After our embrace, I learned my new au pair’s name. She was Petra, from the Czech Republic.
* * *
Petra became my first real role model. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen, with short hair that was dyed auburn and broad shoulders. Her teeth were not perfect. She ate like a lumberjack and would carry me around under her arm like a bundle of firewood. She liked real maple syrup and couldn’t stand processed food. She folded our clothes because it was part of her job but she played with my brother and me like it was her passion. Petra could make a game out of anything, like what she called “pulling back the cloud,” which was when you use a spoon to pull the foam back on a cappuccino and pour a packet of sugar in and then let the cloud close again. I loved it.
Petra was calm but sharp. She asked what books I was reading and what they were about. She showed me how a woman can be confident and curious at the same time. Petra spoke to me like an adult, as if she were talking to a peer, or as if she were a high-end chef speaking to a distinguished diner: “And how is the macaroni and cheese tonight?” It proved that Petra was invested in me, however short our time together was.
Petra also coached my basketball team. She could take on a court of five opponents and win. She could jump, she could shoot, she could touch the rim—to me, Petra was unstoppable and infinite. She was the first female athlete I saw achieve something that I never imagined a person could do. By this time, I was a little Olympian in the making. I loved every sport I played, from basketball to softball to soccer to tennis. The only thing I liked more than playing was winning, because winning was a fact. I liked how winning felt, like it was something good I had in my control, something that couldn’t be taken away from me.
At home I followed Petra around, copying the things she ate and did and said. I attached myself to Petra like a well-intentioned leech. She would drink exclusively out of our glass Coca-Cola cups and she wore plain white V-necked T-shirts that she made into tank tops, so I stole my dad’s undershirts and cut the sleeves off to fashion them like Petra’s. I know he wondered where his shirts went, but I never got in trouble. Petra used the phrase “This is suck” to describe things she didn’t like, such as bad coffee, so I adopted it, too. “This is suck,” I’d say about having to do my homework.
I also copied Petra’s basketball warm-up routine. I felt much more capable when I imitated her than when I was being myself. She used to shoot hoops in our driveway every day, and I would sometimes watch her from the window—I’m fairly certain she could see my little face smashed against the glass, but she never said anything. I appreciated that she let me watch her without pointing it out. It can be embarrassing to admire someone so much, and I needed to be able to copy her without her acknowledging that I was copying her. By letting my observations and imitations pass unspoken, Petra gave me confidence while also preserving my dignity. This was a gift.
I finally confessed to Petra that I wanted to climb out of myself and literally become her. I was desperate; her year was almost up and she would be leaving soon. I loved being around her and I hated that I wouldn’t be able to absorb her powers through osmosis forever. But I didn’t have those words yet. I could only climb onto her lap while we were watching TV and confess: “Petra, I want to be you.”
Petra turned the TV off and looked at me, really looked at me. I took in her auburn bowl cut and crooked teeth as if I were gazing upon a fairy-tale queen. “Don’t be me,” she said in her accented English. “Be a very big Alexi instead.”
At first, this answer upset me. I was annoyed to be receiving advice that I needed rather than the kind that I wanted. I would have liked for Petra to tell me that yes, I could become her, and also that she’d stay and be my au pair forever. But that was not possible. Petra knew I needed to learn that it is useful to look up to people, but not to try and literally become them.
We should never want to become anyone else, because the greatest fulfillment we can ever get out of life is by becoming the best possible version of ourselves. To magically become someone else would be to skip the journey of becoming our ultimate thing, our very big selves. It might seem easier that way, but it isn’t better. Petra was empowering me rather than sheltering me. She was wise to send me off like this, with honesty and integrity, even if it hurt.
When Petra left she sent us chocolates, like a distant relative might, but the fancy European chocolate didn’t taste good to me. It was a reminder that I was going to have to grow up and be on my own. I hated that feeling, but I also knew I would be okay, just like Petra knew I would be. I think the reason why it hurt so badly when Petra left is that deep down I knew I could do it; I knew I had it in me to become a very big Alexi. I knew I could grow the invisible but real muscle called confidence all on my own. Petra opened the door to that realization, but I had to walk through it on my own.
Sometimes it hurts to know you can do it. It’s an intimidating thing to realize because it means that the only person who can really define your growth and happiness is yourself. There is no shortcut to becoming your best self. The responsibility is on you.
headed to the moon
not now but soon
THE MENTOR BUFFET
I always appreciate when women I admire let me close to them. I never liked female mentorship when it was forced on me, as it was in Girl Scouts, but I loved it when I could seek it out on my own terms.
The first female mentors I felt drawn to were my best friends’ moms. Until the day I left for college I had a stable of moms in my orbit, inviting me over for dinner or bringing me to nail salons or chaperoning me at concerts. I had a special relationship with these moms—if a friend and her mom were arguing about how we weren’t allowed to leave the house to walk around our small city after dark, the mom would always turn to me, as if performing an aside in a play, and smile, shrug her shoulders, and say, “That’s just how it is! I know, I know, I’m a mean old mom.”
As a non-mommed kid, I could never be fully folded into the mother-daughter dynamic. I existed somewhere outside of that food chain. I was not a daughter with a mother of her own waiting at home (moms seem to generally know not to encroach on each other’s territory) nor was I an adult peer. I was an exciting project. This was very attractive to moms, and it was a role I was glad to fill—because it came with benefits. I was allowed to be present with friends and their moms in moments when an outsider might not normally be included, like going to the pool and not being asked to leave the bathroom stall when it was the mom’s turn to change. This is how I was introduced to the adult vagina. I remember all the mom-vaginas I ever saw because it felt like seeing a sea otter in San Francisco Bay: not impossible but definitely not an everyday occurrence. It was thrilling to catch a glimpse of what I might expect from my own body one day. This wasn’t something I could ask of anyone. It had to be offered. I am very grateful for the moms who performed subtle acts of unveiling like this for me.