Be Their Home
You are the parent. Be the place where all of their emotions are safe.
Photo by someone in the early ‘90s
Fifteen-year-old me. Early ‘90s hair teased to a great height, like an ocean wave cresting and then falling to the left. Baby blue eyeshadow. Z Cavaricci jeans that I bought at the mall. Braces on my teeth.
Back in those days, I thought my nose was five sizes too big and used makeup as advised by Teen Magazine — darker on the sides and lighter in the middle — to contour my nose to look smaller.
Back then, I also found my eyebrows too bushy and plucked them to an approved shape. I was shifting friend groups, as happens in early high school, looking for my place, making efforts to both be noticed and also fade into the background. I smelled like Victoria Secret’s Pear Glace perfume.
At drill team tryouts, guest choreographers and intimidating upperclassmen taught us a routine to “Gonna Make You Sweat,” by C+C Music Factory, and while I was no professional dancer, I thought my tryout went as well as any.
In the gym after school, we gathered to see the white piece of paper taped to the wall, the names listed in alphabetical order. As teens I knew and didn’t jumped up and down hugging each other and squealing, I pushed through the crowd to double check. My name was not there. I would not be on the team that year.
I think I made it out of the crowd before I started crying. I feel like I smiled at my friends who did make it, faking congratulations and saying I’m happy for you when I really was just crumbling into my awkward self. My diary (recently dusted off and read) complains that I thought I was a better dancer than this girl and that one.
I don’t remember the drive home in the tan suburban with the blue stripe. I’m sure I was quiet and terse — borderline rude — my predictable mood in states of distress to this day. I’m sure that as my parents tried to comfort me, I yelled you don’t understand and stop talking and you don’t know how it feels. Leave me alone. Shut up.
What I do remember, even though it’s been over 30 years, is lying on my yellow flowered bedspread and crying. Wailing to the yellow and white floral wallpaper and curtains of my room.
Doodle art was taped to cover the entire ceiling and an “If you love something, set it free…” quotation braced the wall. I lay there for hours, grieving the lost drill team dream and the public rejection. Periodically, I went to look in the mirror to confirm how sad I was. Bloodshot, puffy eyes and red splotchy cheeks.
What I remember in those moments following the-worst-rejection-of-my-life is the feeling of home. Home was the place I could slam my door, throw myself on the bed, and cry for hours. Home was where I could be pissed off and feel sorry for myself as long as I needed to.
Home in those days was more than a white 4-bedroom brick house, the one with the mesquite tree out front. It was more than the long hallway where I once threw a wire hanger at my sister for stealing my clothes.
More than the bathroom where I would run to be first in the shower as soon as I heard my sisters’ alarm clocks go off. More than the brown recliner and the TV that had to “warm up” for 30 minutes before it worked. More than the kitchen counter on which I awakened after sleepwalking.
That rejection day, I stayed on my bed, angry and sad and embarrassed. I worked through my feelings and wrote in my diary. When my parents or sisters came to comfort me, I shouted for them to leave me alone like a crated angry dog.
I lay on my bed, crying and working through my emotions, letting all my friends’ calls go to the answering machine. Being home meant that I knew my people were outside that bedroom door while I growled and hissed. Even though I rejected their attempts to comfort me, Home meant they were there.
Home was where I could be confident and insecure. Angry and content. Beautiful and ugly. Home was where I could run when life or people rejected or hurt me. This place where all my feelings were allowed. Home had the people that loved me even when I was insufferable.
My family left me alone, and the next morning I was able to open my eyes and get up off that bed. I put on my blue eyeshadow and teased my bangs. I contoured my nose so it would look smaller and put on my best outfit.
I put myself back together and showed up once again at Central High School. I faked my happiness until it came back. Because I had home, I was able to find the confidence and bravery to try out for the drill team my junior year. That year, my name was on the list. I was a Tex-Ann.
Now that I am a parent, I am so grateful for the people and place that were home for me.
Now that I am a pediatrician and talk to teens every day, I see that we are all insecure about something, especially in those years. They all need home. We all need home.
As my kids go through their own process of growing up, I hope that I and we and our place will be home to them. Blue eyeshadow and all.
“My parents taught me that the world won’t always like you. But you can’t count on the world to like you. You come home to be liked. You go out there to get your education, to earn a living. You won’t necessarily find people who will see you, or love you, or like you. You get that here.”
Photo by one of my friends in the early 90’s in my yellow room
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.