable to access health care… more suffering…more death. All for no good purpose. Actually, for no purpose whatever; other than to enrich the few at the expense of the many. Is this what you voted for?

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2024 NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION

Photo by Djordje Vezilic on Pexels.com

A new year begins with hope and praise for new beginnings. New year’s resolutions? I still wonder what I shall be when I grow up. It becomes harder with age to grow up. Angela and Angelo who brought me into world, parented me through life, showing me the way to be better and stronger, have been dead many years. The aunts and uncles who shepherded me through trials and struggles are also gone from the sight of those of my family still alive. Even my older brother Angelo and several lovable cousins have died. Childhood friends, too, have accepted their mortality and left me behind. 

Who is left to help me grow up? To remind me how to behave myself, and direct my steps of exploration? Too few for one as strong-willed as I. I find myself more child-like and childish than ever. Perhaps I do it deliberately so that I may hear my Mother’s chiding tone in my head as she shares her exasperation over my antics,. Her words have taken up permanent residence in my brain. She comments on everything I do, still. It is a mystery to me, one I endure willingly, now.

I fought that constant harangue and meddlesome interference while she lived. All the older Italian women, family and friends, had no qualms about meddling in my life. I laugh now, at their efforts, with some stirring of guilt. It was a hopeless task, and I made certain they knew it as I laughed in their faces. Who is laughing now? I hope they are. I hope I can still make them smile. I only wanted to watch their determined faces break into smiles as they hit me with a rolled-up newspaper and shook their heads. Oh, yes, they operated as a gang. When my mother’s singular efforts seemed to get nowhere, she called in the troops. They would descend on my latest apartment, in the latest city I had moved to, to take the latest job. I was supposed to remain at home, or live next door with a husband, or at least within a few blocks of Mom. I never did. When I was about 35 years old she asked her sister, “ She is not coming home, is she?” Aunt Millie disclosed this to me long after Mom had died. Aunt Millie kept Mom with me all those years after her death. Now, Aunt Millie is also dead to this world. But, she and mom, and all those other Italian women who mothered me will always be alive in my head and my heart. One day, I will be grown up enough to join them. I dread that newspaper. My guess is they still keep it at-the-ready.

Dad lives in my head and heart, too; along with uncles, brothers and older male cousins who formed a protective barrier around me sight unseen. I seldom hear their words. What I hear is their laughter. I see their smiles and watch them quietly hand me a baseball, fishing pole, chocolate milk shake, deck of cards, rake, electrical tape, cement tool. And best of all, their grins. They stood behind the women who were intent on “setting me straight” with grins on their faces and laughter in their eyes. They redirected my thoughts from my transgressions, as I watched them with great delight. Probably,  they smiled and smirked because I had taken the focus of the women off their own antics, temporarily relieving them of the women’s attention. 

I felt more kinship with them. I wanted their freedom. The women were content to stay in their place. I wanted to go find my place, separate and apart. I wanted the right to control every choice. I did not want to “ask my husband” before I took a step. I wanted to go farther and wider than our insular neighborhood of people and ideas, which seemed enough to satisfy those I knew. I am still searching for that place. I seek a place where freedom of thought and affection expand rather than contract. Often, but not always, like E.T. and all travelers, I simply want to “go home.” So, I do.

I travel through memories tough and sweet back to the South side, just beyond the railroad tracks where Italian immigrant families had settled down. Eventually, most of the children of those families left the neighborhood, as did I. But, I truly still live there no matter my current address. There are no dead parents, no dead aunts and uncles, no dead cousins, no dead brother or dead friends there. All those I love still live there.

Aging brains do not become forgetful. Aging brains simply choose to remember all that once was alive, all those whom they loved. Aging brains hold memory alive with a strength no young brain can comprehend. We do it out of love, not loss. We have lost no ability to remember. We simply choose to remember what we chose to love.

So, here is my New Year’s resolution; I shall love all that is new, and all I can remember from what is old. I shall continue trying to grow up. I shall look for new paths, new journeys of discovery. I may appear to move more slowly than I did last year. I am carrying more baggage with me. I am carrying more of those who died and can no longer physically walk beside me. I love this journey. I am in no hurry to end it. However, I may have to take more stops along the way. The journey of life may seem slower when young. But, it is not. The young simply have fewer bags to carry. They only imagine they go faster, because they go lighter. I may be old now, but I feel light, too. Those whom I carry share their lightness of spirit with me. Someday, I shall become as light a spirit as they. 

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