Foreword by Cynthia Mazzant
Telling Stories: a place to talk, a place to connect, a process of cultural transformation, a form of therapy, a means to bring a community together. The power of the narrative offers hope, healing and transformation. Many have argued that is through storytelling that we best understand ourselves.
So we’re starting two new columns as we bring the stories to you. And poetry. And drama (and not just from our staff meetings). Should you wish to become one of our storytellers or featured artists, please email us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
“Telling stories is a way to share our experiences, connect, identify and learn from one another,” said Pam Monk of Pamelapolis Productions. “Plus it’s fun. Hence Muriel’s Repair. You are welcome to join us, on the last Wednesday of each month, 7 p.m. at Websters.”
Our first story comes from the creator of Muriel’s Repair, Pamela Monk. Pamela Monk is a teacher, writer and storyteller, and a work in progress.
Our second story comes from Tommy Gongol, a freshman at Penn State.
Just Stories: Muriel’s Repair
My vaccination via the Sanicola Boys
by Pamela Monk
I wonder if the in house teasing I received as a child didn’t serve as a vaccine against bullying out there in the real world. I came in for a lot of teasing in my family. I was a nerdy bookworm (big surprise) I loved school and I believed everything that I was told, even contradictory things.
I had three cousins who did most of the inoculating—Charlie, Johnny and Robert. These days, Charlie is 80, Johnny is 73 and Robert, is somewhere north of 65, gray haired, hefty—old men. But in my mind’s eye, they are in their twenties—big strong and confident of their places in the family—even though they weren’t, not really. They are my first cousins, brothers, the sons of my Aunt Lily, my mother’s oldest sister. We saw them a lot because my mother and her sister were close.
Lily was the matriarch, circumstances forced her to be the breadwinner in a patriarchy. Her father, my grandfather was long dead, her mother confined to Italian speaking family. My uncle Jack, her husband, had a stroke when he was in his late thirties that left him paralyzed and bed ridden. I have no memory of him healthy. Lily took care of him, with help from her mother and Charlie’s wife—his bed was in the living room of their home, where most people would have their sofa. I thought nothing of it.
That was just how it was.
Charlie was a photoengraver, a profession that has eventually disappeared, Johnny was a transit cop who retired early on disability, and Robert played basketball in high school and some in college before he dropped out to enlist in the Air Force during the Viet Nam War. He eventually finished school and became an FBI agent.
To them, I was like an easily swatted fly, with no standing whatsoever and very little clout in the family dynamic, armed only with an unshakeable, but undocumented, sense of my own value. To the Sanicola boys, when they thought to pay any attention to me at all, I was a patsy.
A few incidents are indelible. There may have been others, but these are the ones I, in my stubborn Sicilian way, have never forgotten, and last I checked, never forgiven either.
Charlie liked to joke. One day, a large cake is presented at the dinner table, in the shape of what is referred to as a bombe. I recall it being covered with sprinkles, or coconut flakes. Smell it, says Charlie, get closer, smell it. This I do. And just as I am close enough to take a sniff, he pushes my face full into it. And everybody laughs.
Another time, I was playing rummy with one of them, probably Robert, Charlie and Johnny stood behind me, and made up a running story to let him know what cards I had. Which went on until I figured it out and stopped playing, much to their amusement.
Robert was old enough to babysit me. It was never pleasant. I remember trying to escape once my parents left me in his clutches.
“Let me teach you this new judo move I learned,” he’d say, as he would proceed to throw me around. It was never enough to cause damage, only to make the point that there wasn’t a whole lot I could do. And I don’t know how many times it took me to say NO to a game of 52 pick up.
This wasn’t malicious, I understood it then, and I understand that now. It was a matter of establishing hierarchy, in an traditional extended family, people have their places and need to know what they are.
So no one really protested their treatment of me…it was mild, just swatting me down. I represented a symbolic danger – part of the first generation to be truly American, I didn’t have a single conversation with my grandmother, who didn’t speak English. I had school, which in the 60s presented an escape from the feudal, patriarchy into which I was born.
But things heated up when I went to college… I was at Michigan State in the 1969 school year. The students were killed at Kent State that spring. I wasn’t very political, but it was hard not to be in those days.
I came home to my blue-collar Republican family, the only person anyone knew who was out among the commie pinko hippies – I became a focus of their frustration. Robert who was in the Air Force at the time, suggested at one discussion that we ought to nuke the North Vietnamese. I responded that I didn’t think it was a great idea. Upon which he told me I ought to go back to Russia if I loved it so much.
This conversation got as far as the wider intergenerational conversation did… nowhere useful.
The last interaction of my childhood happened later on that summer. We were sitting around the picnic table, and by we, I mean my parents, my sister, my aunt, my cousins, their wives and girlfriends, and children, my grandmother.
Robert must have been saying something that irked me. I have absolutely no recollection of what it was. But whatever it was, I had reached a tipping point. Robert, said I, you are such a…prick.
The word escaped before I could stop it. No calling it back. The conversation stopped. Forks suspended in mid air, all eyes were on me. It couldn’t have been seconds, but I felt as though I had stopped time and stepped through a wormhole into a dimension where I wielded words as weapons, and that behind me the portal back was irrevocably shut.
Well, well, well, says Robert, as whoosh of the airlock closing behind me fades… so that’s what my little cousin is learning in college.
But he or any of his brothers ever wrangled with me again.
Just Stories: A Lion’s Life
Leaving The Nest
by Tommy Gongol
Tick-Tock. My subconscious was kicking my ass… again. I didn’t have a watch, or a clock with any moving parts that would cause a ticking noise, and yet there it was. A warning of when they would leave and I would be on my own.
“You’ll be fine,” she whispered, noticing how my face was pressed up against the glass and how my body tensed, breaking any shroud of the calm characteristic optimism my classmates had awarded me on some months before.
“I know.” I replied, and my lips silently echoed the phrase two or three more times—apparently I didn’t