Ours was a unique relationship, but one that was understandably comfortable. Beginning as pen-pals, we quickly noted the potential in each other for the development of a lasting closeness and a willingness to listen; these factors, augmented further by our great need to be understood and accepted as we were, provided a sturdy foundation for friendship. Each letter became a prize, something regarded with zest and anticipation, for in it would be heartfelt troubles or elation, and possible advice or consolation in reference to previous correspondence. Thus, after two years of personal disclosure, we felt compelled to meet each other.
In retrospect, it was amazing that her parents had given her permission to accept our invitation. Having no clear picture of who I was aside from a grocery sack full of my letters, which I might add, they were not allowed to read, Sherry's trip was prefaced by a great deal of anticipation; her parents coached her, and a long-necked neighbor preached doom and despair, while friends queried about the need to visit "some hick girl in the corn fields." She carried the anticipation with her as she approached our airport terminal; it was inscribed on her face next to the wary smile and suspicious eyes. I, too, had been nervous, but by the end of the day, our misgivings had been washed away by a flood of chatter. When we once again stood in the airport terminal, tears welled up in our eyes; we were parting not as pen-pals, but as friends. The days ahead seemed a little more empty because we could share no more time together. As I prepared to fly to New York, I fostered nervous qualms, yet my anxiety did not reflect upon Sherry or her home; I was hoping wildly that we would still "get along." Letters did not fill the gap that had appeared after meeting Sherry; before we had been pen friends, but now we were friends who wrote to each other. It was somehow quite different, and it was I who felt in need of a shield.
Conversation was slow at first, with each of us uncertain as to which topics would spark the most interest. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake in coming. Her excitable nature sometimes startled me, and when she told of incidents wherein she had screamed her rage at local friends, I cringed in silence, hoping that I never would evoke such fervor.
As the evening crept away, our tongues relaxed and I felt somewhat relieved. I could be no one but myself, and I seemed to feel I was being accepted; within I experienced a mental sigh of relief. Looking at the clock, we discovered the hour was near 4:00 a.m. and thought it would be best to go to sleep. "Before we can do anything tomorrow," Sherry said, "I have to pick up the kitchen and pick up the living room. . ." I snickered and exclaimed, "Gee. . . you must be strong!" Any remaining tension broke under our laughter; humor worked miracles.
The following three weeks passed in a flurry of activity, talk and laughter. I fell into the role of second daughter and was pleased that my temporary home proved so hospitable. Whether joking over evening popcorn or sudsy dishwater, it was obvious that I was no guest, but a welcome member of the tribe.
With Sherry and her parents I captured a lush glimpse of the Niagara Falls; I also accompanied them on a company picnic and a family reunion. Most of the time, however, Sherry and I ran our own agenda, comprised of shopping sprees, hikes, drives in the country, movies, and everything else imaginable. We frequented one particular pizza parlor with such predictability that our arrival was greeted with quizzical stares. We also learned the horror of leaving one's car locked in a parking garage after midnight, when, upon returning via bus from the state fair, we discovered we had been misinformed as to the supposed 24 hour status of the garage; though vandals seldom work in another's favor, a sawed-off portion of a railing allowed freedom from an otherwise assured overnight imprisonment, which, in turn, would have left us few options but to search for a phone in some unlikely business establishment.
Leaving Syracuse was a melancholic affair which generated an inner sense of solitude and reminded me that I had no close friends of my own age and gender at home. Curious though it may sound, I also realized it was largely my fault, having a high intolerance for mind games, play-acting, and senseless chatter. Moreover, there seemed to be no median between the judgmental and the valueless. I could never tolerate the former group, for no one is perfect, and I was slowly drawing away from the undauntable latter group. I had the ideas about life which I would not allow to be tainted through carelessness or indiscretion; certain forms of filth were, I knew, impossible to wash away. I began to wonder if one's character could be defiled by mere association. . . and I drifted further still from former friends.
I became markedly outraged at schoolmates who acted irresponsibly and then decided that my ear was the one upon which they could hurl their misadventurous rot. Initially I listened in silence, disagreeing with promiscuity and the like, yet maintaining a wall of mute disapproval so I would not dampen the various relationships. One's sexuality, I reasoned, was only a portion of the individual and need not pollute the entire character. Little by little, however, my intolerance toward certain propensities grew and eventually led to mutual partings rather than outright broken friendships. Some differences create gaps, and others gulfs.
This change of friends produced a mellowing effect on my lifestyle which I not only needed, but desired, and although I indulged in fewer social activities, I found this new aspect acceptable, and indeed, preferable over my past. After I realized my nervous energy was my mind's plea for help and change, and continual activity for its own sake led only to emptiness, it did not take long for my "rowdiness" to wane. I discovered without parental interference that "the wild side" of life did not conform to my concept of what life should be; I cared too much for honesty in friendships to enjoy parties wherein play-acting was a primary focus. The mere idea of taking drugs seemed incredibly idiotic and was complicated further by its exorbitant price-tag and illegality; the first element staved my urge to experiment with drugs, while the last two set that feeling in cement. Toward alcohol I fostered a friendly regard although I despised immoderation; liquor could be enjoyed without partaking to excess. I held little respect for those who required intoxication to have fun and also disliked seeing an individual's personality change under its influence, for in my opinion, such revelations demonstrated a lack of genuineness of character when sober. Although I enjoyed certain alcoholic beverages, it did not matter whether or not I drank; I was crazy enough to enjoy life and have fun without liquor, and it certainly was less expensive.
For the most part, I felt that my emotions had stabilized. I no longer was living "on the edge," squinting at brilliant sunlight and then plunging into gray storm clouds; nor was I tough or immune to pain. Of course, I did not wish to become a robot, devoid of emotional concern, yet in certain instances, a lack of feeling would have been welcome.