By Sarah E. Murphy

I recently celebrated another year on this planet by taking a quick weekend trip to Orleans with my husband, Chris. One of the things I appreciate most about Cape Cod is that each of the fifteen towns is unique, all with different alluring and signature characteristics, like the proverbial (as opposed to political) snowflake.

On the first day of 52, Chris indulged my nostalgic nature by bringing me back to “the Seashore House” in Truro, the site of my favorite school field trip, and one of the last places I remember feeling like a confident, carefree little girl, comfortable in my own skin.

The day before our Truro excursion, I began my birthday in a therapist’s office. After what felt like an endless search, I recently found someone with whom I feel comfortable being candid and vulnerable. I’m now addressing some childhood wounds (in addition to the endless joys of mid-life and menopause), most of which I suffered in sixth grade, a painful and pivotal year in my growth, or perhaps more accurately, the year my growth was stunted.

Before all that, I was smart, I loved school, and I was a “Teacher’s Pet.” I adored Mrs. Dion, who encouraged my love of reading and creative writing, perpetually on the edge of my seat as she read aloud the Robert Newton Peck Soup series each day after recess.

Although I had a crush on a boy in my class, his opinion of me didn’t define my self-worth. But that didn’t last long, and by the following year, I judged myself externally, how the “world” saw me.  Teased by boys for my pale complexion, freckles, and “unibrow,” the ultimate 80s criticism, I now hated everything that made me me, particularly my Irish heritage. I desperately wanted to look like the “other” girls, with blonde hair and tanned skin.

During the first week of sixth grade, I became the designated target for the angry girl who sat in front of me. She verbally bullied me so relentlessly that my parents fought to have me switched to another class, but I never went back to recess, afraid to be on the playground by myself, choosing to work in the school library, where I felt safe among my favorite books, like Charlotte’s Web, Ginger Pye, and the Nancy Drew shelf. On most days, I didn’t want to go to school at all, sick to my stomach and anxious, trying to focus on weekends, when I’d see my Nana and Papa Murphy in Newton, who also made me feel safe, wishing I could move in with them, far away from her glare.

Then Papa Murphy died on New Year’s Eve. Not only was he one of my protectors, he was one of my best friends. Losing him and going to my first wake were traumatic and life-altering. Soon after, I got my first period, and as is often the case in Catholic families, particularly Irish, puberty was something we didn’t discuss, which further alienated me from my mother, already overwhelmed as a mother of six.

But the Seashore was before all that.

As I walked around the now slightly dilapidated house and peered in the windows, I could almost see my former self sitting on the plaid couch with my classmates. I fought back tears, wanting to hug that little girl. Then, as I came to the kitchen window, I noticed a solitary mug in the dish rack and recognized it immediately. My friend Penny of the Upper Cape Women’s Coalition gave one to me as a gift for the work I do involving reproductive justice when she recently asked me to be an ambassador to her organization. Made by the Penzeys Spices company, it reads, “Choose Love.”

It felt like a sign, and this time, I wanted to hug the 52-year-old woman I’ve become. We’ve come a long way, and I’m proud of us both.

I wrote the following poem about that special time away from home, discovering not only my surroundings but myself.

At The Seashore

The bus ride

seemed to take forever

delivering us to the other side

of the Cape

which might as well have been

the other side

of the world.

Amanda and I shared a bunk

and each morning

Mrs. Dion and I

took turns

brushing our teeth

at the bathroom sink

before heading to breakfast

in the sunny, open kitchen.

We split up into groups for chores

and I was one of

the “Sand Sharks.”

We washed and dried

while our classmates prepared

cranberry cobbler.

I learned to like

my peanut butter

and jelly

on wheat bread

a compromise

I probably

wouldn’t make

at home.

I don’t remember

the names of

our hosts

but I’ll never forget

how they

welcomed us

nearly bursting

with excitement

at the chance to teach us about our isolated surroundings.

The bearded man

who wore flannel

and corduroy

and took us on an after dinner trek

through

deserted dunes

showing us how to light up the night sky

with the spark

of crunching Lifesavers.

The woman 

who wore her long, brown hair in a braid

leading us through the white cedar swamp

and in the steps of Marconi.

There was a heightened camaraderie

not found in our classroom

for we were sharing the adventure

and suddenly even the boys

weren’t so bad

after all.

One of my

favorite parts

was journal time.

At the end of each day

I’d sprawl on the wood floor

pouring details into a blue book

the only sound

a companionable silence

and the distant

crash of waves.

Sarah E. Murphy, 2010/2024