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First Friendship: Chaz
We met in seventh grade on the playground of our elementary school. He was “real Portuguese,” whereas I was a second-generation immigrant. He still had an accent. I, on the other hand, did not even speak my parents native tongue—it was their private language.
That accent got him picked on and bullied. I came to his defense.
Chaz’s mom made excellent fried bologna sandwiches, so we were at his house a lot. Once we graduated, we lost touch—a friendship shaped by time and place. Yet it was no less impactful for the support it provided at that time.
I wouldn’t want you to think our relationship was just me defending him. Chaz probably wasn’t aware of how much shelter he gave me, how much acceptance and belonging.
If I met Chaz tomorrow, I’d give him a big hug and express my gratitude. What he gave me over fifty years ago is still alive within me. And maybe we’d pick up right where we left off.
Friendships don’t have to last forever to matter forever.
Some friendships are for a season; some for a lifetime; some return to us like a tide we thought had gone out for good. No matter. (There is a lot more about Chaz and the author in chapter six.)
“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive.”
— Anaïs Nin (1903–1977)