What kind of woman will I turn out to be, as I reflect upon my fights through childhood, struggles through young adulthood, to the time of a responsible adult? What will make me do things and take control, be responsible of situations, if I ever have, or will do in the future, and show my personal courage as it slowly grows up, as a seedling through the dirt, in my garden to the sun? Through this reflection will I be able to succeed at change, to act on people, situations, things that get in my way, instead of them acting on me?

I have decided I’ve had enough of feeling stepped on. When will I stop reflecting on long-ago times of being stared at, analyzed, made fun of? The memory of emotional turmoil outbreaks of Darien’s exclusivity, mentally thrown at me, a society too pretentious to notice a poor teenager living in a token plot of town land, in subsidized housing. The poor and the rich, live side-by-side, in a rich man’s town. The adults try to do the right thing for society, however, they just don’t get it. It is one thing for a society to create subsidized housing, but it is another thing for people to treat one another on an even scale when income levels blend into thoughts, words, actions. Teenagers tie their parents’ money to their social attitude toward the poor. Teenagers see themselves bigger than they are, more important than others, as their exclusive lifestyles suck into their brains and control how they act towards others. Teenagers hurt teenagers that are stuck in a place they can’t get out of.

Why do people think that their thoughts, their financial situations, their exclusive positions in society, their lives, are any better, more important, more deserving of enrichment, whether by money or by love, than any other person? Are we not deserving of all of the same things, alive, or dead? Shouldn’t a dead man’s wishes, desires, wants, be followed through? If a man has money and wants to give it to someone in particular, shouldn’t we as a society, be responsible to process his plan that he has written on paper, by the might of his workhorse hand? If a man decides to leave his money to someone in particular out of love, shouldn’t we be responsible to let his love continue after his death and follow his wishes?

Death. Forgiveness. Responsibility. Wishes. Desires. Wants. Reflection, reflection, reflection.

When Daddy decided to abandon his children, to abuse his wife, to make nothing of his life, and took no action, let things happen to him, and wallowed in the pitfalls, the outcomes of his lackadaisical attitude blamed the Johnny Walker Red whisky bottle sitting on the kitchen counter, do I blame him, abandon him, stop loving him? Or, do I ask DEAR, SWEET, JESUS the reason why he was so? Do I charge the nakedness of mankind and the disabilities of the brain as it renders destruction to lives?

I study old photographs for answers, hoping the subjects will turn, look at me, speak to me. There’s one of Daddy and me. He sits on a lawn chair in Nanny’s yard, his back to me, under the great maple tree that Mom’s Uncle Mike planted. I would give him another chance in a heartbeat to love me, even if this hurt Mom. I take his pose as a sign that change is hard to come by, and will not happen to him. He turned his back on Mom and my sisters and me, however, he is a connection to us. As I scrutinize the image, I silently plead with him to turn around, smile at me, say, “I’m so sorry, Jeanne.” Forgiveness is a beautiful thing.

In the black and white photograph, I’m about three-years-old. I sit cross-legged on the grass, close to the camera lens, head tilted in hand, elbow on knee, looking up, serious as all heck, a furrowed frown frozen on my dear, sweet, little face. Ever-pondering me, unusual to be photographed without a sister next to me. Whatever am I thinking about? Am I feeling the affects of an argument Daddy and Mom had that morning? Mom’s sweating stress filtering through me as she rushed about, readying her three, young daughters, pregnant with her fourth child. Worrying about how the day at her Italian family’s gathering might turn out, if Daddy drank too much. I wear a gingham-checked dress with embroidered tulips on the front. Donna’s hand-me-down, Easter dress is a little too short, as my plump thighs peek out.

I don’t see the black and white image though, I see the colors. I know the check is powder blue, the tulips pink, yellow, white, with green leaves, stitches tight on the smocked front. The colors are stuck in my mind. Today, the little dress sits in a box, a saved memento of the past. Responsible me collecting the sparse, family mementos that I could catch, remembering wishes, desires, wants.

So serious for a little girl, trying to control an uncontrollable situation, trying to deal with a responsibility placed upon me, much too young to handle. I wish, desire, want, the little girl to take her head off her hand, her elbow off her knee, get up and run over to Daddy, jump on his back, beg for a piggy-back ride with his strong arms holding her tight, her laughter filling the air as it races up through the spring-green maple leaves, past the white clouds in the Easter sky, her soft, brown hair falling back, as her mouth opens up freely to the world.

I wish the little girl would turn from the photograph and talk to me. I’d tell her to beg Daddy to do everything he possibly could, so she wouldn’t have to grow up as a teenager, in Darien, in subsidized housing. I’d tell her to beg him to love Mom. I’d tell her to beg him to figure it out, to get it, so she wouldn’t have to reflect on this interior journey of self.