Baby Steps

The day I learned to walk was like any other day. I was wearing itchy cotton tights. Maybe they had splinters in them, picked up from crawling upon our wood floors. At any rate, they were uncomfortable, and they twisted around my legs as I scooted around.

I stood, not without trepidation, in the living room. My mother had her hands on the back of my shoulders and gave me a little push in the direction of my great-grandmother who was sitting on the brown couch under the diamond-paned windows. “Walk to Ganny,” she said in a sing-song voice. I did not want to walk to Ganny. I was afraid of Ganny. I came by this fear honestly – it had been passed on by my mother and grandmother who were both also afraid of Ganny. The consequences of not walking to Ganny were worse than doing so, however.

I wanted to just stand there and gaze at the dust particles illuminated in the autumn afternoon sunlight, pirouetting in the air. Highlighted by cigarette smoke, they twirled and danced, mesmerizing me not just then, but every time we sat in the living room in the afternoon, maybe during a holiday when I was hoping no one would notice I had eaten the entire bowl of black olives.

My mother gave me another nudge. “Walk to Ganny,” she said again, like maybe I hadn’t heard her or might actually consider facing the contempt my great-grandmother would express about my inability to complete this trivial task.

I walked to Ganny.

Up went the hands of both women at either end of the room with a “hooray” and a “mazeltov”. I smiled while Ganny threw her arms around me. I didn’t like being hugged by her, but it was better than being slapped. I experienced a crushing sense of relief. I was almost 17 months old. I wouldn’t have to listen to the grownups talking about how there must be something wrong with me, as if I couldn’t hear or understand them.

For years afterward, Ganny took credit for teaching me how to walk. And in a way, she did.