Tooky

I once sat in my NYU advisor’s office and read aloud a passage from De Certeau. I cried in the process. I was embarrassed, but she hugged me with words, saying the world needed more people like me, people deeply connected with their emotions. She called it a rare gift.

I don’t know about that. In any case, I blame my mother. She cries at Hallmark commercials. We invented a word for such behavior: tooky (pronounced: 2key). I think the word choice may have been influenced by a radio station contest at the time on the Tampa Q105 Morning Zoo. A bird voice would screech, “aa-aa-ee-ee-tooky-tooky”—the cue to call. It was just stupid enough to be brilliant and to stick in my head decades later. (Nancy, did you write it?) So tooky we remain.

Tooky really gets in the way of my dating life. Although Big always said I was beautiful when I cried. Sad thing is, I was usually crying about her. I frankly have never dated anyone like me in this regard. Perhaps that’s for the best. I will say, there is something beautiful about tears from those who seldom cry.

I am thinking of Scarlet. I know I haven’t talked about her in years– she of my first maybe-date in New York. We never did find romance together, but she became one of my best friends, the kind of person you call at 3 a.m. Actually, I call her at 3 a.m. when I think I’m going to die (this happens way more than it should). She’s a doctor. But this is not why I love her. She is goofy and completely easy to be around—I can “took” it up with abandon around her.

We spent a lot of time together back West this summer-a bright spot in an otherwise trying time. She had unexpectedly lost a close family member, and I was the closest thing to family in her vicinity. She asked if she could come over. There in the sunlight, filtered through the white rails of my front porch, she sat and quietly wept. I perched across from her, crying and watching. There was something so achingly beautiful about her release. Her blonde hair, mottled on her red face, soaked up her tears welling from haunting blue eyes, all glistening in the sun. We sat in silence, until she was ready to speak a handful of words. Then, back to quiet.

I asked if I could make her dinner, even though I am a terrible cook. For some bizarre reason I had some arugula and crusty bread on hand. I toasted pine nuts, shaved some parmesan, and made a mustard and olive oil dressing—a trick I’d learned from a Italian friend whilst living lean in Paris. The meal was delicious because it needed to be. We ate, mostly in silence.

This memory is clearly not about dating. I offer it here because you might need to cry more or less. This is about feeling. This is about connection. This is about the people you cry around, the impetus, the inspiration, the healing, the trust, the quiet, the tooky and the reserved.