Refugee

"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.

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.

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.

You just don't want me to have fun

Mom had always believed me, always had my back. Mom could and would trust me - rightfully so - and back me up when others couldn't or wouldn't. She believed me when my life was on the line, when my honor was on the line, and when my emotional well-being needed protecting. She had my back when she confronted her own sister when I told that my uncle - her sister's husband - had abused me.

So that Sunday when I told her what she had done the night before - and this time I had a witness there, too: my date to the high school Christmas dance the night before - I just knew she would listen to me and understand.

It was a gray, dismal day. This kind Houston was infamous for. Muggy and warm, even though it was December. She was in her robe in the kitchen, shocked and remorseful that she had said such horrible things and didn't even remember it. She was ready to go to AA. She got out the phone book.

I left, went with my date to return his tux, came back home, and found her drunk.

"Mom, I thought you were going to try A.A.!"

"You just don't want me to have fun!" she hollered back at me. "That's why you want me not to drink!"

It was crushing and sent my mind reeling. Not only had I wanted to trust Mom, have her get better, and have my mom back, but I had also been trusted by Mom. And here she was treating me like some conspiratorial suspect.

So, I was enormously hurt by her accusation. I knew it meant something was heinously wrong.

Also, it was absolutely terrifying, the lengths that she would go to to hang on to her drink. I never forgot it.

I believe it is much of the reason that a couple years later when I had a drink in my hand, and friends who were trying to take it because they thought I'd had enough, that I hollered and screamed and one of them said, "just give it to her" with a defeated tone, it wore on me. One year later I was looking for the number in the phone book for myself to get help.

She's Had a Hard Week

Tequila. Surely someone spiked it. I knew I felt woozy as I was trying to be sexy sitting on the console of my boyfriend's Ford Bronco, all of 17. I announce that I would say the multiplication tables starting from 9 and go backwards to stay focused. I was told I was somewhere in the middle of the 8's when I passed out, slumped forward and slid between the gas pedal and the console.

And, yes, we were moving. My boyfriend was flying down an unfamiliar highway in the backwoods of central Texas at 80, drinking himself.

Somewhere in the process of driving from Bastrop to his parents' home in San Antonio, I lost control of my bodily fluids and pissed myself as well as puked on myself and the car. I was completely gone, so I didn't even know he had changed my clothes for me at some point.

We arrived at his parents' home and I experienced one of the most demoralizing moments of my life. I could not move. I could, however, hear and see a little. The boyfriend drug me into his house with one arm over his shoulders. I could not move my legs to walk, or anything. Couldn't really pick up my head. But I heard his father say, 'Jeee SUS Christ, son, what! IS! THAT?!?!"

I wished I were dead. Or at least buried. So ashamed.

His wonderful family took care of me, cleaned me up, and put me to bed.

The following morning they called my mom and were very honest that they were going to let my mom know the severity of the situation.

I was scared of what mom would say, especially that maybe I wouldn't be able to see the boyfriend.

But, you know what Mom said? She said that I had had a very difficult week. Lots of stress. That I probably just blew off some steam. And that was that.

That's when I knew. Even though the last thing I wanted was punishment, I knew I should have it and that something was very wrong.

The diamond ring

She wore a purple dress, too warm for the season. I knew it was too warm for the season because my mom taught me these things. And now, she was living in a mission, and even this was a step up from the God awful streets. As much as I prayed to accept the things I couldn't change, the truth of this crushed against my soul.

I had asked her if there was anything she would like to have, now that she had a home, an actual place to live. Yes. She wanted a diamond ring.

In the past my mom had worn beautiful jewelry. I remember one amethyst butterfly and diamond silver ring and matching pendant, in particular. She was not from this kind of place, but she had come to know it fairly comfortably. And now it was all gone. All of it.

Whether these items were hocked, stolen, sold, or bartered, I don't know. I don't know where the upright piano that was my great aunt's went. Nor do I know where the pictures from my childhood are. My trophies and medals from gymnastcis, U.I.L. for orchestra, all gone. These are some of the casualties of homelessness.

The repercussions of what I grieve over since it was my mom who had all these keepsakes and it was my mom who lost them, seem to be relentless and unending. It comes up over something as simple as a fun project at work when people want a photo of you when you were little, or your mom to compare it to. Thank God some of these things have resurfaced and also that other family members have at least some of these items.

So, I choose a diamond ring from the few that I have. This one was given to me at my son's birth. It's not much, but it is something.

I understand why she wants a diamond ring. It respresents some of the dignity, elegance, and beauty that we used to know.

Twirling

"Well, I fought with a stranger and I met myself
I opened my mouth and I heard myself
It can get pretty lonely when you show yourself
Guess I could have made it easier on myself

But I, I could never follow
No I, I could never follow"

- Dixie Chicks, Long Way Around




Here's the thing. Some folks in my family think I'm crazy. Or at least seriously consider it.

I have done some crazy shit. I have made many mistakes and hurt some folks along the way. I have, at times, been desperate and panicked. I do not live traditionally, nor do I wish to do so. I take a lot of risks and I don't worry about how things look very much. I open my mouth and stand up for myself sometimes. This, I know, baffles some folks, especially when my ideas directly oppose some of theirs - or the other way around. But, on a very basic level, I am not even one iota of crazy.

Trust me, I would be. I even should be and have been, briefly. But not today. Not today. And not for most of the days of my life.

I told the therapist i was tired of living, told him I had thought about ending it. I was seventeen. I had been abused, my parents were divorcing, and my mom was a raging drunk. I was in all advanced courses, working twenty five hours a week, was president of the orchestra and twirler in the band. I don't know, call me crazy. Oh, wait. I actually think I was just tired and depressed. Oh, and drinking alcoholically. Minor detail.

They hospitalized me for "major depression." It was actually voluntary. I signed myself in. Imagine that. I thought i could use some help and rest. Sounds nuts, I know.

I forgot to mention it was Christmas time. I am pretty sure all these things can depress you. In any case, there i was.

The morning after I arrived at the sanitarium, Mom came to visit.

What an entrance. She wore her blue, silk dress and fox fur coat, hair all done, stumbling in her heels, smelling like liquor, and loud for the very quiet "unit" I was on.

Oh, the irony. She left. I stayed.

Relatively speaking, nothing much happened. I hung out for a few weeks, had some therapy, and left.

But first, Mom had to ask a question. The day before I was discharged the doctor told me he was testing me for bipolar disorder. I asked why, whether this was standard operating procedure. He said that it was not. So, then I deduced that he must suspect me of being bipolar and suggested such, to which he replied that no, indeed he did not suspect me of being bipolar. When I looked at him quizzically he grew agitated and finally burst out with his explanation.

Sighing heavily, he quipped, "Kollette, your mother has requested this."
"Oh! Is she worried about me?"
"In my opinion, Kollette, she knows you are being released and yet you still do not see things her way. Therefore, even though we are telling her otherwise, she thinks something must still be wrong with you."

This simple statement set my world on edge. It both terrified and freed me. It has served me multiple times, since Mom is not the only person who has gone to such lengths to perpetuate some needed fantasy.

And the strength, the power, the cunning and baffling force of the disease of alcoholism once again attempted to engulf us both.