Essay #1

 

Lian Prost-Hughart

Struyk-bonn

English 121

October 16, 2014

When the Dust Settles

Moving on isn’t abandoning your past. Moving on is realizing that you are in charge of your life, and that you cannot be around people who make you unhappy. I was about twelve years old when this truth smacked me in the face. Up to that point in my life, I had lived in a bubble, where everyone I knew loved me and grandma’s house was a place where time slowed down, where I could bake cookies and brownies all day, and where I could watch a black and white Audrey Hepburn dance on screen all night. I didn’t realize then, that one flight to Chicago would burst the bubble I had lived my childhood in, forever.

 

My grandma is a small woman, with short blonde hair and a Roman nose. She has blue eyes that sparkle in the sunlight, but turn grey like stormclouds when it rains. She would let me play with her makeup and told me love stories about her life with grandpa. My grandma is a special woman, and was my best friend; as soon as I was invited to go to Chicago for an interview on overcoming academic struggles, I knew I wanted her to be there with me. Once I told her the news about the interview, my parents started the preparations. All I really remember from that time was the butterflies tying knots in my stomach and trying to find a warm enough coat for the below freezing temperatures we would be facing under windy Chicago skies. Looking back,  I wish I had appreciated the warm contentment of having my family there with me, complete. But, I was young and naive and took it all for granted.

 

The trouble began when we got to the airport. My grandma always did things a little differently than most; she would find something wrong in what seemed fine and she insisted on correcting even the smallest details. In the daze of my childhood adoration, I never took note. However, that day, waiting in line at security, I took note. I saw the stubborn way she refused to walk without a cane or wheelchair, even though she could. I saw how irrational it was for her to expect my family to dress in formal clothing just to sit in the plane. I saw how she ignored my mother’s advice, and worried my father by arguing with airport staff. Soon, though, we were in Chicago, and any suspicions I had had back in the airport where written off as pre-interview jitters. But after the interview was done, the premonition that something bad was going to happen didn’t go away.

 

The entire time we were in Chicago, I became jumpy for no reason; the smiles in most of the photos were fake. I remember walking hand in hand with my mom, her hand a little sweaty and squeezing mine real hard. I wondered why my mother felt uncomfortable, but I didn’t have to wonder for long. As soon as we were back in Portland, all the little clues I had avoided putting together  melded and I saw the truth: my grandmother was not who I thought she was. She did not like my mother, she did not even like half of my family, her family. She believed that everything would be okay if everything would go back to the way it was when my grandpa was still alive, when my father was just a little boy. She did not want change, and a certain part of her did not want me. I suddenly realized all the things I had done just because she had told me to do them. And all the faulty attitudes she’d instilled in me, and I felt stupid. I felt blind. I realized that the relationship we’d had could no longer be maintained, and I have refused to see her ever since. The events that brought me to this conclusion are too numerous to mention in 500 words, and it has taken me years to accept this reality. It has taken me years to realize that it was not my fault. It has taken me years to realize that it was alright to still love her.

 

 

Yes, moving on does not mean abandoning your past. It means accepting the good times, and learning from the bad times. Moving on means treasuring memories of picnics by the river, the hours spent lazily watching the clouds, the spa days, the movie marathons, the trips to the library, and the songs we’d sing while baking. It means remembering, celebrating, and being thankful for the things she taught me. But moving on also means action. Time passes, and I am not the same dependent person who I was when she was my childhood hero. I know it will take me many more years before I will be able to speak openly about the things she said to me after I ended contact with her, but I know this: I am moving on. The dust has settled and I will only get stronger from here on out.