I had watched television and seen the movies depicting the classic neighborhood street. There were the homes bunched together, the neighbors who held dim, meaningless conversations through the fences, the friendly folks who greeted each other every morning on their way to get the paper at the end of the walk. There were swarms of kids who lived in every house and spent their lazy afternoons playing in the streets, riding bikes or simply loitering and conversing. There were the stay-at-home mothers who chauffeured their kids to soccer practice, gossiped with the other moms about trivial subjects and hosted large get-togethers for both parents and kids.
I had none of that.
My neighborhood in Wilton, Connecticut, was bigger, wealthier and less friendly. Each house was separated by a few hundred yards of forest or velvet lawn, yet nearly every house was visible from the road. On any given day you could see family members walking out of their pristine houses and getting into their Mercedes, tennis rackets in hand. But unlike the other houses, mine was setback. We lived down a hill and a long, private driveway surrounded by swamplands and forest that cut me off from everyone else. One on side lay a seemingly endless stretch of trees of which several were left prostrate from thunderstorms. Undeveloped woodland lay behind the house and I would often go alone into the forest searching for insects or animals. I was not allowed to walk up the hill to the road with no sidewalk, and I always felt it kept me from playing with kids on the street. Not that there was anyone to play with in the first place, but I couldn’t even roam into another neighborhood because it was too far away, across many busy streets.
But the fact of the matter was that kids were nonexistent on my street—and if they were, they were much older. My parents had to drive up the driveway to claim the daily paper, which still lay worlds away from any neighbors’.
At home I felt isolated much of the time, as I couldn’t always count on my parents giving me the level of attention I desperately wanted. My mother was busy starting her business and my Dad was building his. The feeling carried through school as well. Teachers would let us choose partners for small projects and it seemed my classes always had an odd number of students, leaving me to complete assignments and in-class activities independently. In class I had a few acquaintances but none that would ever qualify as the classic real friend.
Once I was invited to a birthday party. It was a kid who I only knew because he was in my class. We had nothing in common. He liked every sport, was a rough-and-tough kid and didn’t like school. My parents made me go.
“I don’t even like this guy,” I complained.
“It’s important for you to learn to how to get along with other children,” Mom answered as she ruffled through the rest of the mail as we sat in the car at the top of our driveway. “You don’t have to like everybody, you just have to get along.”
“But why? I could do something else instead…”
I reasoned with her. I told her how I could stay home and play by myself or with our pets as I had done many times before, but she wasn’t easily swayed.
“When you get out into the world, you’re going to need to have people skills. You can’t stay at home like a hermit all the time,” she responded, closing the mailbox and her car window. “I already told them you were coming,” she said. And that was that.
We arrived at Brady’s house a bit late and already everyone was out in the front yard pitching baseballs and throwing footballs, and I resumed my bargaining with my mother, again to no avail.
I would swear that every intimidating bully-type tough kid was invited. I followed my mother inside the house where she introduced herself and me to the boy’s mom. I felt more comfortable seeing that the inside of the house was full of the parents and I wanted to linger inside with them than stand idle outside. After all, who ever heard of parents teasing a little kid? Someone offered me a small piece of chocolate cake and I took it. There was a table for presents and I put my stupid board game along with the rest of the gifts, feeling that my gift was a bit less adequate next to what was obviously a wrapped football.
Behind the table I saw the fireplace mantle bursting with random paraphernalia. This was your typical middle-class house, filled with knick-knacks and overstuffed furniture, pictures of all three kids throughout the ages and random things that just end up collecting dust. I was surprised to see how similar it was to my house.
Then I noticed the piano that stood in the corner of the living room. To me, the piano was my escape route; it took me away from the party and into my own little world. I slowly sat down, still nervous about playing the first few notes and making some noise that would draw attention to myself. I wanted to remain inconspicuous…but I really wanted to play.
I started slowly and worked my way into a Bach minuet, gradually getting faster until my fingers zoomed around the keys almost effortlessly. Soon I felt the presence of others and when I looked up I noticed that several parents and kids had huddled over to the piano and were watching me and whispering.
“Where did he learn to play like that?” I heard one mom ask.
My mom saw I was settled into my niche and left. The birthday kid came over and told me I was good. My playing had stopped the football game, and I realized that perhaps I would be able to survive the party as long as I kept playing. I didn’t want to end a song, for I felt that would bring me back to the social gathering that I wasn’t sure how to handle.
After some Mozart, Beethoven and a little more Bach, for kicks, the party came to an end quicker than I had imagined. When I left, the parents told my mother how good I was and how great it was to have some music and how they wished their kids could play like that. In the car my mom asked me how the kids were.
“Oh, they’re all right, I guess,” I answered, but the truth was, I really didn’t know. |
