Three

1: I was 13 years old and back in California visiting my mother’s parents, Granny and Grandpa, for a week or so during some school break. During this time I had also visited my dad’s parents, Nanna and Nanno, who live in a neighboring town not far from my Granny and Grandpa. We had just come back from dinner with my mom’s side of the family, and my dad received a phone call from my Nanna.

My Nanno had just committed suicide that morning. You can imagine, at twelve years old I did not quite grasp the whole idea of what had just happened, and simply said something like, “okay” or “uh huh”. It was not until later that evening that it began to make sense.

I had taken up the trumpet in 4th grade, and my Nanno had played in the band for the Army during the war. Nanno first lived off of his earnings from trumpet playing, and then later owned a tamale factory. The trumpet was something deeply important to him, and I was now becoming more and more fond of music.

In the beginning of that week when I was visiting my Nanna and Nanno, he had given me his favorite trumpet from when he played in the U.S. army. It had finally set in; Nanno had presented me with his trumpet that day because he knew exactly what he was doing later on in the week. Then it hit me.

2: It was 4th grade, and my parents had decided to “take a break”. Take a break to a nine year old was a week at a hotel with some sun and fun. Well, not so much. My parents were split for what they say was almost five months- something that seemed much shorter to me at such a young age. I was with my dad at a condo we owned in Gainey for a week at a time, then back at our house for the other week.

At nine or ten years old, this really did not mean much to me, other than mom and dad needed a break from one another. To be honest, I have never really given it that much thought until about a year ago when the subject arose once again.

3: The final, and most difficult story to tell, is one that I hardly ever discuss. In fact, I try to steer clear of the subject as often as possible.

From elementary school, to freshman year of high school, I had the same group of friends. Come that first year of high school, we began to disperse as many kids do at this age. Keri and Liza went one way, Devonne another, and Ashley and myself stuck it out together. Ashley and I were best friends and did everything together for two solid years.

In the middle of our junior year, Ashley sat me down one day and simply put it, “I have a brain tumor”. I have never felt anything like I did that day with her. I had never seen cancer so closely, along with the treatments and downfall from the effects. Ashley went through radiation, chemo, everything. She lost all of her hair, had incisions in her scalp once a month, and the other girls never completely returned to her side. While it hurt that we never fully came together, I could understand why. It is one of the most difficult things a sixteen year old could go through; losing a best friend to cancer. There was one point during her treatments where we all had thought the tumor was finished terrorizing us all, then one day it was back; just like that.

Ashley died on January 12, 2006. I remember the day so well. I was in fashion design during second period, and a counselor came and pulled me out of class. In her office Ashley’s last boyfriend Alex was sitting. The counselor didn’t have to say. Five minutes following, there was an announcement on the TVs throughout school, and then I finally called my mom who came and picked both of us up, and took us to Ashley’s house.

Ashley’s mother had told us; about an hour before school started, she had passed. Ashleys cemetary is not far from my house, and still visit once or twice a month.

Motor Skills

It was winter time at my family’s cabin in Lake Tahoe, California. The painted red wood siding and evergreen metal roof were barely visible through the freshly dropped snow. Our quaint little cabin was nestled at the bottom of a mountain on the North Shore, and had been an annual family gathering location since its purchase by my mother’s parents in 1963. While we spend every summer and almost all summer in Lake Tahoe, we have spent a few memorable holidays in this cabin, trying to stay warm by the original wood stove built with the house in 1953.

The most memorable of times at this cabin have been with my forever best friend, Sarah Caporusso, who was and still is invited every year up to the cabin. Sarah and I have grown up together since the age of one, and have shared infinite experiences with one another. My earliest of memories was during an especially snowy winter at the cabin. We could not have been any older than four, yet my mother decided she would strap us into ice skates regardless of our motor skill level. At the top of Squaw Valley, in a rink that seemed absolutely massive back then at a height of three feet, Sarah and I clutched to one another for an hour. When one of us fell on the slippery ice, sure enough the other followed closely behind.

By the end of the day, our hands were sore and our lips chapped. Even though I was so young and inexperienced in life, I somehow knew this was a friendship that would last forever. Childhood friendships are so important, and it is amazing when you can keep one for more almost twenty years. This is the earliest memory I have of Sarah and I, skating and tumbling together. A single snowy memory gave way to hundreds of more memories.

Feminism

I had just moved to Arizona from the Bay Area around the age of six, and was beginning many new things in this desert location I was to call home. It was towards the end of the month of July, as my parents left one day to run a few errands, they left my brother Ben and I in our newly built home in North Scottsdale. Ben, who is five years older than I, was bored of playing video games, and I of drawing in my endless supply of coloring books. A near expert bike mechanic by the age of ten, Ben confronted me why I had not yet learned how to ride a bike, and quickly followed him to the front yard where he sat me up top on his rocket red mountain bike. I was so excited, but nervous, and above all- extremely hot!

It began with him walking alongside me, and finally letting go every ten seconds or so for about two seconds. I bit the big one many a times, but I finally felt as though I was getting the hang of it. Keeping in mind, Ben and I never had the best relationship as siblings. My two other older brothers were always picking on him, and he felt as though that was leeway for him to double pick on his little sister. So, this one on one bike riding time was a once in a year moment where brother and sister complied with one another- something I am sure my parents now wished they could have witnessed. A brother teaching a sister how to ride a bike without hitting or kicking, spitting or tackling, was a moment no parent should be absent for. It was near glorious.
Finally grasping the ropes of the pedals and which hand was brake, when to speed up, and when to slow down, I became that much more adventurous and no longer needed big brothers help. After an hour of falling, braking, pedaling, and even a few tears, Ben gave me my final push off from behind. I tackled the bike riding adventure for the day, and as soon as mother and father came home, it turned into, “Mom look! Dad watch this!”… Something I am sure they were thrilled about hearing for half an hour. During my thirty minutes of show and tell, Ben kept trying to step in and grab the back of the seat to steady me, but I had made it clear at the end of that sunny 108 degree summer day, “Back off, I got it Benny!” I was free.