John and Monique love one another with the ferocity only teenagers understand. As the years pass and circumstances change, John's developed drug addiction pushes them apart, but they continue to share his family. Across the years, despite trying to avoid one another, they endure a few awkward encounters.
One night, Monique gets a message. John is in the ICU, and the day she has been trying to avoid for decades has come. John dies, leaving behind a son, two grandchildren, and a journal ā a collection of John's thoughts, experiences, and the aspirations he holds for his boy. When it becomes apparent the diary has disappeared with every other trace of John's life on the streets, Monique decides she will write about John's life and share the best parts of him, the ones only she knew.
When They Became Now transports readers back to the 1980s, where they will encounter a story of a lifelong friendship and unconditional love.
John and Monique love one another with the ferocity only teenagers understand. As the years pass and circumstances change, John's developed drug addiction pushes them apart, but they continue to share his family. Across the years, despite trying to avoid one another, they endure a few awkward encounters.
One night, Monique gets a message. John is in the ICU, and the day she has been trying to avoid for decades has come. John dies, leaving behind a son, two grandchildren, and a journal ā a collection of John's thoughts, experiences, and the aspirations he holds for his boy. When it becomes apparent the diary has disappeared with every other trace of John's life on the streets, Monique decides she will write about John's life and share the best parts of him, the ones only she knew.
When They Became Now transports readers back to the 1980s, where they will encounter a story of a lifelong friendship and unconditional love.
It was October. The sun illuminated like a summer day. Birds chirped melodically in the trees above, and I swaddled myself in a black knee length sweater in hopes the acrylic would morph into armor and protect me from the next hour and a half of my life.
Paralyzed with fear, I sat in my car and clutched the damn sweater around me to control, if not eliminate, my chattering teeth.
I unzipped my lunchbox. Maybe eating would calm my nerves or prevent me from passing out in front of everyone. Itās the last thing I need after all this time.
I hadnāt had breakfast or lunch, and I was feeling light-headed.
I only managed one bite of my almond butter sandwich before my stomach began to churn, warning it may not stay down.
So, I continued to stare at the two-story house, perched on the quiet cul-de-sac, trying to convince myself to go in. Hmm, if I see someone I know, maybe I can tag along with them.
Earlier, that day, I showered, dressed, drove an hour and a half, and refused to let panic push me towards the freeway heading in the opposite direction. I had come this far and swore nothing would stop me from attending today. Inhale Monique, inhale.
After a few calming breaths, I ripped off the emotional bandage, seized the side dish for the Mexican potluck from my trunk, and walked to the front door like my life depended on it. āWalk in like you own the place,ā whispered through my thoughts.
When the double doors opened, Joeās smile relaxed me. āHey Monique, long time no see. Iām so glad you came.ā He gathered me into a reassuring hug. My shoulders dropped, and the tension slid through the bottom of my feet and onto the beautiful tiled floor. Being in a Reposaās arms again, I was home. Not where I lived, but home.
I saw Johnās son, Mychal, sitting cozily between his children and wife on the sofa. He caught my eye immediately, stood up, stumbled back a step, and placed his hand on his chest like heād been startled. Did he know Iād had an invitation to come? Uh oh. I sure hope so.
āWhew, I didnāt know you were coming,ā he said while extending his hand to me, but I chose to embrace him instead.
He was family. Johnās family. We didnāt know each other, but I knew of him before he was born, and he knew of me since he was eighteen years old, maybe younger. I had been part of his family his whole life, but thisāthis was our first introduction.
Joe led us both to where we could connect with the man we were here for today.
The photographs and framed drawing, placed on the dark wood curio cabinet, got me lost in thought, recalling someone whose swagger exuded confidence, regardless of the curve in his back which often caused excruciating pain.
The lines in his art of women and characters, resembled his music taste and how he spoke.
It was like he was from another world, dropped here on a quest to find people who could understand his ideas, and continuously felt frustrated it was difficult for anyone to grasp him or his profound concepts.
Joeās voice brought me back to reality. āMy wife was searching for her sketchbook, and when she found it, this piece of art remained hidden in the back.ā Joe directed our attention to the framed drawing, āJohn stayed here a while back and must have drawn it then. It was cool to find. We framed it for you, Mychal, so you can have a little piece of your dad to take with you today.ā
āThanks,ā Mychal nodded, and there we stood, inhaling the red, scented candles placed on the exquisite altar, gazing at Johnās photographs throughout his fifty-five years. I didnāt notice we were directly in front of his ashes. How could I have missed the white porcelain and silver urn? What a beautiful jar.
My mind was in a haze and far from the present, thatās how. It was too intense to say farewell to such a significant person in my life. A loss of this immense nature was foreign territory, and I had no idea how to navigate these feelings of permanency. I had known John for almost forty years, and now he was gone.
Here stood his youngest brother, Joe, the woman who had a piece of his heart, and his son, who was his world. I could faintly hear him say, āYeah, Buddy,ā beaming with pride to see us all there before him and hearing the bursts of his grandchildrenās laughter in the background.
The sound made my heart lighten because John would enjoy seeing us together, looking up to him on the cabinet.
I felt on such a small scale as his spirit-filled this lovely home. It took death to give him what he craved and searched to accomplishāa place to call his own. Somewhere he could lay his head each night surrounded by family members, without a threat of having to leave. I think all who loved him would have given it to him if possible, but it was not in our hands.
I couldnāt stay long at his Celebration of Life, which was probably a good thing. I hoped my departure put Mychal at ease on such a challenging day.
I got to reminisce and see faces that transported me back in time with comments from long ago, āThis is Monique, Johnās first serious girlfriend. She and John were together in their teens and early twenties.ā A life led so many moons ago.
The dam I tried desperately to contain finally exploded all over my steering wheel on the drive home. I had been suppressing my grief for two weeks, trying not to show it to my family. Itās not that theyād mind. I had their support. Itās that I didnāt want to burden them with these particular heavy emotions. So I tried to hide my scars.
The radioās familiar tunes carried me back to the ā80s and the events which came with them. Images so vivid itās as if they projected onto the open highway before me. The drive gave me enough time to saturate the cuff of my sleeve with what was desperate to escape from behind my eyes.
I hoped all my tears for John would dry up that day, but they didnāt. Iād wake up in the middle of the night for a couple of months with a wet cheek stuck to the pillowcase.
Only one other person evoked a response of this degree by their passing, my grandmother, who was more like my mother.
The recollection of everything John said to me in the past year while battling his addictions, and the warnings about his last days on Earth, kept circling my mind, awake or asleep.
During one conversation, he said, āIāve been writing my life story.ā
āSo am I.ā I laughed.
āDoesnāt surprise me, Babygirl.ā He chuckled into the phone. āI want to leave it for my son and grandchildren so they can know me better.ā
Living on the streets, he couldnāt hold on to anything he owned. It got stolen, lost, or was at the mercy of John vacating without thought for anything but his life.
Iāve often wished Iād asked him to take pictures of the pages he wrote on and text them to meāanything to preserve them, so theyād make it to his son.
The thought came too late. The story John scrawled onto paper was probably buried in soil and Starbucks cups at the bottom of a trash can or blowing through the streets of Orange County, and I gave up writing mine.
The pain and thoughts it provoked were too hard for me to revisit. But there is a story I can tellāa story which would have made up an essential portion across several of our pages and chapters.
Our storyā¦
Thereās something magical about this book. For most of it, I forgot that this is a memoir, treating it as fiction instead. Itās so perfectly written, so enticing and engrossing, that I couldnāt stop reading, no matter how much I tried. Richardson is a very skilled writer, her prose coming alive off the page in several magical, humbling ways that I just could not forget.
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Her description of her life before and after John, her description of her life with John Reposaā¦It all comes to a head in a beautiful, poignantly melancholic end that I canāt seem to get out of my mind no matter how much I try. I donāt want to forget it.
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Of note to me in this book, more than the relationship that seems to define so much of her teenage years and early adulthood, is Richardsonās relationship with her mother. As cruel as that relationship may be, thereās also a deep love involved, one that seems to cry out for recognition beyond the page. Unfortunately, I donāt think thereās much resolution for it in the book, as its focus is almost entirely on Richardsonās relationship with John.
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Nevertheless, itās still such a beautifully defined thing, as fraught as it was with anger, regret and all the negative emotions that go into such a relationship.
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Ironically, the relationship she shares with John parallels and intersects with this in such tragically similar ways that I canāt help but feel for Richardson. Thereās so much to be lost here, and so much to be gained, that it does leave me hoping that she finds peace in her life after writing this.
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When Then Became Now is such a good memoir that I hope more people pick it up. Gorgeously written, deeply moving and just completely heart-breaking in many ways, it just begs to be read by as many memoir lovers (and more) as possible.