Mama, Mama I'm Coming Homeeee

Well, technically I already am. As I write this, Soleil is sitting next to me, complaining, "You talk in a different way." Once I started showing off my Armenian to her, every time I correct her English, she claims to not understand me. The title of this blogpost comes from an Ozzy Osbourne song that I often heard growing up, and was stuck in my head for all twenty hours of my travel time. Once I landed in New York - with no sleep since I was in Armenia - and saw an entire group of women standing around smoking, the song changed to "I'm in a New York State Of Mind" and also "AMERICA  F-YEAH".

Then, I got in the car with my mother and headed over to my great aunt's wake. I was dirty and smelly, in the same clothes for the last couple of days. I wasn't expecting to be going straight there, but we needed to pick my father up. "Everyone's waiting for you," my mother explained. First things first, we stopped off at a pizza joint to grab a slice of some New York pizza. I felt compelled to tell the girl behind the counter that this would be my first slice of heaven in over six months and that she should feel honored.

Now, I want to give ya'll some back story on what awaited me at the funeral parlor. While Patricia Hennessy was a 'distant' relative, I've known her and most of her descendants my whole life. My grandmother, Patricia, and their brother all bought summer homes within the Huletts Landing community on Lake George in upstate New York, sometime in the 1970's. My grandmother and her brother Luke had eight children and Patricia had ten. A good majority of those twenty six cousins got married, had children of their own and are now grandparents. All in all, at the time of her death Patricia alone had around 35 grandchildren and 26 great-grandchildren. Throughout my life, I have spent two to three weeks at a time at Lake George in the summer, sometimes knowing who my third cousins were and sometimes not. Ironically, I did not find out until about five years ago that one of the cousins' whom I most strongly resemble, was in fact a family member. The families that have homes in Huletts are a sort of family in and of themselves, and I have the element of actually being related to a great number of those people.

What I'm trying to get at here, is that when I entered the funeral parlor - it was pretty overwhelming. Some people knew I was returning, others did not, but they all had a ton of questions. For just having traveled 20 hours, with no sleep - I think I handled it pretty well. The first twenty-four hours home in general were overwhelming, but not in the way that you are thinking. I was surprised at how easy it was to slip back into the life I left behind. I had no idea what to expect about returning- what it would feel like, if I would experience culture shock, etc. The next morning, as my brother and I were driving home from the burial he asked me what I saw. I didn't really understand the question, so I explained that it was easier to be home than expected. He pushed further, asking, "No- what are you seeing, right now look around - what do you see?". "Money," I replied. "Money, and people who have places to be, jobs and things to buy."

So, I've got three weeks left in America. I am already missing my Peace Corps family to death. In a way - I feel like I am in this weird time limbo. I was able to come back, and pick up where I left off - even go to the same yoga class. Back home, it feels as though time has stood still here in many ways and gone on in others. While for me, I have seen and experienced so much in the short six months since leaving home, that it's hard to resolve those two ideas. I don't really know where to begin. A few folks have asked me, "How was your trip?" At first, I found this a little insulting. Six months is a little more than a 'trip'. Armenia is my home now, that's where my life takes place currently. And yet, now - it does feel like a trip - in the slang definition. (ie: That show was a real trip, man.)

So. Yeah. Armenia's been a real trip.

... and I can't wait to get back!

Song of the Week: Grateful Dead - Truckin'
Quote of the Week: "If ya press this button hea, it gets one more hotta." TJ


Special thanks to the following for lending a helping hand during a difficult and trying time the week before I left Armenia: Phi Nyguen, Brian Bohkart, Chris Sherwood, Marisa Mitchell, Chris Boyle, Lauren Leary, David Lillie, David Corsar and of course, my super amazing host family.

A Farewell

18 days. There were only 18 days left until my feet were on American soil. I thought she was going to hold on, that I would get to see her one last time. We were getting so close and I felt confident it would work out for us all – my mother, Cetta and me.

But life does not adhere to our desires and needs, it simply comes at us. Sometimes we catch the pitch, even though it’s a curve ball. Other times, it goes way over our heads and we frantically chase it, our backs turned on the game. And then sometimes, it’s a change-up; it looks like it’ll be a fast pitch but once thrown - it slows, taking longer to come into the strike zone than expected. It doesn’t mean you’ll catch it – because if we are the catcher, there is always a batter. Cetta had been standing at the plate, in this particular game of life, for a long time. We all knew she had a full count and were waiting for the outcome of the next pitch. She surprised us all, hit the change-up right out of the ball park. She jogged the bases and went home.  And when the hitter hits a homerun, you can only sit back and watch.

My mother’s friend Cetta had a big loud laugh and a strong hug. She loved loyally and fiercely. She was a damn good Italian cook and could knit the hell out of a blanket. She was my mother's best friend, and sister for the last 20 years. For a long time, sadly, I saw Cetta as another adult who understood nothing about life and was stuck in a cycle I wanted nothing to do with. When Cetta was diagnosed with cancer in the spring of 2011, I was off doing my thing in Boston. I had let go of most of my resentment of her simply through time and distance. Since I was not living at home and we hadn’t had a relationship since I was 12 years old, it was a complete non-reality for me. After some time she went into remission and was no longer going through chemotherapy. When I moved home in October, I was utterly wrapped up in Peace Corps and my ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t until later, with two or three months before my departure that I started making time for Cetta.

The last time I saw her, I had invited her over for brunch. I knew there was a chance we wouldn’t have time like this together again, but in a very disconnected way. I wanted to treat her to a nice breakfast, with my Martha Stewart blueberry scones, home fries, mimosas and all. It was a really nice time, with Cetta sharing stories from her youth and telling me if I find a husband in the Peace Corps I, “betta NOT live wit him before you getchya ring!”.  That day, Cetta let me feel the mass that had started showing a few weeks before.  At the time, she was feeling healthy and joked about the cancer saying, “Ya know, you would think – finally, now that I have cancer I’ll be skinny- but I’m still fat! I mean seriously, what the hell?!”

Over the summer, I came to understand that it was unlikely Cetta and I would see one another again.  It hit me like a ton of bricks and for several days I was processing and coming to terms with this. I started writing her a letter, apologizing for my angsty adolescent ways and pushing her out of my life. I wanted to let her know that I knew she had always loved and cared about me, that the times she told me to be better to my mother, she was right. I faced the impending reality of her death and for the first time, saw her role in my and my mother’s lives clearly. She was a rock for my mother, and I love her for this alone.

Cetta never did respond with a letter in return, but we did get to speak on the phone about a month ago. She was staying at my parent’s home after Hurricane Sandy hit the east coast – as they had electricity and she did not. We got on the phone and I could hardly recognize her voice. It was no longer booming and strong, thick with our Long Island accent. I asked how she was, she responded saying, “I’m better now, I’m not crying anymore because I’m with your mother and she’s taking care of me.” I told her I was glad, and she goes on to say, “Carolyn, I want you to know you never need to apologize for anything – we love each other, I love you and that’s all that matters, okay?”  I wasn’t ready for her to bring up my letter so suddenly and it caught me off guard, so obviously I started crying. Next thing I know, she’s asking me if there are any boys- if I’m having sex. “Oh don’t worry,” she says. “Your mother didn’t hear me ask you that!”

Yesterday, as I sat in the back of the bus listening to my ipod, I thought about Cetta. Who she’d been for me, for my mother. I’m grateful that the last moments we shared were filled with raw honesty and lined with laughter. The last day we spent together, she turned to me and said,

“I am so excited for you to do this. I always wanted to see the world, but I was too afraid to leave home. Go see everything Carolyn, do it for me and then tell me all about it.”

Concetta Morrill (11/13/62- 11/29/12)