"Somewhere, somehow somebody
Must have kicked you around some
Tell me why you want to lay there
And revel in your abandon
Listen it don't make no difference to me baby
Everybody's had to fight to be free
You see you don't have to live like a refugee
Now baby you don't have to live like a refugee." - Tom Petty, Refugee
It was Mama who dragged it out of me. I lay on my pastel green checked cotton and polyester bedspread, under my canopy of the same fabric. My feet were hanging over the side of the bed, almost touching the floor. Wranglers, bare feet, bony ankles, green carpet.
Mama was standing at the end of my knees, waving her arms, close to gnashing her teeth and wailing.
She had known something was wrong. She knew it was more than that stupid boy I had a stupid crush on. I hadn't said a word except asking Momma to come get me early from my aunt's house that summer. I hadn't realized it, but according to Mom I had been "moping around" since then for the past few days.
"Did George hurt you?" she finally let her fear punch the words out. I sat and waited, unsure of the answer but knowing the truth. That's when I flopped back onto my bed, put my hand to my frowning forehead and nodded. That moment forever changed the course of my life.
"I knew it! I knew it!" She was in obvious pain. Grimacing, starting to cry, taking a step, then taking it back.
"How did you know, Mama?"
"Because he used to hurt me."
"What?!?"
As my story unfolded, so did hers. And what my mother had convinced herself of, in order to cope and to limp somehow along in this life, was that George - her sister's husband - and she, Mama - a three year old girl (age when the abuse started that she could remember) had "had an affair." She convinced herself that it was just between them.
But the pain I was in broke through her denial. She was my champion, my hero, my savior.
My Granny had raised five kids on her own. She lost one of them in a drunk driving accident when he was 14. She lost her husband when she was in her thirties. So when George wanted to marry my aunt who was only thirteen, she agreed.
On one hand I guess their family situation could look kind of normal. George and my aunt had a regular house on a good bit of land. His daughter and her family lived in a trailer on one portion of the land, his son and family lived in another trailer on another portion of that land. There was a garden. My aunt had a small beauty shop just outside the back door which made it convenient for her to work there. It looked good.
Another way it could be seen, once some of the gritty truth started to emerge, is more like a compound. During those summer visits when I played with other kids in the area - which I wasn't allowed to do much - they would tell me that everyone knew George beat my aunt. There was always a lot of drinking. Two cases a night for George was not out of the norm. Add the sons in to that and any of George's "friends." The dark and off limits bedroom where George would "get you" if you entered. A dozen cars torn apart and rusting around the property. Then to find out that my aunt was not actually "allowed" to go to work outside the home, that even a niece who came to visit occasionally didn't escape the abuse, and you can see how the fact that my mom ever escaped is nothing short of a miracle.
That she ever spent time behaving like anything other than a refugee is miraculous, as well. There is no doubt in my mind that that's exactly what she was.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Our Own Private Ceremony
Every time I look at the ocean I am reminded of Mom. Standing on some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, the ocean is divine in its beauty. It is the very essence of life for many creatures. The waves lapping the shore and even crashing into it can lull one into a serene sleep from far enough away.
But to be in the water is another story entirely. It can be refreshing - warm and soothing or cool and thrilling. But there is no mistaking the power of the currents, the tides, of rogue waves...to say nothing of her in a storm or a hurricane. And chances are pretty good I'd catch her in all her glory, secure in all her vitality. Still, somewhere way back behind my laughter as I turned my back on the glistening water, I would remember the last storm and how she looked then. Terrible.
And no one would know that my laughter was cut just a little bit short, and that I pursed my lips together just a little bit more than needed while I folded the towel, and that the frown I wore wasn't just to protect my eyes from the sun, for just a moment.
Still, I am drawn to her. I get peace like little else from sitting on her shores, meditating on her waves. How I do love her.
I'm like the tide, myself. I retreat, recede. Then move closer, come in. I can't stay out or away for long. Part of me is always washing up and in just as some of me mixes with the sand and whirls it around, back out and on.
So, it seemed fitting to release the three pearls into the bay.
The sun was setting. We were at the State Park in Galveston where we had spent many days as a family. Pink and orange lit up the horizon between Texas and Mexico. My dad had gotten that pearl necklace, matching earrings, and cocktail ring for mom, had brought it all the way from Vietnam when he was so distraught and when there was no money. They were 20 and 23. They had already lived through a tour of duty, the birth of their first child, and uprooting their small town Texas lives to live worlds apart in Alaska and Vietnam.
For some reason, pearls are always depicted as feminine. I guess it's because they use their own bodies to create and protect that beautiful little gem. So, I took three pearls from the ones Dad had given Mom. One for her first child, one for her second, and one for her grandchild. I simply walked up to the gentle and warm receding tide, and returned what the ocean had freely given to us.
But to be in the water is another story entirely. It can be refreshing - warm and soothing or cool and thrilling. But there is no mistaking the power of the currents, the tides, of rogue waves...to say nothing of her in a storm or a hurricane. And chances are pretty good I'd catch her in all her glory, secure in all her vitality. Still, somewhere way back behind my laughter as I turned my back on the glistening water, I would remember the last storm and how she looked then. Terrible.
And no one would know that my laughter was cut just a little bit short, and that I pursed my lips together just a little bit more than needed while I folded the towel, and that the frown I wore wasn't just to protect my eyes from the sun, for just a moment.
Still, I am drawn to her. I get peace like little else from sitting on her shores, meditating on her waves. How I do love her.
I'm like the tide, myself. I retreat, recede. Then move closer, come in. I can't stay out or away for long. Part of me is always washing up and in just as some of me mixes with the sand and whirls it around, back out and on.
So, it seemed fitting to release the three pearls into the bay.
The sun was setting. We were at the State Park in Galveston where we had spent many days as a family. Pink and orange lit up the horizon between Texas and Mexico. My dad had gotten that pearl necklace, matching earrings, and cocktail ring for mom, had brought it all the way from Vietnam when he was so distraught and when there was no money. They were 20 and 23. They had already lived through a tour of duty, the birth of their first child, and uprooting their small town Texas lives to live worlds apart in Alaska and Vietnam.
For some reason, pearls are always depicted as feminine. I guess it's because they use their own bodies to create and protect that beautiful little gem. So, I took three pearls from the ones Dad had given Mom. One for her first child, one for her second, and one for her grandchild. I simply walked up to the gentle and warm receding tide, and returned what the ocean had freely given to us.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Oil Revenues
The sun blazed in the searing sky over the mid Texas town of Mineral Wells. Dead brown grass crackled under our feet as we walked the perimeter of the small piece of land.
Annoyed as I was in my teenage ire, I rebelled by not paying attention. As much as I loved my mom and wanted to care, the most important thing in the world seemed to be my comfort - or lack thereof. Little matter that she was enduring what I was as well to impart whatever it was she was trying to get across by being out there on that God awfully hot day, I would rather not hear it.
So, I have only a vague recollection of her explaining that she owned some mineral rights to this land, and that someday I would, too. I think Granny bought them.
About twenty five years later, the checks started coming. Nothing hefty or life changing in the sense that I could now retire or anything remotely close, but, enough that it did make a small dent in my tiny budget. Some months it made the difference between a bounced check fee or not, or another trip to the grocery store.
I think when I got my first check Mom had been gone about four years. I am once again humbled by her competence and nurturing. As much as I felt she didn't take care of me in so many ways, she is still taking care of me from beyond.
Annoyed as I was in my teenage ire, I rebelled by not paying attention. As much as I loved my mom and wanted to care, the most important thing in the world seemed to be my comfort - or lack thereof. Little matter that she was enduring what I was as well to impart whatever it was she was trying to get across by being out there on that God awfully hot day, I would rather not hear it.
So, I have only a vague recollection of her explaining that she owned some mineral rights to this land, and that someday I would, too. I think Granny bought them.
About twenty five years later, the checks started coming. Nothing hefty or life changing in the sense that I could now retire or anything remotely close, but, enough that it did make a small dent in my tiny budget. Some months it made the difference between a bounced check fee or not, or another trip to the grocery store.
I think when I got my first check Mom had been gone about four years. I am once again humbled by her competence and nurturing. As much as I felt she didn't take care of me in so many ways, she is still taking care of me from beyond.
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