Unsupervised

I've always known I had an unconventional upbringing.

Once I met my husband and he started hearing—and witnessing, and continuing to hear—stories about my childhood, he eventually found the perfect word for it.

Unsupervised.

That's it.

I grew up unsupervised.

Unsupervised on a schedule, though.

My childhood didn't have a whole lot of structure in terms of what happened every day, but there was structure around the time we had to do it.

Morning meant school.

Get up. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. Put on lotion. Put on deodorant.

Those were the main things.

Highly suggested that you also wash your face and maybe wipe down some other parts of yourself that needed wiping down. But if nothing else?

Teeth. Lotion. Deodorant.

Then, breakfast.

We qualified for free breakfast and lunch at school, and don't let them be serving those sausage pancake dogs—corn dogs on a stick.

I'm not only eating mine.

I'm eating my sister's.

And I'm hustling anybody else who doesn't want theirs.

Then class.

I have always been an observer, so school was mostly me absorbing whatever was most interesting in the room.

Somebody making jokes in this corner?

I'm over there.

I'm in it, but I ain't in it.

You can't quote me.

But those jokes were good.

Somebody in the other corner actually understands whatever we were just taught?

I'm over there, too.

Oh, you get it?

Explain it.

I'll listen.

I was a butterfly.

Then school ended, and there was usually some after-school activity because my father worked late. Eventually, there was the activity bus home.

And then came the window.

We knew we had from this time until that time before somebody came home—whether that somebody was my grandma or my dad.

What happened during those hours evolved as we got older.

But those hours belonged to us.

We were unsupervised.

And when I think about it now, I believe some of my greatest development happened there.

Those were the hours when I was most myself.

Those were the hours when I reflected.

Those were the hours when I explored.

Those were also the hours when I fought.

Every fistfight I have ever had happened during unsupervised hours.

Obviously.

I'm not throwing blows in front of adults.

What?

I'm not trying to get my ass beat.

I'm trying to beat your ass.

That needs to happen unsupervised.

I remember putting my fists up for the first time. I remember fighting my cousin in the yard. I remember learning things about myself that nobody could have sat me down at a table and taught me.

I learned my strength.

I learned my boundaries.

I learned people.

I learned me.

And that's the thing about being unsupervised.

Nobody was standing over us, but that didn't necessarily mean nobody was watching.

My grandma might not have been home, but there was another grandma across the street looking through her front window.

The neighbors knew us.

People knew whose children belonged to whom.

Somebody knew where we were.

Somebody would notice if something wasn't right.

We were cared for without constantly being observed.

There was usually some responsible person somewhere in the midst whose primary responsibility seemed to be:

Keep these children alive.

Beyond that?

Go play.

And lately, I've started seeing it again.

I'll walk through a neighborhood and see a clump of kids together. No parent hovering directly over them. No adult orchestrating what they're supposed to be doing.

Just kids.

Talking.

Playing.

Figuring things out.

Being themselves without knowing yet that they're becoming themselves.

And I love that.

Because now I understand what those hours gave me.

They gave me room.

There are so many layers that make up Nay.

The child eating somebody else's sausage pancake dog.

The observer floating between groups.

The girl listening to somebody explain the lesson.

The sister.

The fighter.

The cousin.

The child being watched through somebody else's grandmother's window.

The child spending summers in somebody else's home because they loved us and loved my father enough to give him some relief.

The scars.

The memories.

The evidence.

I love all of her.

And maybe that's why I've always known what kind of old woman I want to become.

I've always said I want to be like my grandma.

I'm beginning to understand what I mean by that.

I want to become a place.

I want to become the house people can come to.

I want to become the person who can say,

Send them to me for the summer.

My first baby was my little sister.

Then came my little brother.

Then cousins.

Then nieces and nephews and children I have loved and embraced throughout my life.

One day, some of my babies will have babies.

And maybe those babies will have babies.

And somewhere down that line will be a child who gets to receive the love of Nay.

That thought makes me emotional because I realize I am already preparing for them.

Future Nay is being built right now.

She's being built every time I put money into retirement.

Every time I care for my home.

Every time I learn something.

Every time I choose peace.

Every time I become a little more myself.

I'm putting in my time here.

I'm preparing for an old age I actually want to experience.

Today, there may be $5,000 in the retirement account.

One day, maybe there will be $500,000.

But the money isn't the vision.

The money helps build the place where the vision gets to live.

A peaceful home.

Food.

Room.

Time.

Adventures.

A safe place to land.

A summer somebody remembers when they're fifty.

I can see myself welcoming the children of my babies' babies into my home the way people once welcomed me into theirs.

I'll take care of them.

I'll listen to them.

I'll show them things.

I'll give them experiences.

I'll make sure they brush their teeth.

I'll make sure they put on lotion.

And deodorant.

Definitely deodorant.

I'll supervise them.

But I'll also know when to disappear.

Because somebody once gave me that gift.

Not complete freedom.

Not abandonment.

Room.

The kind of room where you know somebody loves you, somebody knows where you are, somebody is probably looking through a window somewhere—

but nobody is standing over you telling you who to be.

And maybe I'll look through my own window one day and see a clump of children outside.

Talking.

Laughing.

Arguing.

Exploring.

Becoming.

I'll know they're safe.

I'll know they're cared for.

And I'll leave them alone.

Unsupervised.

With love,