Venturing Across the Tracks
We had come to the end of a path in the woods, to a chasm of trees below us, and in front of us, a narrow railroad bridge. I don’t remember where we were, exactly, or whose idea it was to cross that bridge, but I do know that Jen went first, putting one foot in front of the other, steadily.
Kris and I were more cautious. I went next, giggling from nervousness, and Kris, behind me, said, “Don’t even think about laughing, or you’ll fall, and if you do, I’ll reach out toward you without thinking and fall right along with you.” This only made me laugh harder. “I’m serious,” Kris said, and I could hear a little trembling in her voice.
When I stopped laughing and steadied myself, I realized Jen was already far ahead of us. She was humming to herself, swinging her hips. She had always been the bravest one among us. The image of her walking steadily across that bridge is seared into my memory. She is wearing one of her signature hippy skirts with black combat boots and a ratty t-shirt. Her fingers dig into her sides as she walks, the only sign of fear in her body, but she goes on, swaying. I tried to pick out the song she was humming, but I couldn't.
I kept needing to stop, to hold out my arms and close my eyes. I felt dizzy, but also elated. We were about 1/4 of the way across the bridge, Kris and I, when we heard a deep voice magnified through a megaphone: "Ladies, this is the police. Turn around and go back. This is an active track. You are endangering your lives." I couldn't seen anybody, and for a second, I wondered if this was a joke--but then I heard the screech of a police siren, which the officer turned on and off, briefly, probably to quell any doubts we might have of the severity of our situation. (We later learned that there was a country road not too far away from which the railroad bridge was clearly visible).
Kris and I struggled to turn around. Breathing hard, we shifted our weight almost in unison, then put one foot in front of the other until we were off the bridge, a few yards away from it. “Maybe we’re in trouble,” I said. “Maybe we should run.”
Then I heard the officer repeat the command and turned to look back. Jen was continuing her treck across the bridge, almost as if she hadn't heard him. As I tried to locate her—a tiny, thin white imprint against the thick, green foliage—I noticed some of the leaves were growing yellow around the edges. Even from this distance, I could see she was still moving steadily, swinging her hips.
As I watched, I couldn’t help thinking that I wanted to be more like her—more comfortable in my body, maybe, or less careful, more fearless. “Holy shit,” I said to Kris. “She’s gone.”
Kris and I waited in silence, wondering what to do next. We were young then—24, I think—and in a few weeks, I was leaving Cincinnati forever. I’d been in the city for only two years, but they were important, intense years. I’d begun to face the pain and losses of my childhood, come out of the closet, started my first “real job,” fallen in love, fallen out of love. Kris and Jen had been my closest friends and confidants through all of these changes.
In a few minutes, we saw Jen climbing confidently up from the valley, grinning. I wasn’t sure whether to be in awe at her audacity or angry at her for how thoughtless she’d been. “What the fuck were you thinking?” I asked her. “We could have gotten arrested!”
“Haven’t I always been able to talk my way out of trouble?” Jen asked. "All it took was a little flirting.” I tried to imagine Jen's encounter with the officer, but I couldn't. What had they said to each other, how had it gone? As I was thinking these things, Jen said, quietly—and I will never forget this—“It wasn’t that I wouldn’t stop. It was that I couldn’t."
We were silent then, standing still, the three of us, in those woods with the sun coming down through the leaves in small, hand-shaped patterns on the ground as if to press this moment into our memories, to bless it.
I tried to take in what Jen had just told us. She had been just as terrified, if not more terrified, than Kris and I. She had been so terrified, in fact, that stopping was out of the question. Standing still would have reminded her of how far we were from the ground, of the possibility of a train hurtling towards us—so all she could do was keep going, following the rhythm of her step, over and over, so as not to fall.
After awhile, we headed back through the woods, ending up at a United Dairy Farmers (a Cincinnati-based gas station), where we ordered Slurpies. Later, we posed on the stoop of my apartment complex, wagging our blue tongues at each other’s cameras. On some level, we knew the afternoon had been all about saying goodbye privately as only the closest of friends can do, without words, without sentimentality. But we couldn’t have imagined the trajectories our lives would take after that moment.
Jen would leave her lover, marry a man, divorce him, marry another man. Although she still lives in the same neighborhood and works for the same company, she has lived her life against the grain in every other way, choosing love and wonder over fear, pressing through each terrifying moment instead of stopping, just as she did on that bridge that afternoon.
Kris was the most closeted and seemingly most fearful of the three of us, but she has lived perhaps most courageously. Eventually, she fell in love, and, with her partner, has adopted four children out of foster care, including two with Down’s Syndrome.
And me? After leaving Cincinnati for graduate school in Phoenix, I fell in love, fell out of love, left Phoenix for a tiny, rural town, fell in love, fell out of love.
And now—S. On Thursday, I will find out whether a group of social workers I barely know have chosen me or another family to parent a 14-year-old girl named S.
When I decided, bravely, I like to believe, to leave a six-year relationship that seemed to be going nowhere, even though we loved each other deeply, I spent a year moving through the world as Jen did that afternoon the bridge—head down, not looking, pressing forward on pure instinct. In that time, as I stared at my shuffling feet, imagining every worst-case scenario, I slowly discovered that it was possible to hum, to swing my hips, if only slightly. I began to realize I had a lifetime’s span and depth of wisdom, of blessing, to give a hurting child. I had begun, in Cincinnati, to heal from my childhood, to grow into who I was, and despite the grief and the losses that followed, I had become rather good at helping others—friends, students, family members--find their own way. It was time to make a permanent commitment of this gift.
When S’s profile came to me, I had looked at dozens, if not hundreds, of profiles, trying to make sense of whatever truth about the child was embedded between the lines of the three or four paragraphs and photograph I received via e-mail. I was tired of sending off my home study and waiting, hearing nothing for weeks or months. It was as if I were standing on that bridge, hurtling parts of myself over and over into the chasm. Somewhere, there was a country road, and the bridge was visible from there, but I couldn’t see the people driving by, couldn’t imagine what the social workers reading about my life were thinking. I longed for a megaphoned-voice; any news, positive or negative, would have been welcome.
And then, I got the call: I had been chosen. But to be sure, I took my time, and in the meantime, other families also sent in home studies for S. Now, months later, I have learned all there is to know about her, at least on paper, and I have searched my heart and chosen her, really chosen her, to be my daughter. I could look back, wish I’d been less careful, wish I’d said yes earlier—but it is too late for that, and anyway, I have no regrets. I had to take my time.
When I was considering S., and before that, when I began to tell people I would adopt, and even before that, when I left my relationship, bought a home, started my life over again, some of my friends told me it would be easier, safer, to go back, or at least to wait until the autumn winds thinned the trees and I could see where I was going. Some did so out of love, and some out of an unconscious desire to keep things from changing, from evolving. If my life could change so radically in just one year, then their lives, too, were bound to change just as radically, and this was a scary possibility to face. Like Kris and I, they settled for walking in the opposite direction, repeating messages of safety, of reason, or watching from a distance.
But others realized they couldn’t walk beside me--there was only so much space on the track--so they called out to me occasionally, maybe touched my back or took my hand, but always briefly, carefully, because they knew I needed to move at my own pace. Some simply stayed put in the early autumn sunlight--and when I needed them, all I had to do was double back. Now, these friends are waiting beside me, breathless. The leaves are thinning. The sun is pushing, shadowless, through the bare branches of the trees, toward the earth.
On Thursday, I’ll have an answer, and, one way or another, S will have a family.
I want to be casual about the next two days. I want to drink Slurpies and take silly pictures and laugh about Jen’s propensity for flirting, Kris’ propensity for following the rules. But in my heart of hearts, I know now as we knew then that things will never be the same.
If I am not chosen, I will have to double back to the friends, far and near, who are waiting for me where I started, who have been there all along, hoping for the best for me. I’ll have to begin again, not because a megaphoned-voice is telling me I must, but because that’s sometimes what’s required of us to move forward—to face a familiar bridge again, with new wisdom, new humility. This time, as I send off profiles and begin the wait again, I’ll know how to press my feet between the rails, how to hold out my arms to keep my balance, who I can trust to be waiting when I double back again.
And if I am chosen? Even then, my life will be all about doubling back and starting over. Sometimes I will be leading S, and sometimes she will be leading me, but always I’ll strive to practice what Kris and Jen taught me that day so many years ago: to walk carefully and carelessly at the same time, to move with others rather than trying to move for them, to trust the natural rhythms of time and space and laughter, of leaves and sunlight, of chasms and bridges that are, at once, beautiful and dangerous.
Kris and I were more cautious. I went next, giggling from nervousness, and Kris, behind me, said, “Don’t even think about laughing, or you’ll fall, and if you do, I’ll reach out toward you without thinking and fall right along with you.” This only made me laugh harder. “I’m serious,” Kris said, and I could hear a little trembling in her voice.
When I stopped laughing and steadied myself, I realized Jen was already far ahead of us. She was humming to herself, swinging her hips. She had always been the bravest one among us. The image of her walking steadily across that bridge is seared into my memory. She is wearing one of her signature hippy skirts with black combat boots and a ratty t-shirt. Her fingers dig into her sides as she walks, the only sign of fear in her body, but she goes on, swaying. I tried to pick out the song she was humming, but I couldn't.
I kept needing to stop, to hold out my arms and close my eyes. I felt dizzy, but also elated. We were about 1/4 of the way across the bridge, Kris and I, when we heard a deep voice magnified through a megaphone: "Ladies, this is the police. Turn around and go back. This is an active track. You are endangering your lives." I couldn't seen anybody, and for a second, I wondered if this was a joke--but then I heard the screech of a police siren, which the officer turned on and off, briefly, probably to quell any doubts we might have of the severity of our situation. (We later learned that there was a country road not too far away from which the railroad bridge was clearly visible).
Kris and I struggled to turn around. Breathing hard, we shifted our weight almost in unison, then put one foot in front of the other until we were off the bridge, a few yards away from it. “Maybe we’re in trouble,” I said. “Maybe we should run.”
Then I heard the officer repeat the command and turned to look back. Jen was continuing her treck across the bridge, almost as if she hadn't heard him. As I tried to locate her—a tiny, thin white imprint against the thick, green foliage—I noticed some of the leaves were growing yellow around the edges. Even from this distance, I could see she was still moving steadily, swinging her hips.
As I watched, I couldn’t help thinking that I wanted to be more like her—more comfortable in my body, maybe, or less careful, more fearless. “Holy shit,” I said to Kris. “She’s gone.”
Kris and I waited in silence, wondering what to do next. We were young then—24, I think—and in a few weeks, I was leaving Cincinnati forever. I’d been in the city for only two years, but they were important, intense years. I’d begun to face the pain and losses of my childhood, come out of the closet, started my first “real job,” fallen in love, fallen out of love. Kris and Jen had been my closest friends and confidants through all of these changes.
In a few minutes, we saw Jen climbing confidently up from the valley, grinning. I wasn’t sure whether to be in awe at her audacity or angry at her for how thoughtless she’d been. “What the fuck were you thinking?” I asked her. “We could have gotten arrested!”
“Haven’t I always been able to talk my way out of trouble?” Jen asked. "All it took was a little flirting.” I tried to imagine Jen's encounter with the officer, but I couldn't. What had they said to each other, how had it gone? As I was thinking these things, Jen said, quietly—and I will never forget this—“It wasn’t that I wouldn’t stop. It was that I couldn’t."
We were silent then, standing still, the three of us, in those woods with the sun coming down through the leaves in small, hand-shaped patterns on the ground as if to press this moment into our memories, to bless it.
I tried to take in what Jen had just told us. She had been just as terrified, if not more terrified, than Kris and I. She had been so terrified, in fact, that stopping was out of the question. Standing still would have reminded her of how far we were from the ground, of the possibility of a train hurtling towards us—so all she could do was keep going, following the rhythm of her step, over and over, so as not to fall.
After awhile, we headed back through the woods, ending up at a United Dairy Farmers (a Cincinnati-based gas station), where we ordered Slurpies. Later, we posed on the stoop of my apartment complex, wagging our blue tongues at each other’s cameras. On some level, we knew the afternoon had been all about saying goodbye privately as only the closest of friends can do, without words, without sentimentality. But we couldn’t have imagined the trajectories our lives would take after that moment.
Jen would leave her lover, marry a man, divorce him, marry another man. Although she still lives in the same neighborhood and works for the same company, she has lived her life against the grain in every other way, choosing love and wonder over fear, pressing through each terrifying moment instead of stopping, just as she did on that bridge that afternoon.
Kris was the most closeted and seemingly most fearful of the three of us, but she has lived perhaps most courageously. Eventually, she fell in love, and, with her partner, has adopted four children out of foster care, including two with Down’s Syndrome.
And me? After leaving Cincinnati for graduate school in Phoenix, I fell in love, fell out of love, left Phoenix for a tiny, rural town, fell in love, fell out of love.
And now—S. On Thursday, I will find out whether a group of social workers I barely know have chosen me or another family to parent a 14-year-old girl named S.
When I decided, bravely, I like to believe, to leave a six-year relationship that seemed to be going nowhere, even though we loved each other deeply, I spent a year moving through the world as Jen did that afternoon the bridge—head down, not looking, pressing forward on pure instinct. In that time, as I stared at my shuffling feet, imagining every worst-case scenario, I slowly discovered that it was possible to hum, to swing my hips, if only slightly. I began to realize I had a lifetime’s span and depth of wisdom, of blessing, to give a hurting child. I had begun, in Cincinnati, to heal from my childhood, to grow into who I was, and despite the grief and the losses that followed, I had become rather good at helping others—friends, students, family members--find their own way. It was time to make a permanent commitment of this gift.
When S’s profile came to me, I had looked at dozens, if not hundreds, of profiles, trying to make sense of whatever truth about the child was embedded between the lines of the three or four paragraphs and photograph I received via e-mail. I was tired of sending off my home study and waiting, hearing nothing for weeks or months. It was as if I were standing on that bridge, hurtling parts of myself over and over into the chasm. Somewhere, there was a country road, and the bridge was visible from there, but I couldn’t see the people driving by, couldn’t imagine what the social workers reading about my life were thinking. I longed for a megaphoned-voice; any news, positive or negative, would have been welcome.
And then, I got the call: I had been chosen. But to be sure, I took my time, and in the meantime, other families also sent in home studies for S. Now, months later, I have learned all there is to know about her, at least on paper, and I have searched my heart and chosen her, really chosen her, to be my daughter. I could look back, wish I’d been less careful, wish I’d said yes earlier—but it is too late for that, and anyway, I have no regrets. I had to take my time.
When I was considering S., and before that, when I began to tell people I would adopt, and even before that, when I left my relationship, bought a home, started my life over again, some of my friends told me it would be easier, safer, to go back, or at least to wait until the autumn winds thinned the trees and I could see where I was going. Some did so out of love, and some out of an unconscious desire to keep things from changing, from evolving. If my life could change so radically in just one year, then their lives, too, were bound to change just as radically, and this was a scary possibility to face. Like Kris and I, they settled for walking in the opposite direction, repeating messages of safety, of reason, or watching from a distance.
But others realized they couldn’t walk beside me--there was only so much space on the track--so they called out to me occasionally, maybe touched my back or took my hand, but always briefly, carefully, because they knew I needed to move at my own pace. Some simply stayed put in the early autumn sunlight--and when I needed them, all I had to do was double back. Now, these friends are waiting beside me, breathless. The leaves are thinning. The sun is pushing, shadowless, through the bare branches of the trees, toward the earth.
On Thursday, I’ll have an answer, and, one way or another, S will have a family.
I want to be casual about the next two days. I want to drink Slurpies and take silly pictures and laugh about Jen’s propensity for flirting, Kris’ propensity for following the rules. But in my heart of hearts, I know now as we knew then that things will never be the same.
If I am not chosen, I will have to double back to the friends, far and near, who are waiting for me where I started, who have been there all along, hoping for the best for me. I’ll have to begin again, not because a megaphoned-voice is telling me I must, but because that’s sometimes what’s required of us to move forward—to face a familiar bridge again, with new wisdom, new humility. This time, as I send off profiles and begin the wait again, I’ll know how to press my feet between the rails, how to hold out my arms to keep my balance, who I can trust to be waiting when I double back again.
And if I am chosen? Even then, my life will be all about doubling back and starting over. Sometimes I will be leading S, and sometimes she will be leading me, but always I’ll strive to practice what Kris and Jen taught me that day so many years ago: to walk carefully and carelessly at the same time, to move with others rather than trying to move for them, to trust the natural rhythms of time and space and laughter, of leaves and sunlight, of chasms and bridges that are, at once, beautiful and dangerous.
Comments