What Gigi Said

November 2004 brought first word that Tommi would deploy for Iraq. At the time we knew no more than the most basic of details, but of course that was enough. It was difficult news with less than a month to make all the necessary arrangements. I would fly home two weeks later for Christmas at Thanksgiving – Brad would buy the tree early, and all the decorating would be done by the time I arrived. In the meantime Tommi would be packing the last of her things into storage, suspending course work, and at the last moment, saying good-bye to her students. “Let’s keep this on the down-low,” she insisted. “Less drama is better.”

We find ways to cope – or are found by them. I found shelter in silence; days passed as if the “mute button” had been pushed and all of the sound of the world had been sucked away. I could see the noise of life around me, but none of it reached my ears – a curious numbing to be insulated in silence. I have pages of notes from hours of classes but don’t remember the professor talking. I know that I went to meetings, laughed with friends, and continued to earn my wage, but the sounds of being alive remained at a distance until Gigi.

It was a Thursday. We met for a cup of coffee that turned into a glass of wine and an hour and a half or two of conversation. Her son was in Iraq – or just back, I don’t remember, and we mourned that our children had been taken, would be taken – or we feared for them, or both. And we talked together or cried, and she took my hand across the table, and I held on for all I was worth as the roar – the glut of sound I’d refused for days – burst in on me, overtook me, and threatened to crush my heart. I choked with every effort to breathe and spoke, or tried to – I know I did, but whatever the words were, they don’t matter here. It was what Gigi said that marks the moment.

Calmly. Deliberately. “She’ll be ok, and you know it. You’ve given her everything she needs to make it through hell and back again if she has to. She’s your daughter, isn’t she, Mary? She’ll be fine.” Then, of course, she smiled through shared tears – Gigi would – and punctuated the certainty of her knowing words with an abbreviated nod of assurance.

Gigi’s right. Tommi is my daughter and as such coheir to a determined fortitude in survival. She’ll be fine. But Gigi’s words speak to more than one direction for me, and I’ve taken time in the last few days to consider the depth of strength from which I’ve drawn my being as I think of the women I come from. What my mother forever called “backbone” I call daring when I credit her investment in my life, and she was not alone. Before and with Phyllis in the work of building women were Julia, Esther, Lucille … Ruth, Alice, Mary, and Jane … Connie, Janeen, and Yvonne … and now Gigi. These are the women I come from; their spirits empower and enable my own, and there are more beside these – there are oh so many more. My list of heroes only begins here.

I use the word “heroes” because of the song that’s been playing in my head most of this week. I first heard this signature piece by Ann Reed when she played it in concert at Bemidji State University two years ago. It’s speaking to me again now. I include it here for you to enjoy! And Tommi, if you’re listening, this one’s for you. Add your name to my list of heroes today.