Recently, I returned to my University of Wisconsin campus for the first time in, well, a billion years, give or take a million. My partner Tom is big on roots and has encouraged me every step of our three-year partnership way to revisit memorable places from my spotty past. Of course, he’s from a huge, tight-knit, loving family, where history is less mystery and more fond remembrance. That is not the case in my scant, vaguely unhinged family, who are now mostly dead or people I rarely ever felt connected to. We were just not that kind of family. Thus, not counting the few stellar ‘found-family’ folks I’ve gathered along the way, I entered this relationship feeling vaguely alone, only to be embraced immediately and completely by the kindness and love of Ton’s family in a way I never imagined could happen. At times, going from nothing to everything can be challenging, but a wonderful challenge to face.
We were in Chicago for a week of family events, so Tom and I trotted off to Wisconsin. For decades, I’ve been telling my “Bascom Hill” story – a tale about my first College winter in freezing Wisconsin, where we freshmen would trek up the steep hill to classrooms. The old story I told includes my middle-of-the-night episodes where I would awaken due to my rising leg cramping up because of the painfully developing calf muscles formed from walking up the “steep” hill daily. It was a joke among students that you could always tell the first-year crew because of their powerfully developed calf muscles. Immediately after hearing the story for the first time, Tom pulled out his phone to check the incline. 5%, he reported, as he laughingly showed me a minuscule incline picture. “Well, it didn’t feel that way,” I shot back, joining his laughter.
From the moment of his discovery, Tom liked to grin through his report to everyone he could get a hold of. Funny guy. Alrighty then – let’s check it out. Off we went, each with the intent of proving our point.
I was surprised at how fun and moving the entire day was. Naturally, the campus has spread like butter in the sun over time and is now formidably large. I stuck to what was familiar though – Bascom Hill, the Ratskeller, where I obsessively played Bridge at least two of my years there, and the mainstage theater. In truth, most of my college theater activity was spent with what we called an underground theater group that began as Screw Theater and turned into The Organic Theater, directed by an adventuresome fellow named Stuart Gordon, who eventually became well-known for many things, including Chicago’s Organic Theater and many California based films including Honey I Shrunk the Kids.
On my University visit, memories came flooding back. My fabulous acting life, my not-so-fabulous drug life, meeting my first husband Daniel, how terrific Wisconsin University was at that time when it came to inspiring a profound love of learning, and more.
As I’ve been completing my newest book, which is a memoir, I’ve been impressed to notice how fragile memories are. They temp revisionist thinking. They include bright flashes of remembrance that stand like well-lit film frames in the center of blurry or blacked-out entrance and exit moments. “How did I get there, and what happened after?” I’d ask myself again and again during the memoir writing. We didn’t have iPhone video capacity then. Nor did we spend any time snapping quick pics to keep or post. We are left, then, with the photos our mind took. Unreliable snapshots, at best. Pictures painted with feeling and acid-washed with judgment. What I notice most about those memories is how much I don’t remember. As a child, I got good at dissociation, which invariably leaves a lot of memory on the table. That’s okay – my stories are still exciting, and my past is still…beautifully checkered. I like it that way. It’s all made me who I am today. Taught me compassion. Made my current brilliant life feel like a hard-earned reward.
As to Bascom Hill – Tom and I were both right. It feels steeper than indicated by numbers and not as steep as remembered by the young, excited girl in me, so thrilled to engage in that next chapter of her life. And so it is – facts are less relevant than feelings, and still, it’s fascinating to discover how those facts and feelings weave together.
