Fists and Blood

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Memories come and go at their own whim, they don't care about timelines, they come when they are called - by triggers, smells, sights, sounds, other memories. Thus, my blog is starting to follow some winding ribbon in the space-time continuum. I hope this does not confuse anyone. Some of the memories that I would like to talk about are not mine to tell. They are memories that happened to others in my family and did not directly impact me, and so they will remain untold, however tragic - but never fear, I have a list, and I will be able to keep my promise. 30 tragedies. A tragedy a day for 30 days. What happens after that, I cannot say. Maybe my light will be extinguished. . . will I go peaceably, or will I leave this life kicking and screaming; life punching me in the ribs until I cough up blood and give up my last breath?

My mother is prolific, in every aspect of life. She thrives in even the bleakest of times, and has an aura about her that attracts people - makes them love and admire her. It wasn't long after my father left that my mother had suitors, and a few years later she was re-married, and expecting another mouth to feed.

My step father was from another country, but had been in America for many years. He was regimented. While he lived with us he reigned and expected total compliance. He was the king and the rest of us were peasants and his word was supposed to be taken even above my mother's. He often liked to quote the Honeymooner's; some of you may even recognize the previous peasant quote from an episode. Bang-Zoom, to the moon Alice, to the moon.

I never liked him. Firstly, I still had men issues from the whole episode with my father. Secondly, I was suspicious of him, probably because of things that happened to me which I will discuss in my last blog. Thirdly, in my mind, no one came before my mother. There was nothing I liked about him; I didn't like his accent because I couldn't understand him, I didn't like the fact that he had no problem walking around me in his underwear, I didn't like his demanding ways, I didn't like the way my mother kowtowed to him. . . I could go on and on.

Once, when I was doing my chore of cleaning the kitchen, he watched over me. As I scrubbed the oven he told me to take it apart and clean each individual piece. I rolled my eyes and continued to scrub; I must have been about 12. He grabbed me by my arm, took off his belt and beat me until I bled. When my mother arrived home, I was on the floor in a corner crying. I didn't hear her stand up for me, although years later she said she had a talk with him at the time. All of my complaints about my step father went unheeded. The under wear thing, which I thought was inappropriate, and the way he talked to my mother. The way he degraded her. He liked to have sex with her with the door of their bedroom open, allowing my brothers and I to have access to visuals and audios that disturb me to this day, so I guess what happened next should not have been a surprise.

One night, there was a shriek. I reluctantly came out of my room to see blood smeared on the white walls, and my mother and step father struggling; my mother caught in his grasp while he was punching her in the gut. She tried to fight back but he was too strong. My mother was yelling for me to call 911, my brothers slowly drifting out of sleep to come see what the matter was. As I approached the phone, my trembling hand reaching out for the cradle on the wall, my step father yanked it out of the wall breaking the cord. My mother then pleaded for me to go to a neighbor’s house. As I ran to the door, my step father followed me, my mother in tow being shuffled along. He tried to block the door, but my mother mustered enough strength to open the door enough for me to squeeze out. I ran, for what seemed like forever. When I reached the neighbor, she called the police. We went back to my house together. When we arrived he had already left.

My mother explained that while my step father was at work she became curious about a briefcase he kept in a closet. It was always locked and he warned her to stay away from it. This particular day, a nagging feeling inside led her to break into the briefcase. What she found were pictures of children, birth certificates, and letters. He was married to another woman in his home country and they had 8 children together. Her marriage was a farce. When he came home she confronted him, they argued, and he hit her with a statue. That's when I woke up.

You might think that this would be the end of the story, but shortly after the police left, my neighbor lined up my brothers and me. She made us stand and face her as she degraded us for not fighting my step father to help my mother. She told us how ashamed we should be of ourselves. She told us we were bad children, and we believed her.

Tomorrow, Moving On. . .

Detour: Temporary Housing

Here it is again, that question: "Who's normal?". . . and why exactly is it normal to eat pb. Why is the peanut, or peanut butter more specifically, such a staple in American households? More important than that though, is my need. . . my need to eat the stuff and have a moment when I think, "There are thousands of people, at this moment, eating peanut butter. At this very moment, I am just like them."

I know I made a promise to you all, a promise of an uncle's death today, but instead I'd like to detour. I'd like to take you to "temporary housing".

                         

As with many of the great tragedies in my life, this one started with an early morning phone call. "Get down here, you have to come to family court, they’re about to put your nieces in foster care. You can take them instead, just make a request of the judge. Hurry." It was my mother, frantic with worry, my oldest brother's children were about to be taken away. There is something you must understand before I go on, I was raised by my mother, and he was raised by his father's family. We didn't meet until we were teenagers. I always knew he existed, but the reality of him was another thing. We grew up with different values, different ways of communicating, different ways of thinking. We weren't close. So, although I didn't hesitate to go to the court, I wasn't sure how I would be greeted.

When I reached the courthouse I saw my mother sitting on a bench being comforted by a cousin of mine. She kept saying how she didn't want her grandchildren to go to foster care. She was rocking back and forth and the hard wooden court bench and breaking my heart. Of all the people in my family, the many brothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, I was the only one who could stop this.

When the case was called, I saw my brother and his girlfriend. I couldn't believe my eyes! Here I was in a Tahari suit and heels, and they were in jeans and sneakers. My brother’s girlfriend actually had a scarf on her head! How do you fight for your children when you can't be presentable for court? I was astonished. I walked into the courtroom and listened to the charges. Neglect. I listened as lawyers and social workers described the condition of their home. I was in shock, and I wanted to sweep away my nieces and nephews into my arms to somewhere safe. As the judge was about to order my nieces and nephews into foster care, all 8 of them, I stood up and said I could take 3 of my nieces. I explained my situation, that I had a one bedroom apartment and a husband, and that I could help support them financially with some savings I had although I was in between consulting jobs. Thankfully, I was given the approval to take them.

At home, I blew up an air mattress, moved some furniture, and put up shelving to keep their things. I put snacks on the table, sat down at it letting my eyes glaze over trying to mentally prepare myself for taking on the responsibility of three little ones aged 4, 6, and 7.

When they arrived, I gave them a good once over. Their physical condition was appalling. One had sores in her head and a thick mess of dandruff, all of their teeth were rotten, and they had severe personal hygiene issues. The first thing we did was get a large piece of construction paper and write down the rules of the house; no lying, no stealing, no hitting, no going into the kitchen without an adult. There were consequences written too. No snacks, no tv, no games, no going outside, and time-outs - depending on the severity of the "crime". There it was, we created order for children who didn't know reasonable discipline and who had never had well-defined rules. Next was hygiene. That night I showed them how to brush their teeth properly and how to wash. I scheduled time to make phone calls for doctor and dentist appointments. I had already enrolled them in school earlier that day and I readied their book bags with supplies for class the next day.

I felt so in control of the situation, I felt so prepared. I had a plan, and I was ready to implement - I wanted to get their young lives back on track. But most of all, I wanted them to know that they were loved and safe and protected. I wanted them to know that no matter what they had to say I would listen. I wanted them to know that this was a home for them.

And so it began, the doctors’ visits, the dentist visits, the sibling visits, the parental visits, the social worker visits, the psychiatrist visits, the school visits. It was exhausting keeping up with the appointments to evaluate their physical and mental health, but they were troopers, and we got through it together.

My husband and I worked on homework with them, we took them to parks, we had fashion shows and danced together, we took them to fancy restaurants and places they had never been before. To see the look of wonder in their eyes and the joy on their faces was priceless. I loved them so much, I wished they were mine, but I never forgot my place, I was their aunt - not their mother.

Each parental visit became more and more difficult, the girls had begun calling my husband and me mom and dad despite my constant corrections. Sometimes they would do this in front of their parents. Then there were the discussions about the children's health. I always wanted to let my brother and his girlfriend know what was going on with the girls, but they were often defensive. I told them of the many teeth that needed to be removed due to the over 20 cavities between them, I told them of the treatments for vaginal infections, and the scalp and skin ointments. They took this as accusations; they weren't good parents. Often my updates would lead to arguments. Meanwhile I was in a position where I had to report when the girls were hit in front of me, and how the girls squirreled away the food and snacks I would leave on the table as if they were used to being hungry, how they brought food from school and asked for more. . .

The girls were precious to me, I couldn't understand how my brother let it get to this. To me they were jewels, I treated them no differently than if they were mine, and I could not forgive the absurdity of the situation, the pain and hurt he helped to cause these girls that they couldn't voice. One day, at a museum, the girls were unhappy about a punishment of no snacks for destroying some property. Their parents wanted to give them a snack despite the fact they had broken the rules. I disagreed with this, they needed to be taught discipline, and I told the girls that if they took it they would have an extra day added to their punishment. This set their mother off, she was screaming at me on the street corner a few blocks from the museum; I would never be their mother, I was a bitch, I would make an awful mother and probably wouldn't have children. Then she charged at me, she wanted to fight. Meanwhile my brother was threatening to hit the girls if they didn't take the snacks. That was it for me, to see my nieces trembling at the sight of this fiasco made me realize that I couldn't keep them. I couldn't have their parents threatening them because of me, and so, I lost my little jewels. I lost my diamonds.

After months of working with various agencies, my brother was able to get all the children back on a probationary basis, the girls are still being visited.

Tomorrow, the death of an uncle - I promise :)