The Wolfism

Erika Shell was Kindergarten perfection 

Like so many of the other families in Cold Spring Harbor, hers belonged to the town Church and Country Club (more on both later), had fathers who golfed and mothers who wore Talbots. They decorated their mantelpieces for every holiday. 

Little Easter bunnies hopped along those mantles in April. 

Baby blue ceramic trucks carried painted pumpkins in the Fall.

Erika and the other girls in my grade brought ham and cheese sandwiches to school in brown paper bags with smiling faces drawn on the front. They had ceramic water bottles with their names on them. They literally wore ribbons in their hair.

I, on the other hand, was signed up to receive a hot lunch in the cafeteria. My house was filled with chaos, not Christmas. Probably goes without saying, but I had no ribbons in my hair.

So, the fact that Erika Shell was my friend, well, it was an anomaly. We took the same bus home from school and even got off at the same stop. For our 6-year-old selves, that was the sign from the Universe needed to solidify a friendship.

I would go over Erika’s house and eat Kraft Mac and Cheese while her mother laid out activities - activities! - on the kitchen table for our after-school-playdate. The site of that blue Kraft macaroni box still reminds me of normalcy.

One day, Erika came over to my house. I remember playing house in my closet- setting our own normal scenes in a house that, probably even to our young, naive selves, felt less so. 

I was the dad and she was the mom and everything was calm and straightforward in that closet. It was an insight into how the other half lived. It was a tangible heaven. 

And then, Erika had to pee. 

And she didn’t want to use my bathroom, no, she wanted to use the fancy bathroom in my parent’s bedroom. 

I should have known that something was up - as the door to my parents room was closed and I could hear some subtle tribal beats emanating from the bottom of the door. But I would never have done anything to interfere with this precious friendship - this tether to normalcy - with Erika, so we made our way down the hallway.

We knocked - I mean, we must have, right? - but when no one answered, we pushed open the door to my parents room. Erika had to pee and I am sure my 6-year old people pleasing self was already bursting at the anxious seams. 

And there, in the center of the room, was my mother. 

She was on all fours, cloaked in a wolf’s fur. The fur itself may have been synthetic - she was a Vegetarian at that point after all - but the scene was as real as can be. 

She was rhythmically moving to the tribal music and loudly howling - HOWLING - like a wolf. 

Awoooooo!! Awooooo!!

The primal sound is branded in my memory. As is the shocked, scared, scarred face of poor Erika Shell. She called her mom, she left without peeing, and she stopped coming over to play normal in my closet. 

A few years later, our elementary school partnered with the Church and the Country Club to introduce Catillon lessons and ultimately, a dance, to all the 9 year olds ready to be introduced to society, as one does in a random suburb of NYC. Only a few students were not invited to participate, and I was one of them. 

My parents were outraged. They pulled me from the school in haste and moved me to a more inclusive district. 

“It must be because we were Jewish, the antisemitism!”

“It must be because we didn't belong to the Club, the classism!”

I knew the real story, though. It was because they knew I came from wolves.

The wolfism!