Remember who you were to be who you are

Earlier this week, I saw a photograph that brought tears to my eyes. The photograph was from 1958, when I was only 5 years old. It was taken at Christmastime in my childhood home. My cousin posted it in a text thread that our cousins share. Why would this photo have that effect on me? In the simple black-and-white photo was my much-loved maternal grandfather, Jacob (John) Kitts. It doesn’t look like anything special, but it is to me.

Sitting in our living room in long dark pants and a button-down shirt was not his usual attire. I picture him in khaki work pants and a white T-shirt out on the dock behind his house at the Jersey Shore. You will notice that the collar of his shirt was not buttoned. He was not just being casual. His wide neck defied shirt collar buttons. Notice his large hands and wide fingers. These hands fixed things, built things and worked on plumbing. He was a carpenter and a master plumber. He could make things grow.

Seeing those hands, I remembered how my hand felt in his. There was nowhere I felt more safe, more special or more protected. We held hands walking on the beach or on the boardwalk when we went for a night out. I was enthralled by these special nights out with Pop-Pop, as we children called him. It might be hard to believe today, but we dressed up for those occasions. I have a photo of myself in a frilly dress with a crinoline petticoat underneath it, complete with lace socks and Mary Jane shoes. The hustle and bustle of an evening on the boardwalk with a warm summer breeze, bright colored lights and the smells and tastes of treats like frozen custard or Planters peanuts were the stuff of childhood magic. Much later in life, I learned that he much preferred a quiet evening at home to those nights in town vying for parking with tourists. He did it for me and for my other cousin.

He loved the sea, the salt air, the natural world and being in his boat. He taught me to love them too. Blue crabs were abundant in the bay behind his house. My cousin and I each had our own crab traps that we lowered from the deck out back. I would go to the bait shop a couple of doors away and bring the stinky fish heads wrapped in newsprint for him to tie in the traps. Blue crabs were also in the ocean. On one beach walk along the water’s edge, a large blue crab grabbed onto my big toe. It hurt and scared me. My grandfather sprung into action. When he could not get the crab to release my toe, even with his strong hands, he found a piece of driftwood and smacked the daylights out of that crab. It released my toe and wobbled dizzily back into the ocean. He checked my toe and decided I would live. Nevertheless, he scooped me up and carried me back to the car. My grandmother tended my wound and I got mileage out of my escapade. How could you not adore someone who defended your honor against a diabolical sea creature?

If you saw the photo of me dressed up, you would notice my thick glasses. My left eye drifted into the corner due to a weakened muscle. Damage had been caused at my birth. My poor sight made me timid and unsure when I was young. I wasn’t good at sports because my depth perception was off. My parents made sure I got the best eye care possible in the early 1950s. Still, the effects on my young personality lingered.

My grandfather loomed large in my life even though he died several years after this photo was taken. He lavished love on me in his own rugged way. I forgot my self-consciousness in his presence and simply had fun.

You may know me now and be surprised to hear me describe myself in this way. But that little girl still lives inside. Over many years, I have learned to care for her and tell her she doesn’t need to be afraid.

The best way I heard this described was in a Substack post by Kate Bowler, who writes “Everything. Happens.” In this post, she quotes poet Maggie Smith. I thought it worth passing along to you:

“The poet Maggie Smith once told me that she thinks of our lives like little wooden matryoshka dolls. Inside is a 45-year-old woman, and a 43-year-old her and a 13-year-old her and a 7-year-old her. All the earlier versions are still there. We are not “saved over,” she said, like a final draft that deletes all evidence of what came before. We are saved alongside.” Maybe remembering who you were is a moment to recognize continually. The version of you who survived something you still find hard to talk about. They are still all in there.

If progress feels invisible right now, maybe the holiest thing you can do is nod to the earlier selves and say: "I see you.”