I definately got it from my father. Whether he could control it or not was not my problem. And although it was a characteristic inherited on his side, my mother allowed it to run freely without inhibitions. I coined the phrase 'viral' even before social media was created.
From the time the sun came up in the morning, until the stars came out at night, I was a banshee on the run. I was never one of those toddlers who would sit quietly on their own, busying themselves with blocks, toys or paper and pen. Not one of those children who could occupy their time with their parents and siblings for hours on end. Not the normal offspring of a mild-mannered couple who wanted their daughter to read and write at the tender age of four.
I was Social MEdia, running out into the world, revealing the happenings in my home to anyone that would listen to me. I could not sit still. I could not revel in my own silence. I needed people. I needed attention. I needed the spotlight. Such a far cry from who I am today where somedays my solace can only be found in silence, where privacy is a God-given right, where the thought of someone knowing all my secrets would make me cringe and wrap myself into a fetal position and blanket my mind and soul from the glare of the spotlight.
At age four, I did not care. I wanted to shout out to the world who I was.
With the ability to ride a two-wheeler bicycle, I would wolf down my breakfast and tear out to the garage to the wheels of freedom. That bike would call to me the entire night and I would dream I was travelling to another world when I took it every morning on the daily trek around my neighborhood. There were days at 6am there would be not a soul awake and I would take my bike out those early summer mornings with my mother sitting on the front step, yawning and knitting. My father would wake up at his usual time, discover my absence and let my mother have it. She would quietly knit while he barked out orders about preventing me from 'exiting the building'.
When I would return for pit stops and gas (bathroom breaks, snacks, change of clothes) he would grab and officially ground me. I was not to move from either my bedroom or family room. But since he had many things to do inside and outside the house, my inevitable departure could not be intercepted.
I would meet all my friends around the neighborhood and we would spend the day together. When they had to go in for lunch and dinner, I would reluctantly wait outside their houses, sitting on my bike. I knew if I went home, my father would jail me once again. Out of sheer pity, many of the parents would invite me in and I would eat all sorts of divine cuisine, some of which I was prohibited to eat. But I did not care. This was my only chance to try see, hear and feel the lives of other people besides that which I encountered on a daily basis in my own home, boring me to tears. I cried to others about my father's imprisonment, his steadfast stance on rules and my impending doom each day upon my return. I would speak to anyone who would listen. If the parents of my friends heard me, some would even approach my father for explaination.
Those nights the punishment was two-fold. After explaining to them that he was a social worker and that he would never beat me up and hang me from my ankles until dawn, he would revert to sitting me down with a tired look on his face and beg me to stop conjuring up these stories. OK, so I was guilty of exaggerating the truth. But the amazement and utter shock in the faces of the people I spoke to was euphoric. To command the attention of my audience and have them hanging on to every word I said made me feel worthy. My mother did the same but her reaction was nonchalance--she knew my beguiling behaviour.
For others, my stories were legendary. Intriguing. Breathtaking. And completely fabricated. I was like the neighborhood newspaper delivery girl. Throwing a new story on each doorstep. One they would read and then discard that same day. But I got the message out. However way I could. I was the Newsmaker.
I was Social MEdia.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
The enigma that is my mother
Of course, it is after many years we regret our time with our loved ones. We underappreciate, take advantage of and relinquish our familial ties, while they are alive. I have seen this with many and resolved not to follow suit. In reviewing my relationship with my mother, I did just that. I neglected her and concentrated on me; without one word of disapproval. She was the only person in the world who got me and never used it against me and I never took the time to admit it to her.
The enigma that is my mother.
My protector. My buffer.
Heaven is truly at her feet. Her lap was my pillow.
Her smile was my treat.
In 1973, we travelled to Pakistan. I was only three and my sister was fours months when we travelled back to the homeland with my father. I do not remember much of this trip but can only speculate with pictures and stories recounted by my father's family.
I hated taking baths. The water was cold during the winter months and it took long to heat. My mother would chase me in her inlaws home to clean the dirt I accumulated playing in the dusty streets. Her health had suffered after two quick deliveries and the another one on the way. My aunt beseeched her to sit down and proceeded to grab me and throw me in the cold, dark bathroom for a rubdown. I would cry and scream for my mother. I remember seeing her face in the window, trying to calm me down but she was not allowed to come near me. She soothed me from a distance. My aunt told me many years later that I asked everyone to call me Cinderella during that trip and I tried to understand why. Stripped naked and forced to be bathed by my evil aunts was the only thing I could conjure up for reference.
The enigma that is my mother. My fairy godmother.
Her ever-looming smile
Bathing me with warm caresses.
Many years later, as a young adult, I looked down at her sleeping body, wrapped from head to toes in white muslin cloth, and she reminded me of a nun. Pure, forgiving and non-judgemental. Her face was peaceful and I rained over her with tears of gratitude and appreciation. While I write about my childhood, my mother is at the forefront. She has shaped me and humbled to accept all that is good and all that is bad.
The enigma that is my mother. Where are you now?
The enigma that is my mother.
My protector. My buffer.
Heaven is truly at her feet. Her lap was my pillow.
Her smile was my treat.
In 1973, we travelled to Pakistan. I was only three and my sister was fours months when we travelled back to the homeland with my father. I do not remember much of this trip but can only speculate with pictures and stories recounted by my father's family.
I hated taking baths. The water was cold during the winter months and it took long to heat. My mother would chase me in her inlaws home to clean the dirt I accumulated playing in the dusty streets. Her health had suffered after two quick deliveries and the another one on the way. My aunt beseeched her to sit down and proceeded to grab me and throw me in the cold, dark bathroom for a rubdown. I would cry and scream for my mother. I remember seeing her face in the window, trying to calm me down but she was not allowed to come near me. She soothed me from a distance. My aunt told me many years later that I asked everyone to call me Cinderella during that trip and I tried to understand why. Stripped naked and forced to be bathed by my evil aunts was the only thing I could conjure up for reference.
The enigma that is my mother. My fairy godmother.
Her ever-looming smile
Bathing me with warm caresses.
Many years later, as a young adult, I looked down at her sleeping body, wrapped from head to toes in white muslin cloth, and she reminded me of a nun. Pure, forgiving and non-judgemental. Her face was peaceful and I rained over her with tears of gratitude and appreciation. While I write about my childhood, my mother is at the forefront. She has shaped me and humbled to accept all that is good and all that is bad.
The enigma that is my mother. Where are you now?
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Urpunjenglish
Despite the delay in my speaking abilities, my father thought once I commanded the language, I would flourish in speech. (Buzzer sound). Negative.
And his prodigy would disappoint him once again when she started school. I remember my JK school teacher very well. She had Dorothy Hamill hair and a very sweet smile. I saw that smile many times as she tried to discern my language. She was very patient and many times used sign language to communicate with me. Not typical sign language for deaf people but some clandestine body language that only her and I could understand.
I remember being very scared the first day of school school. The day timings did not make sense to me although in retropect, it was pretty straightforward. There was morning recess, a lunch period,afternoon recess and 3:30 dismissal.But for the only Pakistani girl in the class, whose mother tongue was not English, I was pretty messed up.
I spoke a very strange language according to my father. While my parents spoke in Urdu with me -- a formal and very poetic language that has Persian and Arabic root words, they communicated amongst themselves in Punjabi, colloquial slang version of Urdu that was very harsh and laden with guttural sounds. When my father spoke to neighbours, stop owners and his work colleagues, of course it was in English with a heavy Punjabi accent. I was therefore exposed to three languages before the age of 4.
Hence, after many years of silence, when the day finally came, the time my father waited years for, I did a very strange thing. I ended up consolidating all languages into one, which today I will call: Urpunjenglish. That's right folks -- I created my own way of speaking. My poor father, thought I would be his enlightened one, by fluently speaking all three languages and impressing the socks off his friends. I knew something was awry when he abruptly stopped taking me to his high society poetry meetings after I spewed nonsensical things from my mouth in public. For the most part, many people would pat me on the head with a constipated look. Others would simply smile, shake their heads and walk away. Some straight out asked my father if I had a speech impediment. And the emphathetic ones would write down their doctor's phone number on the back of the poetry meeting agenda sheet.
At the end of the day, everyone had difficulty understanding me except one person.
My mother.
I would incessantly babble all day long in her presence and she quickly figured out my communication. She never used body language but did ask me to repeat myself. Incredibly, I never said the same thing twice but she could understand what I was referring to. Since ONE person could communicate to me, there was never a need to help me speak one language properly. That was until I started school. Hmm, they never thought about that.
On many occasions, I would sit in class with no clue what the hell was going on. I was very good at going along with the motions. If drama was a credit to obtain in kindergarten, I would have an Academy Award by Senior Kindergarten. I made it look like I understood. When my teacher would ask, articulating every single word in her sentence, if I understood how to use the abacus in class, I was nodded until my neck hurt. Instead, I dismantled it and made a beaded necklace during craft time.
When I would grab my crotch during reading time, my teacher would send me to the washroom only to find me an hour later, standing alone in the hall, looking at pictures of past school principals on the wall. I still love looking at photos...
During reading time, I would make up my own story by looking at the illustrations instead of reading the text. My teacher would smile her strange smile and jot down notes in her book. When I stretched over to peek when she was distracted, I noticed I had the least amount of gold stars beside my name.
I do remember being kept after school regularily for ten minutes, wiping the chalkboard while my mother spoke to the teacher. They would both look over at me, and then I would see my mother shaking her head after the teacher would point to all her fingers. Back then, I thought it sweet that she teach my mom how to count. I would learn later that she was listing off all the times I was caught misinterpreting clear instructions that day.
Word got back to my father who had to go and see my teacher for parent/teacher interviews. When he returned, I was summoned into the living room for THE talk. I was commanded to speak no other language beside English. He turned to my mother and repeated the command. Everyone was supposed to speak English with me so I could learn how to ask to go to the bathroom at school. My mother put her hand on my shoulder as I trembled with fear. The order was given and I had to obey. From the next day forward, I had to abandon Urpunjenglish and venture in a world of crazy words like "the". Could not explain this word back then but I was aware that if I started every sentence with "the", it would mean two things: that I was really smart and I could speak English.
One day, we were dismissed for morning recess. Because I still had trouble reading time, I mistook the dismissal for lunchtime. I raised my hand to impress my teacher and the rest of the class with the all important question of the day.
"The time?" I smiled, proud that I put two English words together.
"Yes, its time. Be back when the bell rings", said my teacher. What she didn't understand was that I had asked if it was THE TIME FOR LUNCH. I noticed many kids in the schoolyard as I left and skipped across the street to my house. When I knocked on the door, my surprised mother let me in. I nodded, and pointed to my belly. "The time", I smiled. My mother looked at me curiously and fed me ice cream, at 10:30am in the morning. I heard the bell ring from the window and flew out of the house. Of course, I was ten minutes late. I slithered back into class while my teacher was reading her book, hoping she did not notice me. But she did.
It was lunchtime and she dismissed class once again. It was then I realized I had gone home to eat lunch at recess time. The teacher held me back while the rest of the class filed out.
"The time?" I asked.
"Nooooooo," she replied. I was confused. Enough of this crap! I was finally speaking English and still could not understand what the hell was going on.
This time her smile was tight and intimidating.
"Do you understand that you went home for lunch during morning break?" Out of embarressment, I nodded and put my hand on my stomach.
She insisted I stay during lunch time so she could teach me to read time. As she moved the hands around the clock to show me when recess and lunchtime was, the pain in my stomach got worse. I kept repeating, 'the time', 'the time' but she said NO, thinking I wanted to leave.
The next thing you know, I had vomited all over the carpet. "The time" also meant that it was time for me to be sick.
English....ahhh what a beautiful language. Words can mean so many things....
And his prodigy would disappoint him once again when she started school. I remember my JK school teacher very well. She had Dorothy Hamill hair and a very sweet smile. I saw that smile many times as she tried to discern my language. She was very patient and many times used sign language to communicate with me. Not typical sign language for deaf people but some clandestine body language that only her and I could understand.
I remember being very scared the first day of school school. The day timings did not make sense to me although in retropect, it was pretty straightforward. There was morning recess, a lunch period,afternoon recess and 3:30 dismissal.But for the only Pakistani girl in the class, whose mother tongue was not English, I was pretty messed up.
I spoke a very strange language according to my father. While my parents spoke in Urdu with me -- a formal and very poetic language that has Persian and Arabic root words, they communicated amongst themselves in Punjabi, colloquial slang version of Urdu that was very harsh and laden with guttural sounds. When my father spoke to neighbours, stop owners and his work colleagues, of course it was in English with a heavy Punjabi accent. I was therefore exposed to three languages before the age of 4.
Hence, after many years of silence, when the day finally came, the time my father waited years for, I did a very strange thing. I ended up consolidating all languages into one, which today I will call: Urpunjenglish. That's right folks -- I created my own way of speaking. My poor father, thought I would be his enlightened one, by fluently speaking all three languages and impressing the socks off his friends. I knew something was awry when he abruptly stopped taking me to his high society poetry meetings after I spewed nonsensical things from my mouth in public. For the most part, many people would pat me on the head with a constipated look. Others would simply smile, shake their heads and walk away. Some straight out asked my father if I had a speech impediment. And the emphathetic ones would write down their doctor's phone number on the back of the poetry meeting agenda sheet.
At the end of the day, everyone had difficulty understanding me except one person.
My mother.
I would incessantly babble all day long in her presence and she quickly figured out my communication. She never used body language but did ask me to repeat myself. Incredibly, I never said the same thing twice but she could understand what I was referring to. Since ONE person could communicate to me, there was never a need to help me speak one language properly. That was until I started school. Hmm, they never thought about that.
On many occasions, I would sit in class with no clue what the hell was going on. I was very good at going along with the motions. If drama was a credit to obtain in kindergarten, I would have an Academy Award by Senior Kindergarten. I made it look like I understood. When my teacher would ask, articulating every single word in her sentence, if I understood how to use the abacus in class, I was nodded until my neck hurt. Instead, I dismantled it and made a beaded necklace during craft time.
When I would grab my crotch during reading time, my teacher would send me to the washroom only to find me an hour later, standing alone in the hall, looking at pictures of past school principals on the wall. I still love looking at photos...
During reading time, I would make up my own story by looking at the illustrations instead of reading the text. My teacher would smile her strange smile and jot down notes in her book. When I stretched over to peek when she was distracted, I noticed I had the least amount of gold stars beside my name.
I do remember being kept after school regularily for ten minutes, wiping the chalkboard while my mother spoke to the teacher. They would both look over at me, and then I would see my mother shaking her head after the teacher would point to all her fingers. Back then, I thought it sweet that she teach my mom how to count. I would learn later that she was listing off all the times I was caught misinterpreting clear instructions that day.
Word got back to my father who had to go and see my teacher for parent/teacher interviews. When he returned, I was summoned into the living room for THE talk. I was commanded to speak no other language beside English. He turned to my mother and repeated the command. Everyone was supposed to speak English with me so I could learn how to ask to go to the bathroom at school. My mother put her hand on my shoulder as I trembled with fear. The order was given and I had to obey. From the next day forward, I had to abandon Urpunjenglish and venture in a world of crazy words like "the". Could not explain this word back then but I was aware that if I started every sentence with "the", it would mean two things: that I was really smart and I could speak English.
One day, we were dismissed for morning recess. Because I still had trouble reading time, I mistook the dismissal for lunchtime. I raised my hand to impress my teacher and the rest of the class with the all important question of the day.
"The time?" I smiled, proud that I put two English words together.
"Yes, its time. Be back when the bell rings", said my teacher. What she didn't understand was that I had asked if it was THE TIME FOR LUNCH. I noticed many kids in the schoolyard as I left and skipped across the street to my house. When I knocked on the door, my surprised mother let me in. I nodded, and pointed to my belly. "The time", I smiled. My mother looked at me curiously and fed me ice cream, at 10:30am in the morning. I heard the bell ring from the window and flew out of the house. Of course, I was ten minutes late. I slithered back into class while my teacher was reading her book, hoping she did not notice me. But she did.
It was lunchtime and she dismissed class once again. It was then I realized I had gone home to eat lunch at recess time. The teacher held me back while the rest of the class filed out.
"The time?" I asked.
"Nooooooo," she replied. I was confused. Enough of this crap! I was finally speaking English and still could not understand what the hell was going on.
This time her smile was tight and intimidating.
"Do you understand that you went home for lunch during morning break?" Out of embarressment, I nodded and put my hand on my stomach.
She insisted I stay during lunch time so she could teach me to read time. As she moved the hands around the clock to show me when recess and lunchtime was, the pain in my stomach got worse. I kept repeating, 'the time', 'the time' but she said NO, thinking I wanted to leave.
The next thing you know, I had vomited all over the carpet. "The time" also meant that it was time for me to be sick.
English....ahhh what a beautiful language. Words can mean so many things....
Sunday, April 1, 2012
The Snowball Effect
The first time I was cognisant of the fact of being different had nothing to do with skin colour, ethnicity, culture or religion. In fact it had to do with one single snowball.
I must have been five years old. One snowy, blistery night I was awaken by a large crash. Shuddering, I pulled the covers over my head. I heard my father run down the stairs and turn on all the lights. Finally, I thought, the monster had his way. I climbed out of bed in my pink nightie and slowly made my ascent upstairs. When I reached close to the top, I peered over the top step, hiding the rest of my body below. My father was dialing on the phone. My mother had come into the kitchen, hands on her hips, waiting. He was calling the police.
I slowly got up and looked to my left at the monster light. It was intact. When I went into the living room, I encountered cold air and a gaping hole in the window. There was glass on the hardwood floor and when I stepped closer to inspect, I was stopped by my mother's hand.
"What happpened!" I asked her. I could hear my father giving our address over the phone.
"Someone threw a snowball at our window. Nothing to worry about. Go downstairs to sleep," she said softly.
Someone purposely threw a snowball, broke our window and the police were coming. Who could sleep?!? I sat down on the living room sofa, pulled my nightie over my knees and waited. My parents stood in front of the window and inspected the damage. My father looked very pensive and rubbed his chin.
"Daddy, why did someone throw a snowball at our window?" I pondered.
He did not answer for several minutes. Typically my father would always collect his thoughts before offering an explanation. This drove me nuts -- I wasn't the most patient one in the family. And it was usually then I would lose my train of thought and forget what I had asked in the first place.
"It is some teenagers playing around in the night. I am sure there is damage elsewhere," he said.
When the officer arrived, he asked a slew of questions. I nodded while my father answered hoping this gesture would show how the event affected me. The enormity of the situation did not dawn on me until the officer showed up. Apparently only our house was hit. I furrowed my brow in contemplation. Why only our house? What did we do? How were we targeted?
It was from then on, I deemed ALL teenagers as BAD.
I have a faint memory of my mother and I walking to school. She was dropping me off in the morning for kindergarten in the winter. I hit a patch of ice and fell down, taking my mother with me. While we both lay on the ice, these "teenagers" walked by us and none of them helped us get up. She struggled to get herself up and then me, brushing the snow off my clothes. I tried to hide them from her but she unmistakingly saw the tears in my eyes.
"Are you hurt my dear?" she asked.
Physically no. Emotionally yes. I hurt of indignation. Nothing I could say could explain it. In my short span of life, only five years, it was disheartening to feel different. I sensed the injustice around me in little things. A look, a turn of one's back, a sneer and body language that denoted pride. I would have not known about paranoia back then. The concept was too evolved for me. But at five years old, despite living in the UN neighborhood, in my eyes and imagination, my family would stick out like a sore thumb.
For reasons unknown.
I must have been five years old. One snowy, blistery night I was awaken by a large crash. Shuddering, I pulled the covers over my head. I heard my father run down the stairs and turn on all the lights. Finally, I thought, the monster had his way. I climbed out of bed in my pink nightie and slowly made my ascent upstairs. When I reached close to the top, I peered over the top step, hiding the rest of my body below. My father was dialing on the phone. My mother had come into the kitchen, hands on her hips, waiting. He was calling the police.
I slowly got up and looked to my left at the monster light. It was intact. When I went into the living room, I encountered cold air and a gaping hole in the window. There was glass on the hardwood floor and when I stepped closer to inspect, I was stopped by my mother's hand.
"What happpened!" I asked her. I could hear my father giving our address over the phone.
"Someone threw a snowball at our window. Nothing to worry about. Go downstairs to sleep," she said softly.
Someone purposely threw a snowball, broke our window and the police were coming. Who could sleep?!? I sat down on the living room sofa, pulled my nightie over my knees and waited. My parents stood in front of the window and inspected the damage. My father looked very pensive and rubbed his chin.
"Daddy, why did someone throw a snowball at our window?" I pondered.
He did not answer for several minutes. Typically my father would always collect his thoughts before offering an explanation. This drove me nuts -- I wasn't the most patient one in the family. And it was usually then I would lose my train of thought and forget what I had asked in the first place.
"It is some teenagers playing around in the night. I am sure there is damage elsewhere," he said.
When the officer arrived, he asked a slew of questions. I nodded while my father answered hoping this gesture would show how the event affected me. The enormity of the situation did not dawn on me until the officer showed up. Apparently only our house was hit. I furrowed my brow in contemplation. Why only our house? What did we do? How were we targeted?
It was from then on, I deemed ALL teenagers as BAD.
I have a faint memory of my mother and I walking to school. She was dropping me off in the morning for kindergarten in the winter. I hit a patch of ice and fell down, taking my mother with me. While we both lay on the ice, these "teenagers" walked by us and none of them helped us get up. She struggled to get herself up and then me, brushing the snow off my clothes. I tried to hide them from her but she unmistakingly saw the tears in my eyes.
"Are you hurt my dear?" she asked.
Physically no. Emotionally yes. I hurt of indignation. Nothing I could say could explain it. In my short span of life, only five years, it was disheartening to feel different. I sensed the injustice around me in little things. A look, a turn of one's back, a sneer and body language that denoted pride. I would have not known about paranoia back then. The concept was too evolved for me. But at five years old, despite living in the UN neighborhood, in my eyes and imagination, my family would stick out like a sore thumb.
For reasons unknown.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Red Sofa
I remember that sofa. It was red with black grainy threads running through the fabric.
I was there pretty much all the time, watching our black and white television with the rabbit ears. I would have to stop rocking to get off the sofa and adjust the screen. I am not sure what Larry's father actually did to 'fix' the tv whenever we lost the picture, but I was convinced that I was a better technician than he was when I fixed the picture quality with the antenna.
The rocking situation intensified over the years. It started off very slow and infrequent so not to cause my parents any worry. But as I got older, the speed and intensity increased.
My father, who lost faith in the doctors, thought it was related to my delayed growth and tried to remedy the problem on his own.
But he was overwhelmed when the springs jutted through the fabric and the frame had been damaged as a result. My problem was getting worse.
My childhood home was a split level structure. A semi-detached house with a large hill for a front yard and one single pine tree in the middle. We needed physical dexterity to manuever our tobaggans down that hill to avoid the tree. Cement stairs led up to the front door. Then another staircase leading up to the kitchen and living room. There was a railing divided the living room from the family room. A staircase from the kitchen went below to where there was one bedroom set aside for me and the family room with sliding doors leading out to our small but quaint backyard. And yet another staircase leading downstairs to the basement and garage. The last staircase was only six steps and led upstairs to two bedrooms--one for my parents and the other where my sister and brother-to-be would share. These stairs would represent my life at the time, like the game, Snakes and Ladders.
Each night became a daunting task, as I travelled from my room, upstairs, to join the rest of my family. It took nightly courage to fling the covers off, step out of my bed and trek up all those stairs. By the time I reached the kitchen and turned the corner to go towards the bedrooms, there was a hanging light fixture in the dining/living room that looked quite monstrous in the middle of the night. My fantastical world became nightmarish. This light had eyes, a long beard and a gaping mouth with fangs. And each time I passed this light, I would shout with all my might, "Shut up!" I knew now that this tactic was to release my nervous energy and overcome my fear of this monster. Instead of succumbing to my fright, I made sure I had the upper hand -- the shouting made be believe the monster was more scared of me than I was of it.
However, to my downfall, this outburst was the signal of my approach. My father would hear me and cut me off at his door before I had time to run and jump into the covers for protection. Most nights, he would turn me around and walk me back to my dungeon.
"You are a big girl with a big bedroom. Why do you think we saved this room just for you?" he would say.
As a child I wondered why I was separated from the rest of the family, residing in that one lonely bedroom, two staircases away from my parents. Somehow, his explanation did not go over well.
I would protest, beg and plead to sleep in his bed, seeking solace in my mother's arms but he would have none of it. I crawled back into my large queen sized bed and positioned the pillows around me to pretend someone was with me. But it was no use. My nightly ritual was duplicated many times over--sometimes I would be turned away THREE times in one night. The night and I never became one. And the monster was one flight of steps above me. Sometimes, when I was resigned to my bed, I would shout at it from my room. No one was going to devour me without a fight.
During the day, when I was home from school, I rocked like I was preparing for launch. My mother would come down and tell me to stop but as soon as she left, it would commence again. My father would come home from work and yell from the balcony of the living room to stop rocking. I would stop, stare and then wait for him to leave. Many days, he would have to reposition the sofa to its original place because my rocking had propelled it several inches forward.
"Why are you rocking?" he angrily asked me one day while sitting in the living room over his newspaper.
"I have to rock," I yelled, still rocking and staring at the television.
"Its not good for you or the sofa," he joked. I rocked harder. I felt a lump in my throat and tears well up in my eyes. I looked up and saw my mother in the doorway. She was holding my sister and swaying her back and forth.
Later that night as I made my way up the stairs, after telling the light to shut up when I reached the top of the stairs, I nearly fell backwards in fright. There stood my mother with her arms stretched out before her. She sat down on the top step with me in her arms and swayed me back and forth. After five minutes, she came downstairs with me and we sat down on the red sofa, in the dark, together. She put her arm around me and said, "As long as you are on this sofa, no monster will eat you up."
It was daylight when I awoke and I realized I had fallen asleep. My mother was right there, asleep next to me, half lying, half sitting with her arm around me on the red sofa.
It took only one night.
And I never rocked again.
I was there pretty much all the time, watching our black and white television with the rabbit ears. I would have to stop rocking to get off the sofa and adjust the screen. I am not sure what Larry's father actually did to 'fix' the tv whenever we lost the picture, but I was convinced that I was a better technician than he was when I fixed the picture quality with the antenna.
The rocking situation intensified over the years. It started off very slow and infrequent so not to cause my parents any worry. But as I got older, the speed and intensity increased.
My father, who lost faith in the doctors, thought it was related to my delayed growth and tried to remedy the problem on his own.
But he was overwhelmed when the springs jutted through the fabric and the frame had been damaged as a result. My problem was getting worse.
My childhood home was a split level structure. A semi-detached house with a large hill for a front yard and one single pine tree in the middle. We needed physical dexterity to manuever our tobaggans down that hill to avoid the tree. Cement stairs led up to the front door. Then another staircase leading up to the kitchen and living room. There was a railing divided the living room from the family room. A staircase from the kitchen went below to where there was one bedroom set aside for me and the family room with sliding doors leading out to our small but quaint backyard. And yet another staircase leading downstairs to the basement and garage. The last staircase was only six steps and led upstairs to two bedrooms--one for my parents and the other where my sister and brother-to-be would share. These stairs would represent my life at the time, like the game, Snakes and Ladders.
Each night became a daunting task, as I travelled from my room, upstairs, to join the rest of my family. It took nightly courage to fling the covers off, step out of my bed and trek up all those stairs. By the time I reached the kitchen and turned the corner to go towards the bedrooms, there was a hanging light fixture in the dining/living room that looked quite monstrous in the middle of the night. My fantastical world became nightmarish. This light had eyes, a long beard and a gaping mouth with fangs. And each time I passed this light, I would shout with all my might, "Shut up!" I knew now that this tactic was to release my nervous energy and overcome my fear of this monster. Instead of succumbing to my fright, I made sure I had the upper hand -- the shouting made be believe the monster was more scared of me than I was of it.
However, to my downfall, this outburst was the signal of my approach. My father would hear me and cut me off at his door before I had time to run and jump into the covers for protection. Most nights, he would turn me around and walk me back to my dungeon.
"You are a big girl with a big bedroom. Why do you think we saved this room just for you?" he would say.
As a child I wondered why I was separated from the rest of the family, residing in that one lonely bedroom, two staircases away from my parents. Somehow, his explanation did not go over well.
I would protest, beg and plead to sleep in his bed, seeking solace in my mother's arms but he would have none of it. I crawled back into my large queen sized bed and positioned the pillows around me to pretend someone was with me. But it was no use. My nightly ritual was duplicated many times over--sometimes I would be turned away THREE times in one night. The night and I never became one. And the monster was one flight of steps above me. Sometimes, when I was resigned to my bed, I would shout at it from my room. No one was going to devour me without a fight.
During the day, when I was home from school, I rocked like I was preparing for launch. My mother would come down and tell me to stop but as soon as she left, it would commence again. My father would come home from work and yell from the balcony of the living room to stop rocking. I would stop, stare and then wait for him to leave. Many days, he would have to reposition the sofa to its original place because my rocking had propelled it several inches forward.
"Why are you rocking?" he angrily asked me one day while sitting in the living room over his newspaper.
"I have to rock," I yelled, still rocking and staring at the television.
"Its not good for you or the sofa," he joked. I rocked harder. I felt a lump in my throat and tears well up in my eyes. I looked up and saw my mother in the doorway. She was holding my sister and swaying her back and forth.
Later that night as I made my way up the stairs, after telling the light to shut up when I reached the top of the stairs, I nearly fell backwards in fright. There stood my mother with her arms stretched out before her. She sat down on the top step with me in her arms and swayed me back and forth. After five minutes, she came downstairs with me and we sat down on the red sofa, in the dark, together. She put her arm around me and said, "As long as you are on this sofa, no monster will eat you up."
It was daylight when I awoke and I realized I had fallen asleep. My mother was right there, asleep next to me, half lying, half sitting with her arm around me on the red sofa.
It took only one night.
And I never rocked again.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Cover that Soul!
The concept of NO is a very hard concept to understand and accept even at my age today.
We gradually learn the dynamics of NO as we grow older but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. In any relationship, wife/husband, parent/child, friend/friend, NO becomes a give and take.
"Ok, if NO, then what about...."
"NO? Come on, let's talk about this...."
"NO way! Well, let me think about it...."
NO is an ultimate phrase but many variations exist by way of sacrifice and compromise.
I was used to hearing NO from a young age. Ironically, most children's first words revolve around the things their parents teach them. Mama, Papa, Dada, Baba. Some combination of a consonant and vowel.
My first word was NO. Does anyone wonder where that came from?
Hint: Not my mother. Even when I was babbling as a baby, it was a succession of "No,no,no,no,no,no" at all times. Happy, sad and mad, NO was a popular outlet.
After my father argued with the doctor about my lack of ability to speak, I am positive he took it all back when I mastered the art of arguing. There were many conversations where I would be interrupted mid-sentence with a flat NO from my father.
"But you don't know what I am going to ask!" I stomped my foot and crossed my arms. My father would hold up his hand and simply say NO. Usually, there was no explanation given and it was "just because I said NO". His flat refusals were not enough for me. NO was always followed by 'why?'
At four years of age, my negotiating skills were weak and my suppression of anger even weaker. Throughout the many attempts I made to turn the NO
into a YES, I was presented with my father's stone face and intimidating glare. But I would never show my trepidation in his presence. After his NO, I would run to my mother and bury my head in her bosom.
"Mama, does Daddy EVER say YES?"
I waited for the day where I would not have to argue, state my case or stomp my feet to hear YES. If he ever said YES in my presence, I would think he was inexplicably ill.
"Daddy, Shanta is going to the circus and she has tickets for me. We just have to pay $10" I said to him, breathless after running back home to collect the cash.
He looked at me with anger and raised his eyebrow. Here it comes...
"Enough of this running out at all times. NO. You are not going to the circus and you are grounded today. You will not leave this house for the entire day."
I muffled a cry while my father watched my drama unfold. I flung myself on the couch, then kicked my feet and threw the cushions across the room. My father lifted his paper and ignored me. I ran over to him and grabbed his knees, pleading with him to let me go to the circus.
"But why? Why? Why?" I sobbed.
"Because I said so. NO means NO. Don't ask me why," he barked. "Why do you want to go to the circus? The way you are behaving is a circus. YOU WILL STAY HOME..." He abruptly stood up and left the room.
I had to go to that circus. I imagined Shanta sitting in the front row, enjoying the show, the cotton candy and seeing the animals up close. I had every right to be there with her. For some reason, my father did not think I deserved to be there. I remember frantically looking in my bedroom for the tickets. We had received free ones in the paper and we put them away in a special place. The ignorant me thought that it was a question of money. The smarter, more latent me knew that my wandering ways invoked anger and frustration in my father. I sat on my bed and cried while my mother continued to look for the tickets.
I do not remember what happened next but I was told years later that I had escaped from the house only to be missing for an hour. I returned home one hour later after a call from a neighbour down the street had confirmed a sighting....
Being painfully shy for most of my childhood, I was shocked to learn that I was found by my father, completely naked in the street. He brought me home, very ashamed and now fully aware that he was dealing with a very shrewd negotiator. My mother told me later that I was non-responsive upon my return home, tears streaking my face. She was so perturbed by my state that she sat my father down and tore a strip off of him. A very rare moment for her.
Although I did not go to the circus, the word NO was now always followed by an explanation. My mother had gotten through to him...well sort of.
My actions bared my soul--among other things. Something he never wanted to see again.
We gradually learn the dynamics of NO as we grow older but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. In any relationship, wife/husband, parent/child, friend/friend, NO becomes a give and take.
"Ok, if NO, then what about...."
"NO? Come on, let's talk about this...."
"NO way! Well, let me think about it...."
NO is an ultimate phrase but many variations exist by way of sacrifice and compromise.
I was used to hearing NO from a young age. Ironically, most children's first words revolve around the things their parents teach them. Mama, Papa, Dada, Baba. Some combination of a consonant and vowel.
My first word was NO. Does anyone wonder where that came from?
Hint: Not my mother. Even when I was babbling as a baby, it was a succession of "No,no,no,no,no,no" at all times. Happy, sad and mad, NO was a popular outlet.
After my father argued with the doctor about my lack of ability to speak, I am positive he took it all back when I mastered the art of arguing. There were many conversations where I would be interrupted mid-sentence with a flat NO from my father.
"But you don't know what I am going to ask!" I stomped my foot and crossed my arms. My father would hold up his hand and simply say NO. Usually, there was no explanation given and it was "just because I said NO". His flat refusals were not enough for me. NO was always followed by 'why?'
At four years of age, my negotiating skills were weak and my suppression of anger even weaker. Throughout the many attempts I made to turn the NO
into a YES, I was presented with my father's stone face and intimidating glare. But I would never show my trepidation in his presence. After his NO, I would run to my mother and bury my head in her bosom.
"Mama, does Daddy EVER say YES?"
I waited for the day where I would not have to argue, state my case or stomp my feet to hear YES. If he ever said YES in my presence, I would think he was inexplicably ill.
"Daddy, Shanta is going to the circus and she has tickets for me. We just have to pay $10" I said to him, breathless after running back home to collect the cash.
He looked at me with anger and raised his eyebrow. Here it comes...
"Enough of this running out at all times. NO. You are not going to the circus and you are grounded today. You will not leave this house for the entire day."
I muffled a cry while my father watched my drama unfold. I flung myself on the couch, then kicked my feet and threw the cushions across the room. My father lifted his paper and ignored me. I ran over to him and grabbed his knees, pleading with him to let me go to the circus.
"But why? Why? Why?" I sobbed.
"Because I said so. NO means NO. Don't ask me why," he barked. "Why do you want to go to the circus? The way you are behaving is a circus. YOU WILL STAY HOME..." He abruptly stood up and left the room.
I had to go to that circus. I imagined Shanta sitting in the front row, enjoying the show, the cotton candy and seeing the animals up close. I had every right to be there with her. For some reason, my father did not think I deserved to be there. I remember frantically looking in my bedroom for the tickets. We had received free ones in the paper and we put them away in a special place. The ignorant me thought that it was a question of money. The smarter, more latent me knew that my wandering ways invoked anger and frustration in my father. I sat on my bed and cried while my mother continued to look for the tickets.
I do not remember what happened next but I was told years later that I had escaped from the house only to be missing for an hour. I returned home one hour later after a call from a neighbour down the street had confirmed a sighting....
Being painfully shy for most of my childhood, I was shocked to learn that I was found by my father, completely naked in the street. He brought me home, very ashamed and now fully aware that he was dealing with a very shrewd negotiator. My mother told me later that I was non-responsive upon my return home, tears streaking my face. She was so perturbed by my state that she sat my father down and tore a strip off of him. A very rare moment for her.
Although I did not go to the circus, the word NO was now always followed by an explanation. My mother had gotten through to him...well sort of.
My actions bared my soul--among other things. Something he never wanted to see again.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Embrace the world...but be back before dinner!
Our neighborhood growing up was like the UN. We had Italian neighbors right next door. Larry was 6 or 7 years old and his father was an electrician. Our black and white TV always had issues with the antenna and Larry's father would spend hours in his garage-converted-into-a-shop fixing our TV I dubbed "Henry".
Shanta lived across the street and I practically lived at her house. She kept telling me she was from Ceylon which I could not comprehend. I am pretty sure I did not know I was Pakistani at the time. Being only 4 years old, my world only encompassed the population on my street.
My backyard was across the backyard of a Mexican family. I cannot remember the name of the overweight boy from their family who used to follow me everywhere. He was the cowboy and I was aptly rendered the "indian" as he chased me all over our neighborhood. Windows would fly open with people yelling at us to stop yelping and hooting.
My claim to fame at the age of four was my ability to ride a two-wheeled bike. My father started me with training wheels but grew tired of coming home after work and holding my bike while I wobbled for an hour. Our German neighbour, Godfried, who lived two doors down was the father of my best friend, Melissa. He was a kind and gentle giant. Over 6 foot 4, this statuesque man bent over nearly everyday to hold my bike and push me on my way. My father would sit on the porch of our house, peeling pistachios and cheering Godfried on as if I was HIS daughter.
After four days, the bike and I became one. And I felt the gears automatically shift inside of me. I developed a new found confidence. It also meant that I was never home. Like the teenage daughter who received her driver's license, my little green bike took me away from home, from my sister's howls, my father's disapproving looks and my mother's harsh bathtime hands to a world where I tasted the various countries I had never actually travelled to.
Germany, Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Mexico, India, Scotland, Italy, etc. I went to these exotic homes, learned the language (well just the curse words), ate the food, learned the religion (my Indian friend--whose name eludes me right now--had many pictures of Gods that resembled elephants who wore ample lipstick and were very flexible) and I eventually became a fixture in each house because it was a new experience I craved everyday.
I do remember most parents asking me if I had to go home. I would humbly shake my head and insist that my father knew where I was. Truth was, most of the time he had no clue and would wander our street and adjacent crescents for his wayward daughter. My mother would sigh as I left the house at 8am in the morning and return at 9pm at night.
My father would trek out every night, find me, put his palms together, offer his apologies to the owner of the house I hijacked and drag me home.
"It is not honorable for a girl to be out all hours of the day. People will think you don't like to live at home with us," my father said repeatedly.
"But I DON'T like living at home! I need peace and quiet," I replied, mimicking the exact daily sentiments my father passed onto my mother about my sister's incessant crying.
He threw his hands up in the air. "You think you are so smart? One of these days, you will learn your lesson" as he wagged his finger at me and lightly smacked my bottom. This loose punishment was a daily exercise I knew all too well and thought nothing of.
She understood my need and did not stop me. Now that I look back, I think a part of my mother left with me when I would back out my green bike from the garage and embrace each day's new adventures. Upon return, my father would sit me down in our living room, which in fact became the 'interrogation' room, while my mother would smile at me from the kitchen, with encouragement, as I rolled my eyes at him each time.
She always had my back even when she scolded me in front of him, which I understood immediately was a sign of conformity so not to elicit more anger from her husband.
Despite having a three month old baby and another one on the way, she ignored her own hardships to ensure I had two things: Love and Freedom.
But it would end all too soon.
Shanta lived across the street and I practically lived at her house. She kept telling me she was from Ceylon which I could not comprehend. I am pretty sure I did not know I was Pakistani at the time. Being only 4 years old, my world only encompassed the population on my street.
My backyard was across the backyard of a Mexican family. I cannot remember the name of the overweight boy from their family who used to follow me everywhere. He was the cowboy and I was aptly rendered the "indian" as he chased me all over our neighborhood. Windows would fly open with people yelling at us to stop yelping and hooting.
My claim to fame at the age of four was my ability to ride a two-wheeled bike. My father started me with training wheels but grew tired of coming home after work and holding my bike while I wobbled for an hour. Our German neighbour, Godfried, who lived two doors down was the father of my best friend, Melissa. He was a kind and gentle giant. Over 6 foot 4, this statuesque man bent over nearly everyday to hold my bike and push me on my way. My father would sit on the porch of our house, peeling pistachios and cheering Godfried on as if I was HIS daughter.
After four days, the bike and I became one. And I felt the gears automatically shift inside of me. I developed a new found confidence. It also meant that I was never home. Like the teenage daughter who received her driver's license, my little green bike took me away from home, from my sister's howls, my father's disapproving looks and my mother's harsh bathtime hands to a world where I tasted the various countries I had never actually travelled to.
Germany, Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Mexico, India, Scotland, Italy, etc. I went to these exotic homes, learned the language (well just the curse words), ate the food, learned the religion (my Indian friend--whose name eludes me right now--had many pictures of Gods that resembled elephants who wore ample lipstick and were very flexible) and I eventually became a fixture in each house because it was a new experience I craved everyday.
I do remember most parents asking me if I had to go home. I would humbly shake my head and insist that my father knew where I was. Truth was, most of the time he had no clue and would wander our street and adjacent crescents for his wayward daughter. My mother would sigh as I left the house at 8am in the morning and return at 9pm at night.
My father would trek out every night, find me, put his palms together, offer his apologies to the owner of the house I hijacked and drag me home.
"It is not honorable for a girl to be out all hours of the day. People will think you don't like to live at home with us," my father said repeatedly.
"But I DON'T like living at home! I need peace and quiet," I replied, mimicking the exact daily sentiments my father passed onto my mother about my sister's incessant crying.
He threw his hands up in the air. "You think you are so smart? One of these days, you will learn your lesson" as he wagged his finger at me and lightly smacked my bottom. This loose punishment was a daily exercise I knew all too well and thought nothing of.
She understood my need and did not stop me. Now that I look back, I think a part of my mother left with me when I would back out my green bike from the garage and embrace each day's new adventures. Upon return, my father would sit me down in our living room, which in fact became the 'interrogation' room, while my mother would smile at me from the kitchen, with encouragement, as I rolled my eyes at him each time.
She always had my back even when she scolded me in front of him, which I understood immediately was a sign of conformity so not to elicit more anger from her husband.
Despite having a three month old baby and another one on the way, she ignored her own hardships to ensure I had two things: Love and Freedom.
But it would end all too soon.
Monday, March 19, 2012
How dare she.
I sat looking at her out of the corner of my eye. I do not recollect exactly when my sister was born, but this alien had invaded our home in a blink of an eye. She was small, hairy with oddly shaped hands (too big for the rest of her body) and she howled day and night. She had entered the world that once revolved around me. My dominion. My sphere. My haven. The place where my parents only worshipped me.
How dare she.
I immediately made up my mind. I did not like her.
I vaguely remember the night when my mother and father were at the hospital. My babysitter was a buxom teenager who lived down the street. She had red hair, red lips and freckles all over her body. These spots intrigued me. With my jet black hair and dark skin, freckles were a novelty to me. We got along because she was a free spirit too. She allowed me to 'connect the dots' with her freckles using a pen and laughed when I asked why her boobs were so big. She told me that my mom was having a baby and I remember asking her where babies came from.
"The hospital, of course! But a man and a woman have to kiss first."
That was my first introduction to the concept of sex and I pondered her explanation while I ate dinner, as I changed into my pajamas and while I sat with her as we both watched TV. I felt special that night because it was past my bedtime and she allowed me to hang out with her. So my father kissed my mother and now they were picking up the baby from the hospital? What the heck? The pen marks on her legs looked like varicose veins.
"So if my dad kisses my mom again, they will have to go back and pick up another baby?" I asked incredulously.
My babysitter shook her head and took the pen out my hand. "You will find out when you grow up. It will spoil the surprise if I tell you everything now!" She lifted me up off the carpet and put me on the couch. I began to rock furiously back and forth
The more emotional and utterly confused I became, the more I rocked. My parents had kissed me on the cheek and I knew no baby had resulted from this action. It took me awhile to figure it out.
Ephiphany: Man and woman must kiss on the lips to create a baby.
But how did this relate to receiving the baby at the hospital?
How did doctors at the hospital know my parents kissed?
Or was it my parents duty to call the hospital to inform them and then they were awarded the baby?
Millions of questions were flung at my babysitter as I rocked violently on the sofa. So much so that she grew impatient and picked me up to put me to bed.
"You told me you kissed your boyfriend last week. Where is your baby?!" My babysitter rolled her eyes and closed the door. Darkness enveloped me.
And that was the last thing I remembered as I sat looking at this wrinkly, ugly, creature sitting in a bouncy chair. She was only two months old. I don't recall her age but because this story has been recounted over and over again within the family, the age factor has a huge impact on the story's end.
My mother had her back to me as she cooked in the kitchen. She was talking to me as I sat at the table but I was plagued by the fact that she offered me no eye contact. It made me feel less important. My sister sat in the bouncy chair close to my mother but slightly behind her. Her proximity also caused me great distress.
How dare she...be closer to MY mother.
I sat on the edge of my seat, unable to focus on my colouring book. It was a second choice pick of Robin Hood and his merry men. I wanted the Disney book with all the princesses. I was downgraded because my mother had to find my sister new bibs and no time was allocated to dig through the colouring book pile to find my princesses.
How dare she.
I pushed my colouring book aside and slithered from the table towards the bouncer. I watched my mother stirring the pot out of the corner of my eye and tipped toed towards the alien. She was fast asleep for once. Her cries kept me awake night after night and I knew deep down inside that she was a banshee let loose from hell to torment me.
I slowly moved the bouncer away from my mother towards the kitchen table. I answered her questions from the table so she would not suspect anything.
We lived in split bungalow with our kitchen, living and dining room on the second floor. There was a deep staircase leading down to our family room and the one bedroom where I had been stashed away upon the birth of the alien.
I moved the bouncer to the top of the stairs and stopped. I turned slowly to my mother who continued to cook, unaware of my strategic plan to eliminate the alien presence once and for all.
I had it all planned out. Robin Hood even seemed to be cheering me on from the cover of that stupid colouring book that fell precariously over the table. I opened my mouth, synchronizing my verbal alert with my foot at the helm of the bouncer. Humpty Dumpty was about to be catapulted from the wall.
"Mummy, ....and we all fall down..." My mother turned just as I launched my foot against the bouncer. I will never forget the horror in her eyes as the alien/banshee/ugly creature/Humpty Dumpty went over the top step.
My dear mother, the one who never raised her voice nor screamed, fought to find her voice as she ran down the stairs after my sister. My father heard the ruckus from the third floor bedroom and came running down as I returned to my dreaded colouring book and put a moustache on Robin Hood. Now he looked handsome...just like my father.
Needless to say, the banshee survived. And I had to put up with her and the lack of attention. Rebellion never looked so good....
How dare she.
I immediately made up my mind. I did not like her.
I vaguely remember the night when my mother and father were at the hospital. My babysitter was a buxom teenager who lived down the street. She had red hair, red lips and freckles all over her body. These spots intrigued me. With my jet black hair and dark skin, freckles were a novelty to me. We got along because she was a free spirit too. She allowed me to 'connect the dots' with her freckles using a pen and laughed when I asked why her boobs were so big. She told me that my mom was having a baby and I remember asking her where babies came from.
"The hospital, of course! But a man and a woman have to kiss first."
That was my first introduction to the concept of sex and I pondered her explanation while I ate dinner, as I changed into my pajamas and while I sat with her as we both watched TV. I felt special that night because it was past my bedtime and she allowed me to hang out with her. So my father kissed my mother and now they were picking up the baby from the hospital? What the heck? The pen marks on her legs looked like varicose veins.
"So if my dad kisses my mom again, they will have to go back and pick up another baby?" I asked incredulously.
My babysitter shook her head and took the pen out my hand. "You will find out when you grow up. It will spoil the surprise if I tell you everything now!" She lifted me up off the carpet and put me on the couch. I began to rock furiously back and forth
The more emotional and utterly confused I became, the more I rocked. My parents had kissed me on the cheek and I knew no baby had resulted from this action. It took me awhile to figure it out.
Ephiphany: Man and woman must kiss on the lips to create a baby.
But how did this relate to receiving the baby at the hospital?
How did doctors at the hospital know my parents kissed?
Or was it my parents duty to call the hospital to inform them and then they were awarded the baby?
Millions of questions were flung at my babysitter as I rocked violently on the sofa. So much so that she grew impatient and picked me up to put me to bed.
"You told me you kissed your boyfriend last week. Where is your baby?!" My babysitter rolled her eyes and closed the door. Darkness enveloped me.
And that was the last thing I remembered as I sat looking at this wrinkly, ugly, creature sitting in a bouncy chair. She was only two months old. I don't recall her age but because this story has been recounted over and over again within the family, the age factor has a huge impact on the story's end.
My mother had her back to me as she cooked in the kitchen. She was talking to me as I sat at the table but I was plagued by the fact that she offered me no eye contact. It made me feel less important. My sister sat in the bouncy chair close to my mother but slightly behind her. Her proximity also caused me great distress.
How dare she...be closer to MY mother.
I sat on the edge of my seat, unable to focus on my colouring book. It was a second choice pick of Robin Hood and his merry men. I wanted the Disney book with all the princesses. I was downgraded because my mother had to find my sister new bibs and no time was allocated to dig through the colouring book pile to find my princesses.
How dare she.
I pushed my colouring book aside and slithered from the table towards the bouncer. I watched my mother stirring the pot out of the corner of my eye and tipped toed towards the alien. She was fast asleep for once. Her cries kept me awake night after night and I knew deep down inside that she was a banshee let loose from hell to torment me.
I slowly moved the bouncer away from my mother towards the kitchen table. I answered her questions from the table so she would not suspect anything.
We lived in split bungalow with our kitchen, living and dining room on the second floor. There was a deep staircase leading down to our family room and the one bedroom where I had been stashed away upon the birth of the alien.
I moved the bouncer to the top of the stairs and stopped. I turned slowly to my mother who continued to cook, unaware of my strategic plan to eliminate the alien presence once and for all.
I had it all planned out. Robin Hood even seemed to be cheering me on from the cover of that stupid colouring book that fell precariously over the table. I opened my mouth, synchronizing my verbal alert with my foot at the helm of the bouncer. Humpty Dumpty was about to be catapulted from the wall.
"Mummy, ....and we all fall down..." My mother turned just as I launched my foot against the bouncer. I will never forget the horror in her eyes as the alien/banshee/ugly creature/Humpty Dumpty went over the top step.
My dear mother, the one who never raised her voice nor screamed, fought to find her voice as she ran down the stairs after my sister. My father heard the ruckus from the third floor bedroom and came running down as I returned to my dreaded colouring book and put a moustache on Robin Hood. Now he looked handsome...just like my father.
Needless to say, the banshee survived. And I had to put up with her and the lack of attention. Rebellion never looked so good....
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The ink is too dry
It has been awhile since I freshly squeezed any new thoughts and ideas.
What can I call it?
-laziness?
-writer's block?
-keyboard allergies?
-neglect to my intellect? (i like this one)
Today is Feb 25th and my last post was on January 1--the first day of 2012.
I had a plan. I had a goal. I had a strategy. All left in the cold.
I want to write. I want to share. It took me awhile to know I actually care.
Many nights elapsed and the regret set in.
Procrastination had become my best friend.
Each time I wrote with subject matter at hand,
She robbed my thoughts and took her stand.
Let me continue, let me be. Let me remember you, set me free.
But she spoke her own truth in the howling winds of the night,
And it set me reeling, it gave me fright.
I opened the window to feel her breeze. But the moment I did so,
the night stood still...
I realized what I set out to do was harder than I thought. To speak of my childhood entailed remembering my mother and reincarnating her. And it stopped me in my tracks.
The ink is too dry. I need to start a new page, a new thought, a new emotion.
Ok Mother. I will start again.
What can I call it?
-laziness?
-writer's block?
-keyboard allergies?
-neglect to my intellect? (i like this one)
Today is Feb 25th and my last post was on January 1--the first day of 2012.
I had a plan. I had a goal. I had a strategy. All left in the cold.
I want to write. I want to share. It took me awhile to know I actually care.
Many nights elapsed and the regret set in.
Procrastination had become my best friend.
Each time I wrote with subject matter at hand,
She robbed my thoughts and took her stand.
Let me continue, let me be. Let me remember you, set me free.
But she spoke her own truth in the howling winds of the night,
And it set me reeling, it gave me fright.
I opened the window to feel her breeze. But the moment I did so,
the night stood still...
I realized what I set out to do was harder than I thought. To speak of my childhood entailed remembering my mother and reincarnating her. And it stopped me in my tracks.
The ink is too dry. I need to start a new page, a new thought, a new emotion.
Ok Mother. I will start again.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Late Bloomer
For two years, it was only about me. And although I grew out of the colic, just as the doctor said I would, I was still an anomaly that my parents were trying to figure out.
By the age of two, I had none of the following:
-recognizable speech patterns
-baby teeth (yes, I mean NO TEETH)
-ability to walk unassisted
This infuriated my father whose weekly visits caused much eye-rolling and despair for my pediatrician and his staff. I was supposed to be a boy. When that didn't pan out, I was supposed to be his prodigy. I know my mother was equally concerned but she never showed it. She was patient and knew that I would take my time to blossom.
My father despaired and he took his anger out on the doctor.
"She gums everything because she has no teeth! I have no clue what she is talking about and would rather sign like the deaf woman on Sesame Street. She continues to crawl even though I have caught her walking when she needs to. Are you sure she doesn't have any mental issues?" My fathers eyes were wide and the vein his forehead was bulging.
The exasperated doctor looked at my mother who in turn looked at her own feet. She never interrupted my father or shared her own opinions except when asked to.
"I want to assure you, there is nothing wrong with your daughter. You must understand that every child develops in their own time. Each time you come to me, you ask the same questions and I keep assuring you that she is normal. You just need to let her grow into her body. She is healthy and eating with no visible medical issues. She is adjusting for all the lateness and you will need to adjust as well."
Perhaps my father wanted the doctor to take out his pad and prescribe a magic pill or refer us to a specialist but he did no such thing. He stood his ground and asked for my parent's patience.
It did not satisfy my father. He felt enough was not being done to challenge my intelligence (or lack thereof, according to him). My mother tried reading to me, singing, colouring and practicing my handwriting or taking me out and meeting others within our building; however the only pastime I enjoyed was watching television.
While my mother cleaned and cooked, I would sit, hours on end, on many occasions alone in front of our black and white television set with the antenna ears that were constantly being adjusted by my father when he came home after work to watch his news. I have a distant memory of watching the news with him, the volume at its peak so that he would not miss a word from the commentator. If I cried, he would motion my mother to remove me from the room which only made me cry harder. The television was my toy and something I could not share, even with him.
I think I did my parents a favour. I looked at their experience with me as "breaking new ground" thereby making it easier for them to handle another child in the event my mother was to have more children.
The Ice Breaker. No longer would they need to tread carefully because they knew what to expect with me. And I certainly challenged them in every aspect now that was a force to be reckoned with.
What they would not know realize were the dynamics of having another child with me at the helm....
By the age of two, I had none of the following:
-recognizable speech patterns
-baby teeth (yes, I mean NO TEETH)
-ability to walk unassisted
This infuriated my father whose weekly visits caused much eye-rolling and despair for my pediatrician and his staff. I was supposed to be a boy. When that didn't pan out, I was supposed to be his prodigy. I know my mother was equally concerned but she never showed it. She was patient and knew that I would take my time to blossom.
My father despaired and he took his anger out on the doctor.
"She gums everything because she has no teeth! I have no clue what she is talking about and would rather sign like the deaf woman on Sesame Street. She continues to crawl even though I have caught her walking when she needs to. Are you sure she doesn't have any mental issues?" My fathers eyes were wide and the vein his forehead was bulging.
The exasperated doctor looked at my mother who in turn looked at her own feet. She never interrupted my father or shared her own opinions except when asked to.
"I want to assure you, there is nothing wrong with your daughter. You must understand that every child develops in their own time. Each time you come to me, you ask the same questions and I keep assuring you that she is normal. You just need to let her grow into her body. She is healthy and eating with no visible medical issues. She is adjusting for all the lateness and you will need to adjust as well."
Perhaps my father wanted the doctor to take out his pad and prescribe a magic pill or refer us to a specialist but he did no such thing. He stood his ground and asked for my parent's patience.
It did not satisfy my father. He felt enough was not being done to challenge my intelligence (or lack thereof, according to him). My mother tried reading to me, singing, colouring and practicing my handwriting or taking me out and meeting others within our building; however the only pastime I enjoyed was watching television.
While my mother cleaned and cooked, I would sit, hours on end, on many occasions alone in front of our black and white television set with the antenna ears that were constantly being adjusted by my father when he came home after work to watch his news. I have a distant memory of watching the news with him, the volume at its peak so that he would not miss a word from the commentator. If I cried, he would motion my mother to remove me from the room which only made me cry harder. The television was my toy and something I could not share, even with him.
I think I did my parents a favour. I looked at their experience with me as "breaking new ground" thereby making it easier for them to handle another child in the event my mother was to have more children.
The Ice Breaker. No longer would they need to tread carefully because they knew what to expect with me. And I certainly challenged them in every aspect now that was a force to be reckoned with.
What they would not know realize were the dynamics of having another child with me at the helm....
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)