There are two podcasts called Snap Judgment and Spooked that are hosted by a man named Glynn Washington who among other things is, imo, a wonderful storyteller. Very often the intros to the shows are of him telling short stories or anecdotes about his life, growing up, and so on. The following is a transcript of the intro to a recent episode of Spooked where Glynn tells a story that, quite frankly, really got to me.
(Warning: get the tissues ready)
4th of July, right before seventh grade, I go to a party at my buddy Jeff Shane's house; fat crib on Sanford Lake right outside of Midland, Michigan. Almost every one of my class shows...including the girls.
Jeff's dad pulls us on water skis with their brand new boat. We roast hot dogs, marshmallows, eat watermelon, light fireworks that explode over the lake. And that night I stay over with five of my best friends in the whole wide world: Jeff, Marty, Danny, Sean, Corey.
Jeff's mom makes us pancakes the next morning, swimming in butter and syrup, laughing. She unloads a whole can of whipped cream on mine, especially for me...because, she says.
Because.
I thank her, say goodbye to everyone, ride my bike back to my house and Pops helps me pack it inside our already loaded-up U-Haul truck. Then we drive away from Sanford, Michigan, and I never see any of those people again.
And I don't know enough to be sad. Almost 13 years old. I've moved homes 13 different times, 13 different addresses, eight different schools.
The truth is...sitting in the passenger seat of a U-Haul next to Pops on the interstate...this is my happy place.
Yeah, it is. Time to go. What next? What next?
And two decades later, I'm on a plane to Brussels Belgium, a place I've never been, and I'm moving there to work at a job I hate for a company I despise. And a girl sits next to me, 13 years old, blinking back tears, trying to be brave, trying not to weep, but weeping all the same.
When I ask her what's wrong, she's silent. When I ask her again, she tells me that because of the divorce, she's moving too.
That her house now has a "For Sale" sign on it...a house she can't imagine not living in. Her best friend lives down the street. She just made second chair violin in orchestra. She won't see the birds come back to roost in the trees she and her uncle planted in the backyard. Her grandmother promises to visit...but instead of every Thursday, just the two of them on the couch watching movies...it might be every six months...maybe every year.
And all of this pours from her in a hot wail. She comes from a community, a ground, a sky, a smell, a music, and being torn away from it...
I want to tell her comforting words. That it will get better. That soon this new place will feel like home too. You'll see.
Then I stop.
I think about the people...the families that have given me their embrace, let me into their homes and their lives... and how casually I walked away, wondering what's next.
This little girl is not the one having a strange reaction to leaving everything and everyone behind.
I am.
I think,
'Little girl, you are right to feel it. You are right to cry. That leaving is a hurt that should never fully heal. In fact, I should be weeping with you.
You are not broken. No.
Broken is a grown person, sitting on an airplane, who doesn't care where they are going, or who they're leaving behind.'
