origin story
I always think of Michael Scott asking Toby Flenderson: “Why are you the way that you are?” But then I also think of when we learn why Han Solo can be kind of a dick. Or what drove anti-hero Magneto. Also, why is Anne Shirley always so weirdly optimistic?
August, 1999. Someone gifted me a year of college, and I left home. When I came back on winter break, there was nowhere for me to sleep. Two rooms for seven kids; my leaving opened up a bunk. There wasn’t space to hold an empty bed!
This wasn’t a problem for me until the school year ended when I was forbidden to take a job and required to move home. It probably sounds strange. I was a legal adult, not receiving any financial help but after 18 previous years of being home, I didn’t know that I could stay in the city on my own. There were many stretches of time in my teen years I’d go over 10 days without seeing anyone outside of my own family. I don’t say this to sound dramatic- I’m just trying to explain how linked I was, how bad I felt about being gone, how much pull they had on me.
I came back to no bed, no room, no driver’s license, seven miles from a bus, the living room couch was where I slept. If I was tired after my 10 month old brother toddled over and woke me up, I was chastised for my bad attitude. I didn’t expect a room of my own, but after nine months of having a bed, a little dresser, half a tiny dorm, a transportation pass to get to downtown Portland anytime I wanted- I’d had a dangerous taste of a daily life that was full of things I wanted to do- bookstores and studying and coffee shops and record stores and friends. All the friends to be made everywhere.
The juxtaposition was agony for me and I didn’t see a way out.
At some point that summer my parents bought a battered camping trailer that became my bedroom. I was thrilled! I had to come inside to brush my teeth and use the bathroom but I had a bed of my own again.
(The trailer smelled like mildew and the patchouli incense I burned.)
How do I explain how impossible it was to leave? How do I explain that Portland became mystical, took on an Eden type of quality? I journaled constantly: “Don’t speak of Portland, forget anything about it. Devote your life to your family.”
If I spoke about college or the city I would get the silent treatment or yelled at and really, who wants that? Both are very effective at control.
I knew that school started the third week of August because I had received the school’s schedule in the mail. There were several pictures of me in it! Studying, looking serious. I felt cool. I circled the classes I wanted to take for my Sophomore year. On Monday, August 21, 2000, I made sure my corduroys and plaid pants were clean and folded, and backed them in my mustard yellow Jansport, alongside my two t-shirts, my gray hoody, 6 pairs of underwear, one bra. I packed my books in a crate. I had my toothbrush and Dr. Bronners soap in a ziplock bag.
August twenty-first came and went. I sat in my trailer and waited. I waited for provision, for money, for a drive to Portland. Then the twenty-second, twenty-third, twenty-fourth. I waited for someone to come and save me. I laid on my bed and closed my eyes, I could see it— I could see a car cruising down my parent’s gravel driveway to take me away. I didn’t have a clue who it would be driving that car, or what phone call would come with promises of money, or what unheard of scholarship would emerge, but I was ready. The twenty-fifth came. I knew my friends were all settled in. Complaining about early classes and cafeteria food. I still held out hope and waited a few more days.
No one came.
My origin story: my superpower and my kryptonite.
All of ours are, probably.
So. Why are you the way that you are?
