Christina Mailer-Nastasi, remembrance
Reflections: Norman Mailer at 100, ed. Gerald R. Lucas and Maggie McKinley (The Norman Mailer Society, 2023), pp. 67–69; transcribed from the final interior PDF
From Reflections: Norman Mailer at 100 (The Norman Mailer Society, 2023), pp. 67–69.
It was late September of 2005. I was just starting high school at the green age of 14. After a tumultuous experience in middle school, I remember the dizzy excitement I felt at the time for a fresh beginning and new friends. But, after two weeks of excruciating insecurity and maddening mood swings, I had just about had it with high school and the schoolmates who took pleasure in bullying me.
It was that moment when my family suddenly received news of Grandpa needing to undergo a procedure for quadruple by-pass surgery. I admit, I was grateful for the chance to visit my grandfather at Mass General Hospital and get some space from my peers for a few days, even if it was for a particularly somber reason. My mother, Elizabeth, my father, Frank, and I anxiously packed up the weekenders and rode Amtrak up to Boston to visit our ailing patriarch. Little did we know, the old man had no plans to depart from this world anytime soon.
After making our way through the sickly-lit fluorescent halls of Mass General, we finally arrived to find Grandpa. Like a mighty king in his castle, there Norman sat, propped up on his bed in the most relaxed state, wearing his freshly pressed, linen hospital gown, sporting a shit-eating grin slapped across his mischievous face. He welcomed the three of us exuberantly, raising his right arm with a stiff but comforting wave. Patting the plastic stool for my mother to sit beside him, he asked his youngest son, my Uncle Buffalo, to bring him a Gin and Tonic (all in good jest).
With great gusto, Grandpa painted a tale of his bravery in the operating room two days before. He beamed, rhapsodizing with great ferocity on how he identified deeply with the warriors in The Iliad. Like them, he too had his chest cut open and survived to tell the tale.
I sat across the room from him in sheer amazement. My grandfather truly was brave in his own way. He looked death in the eye and had come back with more grit than ever before! I couldn’t help but judge my own tenuous inaction back home. The bullying had gotten worse as the semester progressed. And, if I was not brave enough to do something about it, the kids were never going to stop their bullying.
“Hey, kiddo, c’mere,” Grandpa called over suddenly. “I’ve got something for you.”
Grandpa batted Buffalo on the arm with the back of his hand, gesturing over to a lone coffee table in the corner with a small, cardboard box placed in the center. As Buff turned to retrieve the item, Grandpa thanked me for coming, “How’s school going for you, kid?”
“It’s been okay,” I paused, sighing to myself as I cautiously stood before my grandfather. Even in a state of vulnerability, the man continued to impress and intimidate me with his innate bravado. “I just started high school and I’ve been having a hard time adjusting to everything. It’s not important, though. I’m just glad to see you doing well, Grandpa!”
Grandpa chortled with an imp-like amusement, looking as though he were keeping a delicious secret for only himself, when Buffalo came back promptly with a business card in hand. Tilting his head coltishly, Grandpa beckoned for me to come closer.
“Take this, kid. Give it out to anyone who gives you a hard time.” Grandpa chuckled, giving me that same mischievous grin from earlier as I delicately took the card from Buffalo.
Printed on the card was a pristine portrait of a vermillion sunset over a dark, but serene seascape. Though only a portrait, you could swear to hear the brisk, yet inviting breezes that steadily pushed the image of a great sailboat just below the bright horizon sun. It was your typical postcard from a gorgeous resort your besties traveled to, announcing their voyage with a sickeningly sweet “Greetings from … such and such!”
What made this scene different was the three bold, hard-white letters smack in the center of the business card.
“GFY?” I asked, looking up at my grandpa with sincere naiveté. “What does that mean?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
I remember folding over in such delight and hysterical shock to receive such an unusual, yet quite befitting, gift from my own grandfather. I loved it so much, I asked for twenty more! As promised, I handed these cards out like I was the deviously charitable Willy Wonka, freely giving out the most gloriously rare candy imaginable. Now, sixteen years later, I have that very card taped up on my wall. It’s a gentle reminder to not take life so seriously.
And tell those who try and bring you down to Go Fuck Yourself.
Thanks, Grandpa!
Christina Mailer-Nastasi