A New Old Friend

I believe our girl friends can be our great loves. It can be hard for some to agree. We are bombarded with images from Reality TV showing women fighting, pulling each others’ wigs. Social media can be a source of heartbreak. Women can be so cruel to one another. This isn’t accidental; the myth that women can’t form real friendships benefits those who are threatened by the strength we would have if we united. I was lucky to learn about sisterhood early. On TV, I watched the original “Ride or Die” best friends — Lucy and Ethel, Laverne and Shirley, Designing Women, and the Golden Girls — I saw the love, acceptance, and support women can share. 

In real life, the women in my family had lifelong friendships. I grew up surrounded by Aunties who spoiled me rotten — women who might miss the celebrations, but always showed up during tough times.

I met my best friend when I was 10. We are still friends, and I know we will be friends forever. This belief extended to most of my close friendships. I had never experienced one of those drama-filled breakups with a girl friend until a few years ago, when I ended an almost 30-year friendship. It was a difficult decision, but I decided that although hurt people hurt, they don’t have the right to hurt you. I will always love her and remember how we were once a great comedy team. I will miss her every day. 

In the aftermath of that loss, I built a wall. I couldn’t imagine beginning a new friendship with all the work that comes with it, only to be hurt again. Months later, though, while at lunch, my sister received a message. The father of her childhood friend had died. He was a sweet and funny man, and I cared for him, but my first thought was of his wife, Carmen.

Let me tell you about Carmen. I met her when her daughters, my sister, and I attended the same school when I was 11. She volunteered in the cafeteria, and my sister and her youngest daughter, Mariel, were inseparable. When I first met Carmen, she intimidated me. Before I had ever heard the term “resting bitch face”; I recognized it in her. My initial fear was somewhat justified; she had a sharp tongue and didn’t tolerate our nonsense. Still, she liked me. If I skipped class or got sent to the principal, I’d find her in the cafeteria and talk about life. Looking back, I have to give her props for listening to a tween’s musings and keeping a straight face. We didn’t become friends — she maintained firm boundaries — but we had a bond. Carmen saw that I was different from the other kids, and I saw that she was different from other moms. In our small, mostly Catholic town, many things were understood but left unsaid.

In my twenties, I had left home for college. One night, my best friend showed up at my apartment, and she blurted out the bad news: Carmen’s youngest daughter, Mariel, had committed suicide. I could not get to her funeral on time. When I arrived at the family home, I was afraid Carmen would show her disappointment. Instead, she gave me a big, warm hug. We held on to each other for a while. Pressed against her body, I felt for the first time how a broken heart beats. 

We stayed in touch for some time, but then life got in the way. I moved to NY. Before I knew it, years had passed without contact. I always thought about Carmen and her husband, Israel, and their kindness toward my sister and me. I thought about reaching out, but it felt like too much time had passed. After hearing of Israel’s death, I knew I had to stop being a wimp and reach out.

She is one of the strongest people I know, but losing her husband of 50 years, her heart must have ached. A mutual friend and I paid Carmen a visit. I was too scared to go alone; did I mention the sharp tongue? She didn’t recognize me at first. But then her eyes lit up, and she hugged me. It was the same hug from years earlier, with gratitude and love, without judgment. A few days after that visit, I called to see how she was doing. She’s the most guarded person I know, so I didn’t expect her to talk for long. We were on the phone for four hours. I asked if I could visit her again, and she offered to let me stay at her home. After having to find a hotel because of a fight with my former friend, I hesitated at her invitation. Then I realized she was trusting a person she hadn’t seen in decades. I decided to return that trust, and I’m glad I did.

I am so grateful to have a second chance to be her friend. Carmen was part of the village who raised me. A hostile (her words) child being raised by Grandparents. Now, she’s been there for me in many ways—through illnesses and deaths. She gives me on fashion, career moves, and the hellish rollercoaster called Menopause. She inspires me to be a better friend. Give space and still intrude. I love making her laugh. Even more, I love it when we laugh together. She is one of my great loves.

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