Through The Looking Glass: Boxcars and Perfection

I love trains: the rhythmic sound of them hurtling down the tracks, the predictability of them flying by at the same time each day, their functionality. I love the mystery of what’s inside their steely boxcars and I admire the power of the white crossing rails, red lights flashing as they come down, forcing the rest of the world to stop and wait.

As a kid, we lived up the hill from the train tracks in San Carlos, a hilly little Bay Area town. I’d sit in the backseat of my parents gold Chevy Impala and get excited as the train approached: it was time to count the boxcars. It was one of the many games I played quietly in my head while the rest of the world swirled around me and I desperately tried to figure out where I fit. The train provided order and predictability, and time away from the conversation.

As the youngest of six kids, there was always conversation swirling between my parents about my siblings, and I had a backseat, literally, to it all. I heard their concerns about this sister or brother, or that one. About the fact they didn’t like that boyfriend because he was a creep, or the fact that one of the other siblings was drinking too much, a common theme. The conversations, I assume, were pretty typical of a working class family trying to keep its shit together. I absorbed every word. I heard what they loved, and I heard what frustrated them. But what I also heard, although it was never said or intended, was “aim for perfection.” So, year after year, with the boxcars whizzing by, that’s what I did. And because perfection is an illusion, I continually set myself up for personal “failure” (another illusion). I would never be as good as my mother hoped, I thought.

Counting the boxcars took concentration and commitment; I did everything I could to keep up with the speeding bullet, sometimes having to stop counting the boxes themselves, and instead count the small spaces that divided each box from the other. Forty-two…43…44… they seemed to get faster and faster . Fifty-nine…60…61…. I dared not look away for even a second, fearing I’d lose my place. On days I counted extra long trains and got all the way to the end, it was like I’d won my own secret lottery. “103!” I’d shout, to which one of my parents would say something like “wow, extra long one today,” or “nice job,” or sometimes nothing. In our family car, counting the boxcars had become as routine as blinking.

Life has whizzed by, like all of those trains. I’ve fallen in love. I’ve fallen out of love. I’ve had a broken heart. I’ve raised a caring, loving daughter. Today, I try to help others. I make daily commitments to my sobriety and wellness. I hope I’ll find love again. These are the things that matter to me.

Today, I also still count the boxcars. And with each passing car I hold memories of a childhood filled with well-meaning parents doing the best they knew how, siblings who were perfectly imperfect, and mistakes that I now know aren’t failures. Somewhere along the line with each passing boxcar, I became—and continue to become--uniquely me.