Learning to Fly

Learning to Fly

Every adventure starts with a motivation, a dream, an idea or, in my case, a sharp spur in the gut, urging me to race across the globe, to escape and find refuge in a passion.

 “Sarah Sievert” Mr. Ronald  read my name in a monotone voice as I crossed the stage in my wrinkled, green gown. It was June 6, 2006, my high school graduation date, but, more importantly, the week my dad, while driving the family to my birthday celebration, shouted above my mom’s icy taunting, “I filed for divorce, Jane. I want a divorce.”

Standing alone in front of the stage, I forced a smile, much like that of a scared kindergartner, for the photographer’s anxious camera.

I recall, even as a child, my parents fighting. The loud shouts and screams ricocheted off the walls, while my two younger brothers and I gathered in my bedroom for “kid meetings,” where we devised plans to halt the blitzkrieg.

We rushed the battlefield, covering my parents with post-it notes, bandages of encouragement, that included messages such as, “I love you” or “hug me” or even Bible verses. “Don’t fight, Mommy and Daddy,” we begged.  We whimpered, “Are you getting a divorce?”  They always promised, “No, no, we will never do that.” Yet, despite our efforts, the fighting always escalated. The post-it note bandages never stuck, and the wounds never fully healed.

On the outside we remained the perfect family. In high school friends would exclaim, “We wish we were in the Sievert family,” causing my stomach to churn with disgust. I erased the turmoil at home and chose to recollect only the positive memories:family talent shows, canoe trips with Dad, themed birthday parties, and holiday traditions.

I remembered the itchy feeling of the dried, crusty face paint my parents allowed me to plaster on my face for my brother’s American Indian birthday party. I remembered my mom’s smooth, molasses voice on the home videos she recorded. I remembered the creaking sound of my bedroom door.

The light that rushed in when my parents tiptoed together into my room to tuck me in flashed through my memory. I remembered those times my dad scooped me up in his arms on those nights I cried, “I can’t sleep, Daddy.” He danced me to sleep in his arms to our song “Buttons and Bows.”

His low whispers tickled my ears. Memories of the green lights twitching on the stereo and the cool, soapy smell of my Dad’s aftershave still lingered. Swallowing the pain of the truth, I unabashedly introduced my family to friends as such.

When my parents decided to divorce, my fantasy world shattered. Reality heaved me from the familiar nest, forcing me to fly solo. I flew far. I jetted off on an American Airlines flight from Chicago to Texas to begin my freshman year of college at Baylor University, where I knew no one — a new state, a new school where I could reinvent myself and hide.

Afraid of the truth and how my new friends would perceive me, I refused to tell them about the instability at home. I smiled. I laughed. I wanted to be like everyone else, including having the same nuclear family background.

To mask my sniffles, I slouched next to the hot, tumbling dorm room dryers, as I discussed the unrest at home with extended family. Warm, salty tears dripping into the crevices of my cracked lips, I finally confessed my secret to my church Bible study group.

I withheld details about issues at home. Some friends thought my mom died; I never mentioned her. I only discussed my family of the past. Though I found independence, I still searched for stability and confidence.

I stretched my wings farther — to Italy. Within my first week at Baylor, my travel plans commenced. I gained even further distance from my home situation. While tripping over the cobblestone streets of Florence, stuttering through the Italian language like a child with peanut butter cemented to the roof of her mouth, and forming friendships with people from Italy and around the world, I discovered not only “la vita bella” but also learned about myself. I developed self-sufficiency and confidence.

The chorus of upbeat Italian accents, accompanied by the friendly waves of the bright colored laundry that lined the narrow streets, beckoned my true, carefree personality to leap out from hiding. I could not wipe the smile from my face nor could I stop exploring.

If my family had been stable, perhaps I would have struggled to leave the United States for a year; I may never have realized my adventurous spirit and my passion for foreign cultures.

My parents’ divorce dished me my first platter of freedom. Although I initially wrinkled my nose in disgust at something that seemed to reek of loneliness and instability, upon sampling, I realized that independence proved satisfying, a beneficial and necessary character trait, something that helped me grow and realize my dreams.

And so began my adventures!