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Abstract

e concluded that our mom would eventually be there for us at the time she thought the class was over. So did the teacher. At some point, she leaned out the car window and said something about our mom being there soon. Then her big hair and big laughter turned back to her guy and their car screeched away.We were both panicked but I barely acknowledged my fear even to myself. My job was to look out for my twin. That’s what I did. She didn’t come home from the hospital for five weeks after we were born. She was a tiny three pounds, while I was a few robust ounces over five. I had early on absorbed the message that she required extra care and attention. And now I knew she was scared and it was my job to protect her.The sun was going down. My heart was racing. I didn’t know how to interpret the situation. What if no one was coming?The park was just a couple blocks from the apartment we had lived in since we were born. But in the past week, we had moved to a new place on the other side of the bridge somewhere. Somewhere farther. I didn’t know how much farther. Or our address.All I knew was that the right thing was not to be small, young, and vulnerable in the park after dark, so I took action without knowing what the next step would be. I grabbed my sister’s hand and said we had to leave.Maybe we should wait for mom.No, it’s getting dark fast. We can’t stay.I pulled her through the park and towards Irving Park Road, a major thoroughfare. The cars were going so fast, their headlights already on. We had no choice but to find our way home on our own. That was my thinking. But we didn’t know where it was. One courageous step, one spark of inspiration at a time. That’s how we did it.Which way, left or right? She seemed tentative to commit, but I knew there was no choice but to choose. This is the bridge we drive over on the way to church and the new house is closer to church. We headed right, over the Chicago River.We’re crossing the big bridge by ourselves. We’re all alone, but really we’re together, and we’re walking down the street like it’s normal for two very little girls like us. The pink and orange sky is darkening. Oh, no, we have to cross at a light. Whew, no traffic. Hearts pounding. We made it. I think that building is where Daddy works.Keep walking, keep walking, wait for the next familiar thing, maybe, that will tell us what to do. Instead of asking an adult for help, we avert our eyes, embarrassed that we’re doing something we shouldn’t be. When a woman stops us because she recognizes that something’s not right, I’m too shy to explain our predicament, and say something barely above a whisper about walking home.This is not the right way.It is the right way.But how do we know?Because look, now we’re at the big street (Western Avenue, Chicago’s famously longest street and one of its busiest).We can’t cross this by ourselves.We have to. Just wait for the green. Hold my hand.We did it! Keep going, Sharon, I assured myself. You’re do

Options

ing this. Look for the next piece of information. We came upon a street name that was vaguely familiar. This must be our new street. We could only turn right and so we did. Keep going, look for our new house. How would we know? We went a block. Don’t think we saw it. Looked both ways, held hands, crossed another street. I still don’t know how we knew, but in a block of back-to-back brick Chicago two-flats, we eventually stopped in front of one that looked right. I had intuitively walked my sister just under a mile to our new home.Now we were afraid of what was next. Was this our home? Would our mom be mad at us?You ring the bell.You.I’m sure I made my sister do it.And then our mom was in the doorway. Maybe I was expecting crying or hugs or I love you two and I’m so glad to see you or an explanation, an apology. Instead, after understanding what she was seeing on the front porch, she said, “Ope. What are you two doing here?”We just stood there and said nothing. Were we not supposed to be here?Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in! She was chipper, mildly agitated.She must have asked how we got home and then how we knew where to go. We must have explained. She must have run through alternative possible scenarios in her head to us not finding our way. All I remember is very quickly being sent to our room so she could make calls from the phone that hung on the kitchen wall. To Miss Joanne? The park district? Her sisters?And that was it. I don’t remember ever discussing it again. No explanations. No recriminations. I expected some answers but they never came. Neither my mom nor my dad remembers the event. My sister doesn’t remember it. My mom’s two closest sisters that were always in our lives didn’t remember her ever telling them about it when I asked them twenty years ago. My most vivid memory, a defining moment, and mine alone.I soon forgot about it, yet it never left me. From that day forward, I felt, knew, that first and foremost I could count on myself. But not just me alone. Me in conjunction with the universe. We were raised religious, but I don’t recall praying through this ordeal or thinking I was talking to god or guided by him, the old man we thought he was at the time.In retrospect, it was a wound, a separation of some magnitude. I had shifted in an instant so much focus and allegiance away from my parents and family, and to something larger than myself that I could trust. Something benign in the world I could tap into for knowing, protection, and certainty.It was a monumental gift that I carried from then on, though it took decades to fully reveal itself. A confidence and sense of ease in the cosmos. Comfort taking action in the face of unknowns. Going one step at a time and knowing my way in the world.Sharon Woodhouse is the owner of <a href="http://www.conspirecreative.com/">Conspire Creative</a>, which offers coaching, consulting, conflict management, project management, book publishing, and editorial services for solo pros, creatives, authors, small businesses, and multipreneurs.</article></body>

Walking My Sister Home When We Were Five Years Old

Learning confidence and a sense of ease in the cosmos

One of my most vivid childhood memories is also my oldest. And a defining moment of my life. It humbles me to wonder if or how I’ll be involved in a parallel memory my own son may carry with him for decades.

Do you think five years old is too young to know things, really know them? Too young to have big revelations about life that alter or subtly guide one’s course? Here are things I’ve heard people say over the years that they knew and made decisions around at age five: that they didn’t think it was right to eat animals, that they didn’t believe in god, that they were gay.

Let me tell you a story about what I learned when I was five: how I came to know confidence making my way in the world.

It was spring or early summer, 1974.

My mom had dropped my twin sister and me off at our regular art class at one of Chicago’s public parks. Well, it was our usual activity, but it had been moved to a different park a couple blocks over and it was our first time at the new location. For a reason I still can’t fathom, she didn’t walk us into the building. Okay, I’m sure it was because the park was surrounded by busy streets and there was no parking lot. She pulled over and showed us the doors we needed at the end of a walkway; we obediently hopped out. And she pulled away when she saw that we had reached the front doors of the field house. Except the doors were locked. And no one ever came to open them. And our mom was gone.

Miss Joanne, the 20-something art teacher, did come shortly afterwards and we breathed a sigh of relief. But she didn’t know how to get into the building either. What she did instead was get into the backseat of her boyfriend’s car. But there was no parking lot? Right. He had driven his car over the curb and onto the grass next to the field house.

They proceeded to make out in the car and left us alone in the park without any idea of what was going on or what we were supposed to do. When it seemed we shouldn’t be watching what was happening in the backseat, we stepped away from the car a few yards, my hand clinging to my sister’s, hers to mine.

We stood there, so close to each other and trembling, for what seemed like forever, repeating the same mumblings to each other about what we should do. A game of chicken in which it was too scary to admit how distressing our situation was. Even by five, we had discovered some sense of blasé. We started out certain that our mom would be there any minute to fix it. That an adult would rescue us and correct this matter gone awry. But as time passed, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. We were terrified to interrupt the lovers and ask for anything.

Even if we were temporarily miserable, we concluded that our mom would eventually be there for us at the time she thought the class was over. So did the teacher. At some point, she leaned out the car window and said something about our mom being there soon. Then her big hair and big laughter turned back to her guy and their car screeched away.

We were both panicked but I barely acknowledged my fear even to myself. My job was to look out for my twin. That’s what I did. She didn’t come home from the hospital for five weeks after we were born. She was a tiny three pounds, while I was a few robust ounces over five. I had early on absorbed the message that she required extra care and attention. And now I knew she was scared and it was my job to protect her.

The sun was going down. My heart was racing. I didn’t know how to interpret the situation. What if no one was coming?

The park was just a couple blocks from the apartment we had lived in since we were born. But in the past week, we had moved to a new place on the other side of the bridge somewhere. Somewhere farther. I didn’t know how much farther. Or our address.

All I knew was that the right thing was not to be small, young, and vulnerable in the park after dark, so I took action without knowing what the next step would be. I grabbed my sister’s hand and said we had to leave.

Maybe we should wait for mom.

No, it’s getting dark fast. We can’t stay.

I pulled her through the park and towards Irving Park Road, a major thoroughfare. The cars were going so fast, their headlights already on. We had no choice but to find our way home on our own. That was my thinking. But we didn’t know where it was. One courageous step, one spark of inspiration at a time. That’s how we did it.

Which way, left or right? She seemed tentative to commit, but I knew there was no choice but to choose. This is the bridge we drive over on the way to church and the new house is closer to church. We headed right, over the Chicago River.

We’re crossing the big bridge by ourselves. We’re all alone, but really we’re together, and we’re walking down the street like it’s normal for two very little girls like us. The pink and orange sky is darkening. Oh, no, we have to cross at a light. Whew, no traffic. Hearts pounding. We made it. I think that building is where Daddy works.

Keep walking, keep walking, wait for the next familiar thing, maybe, that will tell us what to do. Instead of asking an adult for help, we avert our eyes, embarrassed that we’re doing something we shouldn’t be. When a woman stops us because she recognizes that something’s not right, I’m too shy to explain our predicament, and say something barely above a whisper about walking home.

This is not the right way.

It is the right way.

But how do we know?

Because look, now we’re at the big street (Western Avenue, Chicago’s famously longest street and one of its busiest).

We can’t cross this by ourselves.

We have to. Just wait for the green. Hold my hand.

We did it! Keep going, Sharon, I assured myself. You’re doing this. Look for the next piece of information. We came upon a street name that was vaguely familiar. This must be our new street. We could only turn right and so we did. Keep going, look for our new house. How would we know? We went a block. Don’t think we saw it. Looked both ways, held hands, crossed another street. I still don’t know how we knew, but in a block of back-to-back brick Chicago two-flats, we eventually stopped in front of one that looked right. I had intuitively walked my sister just under a mile to our new home.

Now we were afraid of what was next. Was this our home? Would our mom be mad at us?

You ring the bell.

You.

I’m sure I made my sister do it.

And then our mom was in the doorway. Maybe I was expecting crying or hugs or I love you two and I’m so glad to see you or an explanation, an apology. Instead, after understanding what she was seeing on the front porch, she said, “Ope. What are you two doing here?”

We just stood there and said nothing. Were we not supposed to be here?

Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in! She was chipper, mildly agitated.

She must have asked how we got home and then how we knew where to go. We must have explained. She must have run through alternative possible scenarios in her head to us not finding our way. All I remember is very quickly being sent to our room so she could make calls from the phone that hung on the kitchen wall. To Miss Joanne? The park district? Her sisters?

And that was it. I don’t remember ever discussing it again. No explanations. No recriminations. I expected some answers but they never came. Neither my mom nor my dad remembers the event. My sister doesn’t remember it. My mom’s two closest sisters that were always in our lives didn’t remember her ever telling them about it when I asked them twenty years ago. My most vivid memory, a defining moment, and mine alone.

I soon forgot about it, yet it never left me. From that day forward, I felt, knew, that first and foremost I could count on myself. But not just me alone. Me in conjunction with the universe. We were raised religious, but I don’t recall praying through this ordeal or thinking I was talking to god or guided by him, the old man we thought he was at the time.

In retrospect, it was a wound, a separation of some magnitude. I had shifted in an instant so much focus and allegiance away from my parents and family, and to something larger than myself that I could trust. Something benign in the world I could tap into for knowing, protection, and certainty.

It was a monumental gift that I carried from then on, though it took decades to fully reveal itself. A confidence and sense of ease in the cosmos. Comfort taking action in the face of unknowns. Going one step at a time and knowing my way in the world.

Sharon Woodhouse is the owner of Conspire Creative, which offers coaching, consulting, conflict management, project management, book publishing, and editorial services for solo pros, creatives, authors, small businesses, and multipreneurs.