A Memoir: First Grade

When I was in first grade, my school would still have the girls clothing rule of dresses and skirts only until the first frost, and they could be no shorter than two inches above the knee. We would still be attending Mass every morning before school, and all the school children were required to sing during every funeral.

My best friend was Dawn, the only African American girl in school at the time. She lived with her grandparents, and her twin sister had died when they were babies. I remember thinking that her life must be very hard, not living with her mom and having no brothers or sisters.

Before lunch, we recited the Angelus with my class, as we heard it prayed over the PA system in our classrooms. I remember round doughy pizza and chocolate milk at lunchtime. I remember playing "kiss tag" outside at recess, I remember getting all tangled up during "Rattlesnake", and being hit hard during dodgeball if Tim V. was the one with the ball.

Mrs. Dolan read aloud to us from the front of the classroom about a little girl who was a saint. She had beautiful golden hair, and watched over the animals. I remember thinking it was so sad that she was a little girl who lived in heaven, and that no one else thought that when I talked about it.

One morning we were called back to reading group, and it took me too long to put my books and papers in my desk. I was always in the first or second row, and when I made my way to the back of the room that day, all the carpet space was taken. I was confused and embarrassed when I realized was going to have to sit on the cold floor in my dress. Without being prompted by the teacher, Steve E. turned to me, and offered to give me his space on the carpet. Even as a five year old, I realized this was a very special favor. I remember feeling very grateful, like I had been saved from judgment and scorn by others. I also felt important, that this boy would give up his spot for me.

I remember crowded coatrooms, clapping erasers, and walking down Spruce to 12th Street with the 8th grade patrol guards. I remember having a crush on Bill V. with his dark hair and blue eyes, and making excuses to walk next to him when he did patrol. One day, my babysitter, Donna, told me that Bill was in her class and that he thought I had a crush on him. I remember denying it when he asked me about it, and deciding to not ever walk with him again. He would taunt me and try to coerce me into walking with him, and I never gave in, because I was ashamed that he knew that I liked him.

After that, I remembering picking violets on the way home sometimes and bringing them to Rob P., the boy who lived up the street from me. He always said thank you, and never made me feel silly for bringing them. I remember he liked the ones that were white with purple in the center the best. Just like me.

Hope Forgotten

I am without hope

weary under the constant oppression
of failure

there is no apology
that could be sufficient

I have finally gone too far

I can't make reparation
there can be no atonement

night brings no rest

my mind fills
with constant reminders of my guilt
until exhaustion takes over

screaming into the void
my cries have gone unanswered

silence

I am not worth saving


------

You are not forgotten

I have heard your cries
My silence does not mean I have abandoned you

I knew your sin before it happened
The penalty was paid before you existed

Rest.

You are not justified by observing the law
but by faith in Christ.

I will never walk away
and you are never out of my reach
You cannot go too far

There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ

Please lay your burden down

You are engraved on the palms of my hands
I will never take my love away from you

Put your hope in me


written March 7, 2010


linking up with mamakat's prompt to write a poem about hope.

Sing To Me

I used to think that maybe you loved me

It was the best time I can remember

I could reach you no matter how far

There was a silent pact of trust

I never could admit

Do you remember what happened here?

It was the purest moment

The first time I ever felt connected to anything

We have been too far now

To bend the truth

I've waited here for you

Your words in my memory

Are like music to me

You're the only way to me

You reach in and touch my soul

Deep inside, I love you best

The way you wanted it to be

Put faith in what you believe in

Even if you cannot hear my voice

Close your eyes and sing to me

I love you like the million times

I’ve spoken your name

Love me like the laughter

And the kissed back tears

I don't want to run

Promise not to stop when I say when

Just overwhelm me

One of this week's prompts was "A Story Of Love". This story is composed of lyrics from Coldplay, Tired Pony, Katrina and the Waves, Phil Collins, GNR, Foo Fighters, and Snow Patrol

Withheld

I can feel the emotions churning inside

the maelstrom building,

the rapid cycling

disorganized

still distant

but their crushing impact is inevitabe

I'm still calm

my equilibrium undisturbed

...for the moment

reaching out

like I know I should,

I can speak evenly about

my strength and determination

and resiliency

while I am ripping apart inside

I cannot lay my burden aside

ever

I cannot collapse in to the emotions

that encouraging words elicit inside me

I can't let anyone see how it really is

I cannot be

vulnerable

but the lump in my throat

the pressure behind my eyes

the heaviness in my chest

they all attest to the approaching deluge

I dread that

once I am

finally

alone

I will be found

silently screaming

completely submerged

drowning in emotions

too powerful to contend with

tears will pour forth

and I will

surrender to the pain

...longing for comfort

yet only able to

imagine it

It Depends On The Day

This week we were asked to write a piece about something ugly - and finding the beauty in it.

On a Bad Day

When I look in the mirror

I see

ugly

I see hair that should not be so grey

that easily adds ten years

to my age

I see a face that reveals

years of endurance and pain

dark circles from insomnia

and being up with children

night after night after night

I see a body

that by any Western standard

is ugly

That looks every bit

as if it has carried and birthed

four children

and reveals that I do not take

care of myself

I see eyes that disclose

obvious emotional pain

I see fear in them,

and self hatred

Behind the eyes, the ugly continues:

My life is a disaster.

I can't provide for my kids on my own

My ex still controls so much of my life

Who is ever going to want to be with me

Especially when I look like this

I am an emotional wreck

On A Good Day

When I look in the mirror

I see

beautiful

I see rich, dark brown hair

with copper highlights

that remind me of my father's beard

that he wore when I was a little girl

I see a face that

is fair and unscarred

years of protecting it from the sun

and taking care of it morning and evening

reveal more girlish freckles than wrinkles

I see a body

that is healthy and strong

and always has been.

That while it fights

age, gravity, and the tendency to

hold on to baby weight,

has never experienced chronic pain

or battled with disease.

It has carried, birthed, and nurtured

four children

Leaving in its wake

extra skin and stretch marks

that many women

who long for a child

would take joy in possessing

I see eyes that

are kind

and have a beautiful dark green ring

I see in them genuine concern for others

and the perspective and compassion

that comes from experience

Behind the eyes, I hear affirmation:

My life is a series of experiences

that make me strong

I have extra time with my children right now

I give them affection, validation, and encouragement

In the present trial, am learning to be assertive and emotionally healthy

One day I will be unconditionally loved and supported

Accepted for my physical imperfections

And because of

not in spite of

the beauty that comes from brokenness

--------------

This way this post is written is inspired by a post from jurgen_nation that continues to rattle around in my head, weeks later. When her site comes up off maintenance, I will link it. The content of the post is inspired by my friend GalitBreen and her #trdc post Ugly Beauty as well as some reflecting and writing I did yesterday on the subject of Self Hatred and Depression posted on my personal blog.

Wait (1988)

After picking my son up from preschool the other day, the local top 40 radio station was playing 80's music during the lunch hour.

One of my favorite songs from high school came on, and for a few minutes, I was in stonewashed, rolled and pegged jeans, in the middle of Aladdin's Castle.

Friday night during my sophomore year would have found me at the mall with my two best friends, Kristin and Susan. I'm sure we were giving a running commentary about the cute guys from school as they walked past us. Loud, animated conversation, throwing around movie quotes, and obsessing over our current crushes. Feigned indignation at being accused of liking one of the guys we saw, maybe some mimicked swooning, and then exploding into uncontrollable laughter.

One of our usual haunts on a Friday night would be the arcade, Aladdin's Castle. Crammed closely together, loud arena rock and top 40 heavy metal playing, watching the guys compete against each other. Getting the chance to inhale their masculine scents, maybe mixed with Polo, Chaps, or Drakkar Noir. Brushing up against them in their Chess King buttondown shirts and tight jeans. Trying to catch their eye or offer praise when their efforts paid off in the game. Sending knowing glances back and forth when we got noticed by the guys we liked.

There was a jukebox with a video screen at Aladdin's for a while, and the clearest memory I have of being there was one night when White Lion's "Wait" came on. Frozen in time, I can picture the scene. The crowded corner by the front window, the hormones rushing through my system, being so close to the possibility of having a boyfriend. Hearing the words to that song; a guy in love, pleading for another chance to get it right. Hoping that one day, someone would feel that way about me.

No. More.

Walking away from the apartment on Oak Street, I inhale sharply, and the crisp early morning air fills my lungs. Everything about being in there makes me hate myself.

Stepping away from the familiar stench of cigarettes and single bachelor living, I know this has to be the last time.

I am weary of being bound to him. I am tired of feeling like his prostitute.

I get into my car and slam the door. I grab the steering wheel and say out loud, "That's it. I'm finished. He takes too much from me."

Inside, what resonates is: "He owns too much of your soul".

Filled with disgust, I throw the car into gear and stomp on the gas. I glare out the windshield as I drive down 9th Street, wrenching the steering wheel hard to the right and squealing around the corner.

"How am I ever going to get away from here if I don't take back my self worth?" I say to myself.

I pass the hospital, and look back at his apartment one last time. A shudder jolts me.

No more. No matter what.

Turning north onto 12th Street, I mentally test the waters of my newly claimed independence.

I'm really going to get off this Tilt-A Whirl. No more mind control. No more guilt chaining me to him. No more shame about my body. I'm done.

The doubt starts creeping in before I even hit Chestnut. Wow, four whole blocks of optimism.

Inside, I hear "This is not going to be easy. Is it worth it? You've tried to leave before, and you couldn't do it. Why is it different this time?"

My mind starts to spin, and I panic.. "What if he...?", "How will I...?" "Who will ever want to..?"

I don't know.

I don't know how. I don't know what will make it different. But it has to be different from now on. This is where it stops.

I slam my head into the headrest, eyes narrowed, angry at myself. At him. At how sick this relationship has become.

All of a sudden, there is peace. The realization that I just made a decision. It's really going to stop. Right now. And I'm going to make it stop. I think this feeling is called determination. It's new.

I tell myself, it's okay that I don't know the answers. I am okay with not knowing how I'm going to get through this. I don't know where I will find the courage to stand and defend myself if I have to. God, I don't even know who I am, apart from him.

But what I do know? I'm not ever going to come again when he calls.