
This is the story I am going to read at the Black Forest tonight, for Finley…
Follow
“Go forth, Susan, and run roughshod through the snow!” Thus spake Mike Finley.
This kinda seems like the opposite of follow, but that was Finley’s advice when we were talking about this show. I wish he was here tonight, but he can’t be and I still wish he was, so this story/rant is for him. I love you, friend. I know so many of you here do too.
He also advised me to tell this story without worrying about what any of you think. I will try, but still seek your approval. Humor me.
Anyway… I am going to tell you about some random things I learned when I went forth, got divorced, and ran roughshod to Minneapolis after my escape from Darien, CT two years ago. If you don’t know about Darien, the 1975 Stepford Wives movie was filmed there. The main shopping center was called “Goodwives Plaza,” where the titular river flowed to the brackish mouth of Long Island Sound. You can still find this movie on YouTube and watch Paula Prentiss blow a gasket in the parking lot.
The 2004 Nicole Kidman sequel was filmed in nearby New Canaan, where I worked. I auditioned to be a crowd extra—but was not tall or thin enough. I lacked Stepfordsity. I took offense initially, because I wanted so badly to fit in. To follow the pack.
So, back to my much-heralded exodus. I shall share with you, in no specific order, what my 50-year old self learned since coming to the Twin Cities:
- Personal prounouns: My first job in the Twin Cities was raising money for runaway teens. It was a strange, 1970s homeless shelter in the heart of Uptown, on the bus line, but situated in a posh old-money neighborhood among brick and stucco mansions and streets named things like Dupont and Franklin, places I could never afford and only dream of living in. First staff meeting, we had to introduce ourselves and announce our personal prounouns. Fortunately, I didn’t have to go first because I had no freaking clue what anyone was talking about. For the record, I now know I am she/her/hers.
- Cash management: I was broke, waiting for dough from my divorce settlement, and eating the day-old donated muffins from Caribou for breakfast left in the lobby each morning. They weren’t too awful: I learned to sort through the cellophane pile in the basket for the ones without stale sticky icing. That first winter, I bought my a parka at Kmart when I realized my old camel hair coat didn’t cut the -20 degree weather. 50 bucks. It has since been replaced but remains in my closet as a momento mori.
- How to get a cat through airport security: Do NOT put his carrier near your laptop and shoes on the conveyor belt. You must remove him, hold him securely, and walk through the screener. You will be clawed by said cat and then patted down by nice TSA ladies in blue latex gloves.
After their latex hands confirmed I was not some crazy blonde suburban terrorist, I was sent on my way.
My big fat orange cat, Chuck, and me—we flew first class, a first for both of us. I will never forget the rush of that flight, that lift when the wheels were up and I was hurled airborne toward Minneapolis, toward my future. Chuck sensed I was tense and gave me his free wine while he slept under the seat. I also ate his peanuts.
Friends, I arrived in Minneapolis in August 2017, to follow some dream I had of finding love, and being a writer. A dream of not being someone’s wife. Or someone’s mother, or someone’s daughter.
Friends, I walked out on my husband after 29 years of being entombed in a bland, loveless suburban nightmare. Chuck in his carrier, and my three suitcases, off we went. My former husband carried it all down the back stairs to the awaiting limo, and I can assure you, it was the door slam heard round Darien. Real Hedda Gabler stuff, total Doll’s House damage.
I was not a good wife.
Then I realized.
No.
It was time to pack my life in a moving pod.
It was time to divest myself of everything.
It was time to be born anew.
Yes, I now sign “Susan Cossette” on every credit card receipt I can. It is a minor miracle after 30 years. While it can be terrifying, there is beauty and magic in every act of rebellion, of affirmation.
Yes, I followed the path to Minneapolis.
Yes, I have been called immoral. Yes, I am immoral.
Yes, most of my family has nothing to do with me. I am the untouchable pariah, my name whispered behind freshly manicured hands at holiday meals I can no longer attend.
Most of the time I do not care. From my dining room window, I gaze at the sky, the too-tall Minnesota trees, and the park across the street and still wonder how I got here. I bought this house. It still blows my mind to see my name on the deed.
But here’s the question I still ask: Do we choose to follow, or not to follow, or get thrown into it—or is it all of the above? It’s up to us to decide.
These days, I sign the deeds that will work out: I won a meat raffle last week at the Legion Hall and made dozens of homemade meatballs for the first time in years. I look forward to seeing butter sculptures at the State Fair this summer. Someday, I will buy a cabin up north.
I live happily ever after.
Thank you, Finley, and thank you friends. My name is Susan Cossette, and you have no idea how wonderful it is to say that.