Root For Each Other

The sign on the back of a car window read ROOT FOR EACH OTHER — I was late for a meeting, I was irritated, but here were four words that changed my day.

I was driving behind this car and wanted to say well done to the driver. I did a big thumbs up, hoping he’d notice. He didn’t. I tried a finger wave which caused me to slow down which caused the woman in the car behind me to give me a different kind of finger wave. I wasn’t going to root for her, but I did hope her day got better.

I sipped my coffee and thought about rooting for someone. That goes beyond encouragement, it involves body language, volume. I thought, strangely, about graduating from eighth grade. I hated my dress, I couldn’t walk in my heels, eighth grade had been a tough year for me. I kept looking around to see if my dad had come. My parents were divorced. He hadn’t. All during the ceremony I scanned the crowd. No father. Well, okay. I went up to my family after it was over, they were smiling, my mom and sisters hugged me, but my grandmother grabbed my hands and her face just beamed. She had the best smile. “You did it, Joanie..” she said it not softly. “You did it!” Then she hugged me with her whole self — the kind of hug where you rock back and forth together until the love is fully transferred.

More coffee. I remembered a middle grade boy who came with his class to hear me speak at the public library. I was talking about my novel, Rules of the Road, a story about a girl who was trying to keep the door open with her alcoholic father who kept disappointing her, just like my dad had disappointed me. This boy was sitting in the front row, raising his hand, asking questions, But how can you do that? How’d you do it, Mrs. Bauer? How’d you stay in touch with him? Even when it hurt? How?”

I told him, “I tried to remember that alcoholism is a disease, and he had a sickness, and this was how sick people acted sometimes.” But that made it sound too easy. I looked out at all the kids in front of me. How much is right to say? I sensed several knew first-hand what I was talking about…

How did you do it? The boy asked me again. I need to know.

I threw out my hands. “I don’t know exactly how, but somebody had told me, Look, Joan, you have a pretty messed-up father. Most people wouldn’t blame you for walking away. There were times when I did, but I tried to find ways we could talk. I loved him. I loved him till the end.”

He died?

“Yeah…”

How?

I looked at the librarian who nodded, Go ahead. I said, “Suicide.”

The boy jumped out of his seat and grabbed my hand. “Okay, you know what? You’re brave, Mrs. Bauer. You’re really brave.”

“No I’m not.”

“I’m telling you,” he shouted, “cause you wrote about it in a book and I’m going to give it to my dad, and you’re here. You know? You’re here…“

Showing up — I get the importance of that. But writing that book, I was scared every minute.

“You’re brave,” I told him. He looked down. I said it louder.

“Sign my arm.” He handed me a black pen.

I try not to sign body parts.

“I won’t wash it. Ever.”

‘I won’t hold you to that.” I signed his right arm.

“Put the date.”

I did, near his elbow.

“I’m gonna remember you,” he told me. “I swear.”

My eyes were wet. Oh, I think I’m going to remember you more.

I had another presentation that day at another school. I had to leave. That boy led the cheer as I walked out the door. Writers normally don’t cry at a library visit, but libraries can handle all kinds of emotions.

So, I finished my coffee. The ROOT FOR EACH OTHER car turned left, I turned right. When I got home, I took a sign that was near my clothes washer and put it in my office. It read:

REMEMBER YOUR ROOTS.

Please help spread the word…