Wednesday, January 13, 2021

CHILD'S PLAY


Hide and Go Seek, a child’s game.  Hide while I count.  Skip count by fives til you get to 200.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…ninety-five, 100!  Repeat Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…ninety-five, 200!  Ready or not, here I come. 

But no one comes.  You have followed the rules.  You have hidden yourself.  You have tried to make yourself invisible and hide your pain.  Hide your disfunction.  Hide your sadness.  Hide your essence.  You have no place in this world.  Always unwanted.  Always marginalized. 

Be good.  Be quiet.  Child seen but never heard.  Always hiding.  You learned it well.

You always thought someone would come.  Someone would come and listen to your pain.  Someone would come to affirm that you are ok.  In fact, you are amazing.  There is no one like you.  Yet, you wait, hidden long after the counting is done.  No one comes.

Mother May I?  Another game.  Mother, may I take three giant steps.  Yes, you may take three giant steps.  One, Two, Three.  Your brother’s turn, Mother, may I take two giant steps.  Yes, you may take two giant steps.  One, Two.  Your oldest brother steps forward.  Mother, may I take ten giant steps.  Yes, you may take ten giant steps.  ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN!

You never catch up – the sun has risen on the first born like in some ancient story of patriarchy.  Always in the shadows, and never catching rays of sun.  You and your brother, always in the shadows of the first born.  Mother, may I take three giant steps.  NO, you may not take three giant steps.  You may go back to start.  You will never finish.

A third sidewalk game is played.  STATUES.  The one who was mother in Mother May I, spins you around.  You are disoriented.  You are dizzy.  Life is a series of whiplash experiences.  You don’t understand.  What is up, what is down, what is right, what is wrong?  She stops and you turn into a statue.  Only no one comes to release you.  You stand still a shell of yourself.  No emotion.  No delight.  No crying out.  Just stand there, be a good girl.  Do the right things.  You are frozen.

 

Thursday, November 26, 2020

Pure Gold


One of the first things my sleepy eyes focused on this morning is a text message. Just the notification of the text message that flashes when you pick up your phone. It simply said, Happy Thanksgiving! No gif, no picture, just simple words. Then I saw it was from my BFF from 53rd Street. 

Fifty Third Street was my universe. This tree lined street of mixed style houses and diverse neighbors shaped my existence. It is hard for people from other universes to understand how one city block can be your world. But it was my world. 

 Diverse neighbors wove a tapestry of friendship and understanding. They also fought and squabbled as they dealt with all the complexities of life. To paint that world as idyllic robs the world of its reality and truth. I've written about all these things before. I've written about the horror of abuse, the misunderstandings, the fears as well as the joys and triumphs. 

Recently, a voice from the past has emerged into my present world. Someone from the universe. Someone I never would have thought I'd enjoy sharing frequent emails with as we ask - what happened to so and so? Or, do you remember? Or what was the name of _____ ? It's been pleasant and a gift. 

My strongest memory of this boy from across the street, the older brother of a very dear friend, is that he teased me. I grew up as an only child so I didn't have the gift of brotherly tormenting. Now this voice of the past is gifting me with many precious memories. 

Today is Thanksgiving. The urge to write elludes me too much of late. I still have a book to finish. Alas, it will get done. But today I'm thinking about how thankful I am for friends. I was thinking about that old song I learned as a child:

 
Make new friends but keep the old, One is Silver and the Other Gold. 

I'm thankful for the BFF who thought of me early this morning. Memories of her always bring such joy to my heart. I longed for half my life to find her and finally I did - now she's a text or phone call away.

I'm thankful for the girl across the street who is also a BFF. We don't interact much but I see her face and beautiful quilted creations. I know I can reach out to her. I am thankful for her friendship and hours and hours of play in her basement or on a street corner. 

I'm thankful for her brother. A voice from the past to share precious memories and find out what our lives brought. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the triumphant. I'm thankful for his memory - as he shares with me the tales of our 53rd Street world. I'm thankful to learn from him more about the depth of his mother's faith. I think of his mother often and her insistence of "magic words" (please and thank you). I'm thankful she was strong enough through faith to trust God through her own struggles and tragedies. 

I'm so thankful for 53rd Street. I'm thankful for a precious but complex childhood. It wasn't without pain and sorrow. But it was my universe and it is so nice to visit those day with my old friends. Make new friends but keep the old. I am thankful I am keeping the oldest of friends. 

THEY ARE PURE GOLD

Sunday, October 11, 2020

Waves

The ocean beckons.  It speaks softly and loudly.  It breaks in rhythmic cadence.  All day, all year, its rhythm never changing.  As it speaks softly to me, it’s sound tickles my memory.  The beach, a place of solace.  The beach, a place of warmth.  The beach, memories profound. 

Coney Island.  Loud.  Happy.  Hot sand.  My dad but never my mother.  A black and white photo of my brother tormenting me with hot sand.  A look of pain on my face.  The carousel and catching the golden ring.  Knishes! Hot Knishes!  Ice cream.  Nathan’s hot dog and amazing crinkle fries, NO Ketchup.  Cotton candy.  George C. Tilyou’s Steeplechase Park.  The parachute jump.  Skee ball!  Each crash of the wave sparks another memory.

My childhood seemed happy.  And it was.  My parents seemed happily married.  Likely they weren’t but they made commitments and stuck to them no matter what.  There was no other way.  Too much social pressure to even consider anything else.  The unwanted child who arrived was made room for and accommodated. 

In the stillness at the beach I experience another memory.  The little girl who was not happy.  The little girl aware she was unwanted.  The little girl who carried shame for which she had no words.  The girl who was broken inside.  The girl whose world was marred by a middle-aged man in her neighborhood.

At 8 years old, and at 9, and at 10, and 11, and 12, when this little girl would go the beach, she would walk to the waters edge.  The waves would erode the sand around her feet.  Her feet would sway and at times she would lose her balance and stumble.  Then she’d think, I wish I didn’t know how to swim.  Her daddy had held her above the water until she learned to trust the water and swim. 

If only, if only she didn’t know how to swim.  How easy it would be to walk into the water.  To let the water surround her like a blanket and then like a pillow over her head, the waves would take her.  They would take her away from her pain.  They would take her away from her shame.  Perhaps they would even take her to heaven.  This little girl wondered who would cry when she was gone. 

Then she’d try.  One step after another, deeper in the water.  It was now over her head.  Sometimes she’d try to breathe the water in.  Spit, spatter, gasp – she’d always come back up.  The waves had also rejected her.

As she got older, her thoughts would devise other plans.  Plans for relief.  Plans for the end of the internal anguish her little soul suffered.  And yet, she never understood why.  Buried deep below was a piercing wound that would not be healed. 

As I look out the fourth-floor balcony at the crashing waves and remember, I look down.  Another memory.  The older girl and woman who would assess a pinnacle by two criteria.  If she fell, would she just get hurt or paralyzed.  Or is this height enough.  Would she die?  Fourth story is not enough she reasoned. 

She wasn’t serious today but many days she was.  At 13, 14, and 15, the roof in Brooklyn would call her name.  Asphalt sunbathing would turn into thoughts of falling – or jumping.  As she looked over the edge, fearing a life of paralysis she never gave in to these impulses.

The wound has largely healed but its scars still call out to her through the crashing waves.  It is pain that will endure.  The insecurities and anxiety still come.  But the waves restore my soul and let me breathe deeply reminding me that I survived.