I've been watching the HBO series "The Wire" lately. Since the first episode there has been a personal connection for me to these characters. In case you've never seen the show, it's about drugs and crime on the streets of Baltimore. (It's much more than that, tho, you should check it out!) In Season 1 there is a character named Bubbles, or Bubs. He is a heroin addict, he lives on the streets, but most of all he is a sweetheart. His genuinely good nature shines through. He is funny, clever, sarcastic and smart. He is my mom so much that I tear up almost every scene he is in. He makes me miss my Mom one minute and in the next minute feel so sad that he is caught up in this life. . Or is it sad because my Mom was caught up in that life? They are one in the same. My feelings for Bubs are my feelings for my Mom. Every time I see Bubs on the screen I want to hug him, I fear for his safety. I worry where he will sleep. What will he eat? Every time they show him shooting up I say "No, Bubs! You're better, you're more than that!" There is so much more to my connection to Bubs and how it mirrors the life my Mom led. But, I need to process some other things first.
Season 4 concentrates on the street kids and the public schools. Every night, I sit on my soft leather recliner, from the comfort of my beautiful home here in Arizona and I get transported, back to a time in my life that feels like never could have actually happened to me. I almost feel like I should be in these episodes, sitting in the corner of the classroom The only white girl, dirty, self conscious and scared out of her mind. I share so many of the character's traits and actions. Cutting school at the first sign of insecurity. Not caring about what the hell the teacher is trying to say because there is just too much more REAL shit to be thinking about. Like, will I eat tonight? Will there be electricity when I get home? Why does this teacher think I will ever amount to anything? When will I ever need to know algebra? Doesn't he know I'm invisible?
There is one character on the show, Dookie, who really just gets me straight in the heart and brings back so many memories. More than memories, actual pain and sadness comes over me. He is an awkward boy, poor and dirty. Living in poverty, both of his parents are drug addicts. He's smart, yet insecure. He's sweet, but misunderstood. He's picked on by his classmates for having dirty clothes and for smelling, and he just timidly takes the abuse. He never fights back. Probably because he knows that what they are saying is true. He is dirty. He does smell. He is awkward.
He is me.
In one episode a student tells his teacher that he doesn't have any school supplies or uniform shirt because his parents sell them for money for drugs. I almost had to excuse myself from my own living room to process the feelings this scene brought up. I wanted to pause the show and magically be transported into that classroom and hug Dookie. I wanted to tell him it can be ok. Not it WILL be ok, because honestly, that's just not always the case. A lot of things have to fall into place before he will ever be ok. Before I ever would be ok. But I am living proof that it is possible.
I often wonder about how little things that happen to you as a child can have such an impact on you as an adult. In elementary school my school would have a "Candy Sale" every year. It wasn't like it is today, where you can pay by credit card. I didn't have my parents on my side, rooting for me to sell the most candy so I could win the bike on page 4. My mom wasn't bringing the catalog to work and asking her friends to order, so her daughter could succeed. Instead, my parents would shove me out of the house, with my little collection box, to sell candy. More importantly, to bring back cash for them to buy drugs. I remember going to every apartment in the building with that catalog. Every house on the street. And the next street. And across the avenue. As far as I could go to fill up my box. I was so completely awkward and shy, I wonder if people bought from me out of pity. No, I shouldn't wonder, I know this is why. Especially when year after year I would never return to their house with the chocolate they paid for. Yet, every year, they kept buying from me. I would come home after dark with my little box jingling with cash and coins and hope that I could sneak it past my parents. I was just as naive as my neighbors, they would never get their chocolate and I would never get that bike. I wouldn't even turn an envelope in. Why did I continue to knock on neighbors doors? I try to figure this out, but I just can't get into my little 10 year old head. Did I just want to please my parents? Was I so desperate for any kind of attention that I humiliated myself for them? Did I really believe I had a chance at that bike? It could be any or all of these things, I don't know. That brings me back to my original point - how does this seemingly small incident impact who I am today? I think about this one childhood memory often. Why? Is it the humiliation I felt? Is it the hurt and complete disregard from my parents? Is it because I am a parent now, and I am trying to wrap my brain around the whole scenario? Maybe I will never know. I do know that it has given me great perspective as a mother. I cannot even fathom doing something like this to my boys. That's like comparing apples to oranges. My life compared to my boys' lives just isn't a fair comparison. I can only hope to use my past experiences to teach my kids some valuable lessons. Lessons they may never have the opportunity to learn without my experiences, How my old life will support my new life remains to be seen.
Showing posts with label My Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Story. Show all posts
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Chapter 7
After my 15th birthday I don't think I went to school more than a handful of times, if that many. I didn't care about truancy officers anymore, and my Mom just gave up trying to make me go. Some mornings she would make idle threats about making me go to school, but never followed through. Other mornings, I guess the mornings she didn't feel like taking the subway ride to Jamaica alone, she would tell me I could stay home only if I went with her on the train. She belonged to an outpatient methadone clinic and had to go to Jamaica for her methadone. She would make me pee in a cup for her, so that she could pass her drug tests and ensure that she still had a spot in the clinic. I don't know what happened on the days I couldn't be there to pee in that cup, but I know that she was high pretty much 99.999% of the time and she was never kicked out of the program, that I am aware of.
Let me talk about the J train for a minute. The J train runs underground starting in downtown Manhattan, comes above ground through Brooklyn and into Queens, then underground again for it's last stop in Jamaica Center, Queens. I lived in Woodhaven, and was right in the middle of the route. Woodhaven was a pretty nice place back then. Not the BEST, but certainly not the WORST. Yet, boarding that train was just not one of my favorite things to do. I would have to take it towards Brooklyn on the rare occasion that I rode it to school. It would usually be filled with a mix of working people commuting into lower Manhattan and a bunch of rambunctious teenagers taking it to Franklin K Lane High School. I never fit in to either category. Was I the only one who didn't quite fit in? Probably not, but I was riddled with self doubt and so self conscious and that made me a target. It was not for many more years that I would build up confidence and self awareness and be able to attack the J train without anxiety. To make that anxiety worse, add taking the train with my Mom to the mix and you can imagine the feelings I had. Apparently, even this was a better option than going to school, so I would take that ride with her. My mom was normally, on a sober and rare day, very reserved and quiet, shy to the max, but always quick witted, sarcastic and funny as hell. When she was high her shyness disappeared. She was still quite funny and the sarcasm grew even more abundantly. Sure, she was basically the sweetest, most loving woman you'd ever meet, but she was also quite the jokester. Because she was always high when I would take that train with her, she was out of her shell. She would take this opportunity to make fun of me. I am sure she could see how awkward I was, and she used it! She would talk in weird voices, loudly, to get people to look at her, and WORSE, look at me. Saying loudly in an unknown accent "Whatsammater Rawbin, are you embarrassed by your Muhther? Come sit next to your Muhther RAAWBIN" It was awful. She thought she was funny tho.
We would arrive at Jamaica Center station and go upstairs, into the streets of Jamaica, Queens. These were, and still are, tough streets. Drug dealers around every corner. Crime, poverty, you name it-Jamaica has it. Most people used this stop on their journey to transfer to the railroad into midtown or to another subway into Manhattan and wouldn't dream of surfacing above ground at this stop. For my Mom, this was just another day. For me, I cringed, I shuddered, I was honestly petrified on those streets. The closer we got to "The Program" (what she called it my whole life) the more sad souls you would encounter. They huddled on street corners, making shady deals. They met up there before going in to ask about which case workers were in that day. Then would meet up again after to make trades, one's methadone for anothers Valium (my Mom's favorite) They would stand there and make their small talk and I would shrink inside myself. I should be used to it by this age, I had been tagging along to The Program since I was still small enough to be carried. There was always something in me that made me feel uncomfortable in those surroundings. I never allowed myself to let it feel "normal". I don't know how or why that is, but I am sure grateful. I certainly was around people who were addicted to drugs often enough. For as far back as I can remember it was just part of my environment. My parents always had someone staying with us "for a few days". My mom never turned anyone away if they needed a place to crash. Maybe she knew that if it weren't for the generosity of my Dad's side of the family, we would be the ones looking for shelter. I can't even imagine that someone had it so bad, that our roach infested, filthy apartment was a step up. If it weren't for welfare, we would never eat. Wait, I take that back. Even WITH welfare, we didn't eat.
I can remember the end of the month rolling around and my Mom saying "just a few more days til check day, we will go to Pathmark and go shopping! I'll make stew!" Check day is what she called it when we would get our welfare allowance. It was Food Stamps back in the day, not a debit card like they have today. I had a love/hate relationship with food stamps. On one hand, it allowed us to buy groceries and fed us. On the other hand, I was mortified every time I was sent to the store with food stamps. What if someone saw me? Someone ALWAYS saw me, even if it was just the cashier. I would get that look. The sad "poor little girl" look. I hate that look! That was if we were lucky to ever see a penny of the food stamps to begin with. Check day would roll around, my Mom would be practically dancing with excitement that morning and send me off to school with promises of fried chicken dinners, or a pot of sauce to come home to. Almost every time I would instead come home to a quiet, dark house and her bedroom door closed and locked. I would always rush past my Moms bedroom door, to the kitchen to look for the food and there would be nothing. My heart and stomach would drop. I would go back down the hallway and knock on the door. First quietly, hoping for her to open it up, greet me with a hug and say "let's go food shopping". That never happened. Ever. (ok, maybe twice?) Every month was the same thing.
<knock knock>
"Mom! I'm home! Are we going to Pathmark?!"
"Hey, sweet girl, I'll be out in a minute! Go get the shopping cart ready"
I would get the cart, which we would walk to the grocery store, fill it up and wheel it back home
<knock knock>
"Got it! Let's go!"
"Ok, sweetie, I'll be out in a minute"
Minutes would turn to hours. Of all the months and years of this happening, I remember ACTUALLY going shopping maybe twice. Once with both my parents, at which time they were caught stealing cheap, no frill sneakers, as we shopped. Security pulling us aside before we were able to leave. My parents fighting with security, arguing that they paid for them. Back and forth, while I snuck Tastee Cakes out of the shopping cart.
I realize now that on check day, by the time I would get home from school all of the food stamps were gone. Traded for drugs. The door being closed and locked was always the first clue. Yet, every month I held on to that glimmer of hope. She was so convincing! She always made me believe that this time would be different. What else could I do? She believed it herself so whole heartedly, that I had no choice but to believer her as well. Sure, she had good intentions in the morning, but was always seduced by the temptation of escape. In the meantime, where did I get to go to escape? A filthy apartment, old toys and an empty kitchen. There came a time that I started rolling my eyes when she would start with all the food we would get when check day come. Eventually, check day was a delusion that she kept for herself. In her world every month she was going to get clean and do the right thing by her babies. She believed it, she had every intention of doing it and I believe that. Sadly, addiction does not work quite so easily. I can only assume that every month, after making that same choice of her addiction over her kids would only make her need to retreat even stronger. I cannot imagine the hell she lived with. The torment her soul felt on a daily basis.
I am so extremely grateful that through it all, my Mom was always able to express her deep love for me. That never, ever wavered. Even tho I went through these neglectful situations, I can honestly say that I was lucky. Lucky to have such a beautiful, sweet soul for a mother. That love that was instilled in me, is the absolute center of me. It is what gave me the strength to persevere.
A few pictures of the J train.
Let me talk about the J train for a minute. The J train runs underground starting in downtown Manhattan, comes above ground through Brooklyn and into Queens, then underground again for it's last stop in Jamaica Center, Queens. I lived in Woodhaven, and was right in the middle of the route. Woodhaven was a pretty nice place back then. Not the BEST, but certainly not the WORST. Yet, boarding that train was just not one of my favorite things to do. I would have to take it towards Brooklyn on the rare occasion that I rode it to school. It would usually be filled with a mix of working people commuting into lower Manhattan and a bunch of rambunctious teenagers taking it to Franklin K Lane High School. I never fit in to either category. Was I the only one who didn't quite fit in? Probably not, but I was riddled with self doubt and so self conscious and that made me a target. It was not for many more years that I would build up confidence and self awareness and be able to attack the J train without anxiety. To make that anxiety worse, add taking the train with my Mom to the mix and you can imagine the feelings I had. Apparently, even this was a better option than going to school, so I would take that ride with her. My mom was normally, on a sober and rare day, very reserved and quiet, shy to the max, but always quick witted, sarcastic and funny as hell. When she was high her shyness disappeared. She was still quite funny and the sarcasm grew even more abundantly. Sure, she was basically the sweetest, most loving woman you'd ever meet, but she was also quite the jokester. Because she was always high when I would take that train with her, she was out of her shell. She would take this opportunity to make fun of me. I am sure she could see how awkward I was, and she used it! She would talk in weird voices, loudly, to get people to look at her, and WORSE, look at me. Saying loudly in an unknown accent "Whatsammater Rawbin, are you embarrassed by your Muhther? Come sit next to your Muhther RAAWBIN" It was awful. She thought she was funny tho.
We would arrive at Jamaica Center station and go upstairs, into the streets of Jamaica, Queens. These were, and still are, tough streets. Drug dealers around every corner. Crime, poverty, you name it-Jamaica has it. Most people used this stop on their journey to transfer to the railroad into midtown or to another subway into Manhattan and wouldn't dream of surfacing above ground at this stop. For my Mom, this was just another day. For me, I cringed, I shuddered, I was honestly petrified on those streets. The closer we got to "The Program" (what she called it my whole life) the more sad souls you would encounter. They huddled on street corners, making shady deals. They met up there before going in to ask about which case workers were in that day. Then would meet up again after to make trades, one's methadone for anothers Valium (my Mom's favorite) They would stand there and make their small talk and I would shrink inside myself. I should be used to it by this age, I had been tagging along to The Program since I was still small enough to be carried. There was always something in me that made me feel uncomfortable in those surroundings. I never allowed myself to let it feel "normal". I don't know how or why that is, but I am sure grateful. I certainly was around people who were addicted to drugs often enough. For as far back as I can remember it was just part of my environment. My parents always had someone staying with us "for a few days". My mom never turned anyone away if they needed a place to crash. Maybe she knew that if it weren't for the generosity of my Dad's side of the family, we would be the ones looking for shelter. I can't even imagine that someone had it so bad, that our roach infested, filthy apartment was a step up. If it weren't for welfare, we would never eat. Wait, I take that back. Even WITH welfare, we didn't eat.
I can remember the end of the month rolling around and my Mom saying "just a few more days til check day, we will go to Pathmark and go shopping! I'll make stew!" Check day is what she called it when we would get our welfare allowance. It was Food Stamps back in the day, not a debit card like they have today. I had a love/hate relationship with food stamps. On one hand, it allowed us to buy groceries and fed us. On the other hand, I was mortified every time I was sent to the store with food stamps. What if someone saw me? Someone ALWAYS saw me, even if it was just the cashier. I would get that look. The sad "poor little girl" look. I hate that look! That was if we were lucky to ever see a penny of the food stamps to begin with. Check day would roll around, my Mom would be practically dancing with excitement that morning and send me off to school with promises of fried chicken dinners, or a pot of sauce to come home to. Almost every time I would instead come home to a quiet, dark house and her bedroom door closed and locked. I would always rush past my Moms bedroom door, to the kitchen to look for the food and there would be nothing. My heart and stomach would drop. I would go back down the hallway and knock on the door. First quietly, hoping for her to open it up, greet me with a hug and say "let's go food shopping". That never happened. Ever. (ok, maybe twice?) Every month was the same thing.
<knock knock>
"Mom! I'm home! Are we going to Pathmark?!"
"Hey, sweet girl, I'll be out in a minute! Go get the shopping cart ready"
I would get the cart, which we would walk to the grocery store, fill it up and wheel it back home
<knock knock>
"Got it! Let's go!"
"Ok, sweetie, I'll be out in a minute"
Minutes would turn to hours. Of all the months and years of this happening, I remember ACTUALLY going shopping maybe twice. Once with both my parents, at which time they were caught stealing cheap, no frill sneakers, as we shopped. Security pulling us aside before we were able to leave. My parents fighting with security, arguing that they paid for them. Back and forth, while I snuck Tastee Cakes out of the shopping cart.
I realize now that on check day, by the time I would get home from school all of the food stamps were gone. Traded for drugs. The door being closed and locked was always the first clue. Yet, every month I held on to that glimmer of hope. She was so convincing! She always made me believe that this time would be different. What else could I do? She believed it herself so whole heartedly, that I had no choice but to believer her as well. Sure, she had good intentions in the morning, but was always seduced by the temptation of escape. In the meantime, where did I get to go to escape? A filthy apartment, old toys and an empty kitchen. There came a time that I started rolling my eyes when she would start with all the food we would get when check day come. Eventually, check day was a delusion that she kept for herself. In her world every month she was going to get clean and do the right thing by her babies. She believed it, she had every intention of doing it and I believe that. Sadly, addiction does not work quite so easily. I can only assume that every month, after making that same choice of her addiction over her kids would only make her need to retreat even stronger. I cannot imagine the hell she lived with. The torment her soul felt on a daily basis.
I am so extremely grateful that through it all, my Mom was always able to express her deep love for me. That never, ever wavered. Even tho I went through these neglectful situations, I can honestly say that I was lucky. Lucky to have such a beautiful, sweet soul for a mother. That love that was instilled in me, is the absolute center of me. It is what gave me the strength to persevere.
A few pictures of the J train.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Chapter 6
Winters in New York. Not Fun. I can remember always wishing my birthday were in the summer, where I could enjoy it. Every year on my birthday I would be sick to some extent. I hate winter viciously! Winter made going to school even harder. I would have to wait for the J train in the cold, then cram into the car with a bunch of other sick high school kids. Just being around other high school kids in general gave me anxiety. I was always so awkward and self conscious. I was sure they were looking at me, judging me. Honestly, it wasn't a very far fetched thought, there were times I WAS picked on, even as a teenager. I remember riding the bus down Queens Blvd, going to the mall with my best friend. We were talking, minding our own business, both of us were quiet and fairly timid. A group of girls spotted us and started talking loudly about us, making fun of everything they could. Naturally (for me), I kept quiet and took the abuse. I was also no fool. These girls would have destroyed me. Queens/Brooklyn teenage girls were not to be messed with, especially the type that target other girls and start fights. In fact, they were down right scary! I had been called many names on that short train ride to high school. Then there was the walk from the train to the school, in masses that were broken up into clicks. I didn't have a click. I didn't even have any friends, aside from one, who was in honors and got to school way earlier than me. I was ALWAYS late. I was always alone.
January 14, 1991. 5 days before my 15th birthday. I somehow made it to school this day. I remember having the classroom with the windows overlooking the cemetery and just losing it. Between the frigid cold air that had beaten me on the way in to school, then the sight of that dreaded hill where my father was buried only a few months earlier. I had to get out of here. Somehow. Some way. Soon.
This is the only day that I remember a lunch period. Probably because I was usually out the door by then, or absent completely. But, this day, I remember this day. It was a separate lunch room from the rest of the school, it was in the basement. Ya know, being that we were "troubled truants", we had to be hidden away. I was sitting at a table looking at one of the boys I had a crush on. My escape from reality. He must have noticed me looking at him. He probably noticed it more than once and on many other days. Teenage girls can be quite obvious about that stuff. I don't remember him coming over to me, but I am fairly positive that I did not approach him, The conversation immediately went to the escape plan. Something along the lines of:
"You wanna skip the next class?" (which meant the rest of the day, really, who comes BACK?)
"Yeah, how do we get out"
"The door by the west side hallway has no guard"
or something like that. I don't remember the actual conversation, only that he had an escape route, and I needed an escape.
So, here I am, this awkward and timid 14 year old girl, ditching school with my crush. I was so excited! He was older than me by at least a year and he was so cute. Not just cute in comparison to the rest of the program, an actual cutie! He looked like a football player. Broad shoulders, muscles popping underneath his tight knitted sweater. Blonde hair, light eyes. I was living in a dream!
We snuck out of school, my crush, his friend and I. I followed their lead, they seemed to know exactly where they were going. We head towards the cemetery, No! Not the cemetery! I wanted an escape, not another reminder!! They say there is a shortcut this way that leads straight to Myrtle Avenue, which is apparently the way we want to go. I follow along. I am so happy when we find a hole in a back fence and finally get out of the cemetery and back to civilization. We start walking down neighborhood streets. Instead of stores, there are houses on all sides, packed like sardines next to each other. I soon realize we are heading to his house. He lives with his Mom in the upstairs apartment of a two story house. The boys lead the way and the next thing I know we are out of the cold, sitting on a warm couch watching skateboarding videos. They both were skaters and to them this was interesting. Me? Not so much. I was just happy not to be at school. I was more interested in sneaking glances around his apartment. It was so clean and neat. It wasn't big at all, but it was so homey. I do this any time I go to someones house, even still to this day. It's like I will always be a little girl in awe of how normal people live and all their "nice" things.
I fall asleep on the couch, laying on my crushes lap, while his friend sits on the floor watching TV. He nudges me and takes my hand. He leads me down the hall to his bedroom. It's a small, cluttered room. His bed is against the wall on the left, long ways, with the headboard touching the far left wall. One of the things I immediately notice is how he had such clean sheets. Pure white, clean and comfy looking. The bed is disheveled from when he woke up for school that morning. The rest of the room is just kinda messy-stuff thrown around- boy stuff. It was all so exciting! We sit on his bed and start kissing. I loved kissing. I was good at it! It was like the ultimate Calgon bubble bath. I could just forget everything and lose myself in it. I had a few kiss-mates by this point, but that was as far as I had ever gone. We are kissing for a while when he starts to get a little more feely and wants to touch me. I pull back and say no, without actually saying it. Making it clear I just wanted to kiss. He wasn't having it.
"Come on, you know you want to"
Do I? I don't think so. I'm not sure. I don't even know what he thinks I want.
"You're so beautiful. <kiss> Take your pants off"
Umm...WHAT? No. OMG. I feel terror. I am thinking so many things. I am dirty. Are my underwear clean? Why do I have to take my pants off? Can't we just kiss?
"Come on, it will be fun. It's ok. We won't do anything you don't want to"
Oh, ok. Well, maybe? I am unsure, yet also kind of excited and definitely nervous. I'm shaking.
I let him take my pants off. I instantly regret it. I'm cold. I'm exposed. I'm petrified. I kiss him for a minute or so more and try to make my move off the bed to get my pants and go back out to the living room. He is not having it. He holds me down. I squirm and now my heart is beating out of my chest. This isn't fun anymore. I want to go home. He is holding my arms up over my head, kissing me, but I am no longer kissing back. Then he has to let go of my hands to take his pants down and my underwear. He never gets off of me, I am pinned. I start saying "No. No. No." over and over. He doesn't hear me. I try to push him off, but he is gigantic. He's too strong. He puts himself inside me and I don't know if I screamed, but I definitely cried. OWWWWWWWCCCCH. This is when I start punching him as hard as I possibly could. In his face. In his arms. In the chest. Anywhere I could. It's like I am not even there. He doesn't even register my blows. I'm crying, I'm in pain, I'm confused. What is happening to me??? This hurts SO BAD. Then, just like that, he stops.
"Quick, get up! My mom is home! Go out my window and hide on the rooftop"
What? I'm shaking. I'm terrified. I look down and there is blood everywhere. All over me. All over his once clean, white sheets. I grab my clothes and try to figure out what is going on. I put on my underwear and they are instantly soaked with blood. He is trying to push me out the window! No! I can't go outside, I need the bathroom. I need to get cleaned up.
"Get OUT! My mom is home!"
I get my pants on just as I hear the door to his apartment open. His mother sees his friend in the living room and storms her way into his room.
"What the fuck is going on here?! Get the fuck out of my house! You whore! Get out of my house NOW"
"Can I please use the bathroom first" I am shaking.
"No! you can leave NOW" ( I believe there was a bitch thrown in there too)
Blood is trickling down my legs. I'm frozen. I have no idea what to do, where to go. How can I leave like this? Where am I? How do I even GET home? I'm in shock.
His friend must have taken me out of the house because the next thing I can remember his friend is telling me he will help me get home. He takes me to the bus stop and gets on with me. I get off at my stop leaving him on the bus. I don't remember talking with him at all. I just know that he saved me that day. I will be grateful to him forever for his gentle caring of me. There was no judgement in his heart or eyes.
What happens after this event is completely unclear to me. I can only try to put the puzzle pieces together from my sporadic memories. I don't remember seeing him in school again. Is that because I avoid school even more now? I honestly cannot remember. I must have been in actual shock. I remember needing to talk to somebody about what happened, so I bring it up to my best friend. Only, I am unable to confront it just yet, and instead of me telling her about the awfulness of what actually happened, I make up a fairy tale instead. I gush about how I was no longer a virgin. How I "did it". I act proud and puff up my chest, when in reality I am hiding in the basement of my heart. Once I come out with this fictional story, how can I go back? I am now living a lie. My friend sees him on Jamaica Avenue and thinks it's great, it's exciting, it's fun and I play along. We had a nick name for him, and for the life of me, I cannot remember how it formed, but we called him Turtle. We see Turtle skating through the neighborhood. We see him skating in the dark, under the train tracks, down cold, snowy, icy Jamaica Avenue and we play hide and seek with him in the local Five and Dime, all to go along with this lie I created. I block it out. I let it go.
Eventually, finally, winter ends. No longer am I noticing him around as much. It isn't until almost a decade later that I see him again. Or maybe I do and just erase it from my memory to spare myself the pain.
It is now 2000 or 2001, I can't remember. It's winter again. I had moved away from Woodhaven and gotten my own apartment, but have recently moved back to my old neighborhood. I am walking my dog on a chilly winter night. My dog, Reggie, would attract everyone, He was the friendliest, most loving dog ever. He catches the eye of a young man about my age, he stops to pet him. I have my head mostly down due to the chill. I pick it up and make eye contact with the man petting and loving on my dog. It's Turtle. My heart stops in my chest. He smiles at me, tells me how cute my dog is, gives him one last pet and goes on his way. Instantly, I am 14 again. I am frozen. I watch him walk away in shock then scramble for my cell phone. But, who do I call? What do I say? Should I call 911 and have him arrested?? That's what I want to do. But, of course, I don't. By this time I've shared it with a select few people, my boyfriend at the time was one of them. I call him. When he answers, I don't even know what to say or how to say it. So I just do. I am now leaning on the nearest car, cell phone in hand, jaw still dropped. I tell my boyfriend I just saw the boy who raped me. I think I expected some kind of knight in shining armor response. I don't get it. I get barely a reaction at all. Leaving me alone to deal with these confusing feelings, again.
In the months after running into him it's all brought back to me. What I start to think about most is how I reacted after the incident. How I created this fantasy tale of a perfect "First Time". This tale I created troubled me just as much as the act itself. I needed to figure out why I did that. I had been walking around with this lie for too long, I needed to process. I talked it through with my Aunt and she made me realize that it was a defense mechanism. I was just unable to emotionally deal with the reality of the situation. This is when I start the true healing and forgiveness process. I begin to accept my reaction and understand that I did the only thing I knew how to do, I needed to process this and let it go. When I was done with that, I moved on to him. I spent a decade making excuses in my head for him.
"I didn't make myself clear enough"
"I should never have gone to his house."
"I shouldn't have gone in his room."
"I should have hit him harder"
"I should have screamed louder"
"He's just a guy".
"I led him on."
Enough is enough. I did not ask for this. I begged him to stop. I punched and hit him. These were clear signs that I did NOT want it. But, what now? It's ten years later - - what now? Now, I move on. It's almost like running into him forced me to face this, to release it and find my peace.
Now that I am a grown woman, a wife, and most importantly, a Mother, my perspective shifts. I think about my son. I need to teach him to NEVER ever ...I can't even allow myself to think it. I will teach him respect. I will teach him love. As a Mother, I can't help but think of how Turtle's Mother reacted to this scenario. I cannot imagine speaking such words to a young girl. This is when I realize that my son could never be like him. He has me.
January 14, 1991. 5 days before my 15th birthday. I somehow made it to school this day. I remember having the classroom with the windows overlooking the cemetery and just losing it. Between the frigid cold air that had beaten me on the way in to school, then the sight of that dreaded hill where my father was buried only a few months earlier. I had to get out of here. Somehow. Some way. Soon.
This is the only day that I remember a lunch period. Probably because I was usually out the door by then, or absent completely. But, this day, I remember this day. It was a separate lunch room from the rest of the school, it was in the basement. Ya know, being that we were "troubled truants", we had to be hidden away. I was sitting at a table looking at one of the boys I had a crush on. My escape from reality. He must have noticed me looking at him. He probably noticed it more than once and on many other days. Teenage girls can be quite obvious about that stuff. I don't remember him coming over to me, but I am fairly positive that I did not approach him, The conversation immediately went to the escape plan. Something along the lines of:
"You wanna skip the next class?" (which meant the rest of the day, really, who comes BACK?)
"Yeah, how do we get out"
"The door by the west side hallway has no guard"
or something like that. I don't remember the actual conversation, only that he had an escape route, and I needed an escape.
So, here I am, this awkward and timid 14 year old girl, ditching school with my crush. I was so excited! He was older than me by at least a year and he was so cute. Not just cute in comparison to the rest of the program, an actual cutie! He looked like a football player. Broad shoulders, muscles popping underneath his tight knitted sweater. Blonde hair, light eyes. I was living in a dream!
We snuck out of school, my crush, his friend and I. I followed their lead, they seemed to know exactly where they were going. We head towards the cemetery, No! Not the cemetery! I wanted an escape, not another reminder!! They say there is a shortcut this way that leads straight to Myrtle Avenue, which is apparently the way we want to go. I follow along. I am so happy when we find a hole in a back fence and finally get out of the cemetery and back to civilization. We start walking down neighborhood streets. Instead of stores, there are houses on all sides, packed like sardines next to each other. I soon realize we are heading to his house. He lives with his Mom in the upstairs apartment of a two story house. The boys lead the way and the next thing I know we are out of the cold, sitting on a warm couch watching skateboarding videos. They both were skaters and to them this was interesting. Me? Not so much. I was just happy not to be at school. I was more interested in sneaking glances around his apartment. It was so clean and neat. It wasn't big at all, but it was so homey. I do this any time I go to someones house, even still to this day. It's like I will always be a little girl in awe of how normal people live and all their "nice" things.
I fall asleep on the couch, laying on my crushes lap, while his friend sits on the floor watching TV. He nudges me and takes my hand. He leads me down the hall to his bedroom. It's a small, cluttered room. His bed is against the wall on the left, long ways, with the headboard touching the far left wall. One of the things I immediately notice is how he had such clean sheets. Pure white, clean and comfy looking. The bed is disheveled from when he woke up for school that morning. The rest of the room is just kinda messy-stuff thrown around- boy stuff. It was all so exciting! We sit on his bed and start kissing. I loved kissing. I was good at it! It was like the ultimate Calgon bubble bath. I could just forget everything and lose myself in it. I had a few kiss-mates by this point, but that was as far as I had ever gone. We are kissing for a while when he starts to get a little more feely and wants to touch me. I pull back and say no, without actually saying it. Making it clear I just wanted to kiss. He wasn't having it.
"Come on, you know you want to"
Do I? I don't think so. I'm not sure. I don't even know what he thinks I want.
"You're so beautiful. <kiss> Take your pants off"
Umm...WHAT? No. OMG. I feel terror. I am thinking so many things. I am dirty. Are my underwear clean? Why do I have to take my pants off? Can't we just kiss?
"Come on, it will be fun. It's ok. We won't do anything you don't want to"
Oh, ok. Well, maybe? I am unsure, yet also kind of excited and definitely nervous. I'm shaking.
I let him take my pants off. I instantly regret it. I'm cold. I'm exposed. I'm petrified. I kiss him for a minute or so more and try to make my move off the bed to get my pants and go back out to the living room. He is not having it. He holds me down. I squirm and now my heart is beating out of my chest. This isn't fun anymore. I want to go home. He is holding my arms up over my head, kissing me, but I am no longer kissing back. Then he has to let go of my hands to take his pants down and my underwear. He never gets off of me, I am pinned. I start saying "No. No. No." over and over. He doesn't hear me. I try to push him off, but he is gigantic. He's too strong. He puts himself inside me and I don't know if I screamed, but I definitely cried. OWWWWWWWCCCCH. This is when I start punching him as hard as I possibly could. In his face. In his arms. In the chest. Anywhere I could. It's like I am not even there. He doesn't even register my blows. I'm crying, I'm in pain, I'm confused. What is happening to me??? This hurts SO BAD. Then, just like that, he stops.
"Quick, get up! My mom is home! Go out my window and hide on the rooftop"
What? I'm shaking. I'm terrified. I look down and there is blood everywhere. All over me. All over his once clean, white sheets. I grab my clothes and try to figure out what is going on. I put on my underwear and they are instantly soaked with blood. He is trying to push me out the window! No! I can't go outside, I need the bathroom. I need to get cleaned up.
"Get OUT! My mom is home!"
I get my pants on just as I hear the door to his apartment open. His mother sees his friend in the living room and storms her way into his room.
"What the fuck is going on here?! Get the fuck out of my house! You whore! Get out of my house NOW"
"Can I please use the bathroom first" I am shaking.
"No! you can leave NOW" ( I believe there was a bitch thrown in there too)
Blood is trickling down my legs. I'm frozen. I have no idea what to do, where to go. How can I leave like this? Where am I? How do I even GET home? I'm in shock.
His friend must have taken me out of the house because the next thing I can remember his friend is telling me he will help me get home. He takes me to the bus stop and gets on with me. I get off at my stop leaving him on the bus. I don't remember talking with him at all. I just know that he saved me that day. I will be grateful to him forever for his gentle caring of me. There was no judgement in his heart or eyes.
What happens after this event is completely unclear to me. I can only try to put the puzzle pieces together from my sporadic memories. I don't remember seeing him in school again. Is that because I avoid school even more now? I honestly cannot remember. I must have been in actual shock. I remember needing to talk to somebody about what happened, so I bring it up to my best friend. Only, I am unable to confront it just yet, and instead of me telling her about the awfulness of what actually happened, I make up a fairy tale instead. I gush about how I was no longer a virgin. How I "did it". I act proud and puff up my chest, when in reality I am hiding in the basement of my heart. Once I come out with this fictional story, how can I go back? I am now living a lie. My friend sees him on Jamaica Avenue and thinks it's great, it's exciting, it's fun and I play along. We had a nick name for him, and for the life of me, I cannot remember how it formed, but we called him Turtle. We see Turtle skating through the neighborhood. We see him skating in the dark, under the train tracks, down cold, snowy, icy Jamaica Avenue and we play hide and seek with him in the local Five and Dime, all to go along with this lie I created. I block it out. I let it go.
Eventually, finally, winter ends. No longer am I noticing him around as much. It isn't until almost a decade later that I see him again. Or maybe I do and just erase it from my memory to spare myself the pain.
It is now 2000 or 2001, I can't remember. It's winter again. I had moved away from Woodhaven and gotten my own apartment, but have recently moved back to my old neighborhood. I am walking my dog on a chilly winter night. My dog, Reggie, would attract everyone, He was the friendliest, most loving dog ever. He catches the eye of a young man about my age, he stops to pet him. I have my head mostly down due to the chill. I pick it up and make eye contact with the man petting and loving on my dog. It's Turtle. My heart stops in my chest. He smiles at me, tells me how cute my dog is, gives him one last pet and goes on his way. Instantly, I am 14 again. I am frozen. I watch him walk away in shock then scramble for my cell phone. But, who do I call? What do I say? Should I call 911 and have him arrested?? That's what I want to do. But, of course, I don't. By this time I've shared it with a select few people, my boyfriend at the time was one of them. I call him. When he answers, I don't even know what to say or how to say it. So I just do. I am now leaning on the nearest car, cell phone in hand, jaw still dropped. I tell my boyfriend I just saw the boy who raped me. I think I expected some kind of knight in shining armor response. I don't get it. I get barely a reaction at all. Leaving me alone to deal with these confusing feelings, again.
In the months after running into him it's all brought back to me. What I start to think about most is how I reacted after the incident. How I created this fantasy tale of a perfect "First Time". This tale I created troubled me just as much as the act itself. I needed to figure out why I did that. I had been walking around with this lie for too long, I needed to process. I talked it through with my Aunt and she made me realize that it was a defense mechanism. I was just unable to emotionally deal with the reality of the situation. This is when I start the true healing and forgiveness process. I begin to accept my reaction and understand that I did the only thing I knew how to do, I needed to process this and let it go. When I was done with that, I moved on to him. I spent a decade making excuses in my head for him.
"I didn't make myself clear enough"
"I should never have gone to his house."
"I shouldn't have gone in his room."
"I should have hit him harder"
"I should have screamed louder"
"He's just a guy".
"I led him on."
Enough is enough. I did not ask for this. I begged him to stop. I punched and hit him. These were clear signs that I did NOT want it. But, what now? It's ten years later - - what now? Now, I move on. It's almost like running into him forced me to face this, to release it and find my peace.
Now that I am a grown woman, a wife, and most importantly, a Mother, my perspective shifts. I think about my son. I need to teach him to NEVER ever ...I can't even allow myself to think it. I will teach him respect. I will teach him love. As a Mother, I can't help but think of how Turtle's Mother reacted to this scenario. I cannot imagine speaking such words to a young girl. This is when I realize that my son could never be like him. He has me.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Chapter 3
I am going to be honest here and admit that this will probably be one of the most difficult to write of all 18 Chapters. I have known what the subject would be since the end of Chapter 2 and have been sort of shrinking away from writing it. Makes sense, when the subject matter itself had me locked up in a prison inside my mind for almost 20 years. Let's start with a little story about me learning how to ride a bike....
It's September 1989 in Woodhaven, Queens, NY. At the time, I am 13 years old, a bit OLD for just learning how to ride a bike, now that I think of it. Across the street from the apartment complex where I grew up is my elementary school, PS 60. It's a 3 story building, I believe. There is a huge concrete slab....area....space? where we would be let out for recess after lunch
.
There was a playground on the property, but during school hours it was closed off to the kids. There was a towering wire gate that separated the concrete play area from the playground, along which were 3 basketball hoops. Big whoop for a little girl. I remember there were benches under some trees in one corner that were shady where all the "cool kids" hung out at recess. A few feet away was always a chalked in hopscotch board that the "cool kids" would play. I was never one of them. I was always trying to blend in somewhere and hide. That rarely worked. It was usually quite the opposite, I was commonly found being singled out and picked on by groups of kids. I distinctly remember a group of boys, some of them younger than me, who would be at the basketball courts, and would just WAIT for me to come into ear shot so they could take turns pointing out all the stains on my clothes. Picking on me was so easy, I would just take it. Stand there and take it. Never once do I remember ever standing up for myself, rather I would absorb every single mean word. I never hated these kids, I never even disliked them, I simply just wanted to be left alone, to hide somewhere and never be looked at again. I was so painfully shy, and I am not really sure why. I could venture to guess that the situation I was in at home had something to do with it, but I am no therapist, so I have no clue why. On weekends and evenings that huge concrete area was opened to the public. It was commonly used as a cut through from 88th to 89th Avenue. There would ALWAYS be numerous basketball games being played and lots of kids roller skating, riding bikes or just running around. This is the place that I learned how to ride a bike. I am quite certain it was not my bike, although I could be wrong. I was in the park with a good friend of mine and maybe a few others. This friend was someone who also lived in "the buildings", she was a year or so older than me and was someone I just adored. I assume she decided on this day that it was high time her friend could ride a bike with her throughout the neighborhood. I am going to guess the date, it was either the 29th or 30th of September, I will never forget... I was riding a bike for the first time ever, feeling the cool wind in my hair, I turned around to look for my friend, who I thought was still holding on the to banana seat, she was not there. I WAS RIDING A BIKE. I could see her standing way back near the entrance to the playground with at least one other person, but I cannot remember who that person was. I only remember riding back to my friend, on cloud nine, feeling elated and so proud of myself and the first words out of their mouths are "I am so sorry about your father, Robin" to which I reply "what? why"? ~~~ brief silence ~~ "he died, my mom just told me" Every single time I think about this day I am filled with questions. How can THIS be the way I find out my Daddy died? How do THEY know before me!? How dare they know this!? Why am I at the park riding a bike when obviously someone knew this had happened?! I didn't find out til later that my Mom was absolutely destroyed by this and she just did not know how to tell me. She had been speaking to another Mom from the buildings, and somehow the word just spread like wild fire. I suppose now would be a good time to rewind a bit and tell you about the events leading up to this. This is one of the most painful stories I will ever tell. I spent nearly 20 years after hearing those words "he died.." blaming myself for his death. In my mind, all of the events leading up to that moment were directly caused by me. . . .
It was a cool September night 1989, way past my bed time, but yet there I was in the courtyard of the apartment building playing. I wish I could remember WHAT I was doing specifically, aside from avoiding my apartment at all costs. I was probably playing house within the roots of that tremendous tree in the corner, maybe pretending to be a mama who was putting her babies to sleep, where I should have been. I knew I had no business being out so late. Whatever I was doing, I remember one thing clearly: I had to pee, and I had to pee BAD. At the time my Mom was not home, I don't know where she was, We had a woman staying with us, in my parents room, I cannot remember her name, but she had been staying there for a while. My mom made a habit of taking in strays. This was actually one of her most endearing qualities, her ability and desire to help any and everyone. It didn't matter that she didn't have anything to offer, to her, the roof over her head counted for something, and she was always willing to help a friend in need. All of the people she helped throughout the years were also drug addicts like her, so, that doesn't make for the safest environment for 3 little kids, but when they were there, they were like family. We were all hungry together. Luckily for us, nothing seriously bad ever happened, I like to think that my mom was a pretty good judge of character, even when high. So, here I am, playing in the courtyard, late at night, and I have to pee. I go to the buzzer, find E11 and ring our secret family buzz. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum....Dum...Dum. Nothing, no answer. I ring several more times, my bladder getting heavier by the minute. No answer. RIIIIIIIIIIING - RIIIIIIIINNNGGG - RIIIIIIIIING. No answer. OK, now this is serious, I am about to pee my pants. I run over to my parents bedroom window and start throwing rocks at it "Cmon, let me in! I have to pee"!! Nothing. FINALLY, what feels like years later, my moms friend who was staying with us peeks out the window and sees me. I am pretty sure at this point I was not exactly nice to her. WHY hasn't she let me in? Is she DEAF? Can't ANYONE hear the damned bell ringing!?? I get the buzz in, I run inside the building and open my apartment door and what I see has me completely forgetting that I ever had to pee to begin with. My Dad is laying at the end of the hallway, which is almost the entire length of the apartment, at the place where the doors to the kitchen, living room and my bedroom meet. In that fairly small space is a dresser. Why there is a dresser in this random place, who knows, but there it had been for as long as I can remember. At the base of the dresser is where my Dad lay. I walk in towards him and when I get close I see that his leg is broken. No, it's not really broken, It's completely bent up and backwards, so that his knee is facing the wrong way and his foot is at his head. There is no blood, No tear to the skin. It was like he was made of bendable rubber, like those posable Easter Bunnies. This is an image that will live in my brain til the day I die. This is the precise moment when I heard that inner voice for the very first time "you did this. If you hadn't been ringing the bell like a maniac, he wouldn't have fallen. If YOU hadn't had to pee, none of this would've happened. If you, if you, if you...." This moment, and this night would haunt me for decades. It still haunts me, even now, as a reasonable adult who has been through therapy to work through it, it still haunts me.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what happened next. The next thing I remember happening happened DAYS later, For many, many years, until I was an adult, I would have sworn that my next memory happened immediately after me finding him, but I was wrong. My Dad had survived that fall. The last time I ever saw my dad was from across the courtyard, looking through the window of a neighbors apartment where my Mom dropped us off before an ambulance came to pick up my Dad. I remember looking through the window and seeing him in a wheel chair being wheeled through the courtyard to an awaiting ambulance at the street. That was the last time I ever saw him. This was days after the fall, he had been admitted to the hospital to be treated for the broken leg. My Mom spend most of her time at the hospital, where he stayed for a couple days. She would come back to the apartment for stuff and ask me to come back with her. I always said no. I can't remember why I didn't want to but I can guess it was because of the guilt I felt. Why would he want to see ME, I'm the one who put him there. It was one of these days that my Dad was at the hospital that I was learning how to ride a bike in the park at PS 60.
Again, I lose days. All I remember after hearing this news is the pain and anguish my Mom was going through in every minute of the day and every detail of planning a wake and a funeral. Of course, we couldn't afford any of this. So, my Dad's parents took over the arrangements, leaving my Mom with the mundane task of what should she wear. I remember this being a very big issue. She was absolutely distraught over what she was going to wear. The Mom of my friend who taught me how to ride a bike ended up lending her a black one piece pants suit. It's funny the things you remember in times of grief. That jumpsuit with my mom so awkwardly in it is so clear to me, Being that my Grandparents took care of the arrangements, they also provide us with a limo. I am pretty sure I was in some serious denial that day, I was completely numb to the fact that this limo was taking us to my dad's wake. My best friend, Marie and I were so excited to be in a limo. We were playing around, pretending to be celebrities, all while being driven to the funeral home. I wish I could just shake my 13 year old self and say "get it together!! Don't you know where you are going?! Wake up! You're being disrespectful" But, I know that I was just coping the only way I knew how...hide from it and pretend it didn't happen. The next thing I remember is walking into the funeral home, kinda giggly and awkward and walking into the room where my Dad was layed out. The earth stopped moving. Everything stopped. Nobody else existed in that second but the body of my Dad laying in a coffin at the front of the room. Welcome to reality, Robin.
Another flash memory: Standing at the grave site on the day of the funeral with my Mom. Her arms are around my shoulders and she is holding me close. This is the first time I remember her talking about her father, she tells me she too was 13 when her "Daddy" died, that she knows what that feels like. She's telling me that I will always be Daddy's little girl. No matter what, no matter where he is, or where I am or how old I am, I will ALWAYS be Daddy's little girl. This is the first time I cried about losing my father. Not only did I cry, I was hysterical, uncontrollable in my Mama's arms.
What I wouldn't give at this very moment, right now to have her loving arms around my shoulder the way she did that day. I think somehow she knew that I was blaming myself, even though I never spoke a word of it to anyone. I think that is why she was trying so hard to make me visit him in the hospital.
The days, weeks, months after that day took such a terrible toll on my Mom. She was absolutely heart broken. I would find her on the floor in rooms all over the house, in a ball, sobbing and crying out for her "Bobby" to come back. For me personally, I don't even remember. I can't remember how I felt, I think I retreated back into that safe hideout in my head. Hide from it and it doesn't exist.
It wasn't until many, many years later that I began questioning how my dad died. As a child, I guess a broken leg can seem like a reasonable reason, but as an adult, not so much. As horrific as that break looked, how did that cause his death. Well, by the time I started asking questions, it had been so many years and the story kind of got lost and fragmented. What my Mom told me is that he was admitted for the break in his leg, and was administered a blood transfusion. According to my Mom, there was another patient in the same hospital with almost the exact same name, but the first and middle name transposed, and that my Dad was given the wrong blood, causing a hemorrhage in his brain. By the time I was given this information, it was almost a decade later, and I just didn't know how to process it. I asked my Mom if she ever saw a lawyer, and she said she did, but the thought of my Mom working with a lawyer was almost laughable. Besides, I just didn't know what to believe. The autopsy, which my mom ordered copies of after, showed the hemorrhage, but made no mention of the blood mix up. It did however show that he had pretty late stage lung cancer. Is that any kind of condolence? No. My Dad had been walking with a limp and a cane for a few days or weeks prior to him breaking his leg. Maybe the cancer had some hand in that? Maybe it was the drugs abuse. I will never know, nor does it really all matter now.
I've worked all the feelings of guilt that surrounded my Dad's death out in therapy a few years back. I know that I was not to blame for his death. I understand that. Truly, I do. Yet, I will always get a little ping in my heart, lungs and belly when I talk about it. The remnants of a deep, dark, grotesque wound, now but a tiny scar.
My Dad was 40 when he died. Actually, he was barely 40. He turned 40 on September 15th, 1989 and died exactly two weeks after that on September 29th. I originally planned on writing this in September 2014, less than 18 months before my 40th birthday. I cannot believe how strange that feels. When I talk about my Dad I will always be 13 years old.
It's September 1989 in Woodhaven, Queens, NY. At the time, I am 13 years old, a bit OLD for just learning how to ride a bike, now that I think of it. Across the street from the apartment complex where I grew up is my elementary school, PS 60. It's a 3 story building, I believe. There is a huge concrete slab....area....space? where we would be let out for recess after lunch
.
There was a playground on the property, but during school hours it was closed off to the kids. There was a towering wire gate that separated the concrete play area from the playground, along which were 3 basketball hoops. Big whoop for a little girl. I remember there were benches under some trees in one corner that were shady where all the "cool kids" hung out at recess. A few feet away was always a chalked in hopscotch board that the "cool kids" would play. I was never one of them. I was always trying to blend in somewhere and hide. That rarely worked. It was usually quite the opposite, I was commonly found being singled out and picked on by groups of kids. I distinctly remember a group of boys, some of them younger than me, who would be at the basketball courts, and would just WAIT for me to come into ear shot so they could take turns pointing out all the stains on my clothes. Picking on me was so easy, I would just take it. Stand there and take it. Never once do I remember ever standing up for myself, rather I would absorb every single mean word. I never hated these kids, I never even disliked them, I simply just wanted to be left alone, to hide somewhere and never be looked at again. I was so painfully shy, and I am not really sure why. I could venture to guess that the situation I was in at home had something to do with it, but I am no therapist, so I have no clue why. On weekends and evenings that huge concrete area was opened to the public. It was commonly used as a cut through from 88th to 89th Avenue. There would ALWAYS be numerous basketball games being played and lots of kids roller skating, riding bikes or just running around. This is the place that I learned how to ride a bike. I am quite certain it was not my bike, although I could be wrong. I was in the park with a good friend of mine and maybe a few others. This friend was someone who also lived in "the buildings", she was a year or so older than me and was someone I just adored. I assume she decided on this day that it was high time her friend could ride a bike with her throughout the neighborhood. I am going to guess the date, it was either the 29th or 30th of September, I will never forget... I was riding a bike for the first time ever, feeling the cool wind in my hair, I turned around to look for my friend, who I thought was still holding on the to banana seat, she was not there. I WAS RIDING A BIKE. I could see her standing way back near the entrance to the playground with at least one other person, but I cannot remember who that person was. I only remember riding back to my friend, on cloud nine, feeling elated and so proud of myself and the first words out of their mouths are "I am so sorry about your father, Robin" to which I reply "what? why"? ~~~ brief silence ~~ "he died, my mom just told me" Every single time I think about this day I am filled with questions. How can THIS be the way I find out my Daddy died? How do THEY know before me!? How dare they know this!? Why am I at the park riding a bike when obviously someone knew this had happened?! I didn't find out til later that my Mom was absolutely destroyed by this and she just did not know how to tell me. She had been speaking to another Mom from the buildings, and somehow the word just spread like wild fire. I suppose now would be a good time to rewind a bit and tell you about the events leading up to this. This is one of the most painful stories I will ever tell. I spent nearly 20 years after hearing those words "he died.." blaming myself for his death. In my mind, all of the events leading up to that moment were directly caused by me. . . .
It was a cool September night 1989, way past my bed time, but yet there I was in the courtyard of the apartment building playing. I wish I could remember WHAT I was doing specifically, aside from avoiding my apartment at all costs. I was probably playing house within the roots of that tremendous tree in the corner, maybe pretending to be a mama who was putting her babies to sleep, where I should have been. I knew I had no business being out so late. Whatever I was doing, I remember one thing clearly: I had to pee, and I had to pee BAD. At the time my Mom was not home, I don't know where she was, We had a woman staying with us, in my parents room, I cannot remember her name, but she had been staying there for a while. My mom made a habit of taking in strays. This was actually one of her most endearing qualities, her ability and desire to help any and everyone. It didn't matter that she didn't have anything to offer, to her, the roof over her head counted for something, and she was always willing to help a friend in need. All of the people she helped throughout the years were also drug addicts like her, so, that doesn't make for the safest environment for 3 little kids, but when they were there, they were like family. We were all hungry together. Luckily for us, nothing seriously bad ever happened, I like to think that my mom was a pretty good judge of character, even when high. So, here I am, playing in the courtyard, late at night, and I have to pee. I go to the buzzer, find E11 and ring our secret family buzz. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum....Dum...Dum. Nothing, no answer. I ring several more times, my bladder getting heavier by the minute. No answer. RIIIIIIIIIIING - RIIIIIIIINNNGGG - RIIIIIIIIING. No answer. OK, now this is serious, I am about to pee my pants. I run over to my parents bedroom window and start throwing rocks at it "Cmon, let me in! I have to pee"!! Nothing. FINALLY, what feels like years later, my moms friend who was staying with us peeks out the window and sees me. I am pretty sure at this point I was not exactly nice to her. WHY hasn't she let me in? Is she DEAF? Can't ANYONE hear the damned bell ringing!?? I get the buzz in, I run inside the building and open my apartment door and what I see has me completely forgetting that I ever had to pee to begin with. My Dad is laying at the end of the hallway, which is almost the entire length of the apartment, at the place where the doors to the kitchen, living room and my bedroom meet. In that fairly small space is a dresser. Why there is a dresser in this random place, who knows, but there it had been for as long as I can remember. At the base of the dresser is where my Dad lay. I walk in towards him and when I get close I see that his leg is broken. No, it's not really broken, It's completely bent up and backwards, so that his knee is facing the wrong way and his foot is at his head. There is no blood, No tear to the skin. It was like he was made of bendable rubber, like those posable Easter Bunnies. This is an image that will live in my brain til the day I die. This is the precise moment when I heard that inner voice for the very first time "you did this. If you hadn't been ringing the bell like a maniac, he wouldn't have fallen. If YOU hadn't had to pee, none of this would've happened. If you, if you, if you...." This moment, and this night would haunt me for decades. It still haunts me, even now, as a reasonable adult who has been through therapy to work through it, it still haunts me.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what happened next. The next thing I remember happening happened DAYS later, For many, many years, until I was an adult, I would have sworn that my next memory happened immediately after me finding him, but I was wrong. My Dad had survived that fall. The last time I ever saw my dad was from across the courtyard, looking through the window of a neighbors apartment where my Mom dropped us off before an ambulance came to pick up my Dad. I remember looking through the window and seeing him in a wheel chair being wheeled through the courtyard to an awaiting ambulance at the street. That was the last time I ever saw him. This was days after the fall, he had been admitted to the hospital to be treated for the broken leg. My Mom spend most of her time at the hospital, where he stayed for a couple days. She would come back to the apartment for stuff and ask me to come back with her. I always said no. I can't remember why I didn't want to but I can guess it was because of the guilt I felt. Why would he want to see ME, I'm the one who put him there. It was one of these days that my Dad was at the hospital that I was learning how to ride a bike in the park at PS 60.
Again, I lose days. All I remember after hearing this news is the pain and anguish my Mom was going through in every minute of the day and every detail of planning a wake and a funeral. Of course, we couldn't afford any of this. So, my Dad's parents took over the arrangements, leaving my Mom with the mundane task of what should she wear. I remember this being a very big issue. She was absolutely distraught over what she was going to wear. The Mom of my friend who taught me how to ride a bike ended up lending her a black one piece pants suit. It's funny the things you remember in times of grief. That jumpsuit with my mom so awkwardly in it is so clear to me, Being that my Grandparents took care of the arrangements, they also provide us with a limo. I am pretty sure I was in some serious denial that day, I was completely numb to the fact that this limo was taking us to my dad's wake. My best friend, Marie and I were so excited to be in a limo. We were playing around, pretending to be celebrities, all while being driven to the funeral home. I wish I could just shake my 13 year old self and say "get it together!! Don't you know where you are going?! Wake up! You're being disrespectful" But, I know that I was just coping the only way I knew how...hide from it and pretend it didn't happen. The next thing I remember is walking into the funeral home, kinda giggly and awkward and walking into the room where my Dad was layed out. The earth stopped moving. Everything stopped. Nobody else existed in that second but the body of my Dad laying in a coffin at the front of the room. Welcome to reality, Robin.
Another flash memory: Standing at the grave site on the day of the funeral with my Mom. Her arms are around my shoulders and she is holding me close. This is the first time I remember her talking about her father, she tells me she too was 13 when her "Daddy" died, that she knows what that feels like. She's telling me that I will always be Daddy's little girl. No matter what, no matter where he is, or where I am or how old I am, I will ALWAYS be Daddy's little girl. This is the first time I cried about losing my father. Not only did I cry, I was hysterical, uncontrollable in my Mama's arms.
What I wouldn't give at this very moment, right now to have her loving arms around my shoulder the way she did that day. I think somehow she knew that I was blaming myself, even though I never spoke a word of it to anyone. I think that is why she was trying so hard to make me visit him in the hospital.
The days, weeks, months after that day took such a terrible toll on my Mom. She was absolutely heart broken. I would find her on the floor in rooms all over the house, in a ball, sobbing and crying out for her "Bobby" to come back. For me personally, I don't even remember. I can't remember how I felt, I think I retreated back into that safe hideout in my head. Hide from it and it doesn't exist.
It wasn't until many, many years later that I began questioning how my dad died. As a child, I guess a broken leg can seem like a reasonable reason, but as an adult, not so much. As horrific as that break looked, how did that cause his death. Well, by the time I started asking questions, it had been so many years and the story kind of got lost and fragmented. What my Mom told me is that he was admitted for the break in his leg, and was administered a blood transfusion. According to my Mom, there was another patient in the same hospital with almost the exact same name, but the first and middle name transposed, and that my Dad was given the wrong blood, causing a hemorrhage in his brain. By the time I was given this information, it was almost a decade later, and I just didn't know how to process it. I asked my Mom if she ever saw a lawyer, and she said she did, but the thought of my Mom working with a lawyer was almost laughable. Besides, I just didn't know what to believe. The autopsy, which my mom ordered copies of after, showed the hemorrhage, but made no mention of the blood mix up. It did however show that he had pretty late stage lung cancer. Is that any kind of condolence? No. My Dad had been walking with a limp and a cane for a few days or weeks prior to him breaking his leg. Maybe the cancer had some hand in that? Maybe it was the drugs abuse. I will never know, nor does it really all matter now.
I've worked all the feelings of guilt that surrounded my Dad's death out in therapy a few years back. I know that I was not to blame for his death. I understand that. Truly, I do. Yet, I will always get a little ping in my heart, lungs and belly when I talk about it. The remnants of a deep, dark, grotesque wound, now but a tiny scar.
My Dad was 40 when he died. Actually, he was barely 40. He turned 40 on September 15th, 1989 and died exactly two weeks after that on September 29th. I originally planned on writing this in September 2014, less than 18 months before my 40th birthday. I cannot believe how strange that feels. When I talk about my Dad I will always be 13 years old.
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