Grief is a Journey, And It’s Hell on Wheels
This month marks two years since I lost my dad.
The coming of spring—heralded by the tree frogs that sing to me from a nearby pond every evening—brings sense memory-triggered grief that feels discordant as the world gets brighter and more colorful.
The unstoppable azaleas
The smell of rain on the warming dirt, the deep blue nights of spring’s lingering dusk—in a moment these things can pull me back to the pain I felt two years ago, the ache I still feel now but manage to compartmentalize for the sake of functioning in society. (My dad would be the first one to say “Get back to work, ya bum!”) The day he died, I showed him a photo of my azalea bush, newly sprung with hot pink blooms. (My dad always loved a gardening moment.) He told me he wanted to come and see them in person, when he was better. Today, the green of those buds are swelling, and I know that they’ll burst soon. I can barely look at them, and when I do the stone in my throat feels like it has grown sharp edges.
Years ago, a friend introduced me to this, from Aeschylus’ play Agamemnon:
In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.
My dad’s death has brought with it a tremendous amount of wisdom, too much to get into here. I know many of you know. But I did want to share one thing I’ve come to feel since he passed: I’ve got to get busy living.
I am not much of a “bucket list” person, something about it feels too cutesy for me. Still, my mental Pinterest board is pretty chock full of things I’ve always said I’d do when I have time (never), energy (meh), money (ha?) and opportunity (🦗crickets🦗).
When my father died, I had to come to terms with the mortality of this person—my person—who was always so much larger than life. And in turn, I had to come to terms with my own impermanence, the ticking of my own clock, and the reality that one day this would all end for me, too. Unless I changed my perspective, that Pinterest board largely full of untried experiences would stay that way, set aside because I was too busy folding the mountain of laundry on my couch to just go do them.
And so, a few weeks ago, I went to my first Roller Derby practice.
Roller Derby is something I have said I’d try since I first heard about it in the late 90s. The subculture of it appealed to me, as someone who always felt like a escapee from the island of misfit toys, more comfortable on the fringes. I imagined it as a place where people were fearless—and ruthless. I assumed it was a place where players could be who they were, and where a sense of acceptance and team spirit threaded through everything. That’s what Sassy magazine said, and I believed it.
Still, I never tried it.
And so a few weeks ago, motivated by recklessness, over-caffeination, and mortal dread, I reached out to Jersey Shore Roller Derby on Instagram. My message was received by a really lovely person named Bruise Springsteen (a genius moniker), who explained that I didn’t need experience and I didn’t even need skates (which I actually had, with bright rainbows on them). They were so welcoming and patient that it eased some of my fears. Then came the 700-page indemnity forms alongside abundant health insurance information and several emergency contact numbers and boom—I was ready.
I should mention: At Derby everyone goes by their Derby names, even at practice. And woooooo, there are some good ones. Pain Eyre? Hermione Danger? It is a copywriter’s dream. My name—chosen years ago in the days when this was just a pipe dream—is Amelia Tearhart, an homage to the feminist icon whose biography I had discovered in the 4th grade and re-read countless times.
About a day before the actual practice, I started to have real doubts about the sanity of my plan. What if I fell? What if they laughed at me? Was I too old? Too scared? What about my teeth—were they safe? My dental plan is terrible. But at 7pm on the indicated day, my likewise-newbie friend Ash Wednesday picked me up for practice. There was no going back.
Bruise and the rest of the team were welcoming—maybe even excited to see us. I worried that maybe they would be disappointed, that they didn’t understand the depths of my “beginnerness.” We were among about four other new skaters there to learn the basics and see if Derby was for us, and we each got complimentary mouthguards. (Phew.)
As I laced up my retro rainbow high boot skates (as slowly as possible) my best hopes were that I could actually stand upright on wheels, and that I wouldn’t fall down too often. Around me, players glided by in their very cool, much shorter Derby skates, moving effortlessly as they chatted through the warmup.
The gymnasium floor we were on was incredibly slick, but somehow once I had every limb swathed with padding some long-forgotten muscle memory kicked in and I was able to skate a bit. I was grateful for the many Saturdays I had spent at the United Skates of America in Brooklyn as a kid (where this iconic commercial was filmed, by the way).
I was able to stand and even do a few laps around the floor, slowly at first like a wobbly baby horse, and then a tiny bit faster. I surprised myself and felt somewhat overwhelmed that I was actually doing it. After some warming up, we were taught a skill I truly needed to learn: how to fall. Learning to fall properly on our padded knees made the prospect of it much less scary—though I definitely fell the “wrong” way a few times, too.
As time went on and I went to a few practices, I made a promise to myself that I would try everything they taught even if my immediate reaction was that I could “never” do it. I’ve managed to surprise myself in that way, too. It took me three weeks to feel like I “got” the plough stop, and even now I can only guarantee it at slow speeds. (My preferred method of stopping is to shout “I can’t stop!” at oncoming skaters. One of the great parts of Derby is that someone always shouts back “I got you!” and lets you crash into them.) Currently I am working on crossovers, for rounding the corner of the track at a high speed. You know the move I’m talking: fast, graceful, cool and full of confidence. Successfully executed, it is completely unlike what I am actually doing.
It’s a few weeks in and I am not certified for contact yet—that means I haven’t gotten to the point where I can actually play in a bout because I have to learn (and master) some of the basics safely. And, despite attending Derby bouts and getting lessons from nearby players, I’ve yet to learn the encyclopedic book of rules and regulations. It will probably take a while, but I am not in a rush.
For now, I’m enjoying going to practices and meeting some very cool people, attending bouts and pushing myself outside my comfort zone. Soon I’ll volunteer as a NSO—non-skating official—because the games rely heavily on volunteers in the community.
Will I be a Derby star? LOL. Do I really like it? Definitely. Am I glad to be doing it? 100%. I am proud of myself for solving the mystery of when it would happen, and glad I didn’t let this chance skate on by. (See what I did there?)
At the team’s season kick-off party just a few weeks after I started, Mary and I were welcomed like family, and she even got a Derby name—Bloody Mary. It is always an incredible feeling to walk in a room and to feel like people are happy to see you.
Amelia Tearhart, ready for takeoff.
I am a big believer in alchemizing pain into something beautiful. For me, the grief I feel from losing my dad has led me towards a connection and community that I did not expect. The people I have met at Derby shine bright. They have a default setting that is support and kindness. They work hard and are committed but they are openminded and easygoing at the same time. Their acceptance of me has felt like a balm for my spirit.
A balm for the rest of me? That’s another story.
PS: If you’re walking through grief at this moment, this song has always brought me comfort.
