I am not sure that I can write a personal essay. What is so interesting about my first anything that might be noteworthy or story worthy?

Well.. what is a first but a beginning, a simple step into a wilderness that has no path. I imagine I will begin with my actual first steps, which I really don’t remember and because of my age, no video or photograph exists which could even prompt my memory. Yet this is to be the first step of many that I would encounter throughout my life.

I was four years old, playing “jump the stairs” with my friend. “Let’s see who can jump down the most steps!”, she excitedly yelled. “Okay!” I replied, laughing and running. Children of the late forties, entertaining themselves, inventing games since we had no television or iPod to occupy our young minds. “Jump the stairs”.. innocent enough, except for this fragile little being who could only manage to jump down one step without injury.

I remember the fall from the second step. It hurt like hell and I screamed on top of my lungs, which was my usual response to even the slightest injury, like a paper cut. So my father came running to learn why the siren was released this time. “Just get up, Carlette. There’s nothing wrong.” “But I can’t! It hurts!” And the wailing continued hailing all the relatives to the scene. “What’s going on? What happened? Is she okay?” The questions loomed from their stares if not from their mouths. “Nothing”, replied a father who at this point is not sure if “nothing” was more a hope than a reality.

Relatives within a wailing child’s earshot? Well, let me explain. Did you ever see the movie, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”? Just substitute Italian for Greek. The tradition: day one — relatives and paisanos gather at the wedding hall to prepare the food; day two – relatives and paisanos gather to celebrate the wedding and eat food; day three – relatives and paisanos gather to clean up the hall, and of course, eat left-over food. This is the scene of my venture, the first step, then the second. Play “jump the steps” and break my leg.

A broken leg. Quite a crisis for a four-year old who is now casted from her toes to her hip and unable to ambulate herself anywhere! Four months! Asking for help with every move. And now to another first step. I imagine that this first step mimicked my actual first step. A skinny leg emerged from the cast, withered from months of immobility. “Now walk, Carlette”, my anxious parents encouraged, squatting down with arms ready to catch my first fall. Again she chanted, “But I can’t!” It doesn’t hurt this time, but with an overwhelming feeling of weakness, I stood trembling, uncertain that I could take that first step.

How much this first step foreshadows other first steps in my life. The first step into the kindergarten room; the first step into a junior high/high school with nearly a thousand kids; the first step onto a stage to perform in my first play or concert; the first step of a first date, onto campus or my first jobsite. Each with a feeling of weakness; trembling and uncertain that I could take that first step.

Then follows the grand first steps: the church aisle on my wedding day, the first step into our first apartment; into the hospital to deliver our first child. And so it continues.

I more than remember the overwhelming feeling of weakness, the trembling, the uncertainty of that day when I was four, feelings mirrored as I took my first step into the hospital emergency room, well knowing that my hope was more than the reality I faced. Seeing him there, cold and motionless. “Just get up, Dad. Why can’t you? There’s nothing wrong.”

Now to face those first steps into the funeral parlor, onto the church aisle, the gravesite. The relatives and paisanos gather, “What happened? Everything will be okay.”

What is a first but a beginning, a simple step into a wilderness that has no path. Now walk, Carlette! It’s time.