I was born in New York in the late 1950's and the town that I grew up in was mostly white. I was four years old the first time I saw a black man. This man was digging in our front lawn and installing the first sewer system in our neighborhood. I stood at the front door amazed by the color of his skin. I remember opening the door a little to have a better look and then announcing, in a very loud voice, "There's a chocolate man!" My mother, who was in the kitchen, shushed me and and told me to close the door. At the time, I had no preconceived notions of race, I simply thought he was made of chocolate.
It wasn't until I attended junior high that I met any other black people. There were a handful of black students in the school. I can't speak about how they felt, but my perception at the time was that they were accepted well and not treated any different than any other student. It was now the early 1970's and civil rights was still a new idea. But being children, I think we were probably more open to it than our parents were.
In 1980, before I was married to my husband, I met an older black couple who were friends of his parents. Their names were Jimmy and Julia. They had previously moved to New York from North Carolina. They were probably the first black people who felt like family to me. I remember them telling me a story about their daughter, Caroline. When Caroline was a little girl in the early 1960's, segregation was a way of life in North Carolina. There was a park in their neighborhood that was only for white children. They told me that one day, Caroline asked Julia if she would paint her white so that she could go to the "whites' only" park. Hearing this, broke my heart for the little girl who had had to live through that experience.
Jimmy and Julia moved back to North Carolina, and in 1984, my husband and I went south to visit them and stayed at their house. Although I had been to Disney World once in Florida, I will say that this was my first time in the "true" south. We had a lovely time with them. I remember Jimmy's pride as he showed us his garden. They also took us for an over-night trip to see the reservation in Cherokee, which opened my eyes to the plight of the Native American people through the story of "The Trail of Tears." These things weren't taught in history classes back then. The history that was taught was a "white" history, and we were only taught what our white society wanted to teach us. I learned more about race relations in that one trip than I had in my whole previous life.
One afternoon, we were sitting in the shade on chairs in Jimmy and Julia's driveway, when a car broke down in front of their house. In the car was a white woman and her two small children. Jimmy walked over to see if he could help them. She looked utterly terrified to be approached by him. He offered her a chair to sit in the shade while he took a look at her car. She backed away from him as if he were infected with some disease she might catch if she got too close. I was stunned! I knew Jimmy was one of the sweetest and kindest men that I had ever met. I could tell that he was hurt by her reaction, but he still went ahead and helped her anyway. That experience still haunts me. It was just a small taste of what others have had to endure for generations. But it was enough to open my eyes to see how fear is a product of ignorance. Ignorance is not stupidity, it is not knowing. If this woman knew Jimmy, she wouldn't have been afraid.
I hope we have made progress over the last thirty years and that we have had a chance to get to know each other better. I think that instead of this being seen as a national or global issue, it needs to be seen as an individual issue. We just need to get to know each other better and then the rest will follow.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Monday, October 27, 2014
Love and Loss
Ten years ago, I sat in the veterinarian's office with my dog, Duke, who was lying next to me on the floor. He was my first dog and I had never had to put a dog to sleep before. Duke had come into my life when my daughter was two and a half, and within days of acquiring Duke, I had had a miscarriage. Thankfully, Duke was a great distraction for my daughter at a time when the sadness of my own loss seemed to consume me. At first, he was just a little ball of white furry energy that ran around the house and the yard, commanding our love and attention. But soon he grew to be one of the tallest Labrador Retrievers I had ever seen. His huge tail had a habit of knocking over anything in our house that was at the height of a coffee table. Although Duke was very loving, his strength and size made me cautious when three years later, my son was just starting to toddle around. Even though Duke's powerful tale did knock him down a couple of times, they soon became best friends.
Duke was eleven years old when we decided to move to a new house. Although the move would not require our children to move schools, it was still a difficult time for them. Moving from the only neighborhood and home that they had ever known was a traumatic event. I remember that the door to my son's bedroom had become his easel upon which he displayed his much loved sticker collection. When I told him that we were moving, his only question was, "Can I take my door with me?" Unfortunately, that was not possible. We moved to our new house and Duke moved with us, but he was not well. I didn't want the children to lose their dog at the same time that they lost their old home, but I knew that Duke was not going to live much longer. Two months after the move, it became obvious that it was time. Duke's good days had become far and few between. Duke's veterinarian told us that he believed that Duke had cancer. Treatment for a dog as old as Duke was not recommended. Finally, I determined that it was kinder to let Duke go. We could have held on to him a little longer, but it only meant more days of pain for him. So I sent my children off to school without telling them what I had planned to do that day.
When I sat in the veterinarian's office, I thought about leaving and taking Duke home for a few more days. It didn't have to be done that day. But I also knew that it was only delaying what must be done. I stayed with him and held him when they gave him the injection, and he calmly grew limp under my hands. I went back out to the waiting room and started to cry. As I sobbed, an older woman approached me. She asked, "Is this your first dog?" I said "yes," through my tears. She was very kind and she stayed with me and talked to me for a while. As she walked me out to my car, I said to her, "What am I going to tell my children?" She said, "Tell them that his spirit will come back to them in your next dog." Before the children came home from school, I cleaned the whole house of any sign of Duke. I saved a few of his toys and washed them and put them away, just in case I needed them. When the children came home from school, my thirteen year old daughter cried, but my eight year old son tried to hide his feelings of loss from me. I heard him go into the bathroom and lock the door. In what he thought was the privacy of the bathroom, he spoke aloud to Duke saying, "I'll miss you Duke." My heart broke again when I heard those words. When my son came out of the bathroom he asked me for a zip-lock plastic bag. He then went on a mission through the cleaned and vacuumed house, trying to find stray dog hairs to add to his little bag so that he could keep a part of Duke with him. He then asked me if there were any of Duke's toys left. I retrieved Duke's favorite soft stuffed toy that was in the shape of a bone and gave it to my son. For years after that, Duke's toy was in his bed every night to keep him company.
Eight months later, my husband and I heard about Daisy, a rescued yellow Lab who had been through a lot of hardship in her first years of life. The veterinarian was unsure of how old Daisy was, but thought she was somewhere between two and three years old. We were hesitant to take another dog who's time with us would be shortened simply because she was already several years old, but she needed us and, it seemed, we needed her. When Daisy first came to live with us, her nose was black, her fur was almost golden, and she didn't seem to shed. But within the first few months, her nose turned pink, like Duke's. Daisy's fur became shades lighter, almost, but not quite as white as Duke's, and Daisy began to shed just like Duke had. Daisy started to lay under the table like Duke always had and she seemed to display more and more of Duke's personality. My children and I marveled as the woman's words seemed to come true. Somehow, Duke's spirit had come back to us in Daisy.
The past nine years have flown by and our children are in college and grad school now. Daisy is still my constant companion. She has come to mean more to me than I could ever have imagined. She's become "my" dog. But now she is about eleven years old and life is getting painful for her. She is not sick yet, but she is getting old. Last night she must have had a dream and in the middle of the night she made a horrifying noise. It was so frightening, that I had to turn on the light to see if she was alright. I called her name, and she, thankfully, lifted her head in response. I shut the light off and tried to go back to sleep, but all I could think of is that Daisy's days are coming to an end. As much as I loved Duke, I have come to love Daisy even more. I worried about how will I ever deal with losing her. But then I thought of the years I have had with her and I am so grateful for those years. It will be very difficult when she leaves me, but in the darkness of the night, I realized that waiting for her death and focusing on the loss that will follow, is not how she would want me to spend this precious time. She loves me beyond the capacity of human love. And that love that she has shown me, has taught me so much. There was something that I needed to learn from her, and that is that love should be enjoyed and not feared because of the loss that may follow. Without the risk of loss, love can never be so dear. I will make the effort to enjoy these last months of her life, rather then to fear for the inevitable day when she leaves me.
So, I say to you, my readers, be courageous! Whenever or wherever you find love, take the risk. Even if you have already experienced loss, don't fear loving again. For as Alfred, Lord Tennyson said, "Tis better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all."
Duke was eleven years old when we decided to move to a new house. Although the move would not require our children to move schools, it was still a difficult time for them. Moving from the only neighborhood and home that they had ever known was a traumatic event. I remember that the door to my son's bedroom had become his easel upon which he displayed his much loved sticker collection. When I told him that we were moving, his only question was, "Can I take my door with me?" Unfortunately, that was not possible. We moved to our new house and Duke moved with us, but he was not well. I didn't want the children to lose their dog at the same time that they lost their old home, but I knew that Duke was not going to live much longer. Two months after the move, it became obvious that it was time. Duke's good days had become far and few between. Duke's veterinarian told us that he believed that Duke had cancer. Treatment for a dog as old as Duke was not recommended. Finally, I determined that it was kinder to let Duke go. We could have held on to him a little longer, but it only meant more days of pain for him. So I sent my children off to school without telling them what I had planned to do that day.
When I sat in the veterinarian's office, I thought about leaving and taking Duke home for a few more days. It didn't have to be done that day. But I also knew that it was only delaying what must be done. I stayed with him and held him when they gave him the injection, and he calmly grew limp under my hands. I went back out to the waiting room and started to cry. As I sobbed, an older woman approached me. She asked, "Is this your first dog?" I said "yes," through my tears. She was very kind and she stayed with me and talked to me for a while. As she walked me out to my car, I said to her, "What am I going to tell my children?" She said, "Tell them that his spirit will come back to them in your next dog." Before the children came home from school, I cleaned the whole house of any sign of Duke. I saved a few of his toys and washed them and put them away, just in case I needed them. When the children came home from school, my thirteen year old daughter cried, but my eight year old son tried to hide his feelings of loss from me. I heard him go into the bathroom and lock the door. In what he thought was the privacy of the bathroom, he spoke aloud to Duke saying, "I'll miss you Duke." My heart broke again when I heard those words. When my son came out of the bathroom he asked me for a zip-lock plastic bag. He then went on a mission through the cleaned and vacuumed house, trying to find stray dog hairs to add to his little bag so that he could keep a part of Duke with him. He then asked me if there were any of Duke's toys left. I retrieved Duke's favorite soft stuffed toy that was in the shape of a bone and gave it to my son. For years after that, Duke's toy was in his bed every night to keep him company.
Eight months later, my husband and I heard about Daisy, a rescued yellow Lab who had been through a lot of hardship in her first years of life. The veterinarian was unsure of how old Daisy was, but thought she was somewhere between two and three years old. We were hesitant to take another dog who's time with us would be shortened simply because she was already several years old, but she needed us and, it seemed, we needed her. When Daisy first came to live with us, her nose was black, her fur was almost golden, and she didn't seem to shed. But within the first few months, her nose turned pink, like Duke's. Daisy's fur became shades lighter, almost, but not quite as white as Duke's, and Daisy began to shed just like Duke had. Daisy started to lay under the table like Duke always had and she seemed to display more and more of Duke's personality. My children and I marveled as the woman's words seemed to come true. Somehow, Duke's spirit had come back to us in Daisy.
The past nine years have flown by and our children are in college and grad school now. Daisy is still my constant companion. She has come to mean more to me than I could ever have imagined. She's become "my" dog. But now she is about eleven years old and life is getting painful for her. She is not sick yet, but she is getting old. Last night she must have had a dream and in the middle of the night she made a horrifying noise. It was so frightening, that I had to turn on the light to see if she was alright. I called her name, and she, thankfully, lifted her head in response. I shut the light off and tried to go back to sleep, but all I could think of is that Daisy's days are coming to an end. As much as I loved Duke, I have come to love Daisy even more. I worried about how will I ever deal with losing her. But then I thought of the years I have had with her and I am so grateful for those years. It will be very difficult when she leaves me, but in the darkness of the night, I realized that waiting for her death and focusing on the loss that will follow, is not how she would want me to spend this precious time. She loves me beyond the capacity of human love. And that love that she has shown me, has taught me so much. There was something that I needed to learn from her, and that is that love should be enjoyed and not feared because of the loss that may follow. Without the risk of loss, love can never be so dear. I will make the effort to enjoy these last months of her life, rather then to fear for the inevitable day when she leaves me.
So, I say to you, my readers, be courageous! Whenever or wherever you find love, take the risk. Even if you have already experienced loss, don't fear loving again. For as Alfred, Lord Tennyson said, "Tis better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all."
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Good-bye to my Cousin Mike
At the base of a tree is a root, and at the base of my tree you were there. From those early days we grew, and as branches of a tree tend to do, we grew in different directions. We are only two years apart but you had your children earlier in life then I did. Your life had its sorrows, especially the loss of your son, Will, who was hit by a car while crossing the highway. Although I didn't know Will very well, he has been the strong spirit who has brought my father to me during both of the psychic readings I have been lucky enough to have. He knew your sorrow and wanted to lift it from you by telling you he was all right. Now you are together and he can tell you, himself. You are another light in heaven now. You are there to brighten the way for those of us who will follow. Watch over your daughter and your siblings. they need you now more than ever. And light the way for your mother who is standing at the threshold. Rest in peace, my dear cousin.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
I Will Miss Him . . . (An update)
Below, you will find the post I wrote a week before my son left for college in late August. Well, he's been gone for nearly two months now, and I wanted to take a chance to bring you up to date. He left early for college to be part of a leadership program. There were about forty students who went on a retreat to Frost Valley for a couple of days. This gave him a chance to bond with a smaller group of students before the rest of the freshman moved into the dorms. It boosted his confidence in himself, it put him at an advantage to be on campus after the retreat for several days with a small group of students, and it gave other people a chance to get to know him before he could be lost in the crowd. Shortly after school started, he was elected Treasurer of his dorm's residence association. He's met many friends and now he's met a very special girl. He's doing well in his classes and has become well known on campus for the really nice guy that he is. He's even doing his own laundry. I guess he didn't do too bad . . . I guess I didn't either.
Have I done my job? I'm about to find out.
The things I am cramming into this last week with my son:
1. How to do laundry.
2. How to put checks in the bank.
3. How to sew a button on a shirt.
4. How to iron without burning his clothes or himself.
Have I forgotten anything? I guess I will find out soon enough. At least I know the school will feed him. If he had to cook for himself beyond heating up frozen White Castle hamburgers, we'd be in trouble. But the meal plan will save him from starvation.
The real test will be in how he manages his time. Meeting new friends, joining clubs and organizations, leaving enough time for his school work, and doing laundry at least once a semester . . . this is a lot for a boy who has had a full time mom for the first eighteen years of his life.
It's funny, but I remember when I was about to get married and realizing all the things I didn't know how to do because my mom had always done everything for me. I remember grabbing her arm as she made sauce so that I could measure the ingredients before she put them in the pot so that I would know how to cook. I remember thinking that I would make sure my children were better prepared for the real world when they left their nest than I was. Somehow, that didn't quite happen the way I had planned.
I've had "the talk" with him . . . no, not that one . . . but maybe I should have that one too . . . I have told him that I expect him to get an "A" in every class. He may not, but I still expect him to. I've told him if he doesn't do well, he is wasting his time and our money. It is not enough to get a college degree anymore. It needs to be in a subject that leads to a career, you need to do better than everyone else, and you need to get internships and experience along the way. And yet, this is my son who has never held a job beyond feeding the neighbor's cats . . .
Yes, college is a time of transition. A time between being home and being on your own. A time to learn how to be an adult and learn all of the things your parents didn't or couldn't teach you. I am so very proud of him. I am so excited to see how he changes over these next few years from the boy who is leaving now. He is starting his journey and my heart is so full of love for him. That love is what tells me I know I have done my job, because in spite of him being an eighteen year old teenager, I will miss him.
Have I done my job? I'm about to find out.
The things I am cramming into this last week with my son:
1. How to do laundry.
2. How to put checks in the bank.
3. How to sew a button on a shirt.
4. How to iron without burning his clothes or himself.
Have I forgotten anything? I guess I will find out soon enough. At least I know the school will feed him. If he had to cook for himself beyond heating up frozen White Castle hamburgers, we'd be in trouble. But the meal plan will save him from starvation.
The real test will be in how he manages his time. Meeting new friends, joining clubs and organizations, leaving enough time for his school work, and doing laundry at least once a semester . . . this is a lot for a boy who has had a full time mom for the first eighteen years of his life.
It's funny, but I remember when I was about to get married and realizing all the things I didn't know how to do because my mom had always done everything for me. I remember grabbing her arm as she made sauce so that I could measure the ingredients before she put them in the pot so that I would know how to cook. I remember thinking that I would make sure my children were better prepared for the real world when they left their nest than I was. Somehow, that didn't quite happen the way I had planned.
I've had "the talk" with him . . . no, not that one . . . but maybe I should have that one too . . . I have told him that I expect him to get an "A" in every class. He may not, but I still expect him to. I've told him if he doesn't do well, he is wasting his time and our money. It is not enough to get a college degree anymore. It needs to be in a subject that leads to a career, you need to do better than everyone else, and you need to get internships and experience along the way. And yet, this is my son who has never held a job beyond feeding the neighbor's cats . . .
Yes, college is a time of transition. A time between being home and being on your own. A time to learn how to be an adult and learn all of the things your parents didn't or couldn't teach you. I am so very proud of him. I am so excited to see how he changes over these next few years from the boy who is leaving now. He is starting his journey and my heart is so full of love for him. That love is what tells me I know I have done my job, because in spite of him being an eighteen year old teenager, I will miss him.
The Bonfire: A Halloween Story
A Short Story by Theresa D.
It was a dark and stormy Halloween night in 1984 when my husband lost his life in a fiery crash. A few months later, I sold our old brownstone in the city and moved out to the country with our children, Ellie, who was six, and Michael, who was seven. That is when I met, Miss Esther de' Monde. I answered an ad she had placed in the newspaper. She had a cottage for rent on her property. The ad said, "Cottage for rent, families with young children welcome." She lived in an old farmhouse that stood on acres of beautiful land. When I met her she told me that she had grown up on the farm. She had never married and after her parents had both passed away, she lived on the farm alone. It seemed like the perfect place for my children and I to start over.
It was late winter and the ground was still covered under deep snow. The children enjoyed building snowmen and igloos as they romped around on the vast property. They quickly became enamored with Esther, who warmed them after their outdoor playtime with home-made hot chocolate. My children had no qualms about letting me know that it tasted much better than the store-bought powdered cocoa with tiny stale marshmallows that I had often served for them in the past. As the seasons changed and spring took hold, there was a position opening at a local nursery. Esther offered to take care of the children when they came home from school each day so that I could return to work. But when I offered to pay her for her time, she refused, saying that enjoying time with my children was payment enough. I couldn't believe how lucky I was, and how perfect the arrangement was for my children. They quickly came to love Esther as if she was their own grandmother.
When school ended for summer break, Esther offered once again to watch the children during the hours when I was at work. But again, she refused to take any payment for her time. The field upon which my children continued to enjoy playing, had turned into a thick blanket of green grass. However, there was one patch in the center of the field where no grass seemed to grow. As a favor to Esther, I decided to do what I could to bring life back to the barren spot. I bought some seed and a metal sprinkler and worked each day in an effort to bring the grass back to life. But in spite of all my efforts, the grass simply would not grow. By late summer, I had to give up and admit defeat, no grass would grow in that spot.
That September, the children returned to school. Ellie was now in first grade and Michael was in second. When October arrived with its cooler temperatures and shorter days, my children rejoiced in the return of Esther's famous hot chocolate. Halloween was quickly approaching when the children relayed a story that Esther had told them about her childhood. When Esther was a girl, it had been a Halloween tradition to build a bonfire. She and her friend, Abigail, would build a fire in the yard. They would burn pieces of old furniture or household items that had broken or had been deemed useless by their parents and discarded over the past year. She and Abigail would dress in adult clothes and powder their hair till it was white. Then they would dance around the fire reciting spooky poems that they had learned in school. Esther told the children that every year, in honor of the remembrance of those days, she still kept the tradition alive, and she promised them that they could participate in this year's bonfire.
October was the end of the seasonal work at the nursery. Once the pumpkins and bulbs for next spring's flowers were sold, the shop was closed up for the winter. October 31st was a difficult day for me since it was the first anniversary of my husband's death. But I didn't want to spoil the holiday for the children and since the closest neighbor to the farm was a half-mile away, this would by the first Halloween that the children couldn't go trick-or-treating. So I bought some candy on the way home and intended to treat them to a small Halloween party. That night I let myself into Esther's house to gather my children as I had done countless times before. I could see Esther standing by her window, gazing out at the field between the house and the cottage. As I neared her she turned with a start. She said with a smile, "The children are enjoying the bonfire." I lifted the curtains for a better look and saw them as they danced around the blaze. I realized that the fire was in the same patch of ground where the grass refused to grow. But something else was bothering me, there were three children dancing around the fire. "Did the children bring a friend home from school today?" I asked. "Oh, no, dear, that is my friend Abigail." I thought I must have misunderstood her and so I repeated, "Abigail?" "Oh, yes, dear. I build the fire for her every year on Halloween night and she comes back to dance around it." Astonished by this bizarre statement and wondering if Esther had had too much spiced cider, I continued, "Miss de' Monde, I don't understand. The children told me that Abigail was your friend when you were a little girl. That was many years ago, that child couldn't possibly be the same girl."
Esther looked at me and said, "Abigail and I built these bonfires every year when we were children. But in 1920, the bonfire got out of control." She shook her head. "You see, Abigail was dressed as a grown-up and her clothes were too long for her. She tripped and fell into the fire. Poor dear, she was terribly burned and died a couple of days later. But I have never stopped building the fire on Halloween, and she has never stopped coming back to dance around it. And look at her, she is so happy to have your children to play with this year!" Horrified by what she was telling me, I ran from the house toward my children. But before I could reach them, I saw Abigail push Ellie into the fire and heard my children scream. To my amazement, the figure of a man appeared at the center of the fire. He quickly lifted Ellie into his arms and walked out to the safety of the cool grass beyond the blaze. He gently placed her down and turned to look in my direction. It was a very dark night, but by the light of the flame I could see his face well. I knew in an instant, that it was my husband. He nodded his head toward me as I stood there frozen in disbelief. With that he lifted Abigail into his arms, and cradling her little body, he walked back into the fire where they both disappeared. Immediately, my body was released from its frozen state and I ran to my children. Ellie was crying, but other than some ashes rubbed on her skin, she was remarkably unharmed. Michael looked at me and said, "Daddy saved Ellie." "I know, sweetheart, I saw him, too." "He took Abigail with him. She told us she was very lonely, but she won't be lonely anymore. Daddy will take care of her now."
That was many years ago, and Michael and Ellie have families of their own now. We left that night and never returned. But just the other day I received a letter from Esther's lawyer. Esther passed away in her sleep. He said that she didn't have any family of her own and that she had left the farm to me. She had just one request. Each year, on Halloween night, I should light a bonfire.
It was a dark and stormy Halloween night in 1984 when my husband lost his life in a fiery crash. A few months later, I sold our old brownstone in the city and moved out to the country with our children, Ellie, who was six, and Michael, who was seven. That is when I met, Miss Esther de' Monde. I answered an ad she had placed in the newspaper. She had a cottage for rent on her property. The ad said, "Cottage for rent, families with young children welcome." She lived in an old farmhouse that stood on acres of beautiful land. When I met her she told me that she had grown up on the farm. She had never married and after her parents had both passed away, she lived on the farm alone. It seemed like the perfect place for my children and I to start over.
It was late winter and the ground was still covered under deep snow. The children enjoyed building snowmen and igloos as they romped around on the vast property. They quickly became enamored with Esther, who warmed them after their outdoor playtime with home-made hot chocolate. My children had no qualms about letting me know that it tasted much better than the store-bought powdered cocoa with tiny stale marshmallows that I had often served for them in the past. As the seasons changed and spring took hold, there was a position opening at a local nursery. Esther offered to take care of the children when they came home from school each day so that I could return to work. But when I offered to pay her for her time, she refused, saying that enjoying time with my children was payment enough. I couldn't believe how lucky I was, and how perfect the arrangement was for my children. They quickly came to love Esther as if she was their own grandmother.
When school ended for summer break, Esther offered once again to watch the children during the hours when I was at work. But again, she refused to take any payment for her time. The field upon which my children continued to enjoy playing, had turned into a thick blanket of green grass. However, there was one patch in the center of the field where no grass seemed to grow. As a favor to Esther, I decided to do what I could to bring life back to the barren spot. I bought some seed and a metal sprinkler and worked each day in an effort to bring the grass back to life. But in spite of all my efforts, the grass simply would not grow. By late summer, I had to give up and admit defeat, no grass would grow in that spot.
That September, the children returned to school. Ellie was now in first grade and Michael was in second. When October arrived with its cooler temperatures and shorter days, my children rejoiced in the return of Esther's famous hot chocolate. Halloween was quickly approaching when the children relayed a story that Esther had told them about her childhood. When Esther was a girl, it had been a Halloween tradition to build a bonfire. She and her friend, Abigail, would build a fire in the yard. They would burn pieces of old furniture or household items that had broken or had been deemed useless by their parents and discarded over the past year. She and Abigail would dress in adult clothes and powder their hair till it was white. Then they would dance around the fire reciting spooky poems that they had learned in school. Esther told the children that every year, in honor of the remembrance of those days, she still kept the tradition alive, and she promised them that they could participate in this year's bonfire.October was the end of the seasonal work at the nursery. Once the pumpkins and bulbs for next spring's flowers were sold, the shop was closed up for the winter. October 31st was a difficult day for me since it was the first anniversary of my husband's death. But I didn't want to spoil the holiday for the children and since the closest neighbor to the farm was a half-mile away, this would by the first Halloween that the children couldn't go trick-or-treating. So I bought some candy on the way home and intended to treat them to a small Halloween party. That night I let myself into Esther's house to gather my children as I had done countless times before. I could see Esther standing by her window, gazing out at the field between the house and the cottage. As I neared her she turned with a start. She said with a smile, "The children are enjoying the bonfire." I lifted the curtains for a better look and saw them as they danced around the blaze. I realized that the fire was in the same patch of ground where the grass refused to grow. But something else was bothering me, there were three children dancing around the fire. "Did the children bring a friend home from school today?" I asked. "Oh, no, dear, that is my friend Abigail." I thought I must have misunderstood her and so I repeated, "Abigail?" "Oh, yes, dear. I build the fire for her every year on Halloween night and she comes back to dance around it." Astonished by this bizarre statement and wondering if Esther had had too much spiced cider, I continued, "Miss de' Monde, I don't understand. The children told me that Abigail was your friend when you were a little girl. That was many years ago, that child couldn't possibly be the same girl."
Esther looked at me and said, "Abigail and I built these bonfires every year when we were children. But in 1920, the bonfire got out of control." She shook her head. "You see, Abigail was dressed as a grown-up and her clothes were too long for her. She tripped and fell into the fire. Poor dear, she was terribly burned and died a couple of days later. But I have never stopped building the fire on Halloween, and she has never stopped coming back to dance around it. And look at her, she is so happy to have your children to play with this year!" Horrified by what she was telling me, I ran from the house toward my children. But before I could reach them, I saw Abigail push Ellie into the fire and heard my children scream. To my amazement, the figure of a man appeared at the center of the fire. He quickly lifted Ellie into his arms and walked out to the safety of the cool grass beyond the blaze. He gently placed her down and turned to look in my direction. It was a very dark night, but by the light of the flame I could see his face well. I knew in an instant, that it was my husband. He nodded his head toward me as I stood there frozen in disbelief. With that he lifted Abigail into his arms, and cradling her little body, he walked back into the fire where they both disappeared. Immediately, my body was released from its frozen state and I ran to my children. Ellie was crying, but other than some ashes rubbed on her skin, she was remarkably unharmed. Michael looked at me and said, "Daddy saved Ellie." "I know, sweetheart, I saw him, too." "He took Abigail with him. She told us she was very lonely, but she won't be lonely anymore. Daddy will take care of her now."
That was many years ago, and Michael and Ellie have families of their own now. We left that night and never returned. But just the other day I received a letter from Esther's lawyer. Esther passed away in her sleep. He said that she didn't have any family of her own and that she had left the farm to me. She had just one request. Each year, on Halloween night, I should light a bonfire.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
A Letter to a Character in My Story
Dear Character,
I had a seed to a story in my head. That story grew, over the years, through the oddest moments. . . during a walk, during a car ride, in my dreams . . . and all of a sudden . . . you were there. When I first saw you, you were just a blurry image. I wasn't even sure of why you were there. So I started writing about you and slowly, I uncovered your reasons. You had come into my story to tell your own story. Even though you are so different from me and we have no common ground, you chose me. There was a time when I wondered if, perhaps, you had come to me in error. Because the one thing I have been told, over and over again, is to "write what you know," and I have never known anyone like you before. I worried that my readers would judge me for attempting to write about you. Perhaps they might feel that you should have come to them, after all, they may have more in common with you. But I accepted the challenge and decided to explore who you were. I discovered why you did the things you did and why you felt the feelings you felt. As I continued to write, I came to know you. And now you are clear and real in my story . . . and now I know you better than anyone else could possibly know you. You've been in my head and I've been in yours. You've been in my heart and I've been in yours. So it seems after all, you came to me, not by accident, but on purpose. My story needed you and now . . . you live in my story.
Love,
Your Author
I had a seed to a story in my head. That story grew, over the years, through the oddest moments. . . during a walk, during a car ride, in my dreams . . . and all of a sudden . . . you were there. When I first saw you, you were just a blurry image. I wasn't even sure of why you were there. So I started writing about you and slowly, I uncovered your reasons. You had come into my story to tell your own story. Even though you are so different from me and we have no common ground, you chose me. There was a time when I wondered if, perhaps, you had come to me in error. Because the one thing I have been told, over and over again, is to "write what you know," and I have never known anyone like you before. I worried that my readers would judge me for attempting to write about you. Perhaps they might feel that you should have come to them, after all, they may have more in common with you. But I accepted the challenge and decided to explore who you were. I discovered why you did the things you did and why you felt the feelings you felt. As I continued to write, I came to know you. And now you are clear and real in my story . . . and now I know you better than anyone else could possibly know you. You've been in my head and I've been in yours. You've been in my heart and I've been in yours. So it seems after all, you came to me, not by accident, but on purpose. My story needed you and now . . . you live in my story.
Love,
Your Author
Monday, October 13, 2014
A Girl and Her Wolf: Based on the True Story of my Husband's Grandmother
In the sleepy mountain town of Parenti, Calabria, Italy, in the first years of the 20th century, little Teresa lived on a large estate. Although her family was not very wealthy, they were the caretakers of the estate. Her father took care of the lands, while her mother took care of the land-owner's household. She shared her tiny home with her younger brother, Giuseppe, and her sisters, Angelina and Luigina. Although she had her sisters to play with, little Teresa often found herself feeling lonely. At night she would sit by her open window and listen to the wolves howl as they gathered nearby, and she often felt that their woeful howls echoed the loneliness that she felt in her own heart. She wasn't afraid of the wolves, after all, her father was well-known as a sharp-shooter and whenever a wolf wandered too near to the village in the valley below, her father was always called on to hunt the mischievous wolf.
One evening, her father got word that a wolf was threatening the villagers. So he took his rifle and went hunting through the woods. After hours of tracking he finally came upon the errant wolf and, true to his name, he shot the wolf dead. But to his surprise, as he watched with regret, a small cub approached the dead wolf and nudged the carcass with its nose. Feeling sorry for the little cub who had just lost its mother, he lifted the small ball of fur into his strong arms and carried the little thing all the way back to his house. In the middle of the night, Teresa woke up to a commotion in the house. She found her family surrounding a tiny little wolf cub. Her mother didn't look happy to have the wolf in their home. But Teresa could not take her eyes off of the little wolf. Slowly, she entered the room, and as she neared the cub, he looked up at her. Something passed between them and the cub happily scurried over to her and proceeded to lick her, as any good dog would have done. From that day on, Teresa and her wolf cub were inseparable.
The wolf cub grew much quicker than Teresa did, and at times, she would ride on his back through the village. At first, the villagers were frightened and they cautioned Teresa's father against the folly of this friendship. But as time passed, they became accustomed to seeing little Teresa ride on her wolf. As the years passed, and Teresa grew too big to ride on her wolf, they still would be seen as he followed dutifully at her heels. But at night, her wolf would hear the wild wolves howling in the mountains and he would howl back to them. Teresa's father would often let the wolf out at night to run through the woods with the other wolf-packs. But every morning, Teresa's wolf would return to her. Until finally, on one occasion, he did not. Teresa waited each morning to see if her wolf would return, but the days turned into weeks, then into months, and finally, she had to understand that he was not coming back. Her father tried to explain to her that now that he was a full grown wolf, he had probably joined one of the wolf-packs. But inside, she knew that wolf-packs were like families and that if you did not belong, you were an enemy wolf. And a wolf-pack would kill an enemy wolf. The years passed, but her wolf never returned.
One day, Teresa's father became partially paralyzed and unable to speak after having a stroke. She remembered how he would sit in his rocking chair and how she would bring his rifle to him. He would rock back and forth in the chair, as the rifle laid across his useless arms, and he would cry. Teresa married and had two sons while in Italy, but the day came when she had to leave to join her husband who was already in America. Her father knew that he would never see Teresa again. On the day that she left, he struggled to reach the window and managed to cry out to her, saying the word, "mama," so that she would know how much he would miss her.
Teresa traveled to America, and once here, had two more sons and a daughter. But she never did see her parents again.
One evening, her father got word that a wolf was threatening the villagers. So he took his rifle and went hunting through the woods. After hours of tracking he finally came upon the errant wolf and, true to his name, he shot the wolf dead. But to his surprise, as he watched with regret, a small cub approached the dead wolf and nudged the carcass with its nose. Feeling sorry for the little cub who had just lost its mother, he lifted the small ball of fur into his strong arms and carried the little thing all the way back to his house. In the middle of the night, Teresa woke up to a commotion in the house. She found her family surrounding a tiny little wolf cub. Her mother didn't look happy to have the wolf in their home. But Teresa could not take her eyes off of the little wolf. Slowly, she entered the room, and as she neared the cub, he looked up at her. Something passed between them and the cub happily scurried over to her and proceeded to lick her, as any good dog would have done. From that day on, Teresa and her wolf cub were inseparable.
The wolf cub grew much quicker than Teresa did, and at times, she would ride on his back through the village. At first, the villagers were frightened and they cautioned Teresa's father against the folly of this friendship. But as time passed, they became accustomed to seeing little Teresa ride on her wolf. As the years passed, and Teresa grew too big to ride on her wolf, they still would be seen as he followed dutifully at her heels. But at night, her wolf would hear the wild wolves howling in the mountains and he would howl back to them. Teresa's father would often let the wolf out at night to run through the woods with the other wolf-packs. But every morning, Teresa's wolf would return to her. Until finally, on one occasion, he did not. Teresa waited each morning to see if her wolf would return, but the days turned into weeks, then into months, and finally, she had to understand that he was not coming back. Her father tried to explain to her that now that he was a full grown wolf, he had probably joined one of the wolf-packs. But inside, she knew that wolf-packs were like families and that if you did not belong, you were an enemy wolf. And a wolf-pack would kill an enemy wolf. The years passed, but her wolf never returned.
One day, Teresa's father became partially paralyzed and unable to speak after having a stroke. She remembered how he would sit in his rocking chair and how she would bring his rifle to him. He would rock back and forth in the chair, as the rifle laid across his useless arms, and he would cry. Teresa married and had two sons while in Italy, but the day came when she had to leave to join her husband who was already in America. Her father knew that he would never see Teresa again. On the day that she left, he struggled to reach the window and managed to cry out to her, saying the word, "mama," so that she would know how much he would miss her.
Teresa traveled to America, and once here, had two more sons and a daughter. But she never did see her parents again.
(Teresa, with her mother and two eldest sons, just before she left Italy.)
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Perfect Imperfections
I think everyone has something about themselves that they don't like. I, for one, would have liked to have been taller. The truth is that some things can be changed, while others just can't. I can wear high heels, so I guess I can "disguise" what I want to change. Other ways of disguising things we don't like about ourselves would include: make-up, dying your hair, wearing a wig or toupee, wearing contact lenses instead of glasses, having your teeth capped, correcting your teeth with braces, etc. If you are unhappy with your appearance, can you change it?
If it can be changed, ask yourself, does it interfere with your day-to-day life? Do you need to lose weight in order to live a better life? If you can correct the problem through cosmetic surgery, will it improve your quality of life? Is the effort or surgery worth the risks and/or the cost?
If it can't be changed, or you choose not to change it, what should you do? When someone is born blind, their other senses develop to over-compensate for the lack of sight. If someone loses their ability to use a part of their body, often they develop ways to use other parts of their body to accomplish tasks. The point is, if you can't change something, improve something else. Develop your personality, improve on other abilities, compensate for what you feel you can't change by concentrating on something you can change.
If it can be changed, ask yourself, does it interfere with your day-to-day life? Do you need to lose weight in order to live a better life? If you can correct the problem through cosmetic surgery, will it improve your quality of life? Is the effort or surgery worth the risks and/or the cost?
If it can't be changed, or you choose not to change it, what should you do? When someone is born blind, their other senses develop to over-compensate for the lack of sight. If someone loses their ability to use a part of their body, often they develop ways to use other parts of their body to accomplish tasks. The point is, if you can't change something, improve something else. Develop your personality, improve on other abilities, compensate for what you feel you can't change by concentrating on something you can change.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
The Greatest Gift
Chocolate chip cookies, bed-time stories, holiday memories, treasures in a box, secrets and dreams shared between two hearts, that is was parenting is made of.
Parenting continues long after childhood ends, but the cords that bind two hearts together are tied in those early years. There is nothing in this world, or any other world, that I would trade for those years with my children. There is no glory, no power, no honor, no achievement that can compare with the love that fills my heart at the thought of them. I hope that, someday, my children get to experience that kind of love for their own children. I can't imagine living my life without ever having known the depths and heights of a parent's love for their child. I will carry that happiness inside of me wherever I go, no matter what life holds for me. It will never fade, no matter how many years pass. I know that not everyone's experience of parenthood is the same as mine, but I want you to know that this exists.
All the years of work, worry, and careful, thoughtful cultivation, bring you the ultimate satisfaction when you see your children become healthy caring adults. Producing a child or adopting a child is just the start. Make a conscious effort to build that connection. Raise that child to know that they are truly loved, and that there is someone who will always believe in them. That is parenting.
I hope that if you are not yet a parent or if you are new to parenting, that you will strive for this too. Why? Because it is the greatest gift you can ever give to yourself.
Parenting continues long after childhood ends, but the cords that bind two hearts together are tied in those early years. There is nothing in this world, or any other world, that I would trade for those years with my children. There is no glory, no power, no honor, no achievement that can compare with the love that fills my heart at the thought of them. I hope that, someday, my children get to experience that kind of love for their own children. I can't imagine living my life without ever having known the depths and heights of a parent's love for their child. I will carry that happiness inside of me wherever I go, no matter what life holds for me. It will never fade, no matter how many years pass. I know that not everyone's experience of parenthood is the same as mine, but I want you to know that this exists.
All the years of work, worry, and careful, thoughtful cultivation, bring you the ultimate satisfaction when you see your children become healthy caring adults. Producing a child or adopting a child is just the start. Make a conscious effort to build that connection. Raise that child to know that they are truly loved, and that there is someone who will always believe in them. That is parenting.
I hope that if you are not yet a parent or if you are new to parenting, that you will strive for this too. Why? Because it is the greatest gift you can ever give to yourself.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Lost History
There are thousands of famous individuals whose family histories are well documented. There are those who are famous because they are heroes and others because they are villains. But there are millions of people, without fame, whose family histories are lost. Generations do not tell their children family stories from the past that they are embarrassed to recall. Sweep it under the rug and hide it, don't tell. The stories that survive are the ones to be proud of, even if they do not tell the whole story. So when we start to research our family trees and we uncover the names of our grandparents, grandparents, grandparents, we innocently believe that they were these "perfect" people. We never imagine that there are hidden stories of ruthlessness, injustice, or misguidance. But if you are going to be a true historian, you must be willing to discover the true story. There have always been wars, and these wars have always been over property, power, religion, and honor. On a much smaller scale, individuals have always waged wars against people in their own families and others for the same reasons. There have always been victors and victims. There have always been martyrs and murderers. If you look long enough into any family, you will find the entire spectrum. Those who wish to hide the truth, do an injustice to future generations. But they don't hide the truth because they want to deceive. They hide it because they need to bury the truth to stop their own pain and because they want to protect their children and their name.
Many families left Europe and traveled to the new world for a new life. They left the secrets of the past behind. The immigrants did not teach their American born children the language of their father or mother countries. I have always know this to be true, but I had thought it was so that the children could assimilate. Last night, I started an Italian language course at a local college. It is an adult education course and the "students" are mostly in their 50's and 60's. As the teacher went around the room to ask why each person decided to learn Italian, there was surprisingly a common thread among them. Many of the students said that their parents had immigrated from Italy and that their parents spoke Italian in their homes. However, their parents never taught them Italian because they didn't want their children to know what their private conversations were about. With a language barrier between parents and their children, the parents could actually pick and choose what their children might overhear.
I am a generation removed from this phenomena, since it was my grandparents who came to America, not my parents. I always thought it was the children who wanted to assimilate, and therefore, never bothered to learn the language of their parents. But perhaps my grandparents didn't teach them, because they wanted to keep their family secrets in Italy and not bring them here to America to cast shadows over their children. After all, they came for a fresh start. And yet, here I am, digging them up, trying to uncover those very secrets. I look for the stories that go with the names. I want to know who they were, good, bad, or indifferent. I want to uncover the truth. That truth can, at times, be humbling, and at other times it can even be exalting. But whichever it is, it is always revealing. And we cannot help but look into ourselves and wonder, what of them remains in us?
Many families left Europe and traveled to the new world for a new life. They left the secrets of the past behind. The immigrants did not teach their American born children the language of their father or mother countries. I have always know this to be true, but I had thought it was so that the children could assimilate. Last night, I started an Italian language course at a local college. It is an adult education course and the "students" are mostly in their 50's and 60's. As the teacher went around the room to ask why each person decided to learn Italian, there was surprisingly a common thread among them. Many of the students said that their parents had immigrated from Italy and that their parents spoke Italian in their homes. However, their parents never taught them Italian because they didn't want their children to know what their private conversations were about. With a language barrier between parents and their children, the parents could actually pick and choose what their children might overhear.
I am a generation removed from this phenomena, since it was my grandparents who came to America, not my parents. I always thought it was the children who wanted to assimilate, and therefore, never bothered to learn the language of their parents. But perhaps my grandparents didn't teach them, because they wanted to keep their family secrets in Italy and not bring them here to America to cast shadows over their children. After all, they came for a fresh start. And yet, here I am, digging them up, trying to uncover those very secrets. I look for the stories that go with the names. I want to know who they were, good, bad, or indifferent. I want to uncover the truth. That truth can, at times, be humbling, and at other times it can even be exalting. But whichever it is, it is always revealing. And we cannot help but look into ourselves and wonder, what of them remains in us?
Sunday, October 5, 2014
The Missing Piece
What I have learned from these last two posts and all the memories and thoughts that have passed through my brain over the last couple of days, is that although I have forgiven everyone else, the one person I haven't forgiven is myself. I hope that you will forgive me for bringing you down this rabbit hole.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Me in Pieces, Part 2
There is a difference between a dysfunctional family and an abusive family. The difference is intent. Dysfunctional families don't intend to do harm to the children they love. But that doesn't mean that harm is not done. Further, there is also a spectrum of dysfunction, not all dysfunction is equal. I hope that no one gets caught up in the label, "dysfunction." Perhaps I should just say that some parents harm their children on purpose, and some harm them through mistakes.
My family was really sort of two different families. When my parents were young, they had two sons. Then there was seven years before my sister was born. A couple of years after her birth, they moved from the city to the suburbs, where first I was born, and then my younger brother. When my older brothers were being raised, my father was healthy, my parents were new to parenting, they were living close to their families, and it was a different time. It was the 1940's and 1950's. When my sister, younger brother and I were being raised, my father was going through cancer treatments and surgeries which lasted for fifteen years until his death. My mother had already finished raising a couple of kids, and life was changing, as it was now the 1960's and 1970's. There is actually eighteen years between my oldest brother and my youngest brother. When my youngest brother was a baby, my oldest brother left to join the air force. A couple of years later, my second brother left to join the navy. Then my sister, little brother, and I were alone. All of these things led to different perspectives of what our family life was like. In some ways, we were raised by different parents. My sister straddles both families, being the true "middle" child, so I'm sure that her perspective is probably a mixture of the two.
Hitting a child, even when it is the discipline that you were raised on, and you know no other way to discipline, does not teach a child to be obedient. It teaches them to be smarter about the way they lie. It teaches them to never let anyone ever have control over them again. It teaches them to, in turn, be aggressive to weaker family members.
When parents make mistakes, their children pay for those mistakes. I think that the most difficult thing for me to express to you is that I truly loved my father. I have many happy memories with him and I miss him very much. It is confusing to have such strong opposing feelings. But as I have learned more about his life, and about how he was raised by his own parents and how difficult it was to survive as immigrants during the Great Depression, I have gained an understanding that I did not have as a child. He loved us and sacrificed for us. He gave us what he never had, stability. He never intended to harm us, but still, he did. In the end, he realized this. I am jumping ahead in my story, but it is right to say this now. Because while he was in the hospital, and near the end of his life, he gave me the greatest gift he could ever have given me. He said, "I know I made mistakes with you kids, but at the time, I thought it was the right thing to do."
Children naturally want the love of their parents. But I always felt that we had to vie for our parents' affections and attentions. I think this turned us into adversaries. I am not proud of this, but I was aggressive to my own little brother because he was the only one in the house that was smaller than me. I loved him and still love him, immensely. But I was taught to show that love with aggression and control over someone else. I will always be ashamed that I treated him that way, and I am very grateful that when he got bigger than me, he did not retaliate . . . because he could have.
My family was really sort of two different families. When my parents were young, they had two sons. Then there was seven years before my sister was born. A couple of years after her birth, they moved from the city to the suburbs, where first I was born, and then my younger brother. When my older brothers were being raised, my father was healthy, my parents were new to parenting, they were living close to their families, and it was a different time. It was the 1940's and 1950's. When my sister, younger brother and I were being raised, my father was going through cancer treatments and surgeries which lasted for fifteen years until his death. My mother had already finished raising a couple of kids, and life was changing, as it was now the 1960's and 1970's. There is actually eighteen years between my oldest brother and my youngest brother. When my youngest brother was a baby, my oldest brother left to join the air force. A couple of years later, my second brother left to join the navy. Then my sister, little brother, and I were alone. All of these things led to different perspectives of what our family life was like. In some ways, we were raised by different parents. My sister straddles both families, being the true "middle" child, so I'm sure that her perspective is probably a mixture of the two.
Hitting a child, even when it is the discipline that you were raised on, and you know no other way to discipline, does not teach a child to be obedient. It teaches them to be smarter about the way they lie. It teaches them to never let anyone ever have control over them again. It teaches them to, in turn, be aggressive to weaker family members.
When parents make mistakes, their children pay for those mistakes. I think that the most difficult thing for me to express to you is that I truly loved my father. I have many happy memories with him and I miss him very much. It is confusing to have such strong opposing feelings. But as I have learned more about his life, and about how he was raised by his own parents and how difficult it was to survive as immigrants during the Great Depression, I have gained an understanding that I did not have as a child. He loved us and sacrificed for us. He gave us what he never had, stability. He never intended to harm us, but still, he did. In the end, he realized this. I am jumping ahead in my story, but it is right to say this now. Because while he was in the hospital, and near the end of his life, he gave me the greatest gift he could ever have given me. He said, "I know I made mistakes with you kids, but at the time, I thought it was the right thing to do."
Children naturally want the love of their parents. But I always felt that we had to vie for our parents' affections and attentions. I think this turned us into adversaries. I am not proud of this, but I was aggressive to my own little brother because he was the only one in the house that was smaller than me. I loved him and still love him, immensely. But I was taught to show that love with aggression and control over someone else. I will always be ashamed that I treated him that way, and I am very grateful that when he got bigger than me, he did not retaliate . . . because he could have.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Me in Pieces, Part 1
I recently had an interview with BlogCatalog, (http://www.thetinboxtrilogy.com/interview-with-the-author.html). In the interview, I was asked how I had felt about becoming a mother. I told her that it was what I had wanted most, but it was also what I had feared the most. My experiences as a child and as a teenager are what brings me to my writing. It is why I wrote my first novel, "The Tin Box Secret," which is specifically for teenage girls. It is why I have such a burning need to blog and speak to others, hoping for the chance to help even one person out there. So I think it is about time, that I tell you a little about who I was and why I have become me.
When I was a very little girl, my father had a "pet" name for me. I was his "Korean Doll." My eyes had an Asian look to them, and thus, my nickname.
I was happy as a small child. When it came time for me to go to kindergarten, at four-years-old, I had no fear of going to school and being away from home, as some other new kindergartners did. I was excited to learn and to make friends. In kindergarten and first grade I did very well in school and loved that my first grade teacher taught us Spanish words. She was engaged to a man from Mexico and so she introduced us to the language. But in the second half of first grade, my father became ill.
No one told me about his illness, but I saw things and heard words. One time my mother was washing my father's hair in the laundry sink and his hair was falling out in clumps, and I knew that this wasn't right. The words I heard were "Cancer" and "treatments." I knew they were bad words, but still, I didn't know what they really meant. My father was a strict, yet loving father. My mother was more like a child. She hid things from my father when she wanted to do things. Like when she would take me out of school in kindergarten and we would ride the bus to Hempstead to go shopping. There was wonderful pizza at the Hempstead bus terminal, I can still smell it today when I think of it, and there were stores like Grants Department Store, that had toys to look at. She would tell me before we got on the bus, "Tell the man you are four." "But, I'm five now," I would say. "Yes, but if you are four you ride for free." So I was four. One time she bought me a paint-by-number kit that had glitter in the paint that sparkled. She said, "I'll buy you this but don't tell Daddy. Don't tell Daddy that we went shopping, he'll be mad." So I learned to lie.
One of the strict rules in our house was that I was to come home straight from school. I had friends at school, but not many friends at home. There was a girl who lived next door, Marcia, and she was my best friend. But she went to a different elementary school, because between our houses, lies the border between the schools. A girl at my school, Denise, invited me over to her house for a play-date. I decided to lie to my parents so that I could go. I decided I would tell them that I had stayed after school for extra-help. On the day of our play-date, we played in her basement. She had many dolls and toys that I didn't have. I got carried away with the fun we were having, and I forgot to check the time. Her mother called down to us and said it was time for me to go home because they were going to have dinner. When I saw the kitchen clock said 6 o'clock, I knew I was in deep trouble. I walked back toward the school so that I would be coming home from the right direction. I tried to think of a better excuse, since the school was now dark and no teacher would have kept me for extra-help so late. As I walked past the school, I saw my father on the other side of the street. He crossed it diagonally to get to me quicker. He grabbed hold of my arm and he dragged me home (about three long blocks).
He brought me up to my room, took of his belt, and started to hit me. I knew about his belt, it laid across his lap every night at dinner. He would pick it up and bending it in half, he would hold each end and snap it together to make a threatening sound. I knew he had hit my older brothers with it before, but he had never hit me. But that night, he hit me, and hit me, and hit me, and hit me and he just couldn't seem to stop. I was six years old. I knew I had done something wrong, but I just wanted to have a friend. This was the man who was supposed to love me and protect me. This was the man who called me his Korean Doll. And as much as I loved him, for the first time, I was afraid of him too. I didn't understand then that he was struggling, trying to survive cancer and all the fears and worries that accompanies that for a father. I didn't understand then that he had been terrified that someone had taken me. I didn't understand then that finding me, disobeying him, had pushed him over an edge that he couldn't stop falling from.
Years later, after my father's death, I was telling this story to my boyfriend, who would later become my husband. I was telling him that I no longer knew if it really had happened or not. I don't know if I can explain this, but I didn't know if it was a memory or a story. I had blocked it out of my memory for years and one day it was in my head again. My older sister overheard me say this and she came down the stairs to where we were sitting and said, "Yes, it happened. You had scars on your back the whole summer."
Although those scars faded a long time ago, there are others, not so visible, that are still there. It wasn't until I was a mother, and in my thirties, that I could finally understand all that had happened from his perspective. That is the day that I started on this journey. This journey to heal myself so that I could be the best parent that I could be.
(to be continued . . . )
When I was a very little girl, my father had a "pet" name for me. I was his "Korean Doll." My eyes had an Asian look to them, and thus, my nickname.
I was happy as a small child. When it came time for me to go to kindergarten, at four-years-old, I had no fear of going to school and being away from home, as some other new kindergartners did. I was excited to learn and to make friends. In kindergarten and first grade I did very well in school and loved that my first grade teacher taught us Spanish words. She was engaged to a man from Mexico and so she introduced us to the language. But in the second half of first grade, my father became ill.
No one told me about his illness, but I saw things and heard words. One time my mother was washing my father's hair in the laundry sink and his hair was falling out in clumps, and I knew that this wasn't right. The words I heard were "Cancer" and "treatments." I knew they were bad words, but still, I didn't know what they really meant. My father was a strict, yet loving father. My mother was more like a child. She hid things from my father when she wanted to do things. Like when she would take me out of school in kindergarten and we would ride the bus to Hempstead to go shopping. There was wonderful pizza at the Hempstead bus terminal, I can still smell it today when I think of it, and there were stores like Grants Department Store, that had toys to look at. She would tell me before we got on the bus, "Tell the man you are four." "But, I'm five now," I would say. "Yes, but if you are four you ride for free." So I was four. One time she bought me a paint-by-number kit that had glitter in the paint that sparkled. She said, "I'll buy you this but don't tell Daddy. Don't tell Daddy that we went shopping, he'll be mad." So I learned to lie.
One of the strict rules in our house was that I was to come home straight from school. I had friends at school, but not many friends at home. There was a girl who lived next door, Marcia, and she was my best friend. But she went to a different elementary school, because between our houses, lies the border between the schools. A girl at my school, Denise, invited me over to her house for a play-date. I decided to lie to my parents so that I could go. I decided I would tell them that I had stayed after school for extra-help. On the day of our play-date, we played in her basement. She had many dolls and toys that I didn't have. I got carried away with the fun we were having, and I forgot to check the time. Her mother called down to us and said it was time for me to go home because they were going to have dinner. When I saw the kitchen clock said 6 o'clock, I knew I was in deep trouble. I walked back toward the school so that I would be coming home from the right direction. I tried to think of a better excuse, since the school was now dark and no teacher would have kept me for extra-help so late. As I walked past the school, I saw my father on the other side of the street. He crossed it diagonally to get to me quicker. He grabbed hold of my arm and he dragged me home (about three long blocks).
He brought me up to my room, took of his belt, and started to hit me. I knew about his belt, it laid across his lap every night at dinner. He would pick it up and bending it in half, he would hold each end and snap it together to make a threatening sound. I knew he had hit my older brothers with it before, but he had never hit me. But that night, he hit me, and hit me, and hit me, and hit me and he just couldn't seem to stop. I was six years old. I knew I had done something wrong, but I just wanted to have a friend. This was the man who was supposed to love me and protect me. This was the man who called me his Korean Doll. And as much as I loved him, for the first time, I was afraid of him too. I didn't understand then that he was struggling, trying to survive cancer and all the fears and worries that accompanies that for a father. I didn't understand then that he had been terrified that someone had taken me. I didn't understand then that finding me, disobeying him, had pushed him over an edge that he couldn't stop falling from.
Years later, after my father's death, I was telling this story to my boyfriend, who would later become my husband. I was telling him that I no longer knew if it really had happened or not. I don't know if I can explain this, but I didn't know if it was a memory or a story. I had blocked it out of my memory for years and one day it was in my head again. My older sister overheard me say this and she came down the stairs to where we were sitting and said, "Yes, it happened. You had scars on your back the whole summer."
Although those scars faded a long time ago, there are others, not so visible, that are still there. It wasn't until I was a mother, and in my thirties, that I could finally understand all that had happened from his perspective. That is the day that I started on this journey. This journey to heal myself so that I could be the best parent that I could be.
(to be continued . . . )
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Thinking Positive Thoughts
It is amazing how thinking positive thoughts can completely change your mood. I remember someone telling me once that it's impossible to be sad if you smile. Today has been a good day of writing, and that is something that always recharges my batteries. When the words flow out of my mind, and the characters come to life, it is almost magical. I sometimes don't know where the words come from. In a moment of inspiration, an understanding of what happens next becomes apparent and it's just a matter of putting it down on the page.
Sometimes you just have to shut off the phones and all of the distractions and just trust yourself to fall into the story. I recently heard someone on the radio say that when he writes lyrics to songs, sometimes he has to "get out of his own way." It is so easy to allow yourself to get distracted and find excuses for not doing the work. I suppose it is just like anything else, exercising, practicing a skill or an art, or learning something new. You just have to do it. Put yourself in the right environment, a positive frame of mind, shut-out the neigh-sayers, and just do it. It is so worth it!
Sometimes you just have to shut off the phones and all of the distractions and just trust yourself to fall into the story. I recently heard someone on the radio say that when he writes lyrics to songs, sometimes he has to "get out of his own way." It is so easy to allow yourself to get distracted and find excuses for not doing the work. I suppose it is just like anything else, exercising, practicing a skill or an art, or learning something new. You just have to do it. Put yourself in the right environment, a positive frame of mind, shut-out the neigh-sayers, and just do it. It is so worth it!
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