By By Dane Roberts Wans On
It has been said no one is likely to remember what is entirely uninteresting to him. And a person’s childhood is not easily forgotten, especially when you lived the life of author Kristen Buckley.
“There is just something about New Jersey that breeds a certain type of life and by extension, a certain type of person,” begins Kristen Buckley in the forward to her book. “New Jersey is one giant chrysalis, inside of which all us desperate caterpillars spin and rotate until we can become butterflies and fly away.”
This is a story of a search for identity, what people call a coming of age motif. She has kept a journal of short essays about growing up and is able to utilize her essays in a constructive manner. In this, her memoir of growing up in the state of New Jersey, we are privy to her struggles.
She fashions her memoirs around a frame. The frame begins when she learns her father is divorcing her mother and ends with her in Manhattan. She eventually realizes everything is going to be fine. At the heart of this memoir, Buckley is a survivor.
786,I could identify with her angst. It is not easy to cope with divorce for a young child. In addition to that developmental obstacle, her early childhood experiences included a slowly sinking front yard caused by a failing septic tank, learning to deal with a stepfather, not feeling alienated by three adopted siblings, step grandparents of a different faith and difficult martial arts classes. It’s amazing that she still goes on to be a person who isn’t a complete basket case. Her success comes across as historic.
One incident she records that had me laughing was how her brother handled the rodent infestation problem brought about by the over ripe-fruit stored in bags beneath the stairs waiting to be made into moonshine. This necessitated calling for the exterminator who ended up running from the house in terror. “Moments later he screeched out of our driveway, shouting, ‘You’re on your own.’” Her brother then used a hammer to settle the problem. “Finally the rats were defeated. With nowhere left to run and nowhere to hide, the surviving few packed up their library books and hit the road.” But that wasn’t the end of the fruit. I will allow you the joy in reading for yourself the incident of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the large white moths.
Another incident I enjoyed was the story of her search for fame as a rock singer only to find that she froze on stage when a microphone was handed to her. “I had horrible stage fright. And suddenly, the dream of being a Rock Star had to be amended because apparently I wasn’t as narcissistic as I thought.”
I can’t say I have done the things she has done to cope — each person has a life that is unique to themselves — yet I found myself nodding as she bonded with her adopted siblings
The title comes from the lyrics of a song by the Garden State’s own Bruce Springsteen:
“We gotta get out while we’re young
‘Cause tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run.”
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 14, 2007. Read the original PDF.