Sometimes it's really difficult to make sense of where I came from and where I am. I find myself overthinking every little thing I do for fear that I will wake up one day and discover that whatever mania prompted my maternal grandmother to put my mother in group homes, or the psychosis that compelled my mother to do such unthinkable things will overtake me. How exactly do I square the belief that my mom's erratic behaviors are the result of her strained relationship with her mother and simultaneously believe that my childhood hasn't and won't come back to haunt me? That's a real question. One I have yet to answer to my satisfaction.
Meanwhile, back at the camp, I secretly (well, I guess it's not a secret anymore) contend with the possibility that some culminating event will usher me into the arms of my prescribed fate. Two generations of brilliant, powerful, and beautiful women precede me, and neither of them reached their true potential as intellectual beings or as parents.
The temptation is to point to the fact that I got out of the projects, and into a three bedroom, two bathroom house. But my geographical distance from that life collapses in the face of memory and experience. Am I to believe that I have broken the cycle merely because I took my God-given facility with academics and turned it into a B.A. and an M.A. unlike my foremothers? That just seems too easy, though it reads nicely on paper.
Everyday I question whether or not I have the strength to complete this final degree. This is not a new preoccupation of mine. When my mother emptied my bank account, which held my tuition money for undergrad, I wasn't sure I'd cross that threshold. When she called me incessantly, threatening to take her own life if I didn't come back to New York, I became so down-trodden that I literally couldn't leave my dorm room. I developed a fear of being seen -- really seen -- by others. I was afraid that people would notice that my apparent normalcy was a brave but tenuous act. Sophomore year my GPA slipped from a 3.8 to .667. It was a perfect representation of where I was emotionally. There are no words to describe the energy it required to pull myself out of that depression in order that I pull myself out of that academic canyon. But I did it. To be perfectly honest, I don't know that I have that amount of stamina left in me.
Then I begin to ponder if my son will be proud of his mother, not because I came from a valley and climbed a mountain, but because outside of the myriad of excuses I could make for resting on my laurels, I kept going and did something anyone could be proud of. Though I don't feel energetic about dusting my ass off and stumbling forward, the thought of his pride gives off enough fumes to keep me running -- on autopilot. What I don't want is for Caleb to tell some sob story about his mother's potential and the manner in which her past held her back. I don't want to hear about how noble my attempt was. And I definitely don't want to hear how amazing it is that I even survived the hand that God dealt me. If I buy into any of that what would I be teaching my child? Would he pat himself on the back for being a black man who takes care of his children, who doesn't end up in jail, or for getting an education in spite of his Autism diagnosis? Until I can shrug off the temptation to embrace the excuses that I am handed daily, I will never break this cycle. It's time to come out of that room, and be seen.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Ramifications of Childhood on Parenthood, Part II
As I stated previously, we had a full house when I was growing up. Seven people occupied my mother's one bedroom apartment. I had never known what it was like to have my own room, but now I had no room. I slept on the floor by the entrance to the apartment with my cousin, Annette. With that many people in the house, it was difficult to keep up with the goings on of one timid little toddler. So, I was abused physically, mentally, and sexually.
Out of necessity my mother had taken a job at McDonald's as a manager. I spent my days with Cedric and his close friend and cousin, Diddy Boo (you can't make this stuff up). The last thing they wanted to do was put up with me, no matter the debt that was owed to my mother for providing them shelter. They found a handy little solution to the problem. They would shove me in the living room closet for the better part of the day, letting me out only long enough to strangle me with my mother's pink gift-wrapping ribbons. Of course, I was lead to believe that if I mentioned any of this mistreatment to my mother, my punishment would be much more severe next time.
I probably would have told my mother anyway, but I knew she had a volatile disposition. I'd seen her punch a woman in the mouth and knock teeth out. I'd also seen her thrash men who had overstayed their welcome, and throw them down the stairs. Each altercation left the fear of God in me. I was convinced that my mother would be killed in one of the scuffles. So, I kept my mouth shut. Besides, she had no one else to leave me with while she was at work.
My father was not in any position to do anything to change my situation. He had been badly damaged by his service in the Vietnam war. He turned to heroine for release from the PTSD. Besides that, I had no idea that he was my father. I'd been told that he was my uncle. It wasn't until I turned 6 that he would insist that I stop calling him Uncle Junior and start calling him daddy.
In any case, there was nowhere to go. Once Isamae, Cedric, and crew moved out of our apartment, I suffered at the hands of my other sitters. When the mood struck her, Regina would force me to stand in the corner on one foot with my arms extended like the wings of a plane. If I lost my balance (which inevitably happened since I was made to stand there for hours at a time), she would beat me with her belt. When my grandparents finally agreed to look after me, I would be sent to the number hole at a local bar and drug hub to play numbers for my grandmother and her daughters. One of my aunts went as far as to send me on runs to purchase her drugs.
This is not to say that things were dramatically different with my mother. One thing I found refreshing about being in my mother's care was the fact that she did not much believe in corporal punishment. Still, she had her peculiar ways. Occasionally, she would march into the bedroom where I sat reading or watching television, and insist that I was a "bad girl." She'd tell me to get undressed to prepare for my spanking. I'd sit in the room for a half hour or so before she would remember her order. She'd come back to the bedroom to find me, sitting naked and petrified, laugh heartily, and leave me in the apartment with her drunken guests. On other occasions she would block her guests( ill from too much alcohol consumption) from entering the bathroom. Covered in vomit, she would awaken me from my sleep and insist that I hug her.
As long as there is breath in my body, my son will never know that life.
Out of necessity my mother had taken a job at McDonald's as a manager. I spent my days with Cedric and his close friend and cousin, Diddy Boo (you can't make this stuff up). The last thing they wanted to do was put up with me, no matter the debt that was owed to my mother for providing them shelter. They found a handy little solution to the problem. They would shove me in the living room closet for the better part of the day, letting me out only long enough to strangle me with my mother's pink gift-wrapping ribbons. Of course, I was lead to believe that if I mentioned any of this mistreatment to my mother, my punishment would be much more severe next time.
I probably would have told my mother anyway, but I knew she had a volatile disposition. I'd seen her punch a woman in the mouth and knock teeth out. I'd also seen her thrash men who had overstayed their welcome, and throw them down the stairs. Each altercation left the fear of God in me. I was convinced that my mother would be killed in one of the scuffles. So, I kept my mouth shut. Besides, she had no one else to leave me with while she was at work.
My father was not in any position to do anything to change my situation. He had been badly damaged by his service in the Vietnam war. He turned to heroine for release from the PTSD. Besides that, I had no idea that he was my father. I'd been told that he was my uncle. It wasn't until I turned 6 that he would insist that I stop calling him Uncle Junior and start calling him daddy.
In any case, there was nowhere to go. Once Isamae, Cedric, and crew moved out of our apartment, I suffered at the hands of my other sitters. When the mood struck her, Regina would force me to stand in the corner on one foot with my arms extended like the wings of a plane. If I lost my balance (which inevitably happened since I was made to stand there for hours at a time), she would beat me with her belt. When my grandparents finally agreed to look after me, I would be sent to the number hole at a local bar and drug hub to play numbers for my grandmother and her daughters. One of my aunts went as far as to send me on runs to purchase her drugs.
This is not to say that things were dramatically different with my mother. One thing I found refreshing about being in my mother's care was the fact that she did not much believe in corporal punishment. Still, she had her peculiar ways. Occasionally, she would march into the bedroom where I sat reading or watching television, and insist that I was a "bad girl." She'd tell me to get undressed to prepare for my spanking. I'd sit in the room for a half hour or so before she would remember her order. She'd come back to the bedroom to find me, sitting naked and petrified, laugh heartily, and leave me in the apartment with her drunken guests. On other occasions she would block her guests( ill from too much alcohol consumption) from entering the bathroom. Covered in vomit, she would awaken me from my sleep and insist that I hug her.
As long as there is breath in my body, my son will never know that life.
The Ramifications of Childhood on Parenthood, Part I
It was a regular Saturday night at my house. Mom had a handful of visitors drinking, smoking, singing and dancing to Golden Oldies. I had been privy to this scene enough times to know that the joyous laughter would soon be drowned out by bickering (if it was a good day) or brawling (if it was not). This particular evening my Great Aunt, Isamae, was responsible for the shift. She went into the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife and returned, wielding the laughable weapon amidst a room full of much younger, much more violent people.
"I'ma kill every last one of y'all mother%$@!ers, and I'm fittin' to start with him." She pointed to my cousin Cedric's near lifeless body sprawled ignobly in the middle of the floor. Cedric was the worst of all the drunks at my house. For one thing, he lived with us, as did Isamae, her daughter Linda, Linda's son (Cedric) and her daughter, Annette. More importantly, he never had that moment of euphoria that the others experienced in the early part of the evening. He was mean when he was sober and he was mean and annoying when he was drunk. Despite his small stature, he was also as fearless as they come.
Had he been conscious to hear the threat his Aunt issued, Cedric would have remained right there on the floor, unmoved. But he hadn't. Instead, Regina, the neighborhood crackhead and "lady of the evening" had heard it. Unlike Cedric, Regina was afraid of her own shadow. She screamed and beat herself about the head as she climbed out of the living room window onto the fire escape. No one was going to kill her. She would kill herself, she said.
Perhaps it was the liquor that drowned out the noise Regina made, or perhaps it was because my mother's apartment was only one story up - hardly enough to kill anyone, but the other "guests" (excepting my father) ignored both Regina and the woman who set her on this ridiculous course. My dad, who had recently returned from North Carolina with the help of his parents, tried to talk Regina off the fire escape (or the "outskirts" as he called it). I can't remember how the night ended. I assume at some point I calmed down enough to close my eyes, hopeful that only the empty liquor bottles and the foul odor of drunkenness had remained.
The story has been told time and again with gleeful reminiscence, but, at the ripe old age of four, I was devastated.
"I'ma kill every last one of y'all mother%$@!ers, and I'm fittin' to start with him." She pointed to my cousin Cedric's near lifeless body sprawled ignobly in the middle of the floor. Cedric was the worst of all the drunks at my house. For one thing, he lived with us, as did Isamae, her daughter Linda, Linda's son (Cedric) and her daughter, Annette. More importantly, he never had that moment of euphoria that the others experienced in the early part of the evening. He was mean when he was sober and he was mean and annoying when he was drunk. Despite his small stature, he was also as fearless as they come.
Had he been conscious to hear the threat his Aunt issued, Cedric would have remained right there on the floor, unmoved. But he hadn't. Instead, Regina, the neighborhood crackhead and "lady of the evening" had heard it. Unlike Cedric, Regina was afraid of her own shadow. She screamed and beat herself about the head as she climbed out of the living room window onto the fire escape. No one was going to kill her. She would kill herself, she said.
Perhaps it was the liquor that drowned out the noise Regina made, or perhaps it was because my mother's apartment was only one story up - hardly enough to kill anyone, but the other "guests" (excepting my father) ignored both Regina and the woman who set her on this ridiculous course. My dad, who had recently returned from North Carolina with the help of his parents, tried to talk Regina off the fire escape (or the "outskirts" as he called it). I can't remember how the night ended. I assume at some point I calmed down enough to close my eyes, hopeful that only the empty liquor bottles and the foul odor of drunkenness had remained.
The story has been told time and again with gleeful reminiscence, but, at the ripe old age of four, I was devastated.
It's a peculiar thing to have to think so many steps ahead when one is being haunted by the past. My dream has always been to be a celebrated and studied novelist. Since I have had my son, however, my priorities have changed. I want more than anything to see my son achieve his goals, which means there are some very important things I need to do to support him.
We are after all, products of our environments. What I've come to realize is that much of what I learned about parenting stems from the manner in which I was parented. It isn't that I am just now considering this rather obvious factoid, rather I have gone out of my way to leave my past behind me specifically for the purpose of moving forward with purpose. For decades that coping mechanism not only worked for me, but allowed me to excel. But last year I found myself in the middle of a proverbial $h!t storm, and suddenly my old reliable tactics didn't work.
What I am going to write is not for the faint of heart. But it is the truth as I know and lived it. When my mother returned to New York, leaving my father to fend for himself in Wilmington, NC, I had the rather strange experience of growing up in the same apartment my mother was raised in. Yet, our upbringings and our personalities could not have been more disparate.
To be continued....
We are after all, products of our environments. What I've come to realize is that much of what I learned about parenting stems from the manner in which I was parented. It isn't that I am just now considering this rather obvious factoid, rather I have gone out of my way to leave my past behind me specifically for the purpose of moving forward with purpose. For decades that coping mechanism not only worked for me, but allowed me to excel. But last year I found myself in the middle of a proverbial $h!t storm, and suddenly my old reliable tactics didn't work.
What I am going to write is not for the faint of heart. But it is the truth as I know and lived it. When my mother returned to New York, leaving my father to fend for himself in Wilmington, NC, I had the rather strange experience of growing up in the same apartment my mother was raised in. Yet, our upbringings and our personalities could not have been more disparate.
To be continued....
Friday, May 6, 2011
Auto-pilot
I happen to be a big fan of the Oxygen networks hit series, Snapped. Bear with me, I'm going somewhere with this. I've had an epiphany during my tenure as Snapped's biggest fan. These women are not so different from the rest of us. The fundamental difference is that most of us are never confronted with that one thing that would send us over the edge. Their wick is shorter than most, perhaps, but the core issue is the same.
I say this not because I am on the verge of becoming a homicidal maniac (I have trouble killing anything larger than a fly), but because I sense that I am at the end of my rapidly fraying rope. The truly frightening element of this intuitive sensibility is that I am not able to sense the distance between where I am presently and where my rope ends. I do, however, know that beyond the rope is a bottomless pit.
To be specific, I am supposed to be writing the second chapter of my dissertation, though I have yet to complete the first. I am supposed to be sitting at a feeding clinic with my son 5 days per week, 7 hours per day, but I have to work. I am supposed to be doing research on Langston Hughes for a book that my colleagues are composing. I am supposed to call my terminally ill mother five times per day because that's what she needs to feel loved. The reality is that I can barely get out of bed each morning. I am operating on fumes.
Speaking of feeling loved, I want to confess that I felt a modicum of jealousy when my ex-husband's friends got together during Christmas for a random act of kindness. Several of John's friends got cards and filled them with both money and messages of encouragement. He had gone through a lot in that year what with Caleb being Autistic and our marriage ending. It was very moving. Still, I couldn't help wondering what exactly they knew about the circumstances surrounding the divorce. I wondered if John had presented it in such a way that he was an innocent. Did they perceive the end of our relationship as something that just happened to him or something that he actively (whether knowingly or obliviously) brought about?
I realize this sounds ugly, the green-eyed monster is rearing its head, but I'm only human. I ponder these things to this day, not because I am Narcissus returned, but because I considered some of John's friends to be my friends also. I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to tell my side of the story. I am fully aware that their acts of kindness were not based solely on our divorce, but also on what is going on with Caleb. In the grand scheme of things, however, I had been as close to hell last year as I ever want to be. Many of the things that John had suffered were either the result of his actions or something that happened to me (people assume that when a friend's loved one is suffering that friend is also suffering - not always true). But to get to the crux of the issue, I believe that the perception my ex-husband has given to the world is that I "stepped out" on him while we were married and he, in the general sense, was a bad husband.
The truth of the matter is that I am involved with someone else. I did not foster that relationship until after John and I agreed to divorce. There are things that happened between us during that period that have barely seen the light of day. Suffice it to say that I was twice attacked, and the second assailant was John. Consider the fact that J began throwing furniture at the close of our relationship. I fled to a hotel room at midnight with my son, and called the police. I was told that unless the chair had hit me, they had nothing to write up. The officer advised me that I should have called the cops when he attacked me the first time. I should call back, I was told, when he struck me again.
Now, I was raised in an environment where my mother was beaten by all but one of her boyfriends. When I was old enough, it became my job to step in. The pattern continued when I began dating men who struck me. I do not want my son to believe that violence is an acceptable form of expression. That is not the man I want Caleb to become, and I certainly don't want him to believe that I am the type of woman who would accept that treatment. This life, for me, is about breaking cycles.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this post. While I would never contemplate harming another human being, I have considered giving up. This week, I almost didn't go to work. I stopped writing my dissertation. I didn't respond to business-related emails. I didn't call my mother. I didn't care. My partner and my BFF both heard it in my voice. I was afraid that I would snap.Then I thought about Caleb.
When I was a child, my mother would frequently threaten to kill herself (and on one occasion she threatened to kill me in my sleep). So, when she took to the bed due to her crushing depression, I became anxiety-filled. I had to mourn my mother daily, for fear that each day would be the day I found her lifeless body. I won't allow my son to see his mother in such a state. I want him to grow up with the belief that nothing can defeat him - not autism, not living in a single-parent household, and certainly not life.
So, I get up everyday, drag my tail to work, love on my son, and try to sleep at night. As long as God permits me to be on autopilot, I will keep plodding along. And maybe, someday soon, I will be back in the driver's seat.
But not today...
I say this not because I am on the verge of becoming a homicidal maniac (I have trouble killing anything larger than a fly), but because I sense that I am at the end of my rapidly fraying rope. The truly frightening element of this intuitive sensibility is that I am not able to sense the distance between where I am presently and where my rope ends. I do, however, know that beyond the rope is a bottomless pit.
To be specific, I am supposed to be writing the second chapter of my dissertation, though I have yet to complete the first. I am supposed to be sitting at a feeding clinic with my son 5 days per week, 7 hours per day, but I have to work. I am supposed to be doing research on Langston Hughes for a book that my colleagues are composing. I am supposed to call my terminally ill mother five times per day because that's what she needs to feel loved. The reality is that I can barely get out of bed each morning. I am operating on fumes.
Speaking of feeling loved, I want to confess that I felt a modicum of jealousy when my ex-husband's friends got together during Christmas for a random act of kindness. Several of John's friends got cards and filled them with both money and messages of encouragement. He had gone through a lot in that year what with Caleb being Autistic and our marriage ending. It was very moving. Still, I couldn't help wondering what exactly they knew about the circumstances surrounding the divorce. I wondered if John had presented it in such a way that he was an innocent. Did they perceive the end of our relationship as something that just happened to him or something that he actively (whether knowingly or obliviously) brought about?
I realize this sounds ugly, the green-eyed monster is rearing its head, but I'm only human. I ponder these things to this day, not because I am Narcissus returned, but because I considered some of John's friends to be my friends also. I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to tell my side of the story. I am fully aware that their acts of kindness were not based solely on our divorce, but also on what is going on with Caleb. In the grand scheme of things, however, I had been as close to hell last year as I ever want to be. Many of the things that John had suffered were either the result of his actions or something that happened to me (people assume that when a friend's loved one is suffering that friend is also suffering - not always true). But to get to the crux of the issue, I believe that the perception my ex-husband has given to the world is that I "stepped out" on him while we were married and he, in the general sense, was a bad husband.
The truth of the matter is that I am involved with someone else. I did not foster that relationship until after John and I agreed to divorce. There are things that happened between us during that period that have barely seen the light of day. Suffice it to say that I was twice attacked, and the second assailant was John. Consider the fact that J began throwing furniture at the close of our relationship. I fled to a hotel room at midnight with my son, and called the police. I was told that unless the chair had hit me, they had nothing to write up. The officer advised me that I should have called the cops when he attacked me the first time. I should call back, I was told, when he struck me again.
Now, I was raised in an environment where my mother was beaten by all but one of her boyfriends. When I was old enough, it became my job to step in. The pattern continued when I began dating men who struck me. I do not want my son to believe that violence is an acceptable form of expression. That is not the man I want Caleb to become, and I certainly don't want him to believe that I am the type of woman who would accept that treatment. This life, for me, is about breaking cycles.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this post. While I would never contemplate harming another human being, I have considered giving up. This week, I almost didn't go to work. I stopped writing my dissertation. I didn't respond to business-related emails. I didn't call my mother. I didn't care. My partner and my BFF both heard it in my voice. I was afraid that I would snap.Then I thought about Caleb.
When I was a child, my mother would frequently threaten to kill herself (and on one occasion she threatened to kill me in my sleep). So, when she took to the bed due to her crushing depression, I became anxiety-filled. I had to mourn my mother daily, for fear that each day would be the day I found her lifeless body. I won't allow my son to see his mother in such a state. I want him to grow up with the belief that nothing can defeat him - not autism, not living in a single-parent household, and certainly not life.
So, I get up everyday, drag my tail to work, love on my son, and try to sleep at night. As long as God permits me to be on autopilot, I will keep plodding along. And maybe, someday soon, I will be back in the driver's seat.
But not today...
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Frustration
Can I just tell you how frustrating it is to have a non-verbal child who is nearly three years-old? Not only am I supremely overprotective of him when he is around "typical" children his age, I am also agitated that, as an educator, I can't reach him.
Caleb tries hard to communicate. He will grab my hand and take me to items or activities he wants to have or engage in. I've tried withholding those desired things from him with the hopes of getting him to "use his words," but to no avail.
Today he became frustrated in a way that I have never witnessed before. He wanted something. Not a dvd. Not a Pediasure. Not a toy. Something else. When I failed to provide that something he began stringing multiple consonants together and screaming. Whatever he is saying is an actual language to him. I have yet to learn it.
People tell me all the time that I should revel in this period. Once he starts talking, they say he'll never shut up. The fact is, I would love to know the sound of my child's voice when he speaks. Those people have no idea that I have dreams wherein I converse with Caleb. For that one moment between wake and sleep, I believe it actually happened. When I wipe the sleep from my eyes, I realize that I've awakened to a bad dream. One where I have no idea whether my child will be independent of me.
These are thoughts I am not supposed to have, but I do. I don't want to be raising an adult child twenty years from now. Although there are some very selfish reasons for that, I must say that there are legitimate reasons also. It is NOT the natural order of things. I want to give Caleb the best of me and see what he makes of it when he strikes out on his own. As a rule, parents outlive their children. How could one rest in peace knowing that her child is incapable of doing for himself?
I know I'm supposed to smile and say, "He'll be fine. I prayed about it," but I've prayed about a lot of things that God did not see fit to grant me for reasons only He knows. I don't know that my son will be fine...and the not knowing is killing me.
Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.
Caleb tries hard to communicate. He will grab my hand and take me to items or activities he wants to have or engage in. I've tried withholding those desired things from him with the hopes of getting him to "use his words," but to no avail.
Today he became frustrated in a way that I have never witnessed before. He wanted something. Not a dvd. Not a Pediasure. Not a toy. Something else. When I failed to provide that something he began stringing multiple consonants together and screaming. Whatever he is saying is an actual language to him. I have yet to learn it.
People tell me all the time that I should revel in this period. Once he starts talking, they say he'll never shut up. The fact is, I would love to know the sound of my child's voice when he speaks. Those people have no idea that I have dreams wherein I converse with Caleb. For that one moment between wake and sleep, I believe it actually happened. When I wipe the sleep from my eyes, I realize that I've awakened to a bad dream. One where I have no idea whether my child will be independent of me.
These are thoughts I am not supposed to have, but I do. I don't want to be raising an adult child twenty years from now. Although there are some very selfish reasons for that, I must say that there are legitimate reasons also. It is NOT the natural order of things. I want to give Caleb the best of me and see what he makes of it when he strikes out on his own. As a rule, parents outlive their children. How could one rest in peace knowing that her child is incapable of doing for himself?
I know I'm supposed to smile and say, "He'll be fine. I prayed about it," but I've prayed about a lot of things that God did not see fit to grant me for reasons only He knows. I don't know that my son will be fine...and the not knowing is killing me.
Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.
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