Running Away..A Memoir

by Linda Lucchetti

I remember the time I ran away from my father, wishing that his comfortable house with the newly decorated living room and formal dining area complete with two sets of china could have been a home. It was all so unnecessary, the trouble he caused and the fear he inspired. I suppose he couldn’t help it coming from the Old Country, where women were second class citizens, and the male was the reigning head of the household, whether he earned the title or not. So, one summer morning when I was fourteen, I ran back to my mother, to poverty, to illness and to love.

Very carefully I planned my escape, studying the train schedules from Long Island to Penn Station in New York City. I was diligent about deciphering my father’s commuting schedule, since he would take the same trains only moments earlier. I had to be sure that I wouldn’t run into him on the station platform when passengers transferred to a local NYC train in Jamaica, Queens. After packing a few things and not being able to give any thought to leaving my four-year old step-brother unattended, I made my way to freedom, via my very own Underground Railroad.

I’m not sure how much money I had, but it was enough. It must have been enough. Her name is Sigrid, the best mother in the world. In her presence, I was at my best and most secure, despite her condition. So, with a few pieces of clothing and a prayer, I made my carefully planned departure. That morning, I worried about everything. Did I leave behind any hint of my plan? What if my father comes after me? What if the train’s conductor knows my secret? It didn’t seem likely when he brushed past me and announced. “All passengers wishing to continue to Penn Station transfer to the opposite track.” I transferred to the next train, always worried, always looking. If my father caught me, I was as good as dead. But, I went on because I had to. Finally, the train pulled into the NYC station very slowly. Each time the brakes squealed, fear burned through me. “What happens if I see my father in Penn Station? I just kept telling myself that I was being ridiculous and that it wasn’t at all likely that he was there. After all, he was not one to linger, coffee in hand, or to browse in the shops if he had the extra time. Life’s small enjoyments were lost upon him. As I exited the train I started to feel that I was free. Just a little free until I found myself staring straight into the eyes of my social worker sitting at an open café. He was clearly stunned, but he let me go on. I know there is a God since he left me to my devices, uninterrupted. A modern miracle, I think.

My mother and grandmother rented a small room in a decent boarding house. It was a far cry from the privileged life I enjoyed as a younger girl, but it didn’t matter. When I was with them I was in a palace. A palace of free expression and free speech, no holds barred. How fortunate I had been. Only when it was taken away, and I was forced to live in a house where I didn’t utter a word for fear of incurring my father’s wrath did I realize its’ value. Once again, I could be with the people that understood and accepted me unconditionally. Now the music could play. The music of my heart could once again drown out the unhappiness. The sun would shine again and I could be happy.

I arrived at the address on Huguenot Avenue to see that my mother had been drinking. I knew she would be, but I didn’t care. Her love filtered through anyway. Her love radiated through the gaze in her magnificent hazel eyes that sometimes turned a brilliant green. It never stopped. My grandmother, Berta was always a source of emotional strength. Everyday, she would play solitaire, or tell your fortune using a traditional deck of cards. A Mama Rose of my very own awaited my return.

Needless to say, that evening when the policeman came to our door, my happiness waned. I knew it was coming. The officer looked around and was clearly alarmed at the conditions. He meant well. He just wanted to bring me back to that lovely, cozy house in Long Island, so I abruptly ran away from him. He chased me and held me down. It must have looked ridiculous. What was I going to do to a grown man, and a policeman at that? What? I pleaded with him not to take me back. He seemed to listen at a certain point and asked for some sort of documentation that would allow me to stay. I thought it was hopeless. How would my aging grandmother locate these papers in all the disarray? But she did and the officer released me. I know he didn’t understand why I would want to live there. He wasn’t able to see the walls of gilded silver, and the floors of platinum. He wasn’t able to hear the room whisper ‘you’re free, finally free’.