Before

My father has told me a story, from before I stopped talking. Long, long ago from before I can remember. It was an extended family gathering at my grandparent's house, his parents; mostly from his mother's side. His mother, my grandmother, the only genetic link I have whose descendants didn't immigrate to the United States at the turn of the century. Her family had been in America for generations and generations and had built up quite an elite stock. She rebelled by marrying the son of Italian Catholic immigrants. Together they had my father, his three sisters and one brother.

My father describes this very short, talkative period of my life, "Before you 'clammed up'." This wasn't accusatory, or even a criticism. Just stated as fact. Apparently, at this family gathering, a gathering that was so long ago that many of its attendants have since passed, I was flitting about amongst all the adults and family members, socializing like a butterfly and charming them all. Like I said, I have no memory of this.

I have one memory of talking to an adult as a child. I was at Joan's house, across the street. She was babysitting me, she had an in home childcare center I frequented often. I was sitting at the kitchen table and said to her, "Look, Joan! I'm kicking my feet under the table!" whatever the hell that meant.

All the rest of my memories are saturated with the consistent fear of talking to grown ups. Except for my parents. They got the earful of the words I failed to speak elsewhere, usually spoken fast and slightly slurred, my mother telling me to slow down and repeat myself because she couldn't understand me. My parents were at the receiving end of my childhood wrath; the anger that came from all my confusion. Because here's the thing: I wanted to talk. Fiercely. But I couldn't. I'm still not sure why I was so scared. I'm hoping figuring out the answer will give me some kind of closure. As though the logic of whatever answer I find will catapult me into normalcy.