Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can’t go home again. Alix Kates Shulman disagrees. In her tender book A Good Enough Daughter, home is suburban Cleveland, where her elderly parents resided and where they died. She left this home and these parents forty years before, wrenching herself out of their lives, noting that “nothing they did” could bring her back until she was ready. It is the story of a journey from rebellion and struggle for independence to reconciliation and unexpected renewal.
Young people leave home every day and for many reasons: to go to school, to get a job, to live with other people; or because home is a ghetto, a poor rural town, a hostile environment, an impossible place to stay. Nevertheless, the act of leaving is usually preceded by the need (conscious or not) to separate, to attempt self-sufficiency, to flirt with becoming an adult. Many left home in the sixties to become involved with the political movements of the time. They fled parents whose values were anathema to them. Home was the antithesis of their burgeoning worldview in which material goods and making money were eschewed for a less individualistic ethos.
Shulman tells us that she left home because life was too secure, too sheltered, too good to find fault with while living there. She needed to separate herself from an everything-taken-care-of existence in order to become her own person. “That ambitious lust for freedom that tempts each successive generation of Americans to obliterate its past propelled me in my rush toward independence to identify my family with everything I’d renounced.”
She left Cleveland for New York at age 20. After a short marriage, in which she spent some time abroad, she returned to New York and found herself drawn into the political turbulence of the times. However, the book is less about the life she led during her forty years away than it is about returning home to care for her elderly parents, a process that proved both painful and enriching. Her narrative interweaves scenes from the present with scenes from her years growing up.
For Shulman the experience of returning home as an adult provoked a set of surprising reactions. She looked at her parents and the house itself with different eyes. At one point, after her parents were safely ensconced in a skilled-care facility, she entered their house: “Fishing out my key and the secret code to the alarm, I felt an illicit excitement: In the forty years my parents had lived in this house, I’d never stayed in it alone. Now I could search out its secrets without asking permission.” Once-taken-for-granted household items were suddenly transformed into belongings collected by her parents.
There they hung, my mother’s pride… the de Kooning, the Motherwell, the Frankenthaler, the Avery…resplendent in their colors and forms, embodying my mother’s ambition, resourcefulness, and taste, and, despite his ambivalent mix of disapproval and pride, my father’s security and solace.
Shulman realized “too late…I should have admired her things more openly, accepted her gifts of love. After so many years apart it was foolish to feel that my independence could still be compromised or might melt away in love’s heat. How old would we have to be before I would finally let down my guard?”
When she goes through drawers full of snapshots, clippings, letters, manuscripts and records, they, too, take on new meaning. “Delving into them, I was sometimes so overcome by emotion that I had to stop–that’s what your family can do to you.” Indeed, they can. But what also brought tears was the knowledge that her soon-to-die parents were the last buffer to her own mortality; in such moments she saw herself growing old and her children crying for her. But no matter the reasons, the ties binding her to her parents were powerful, and Shulman ponders them with honesty and wisdom.