Fitting In Campus looks different than
usual. Or feels different. The sheets of rain remind me of winters in California
and for the first time I’m homesick. A gust of wind hits me and I remember
jump-roping outside my house before school on a rainy, breezy day much like
this; as I walk between two buildings both the breeze and the memory disappear,
leaving nothing more than a faded snapshot of a little girl with a jump-rope.
by M.M. Lewis, October 2002
Random recollections like this come and go more frequently since leaving home.
It’s almost dangerous for me to walk outside my dorm, because everything I see,
hear, feel has the power to remind me of home. Of my family. In a way it
frustrates me to have these memories caught like giant salmon on a fishing pole,
only to slip away seconds later, but at the same time I relish the ability to be
with my family—even if only in my mind.
Walking through the bookstore recently I saw a bag of salt-water taffy and
suddenly I’m on vacation in Morro Bay. My sister Kendy is upset with me because
I accidentally told my parents the wrong dates for Spring Break, and we’re
missing a week of school to be here. I don’t mind the extra time away from
school, but vacation with my family is never relaxing. We try going
window-shopping. Kendy wants to look in every shop, my dad wants her to stop
being so slow, and my mom wants to know what he has planned for the day; all of
them end up frustrated, my sister in tears. I can only hope I don’t let my
frustration show, hope I remain the calm and apathetic one. Luckily someone
suggests going to the beach, an activity that satisfies everyone’s wishes, even
mine. At the beach I can wander about on my own, relax, let go of the tension
building inside me. But the beach doesn’t work either. Mom is tired and ready to
go back to the hotel long before either Kendy or I are, leaving us both cranky
on the drive back. The rest of vacation goes much the same way; I want to be
left alone to do my own thing. Only on the last day in Morro Bay, while we stop
to buy salt-water taffy, do I realize I just wasted what could have been a week
of quality time with my family.
The bag of taffy in the bookstore was the first in a day full of reminders, both
visible and invisible, of life at home. My roommate mentioned her surprise at
having been accepted to BYU, and immediately I think of growing up. My
acceptance letter comes the day after I get my first boyfriend. Both the letter
and the boyfriend make my parents and I closer, yet somehow more distant. I am
terrified of telling my dad that I have a boyfriend, not because my dad is a
scary person but because I am completely unsure how he’ll react to the news. As
I explain that one of my friends has asked me out, he asks me a few “fatherly”
questions, and it dawns on me that we’re speaking two different versions of the
same language. He thinks I mean I’ve been asked out on a date. When he
understands what I really am saying, he’s friendly, happy for me. I am still his
daughter, his little girl, but at the same time I’m not. I have started to move
toward being his friend. Later that day I’m on the phone when my dad brings me
an envelope with “Brigham Young University Admissions Office” as the return
address. In my excitement I don’t even notice how this is probably the start of
letting go for him.
By the time I got my acceptance letter I felt more “at home” at home—more like I
did belong. For years I thought I just didn’t fit in, in the one place it seemed
I should have fit. My older brother Scott and my sister Kendy both have
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD), and although I’m the fourth of five
children I felt sandwiched between them. Right after the salt-water taffy I
passed a display of puppets in the bookstore, and I was taken back to third
grade, long before I understood what OCD was. My young mind doesn’t wonder why
Scott is staying in a hospital an hour and a half away or why the rooms don’t
look like the hospital rooms on TV. I notice instead the giant stuffed Snoopy
sitting on his bed, and the little bear puppet one of the nurses gives me. I
don’t question why we spend Christmas in Walnut Creek or why there are no
shoelaces in my brother’s shoes; in fact, I don’t figure out until eighth grade
that this is a psychiatric hospital. I feel bad for Scott because he isn’t
feeling well, but I also wish my parents would pay lots of attention to me, too.
I always wanted more attention, and was constantly on the lookout for any
inequality between what my parents gave me and what they gave Scott and Kendy. I
hated my mom’s double standard about dinner. If she served something I hated,
that was very sad for me, but non-negotiable; if Kendy was in the same
situation, she was allowed to find her own food. It “bothered her OCD” to eat
things like oranges, which she claimed made her sick merely by the smell. It was
easier for my parents to acquiesce than to endure the tantrum that would
undoubtedly follow if they refused, but it instilled in me to some extent a
bitterness toward Scott and Kendy and their OCD.
A sense of belonging was even harder for me to come by after Brian and Geoffrey,
my two oldest brothers, found wives and moved away from home, but some of my
strongest feelings of love in my family came from them. I heard someone speaking
Russian the other day, the language Brian learned on his mission. Growing up he
was the sibling I got along with best, and when he left for two years it was
hard to adjust to him being gone. For my tenth birthday I’d been given a journal
and in it I wrote about the rest of my family trying to fill in during Brian’s
absence. A few years later he’s engaged, and I’m worried about not being such
good friends after he moves away. Hesitantly, I copy what I’ve written and slip
it under his door. A little while later there’s a note under my door. All it
says is “Thank you,” but it calms my fears. I know I will always matter to him.
Above my desk in my dorm I have a copy of Jesus the Christ by James E. Talmage.
As I wrote a report not too long ago I saw it out of the corner of my eye. But
instead of seeing my copy, on my shelf, I see Geoffrey sitting on our living
room couch reading his copy. Our parents are out on a date; everyone else is
already in bed. I tell him goodnight.
“Mika,” he says, “I know big brothers aren’t supposed to say this, but I love
you.”
And again I know I will always matter. But despite these reassurances, knowledge
of my parents’ care for me was harder for me to come by. Brian and Geoffrey grew
up and had families, and my mom and dad loved visiting and talking to them.
Compounding this inattention to me, Scott and Kendy both worsened in their
symptoms of OCD. I felt like even though I lived in our house, I was not really
part of my family. Brian and Geoffrey were important because they were grown up;
Scott and Kendy were important because they were Scott and Kendy. I didn’t know
how to be anything besides Mika, and that wasn’t being very effective in getting
attention. Not the kind of positive attention I wanted, at least.
Yesterday at the library, as I searched anxiously for books for an already-late
paper, there was a girl standing by the elevators crying. Her boyfriend stood
next to her, trying unsuccessfully to calm her. Whatever the problem was, I
could sympathize with her inability to be comforted. The second day of my last
Youth Conference started much the same way. I finally manage to wake up, and I
panic. I have to pick up a friend and be at the Stake Center in twenty minutes.
In my rush to get ready I find a note from my ex-boyfriend that sends me into
tears, tears that I had barely managed to suppress in my anger for not waking up
on schedule. By the time my dad, sister, and I make it to my friend’s house I’ve
recovered from the note, but the frustration of oversleeping remains and I slam
the car door as I hurry to get my friend. At the Stake Center—miraculously, we
weren’t late—my dad asks me to wait in the car a minute. I expect advice about
making sure Kendy has fun; instead I receive a lecture on my disrespect,
rudeness, and attitude toward my dad. I am completely lost as to what he thinks
I did, but the sting of his words is so much that I can’t form words to reply. I
burst into tears again as he continues. My attitude needs to change, I need to
be nice. Be nicer. Me be nicer? I’m not the one making someone cry.
I’m through listening. There isn’t any more I can tolerate hearing. I rush
inside the Stake Center to find a shoulder to cry on, but it doesn’t help. Only
when we begin loading into vehicles to go do service projects am I able to stop
sobbing. My service is less than willing; I would rather sleep and forget my
woes than help build a house. I still can’t figure out what I did to upset my
dad so much.
Finally the service project is over. I have three hours to kill before Testimony
Meeting. My mom comes to pick Kendy and me up; I can’t decide if it’s good, so I
can talk to her, or bad, because it may mean that my dad isn’t talking to me. Is
there a reason for his bad mood? I want to know. Her answer is vague; she was
unaware that he was in a bad mood. I make up my mind to have a discussion with
him at home. He’s in the kitchen eating. More terrified than when I told him
about having a boyfriend, I take a seat at the table.
Acting as my own lawyer, I make points in my defense. I think I’ve actually been
easy to get along with lately. I try to be friendly. I don’t understand why he’s
upset, or was, but I make a few concessions anyway. I explain my bad mood:
waking up late, finding the note, being rushed. I apologize for slamming the car
door and for giving the impression of being rude. And I wait for a reaction.
“Well, if that’s the case, we’d better make up then,” he says with a smile. He
apologizes, too. There it is again—getting to be friends.
Becoming friends with my parents, and with my family as a whole, has been one of
the most unexpected and pleasant things I’ve had the opportunity to experience.
My last summer at home was unlike any other. I made genuine efforts to get along
with everyone, and it worked. While I was growing up, I shared a room with
Kendy, and we were constant companions, but as each of us got older we grew
apart. This last summer I saw a return to the friendship we once had. My parents
as well were easier to talk to, even fun to talk to.
Getting older helped me realize how I fit into my family. My parents and
siblings recognized that I was growing up and wouldn’t be home for much longer.
Brian and Geoffrey called and wrote to me often, interested in my goals and
plans for the future. But a second part of my realization was my personal and
emotional growth. Through church, friends, and school I came to understand that
family is the most important thing in life. A family is forever, and I finally
figured out that if I want to be happy in the eternities I had better learn to
get along with mine. I also began to see my family members as individual and
unique people, not just brothers, sisters, or parents, and they got to know me
as well. That all made it a whole lot easier to cooperate and enjoy spending
time with my family.
When I got to BYU, I was astonished to find just how much I missed my family. In
a new environment with new people, I longed for the sense of belonging that I
felt when I was at home—exactly what I had once thought impossible. The first
few weeks also showed me that my family missed me as much as I missed them. At
church the first Sunday I was gone, my dad kept wondering where I was. My mom
told me that when she went to BYU the rain made her think of winters in
California, too, and I could tell that we both wished I was home. As I walk
across campus with memories constantly being caught and released, I continue to
gain insights into my place in my family. I am a big sister off at college,
doing exciting things; I am a little sister, already an adult; I am a daughter,
far away from home and growing up way too quickly; and most of all I am Mika,
exactly where I belong—in a loving family where I know that I am an important
and loved child of God.