Friendship (2)

A stroke of luck makes the empty space shine brighter. 


                   I remember how when I wrote this I purposefully did not say good or bad, though at the time I was referring to good luck.  The whole point of it was that in any case, the movement, the presence of positive energy will reveal hidden secrets in the empty space around it-if you know how to look.  


                    I can't imagine what must be going through miss A.C's heart for her to hurt someone she has loved and trusted and been loved by for so many years.  After the news about her father, she felt she had to spend Christmas with the family she stayed with, but the next day she came out to my house and lay in my bed while my mother an I cooked quietly in the kitchen.  When she came out to eat, she knew she didn't have to put on a good face, or say much of anything at all; she knew she was safe.  


                   And now, with her absence in my life, there is a pain in my heart made of wondering if anyone I ever get close to will eventually run away from me.  She is not the only one, this is true.  


                   It's funny how, in order to be a better, healthier person, so much of my adult life has been dedicated to healing old wounds, some are apparent, but many are like this pain, just raw tragic questioning.  What am I worth?  On the one hand I have an organization that is willing to put thousands of dollars behind my predicted contribution as an employee, on the other I have a friend who has been longing to be rid of me.  One stroke of good luck and one stroke of bad; Where should I look? Which part has the message of value that I should hold on to?  It is possible it is somehow the same message?  


                   The empty space shines brighter.....but what does it say? Am I safe?



            

Friendship (1)

               A stroke of luck makes the empty space shine brighter.  


             This was my last facebook status update, after finishing the novel, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan (just saw on IMBD that the movie came out last year), a story about a the life-long friendship between two women in an ancient Chinese province.  I was surprised by how many people liked my update, since it seemed like a very obscure statement to make.  


[an aside:] One chic, who I barely knew a million years ago, stole my line and put it as her status update (instead of sharing mine so I get credit).  I was a bit perturbed by how many more likes she got, but decided against de-friending her for it.  In the interest of friendship (see huge fascinating post below).

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              The friendship in the book carries out mostly through Nu Shu, a women's secret writing written on fans or embroidered on handkerchiefs, shoes for bound feet, etc.
       
               It left my me thinking about the power of a single stroke of paint, which led me to remember the modern dance class exercises where you play with negative and positive space; the stroke of paint would be a persons body, say a hand curved down like an elephants nose.  In dance you are encouraged to put just as much value on the negative space, the space around the body, the air within the curve; you are encouraged to see the shapes being communicated within the negative space, within the absence.  

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               It is funny my first thought was of dance, because this play between negative and positive space is most concretely and recognizably demonstrated by those illusion art pieces we've all seen a million times (all? ha!). 


               But the reason why dance would come to mind lies within the story. Though Nu Shu is a tangible art form, the communication that it represented was very much a constantly flowing, secret and unique relationship between the two women. The women became friends as girls in a contract that established a life-long bond between them before they had even known each other.  This was a normal cultural practice at the time.  They were old sames, matched through astrology and chance; committed for life.  Their friendship was a dance that could never be replicated. 


               My facebook status was referring to my anxiety over recent, positive events in my life.  I have landed a job that is beyond anything I've ever had or could have hoped for and will relieve all pressures for me to pay for school for my daughter.  The play went amazingly well and I was truly shocked by the sincere compliments I received by strangers and others in the cast on my acting ability (hahaha!) We have found a place which is within spitting distance of my new job and will make our lives wonderfully easy as far as convenience.  All of this happened within a few days and all I could think about was what was missing.  A stroke of luck makes the empty space shine brighter.


              My acute and chronic sense of worthlessness did not enjoy the positive attention the universe was giving me.  I wanted to feel bad about myself again; I wanted to feel safe. So my mind strove to think of all the things I still wanted or all the things that could still go wrong.  


              It does not surprise me that a week after all this happened, last weekend to be exact, I went out with some cast members for a big night of fun and got too drunk and threw up, and kind of alienated them as I was very much that girl.  I wouldn't give a shit if any of them acted that way, because whatever, shit happens, but these are fairly judgmental people- which is good in this case; I wanted to be judged.  


              On Friday night, I read that Jennifer Love Hewitt's mother had passed away and that they were very, very close and still living together.  I had a very emotional reaction to this as I thought about how I would handle the sudden passing of my mother. What if? What if? What if?  (it isn't that I am pessimistic normally, it is just that all this positive space, all these new strokes in my face have me scrambling) What if? What if? What if?  


              The next morning I received a short email about one of my closest friends in the states.  I had no idea that anything untoward was going on in her life, as facebook had not told me so.  Her mother had cancer, it was fast and hard, chemotherapy hadn't worked, she had a few days to a week left.  What would it be like to have to write that in a message to someone? How do you do that? Since the day I met her I've known my friend as a cool glass of pink lemonade.  She lives a wonderfully, happy, carefree life in which she is a happy, little dancer, dancing to a beat of her own and giving you no choice but to join in.  Her family is so ideal it is remarkable; as in, they are not remarkable or heroic or astounding anymore than anyone else, but they have lived an ideal, functional, happy life, and raised wonderfully happy children, and that is fucking remarkable.  And now her mother is gone and she is not even 26 yet.  I knew her mom, not well, but well enough to think highly of her.  I was very shaken by the news.  


                The last time a friend lost a loved one, it was two days before Christmas when we found out.  We met in Grand Central Station, in the late afternoon.  I had just come from my first one-night stand (only?), and we were meeting to do some last minute shopping.  It was she and I, and another friend who had originally introduced us but then turned into a super-bitch.  We sat on the floor of Grand Central while crowds rushed by us in winter coats and holiday frenzy.  Grand Central has this very cool light show and orchestra and such during the Christmas time that is actually quite magical and sincerely festive.  I was a little spaced out from my oddly enjoyable, unexpected night and the fact that I was rushing home in the evening to expect my mother who was arriving from Uganda.  


                A.C's father had had a misdiagnosed cancer that had taken some six months to wear him down.  A.C said that her mother had tried to call her several times but had not gotten through; she admitted she was avoiding the call just in case it was bad news, but even as she said it seemed like an impossible idea.


                 Then she got a text message and said, "my dad is dead."  We spent the next twenty minutes curled over our bags, bawling our eyes out in the middle of rush hour in Grand Central Station.  The swarms of people passing by must have wondered, three 25 year old women: a Mexican, a Croatian, an a Ugandan huddled in a pile crying unabashedly (actually super-bitch was pretty dry-eyed and looked embarrassed, I remember that distinctly) but no one bothered us, no one stared; I felt protected by a shield of dignity.  I had no idea that I would cry so hard, since I had never met the man.  But to this day I cannot think of him without feeling the loss.  He was my father, because this friend, Ms. A.C was-until recently-my old same.  


                  In the novel, the friendship ends tragically, as the protagonist of the book, the one who is telling the story as an old woman, tells of her biggest shame in discontinuing the friendship and rejecting Snow Flower over a misunderstanding.  She read the fan wrong and misconstrued the meaning of her friends message and she never finds out until she comes to her deathbed and cares for until her passing.  But of course it is too late, and the guilt haunts her.  The friendship had suffered because as the protagonist's life developed with luck and fortune over the years, her friend, Snow Flower, suffered horribly through tragic circumstance after tragic circumstance.  


                  Two days ago, I wrote A.C a message I've been trying to write for weeks, to ask her why she has completely abandoned our friendship suddenly and without explanation.  I know how hard her life is now (actually I don't, as she has been so silent).  After her father died, she continued with school and eventually moved back to Croatia.  Her family life was incredibly difficult due to his passing.  She came to visit me in Uganda and stayed for two months.  I spent the next twelve months risking everything in my relationship with my mother to get her to help A.C get a job in Uganda and move in with us.  She did and spent one year living with us.  


               We have always been like twins, though you would never know it to meet us.  Only two days separate our births, and she has always gotten on with my mother, maybe more than I.  She was forced out of Uganda on an immigration issue. Back in Croatia,  her life was just as bad as it had been and the last time we spoke, I really agonized of her health.  No one can take that much pain and bad luck without being affected by it. I prayed and hoped that she would find her way back, but this time I could not do much as my life was also in total shambles.


                   I moved here and have continued my struggle to find peace and happiness, so far succeeding far better than I ever did in Uganda, and with the blessing of a wonderful daughter to keep me searching for the Truth of Love on her behalf (as well as mine).  The main purpose of the message was to tell of death of our mutual friend's mother (though I am much closer to her) but as it had been so long and weighing on me so much I had to speak of my broken heart.  This is what she wrote back:


The truth is that our friendship has been unhealthy and damaging for me for quite a long time now. I believe that a friendship needs to make people feel happier for the time they interact with each other and are in each other's lives. This is not the case for me within our friendship. I believe that we are on different paths and have non-complementing energies, and staying in our friendship is hurting me.


                   I am surprised by how I can read this without feeling so bad now.  Like I said, the last time we spoke she was begging me and my mother to find a way to help her come back so of course I didn't see this coming.  She was going to be my bridesmaid eventually and I hers; we were going to raise our babies together; and grow old together if we never found husbands.  She was my old same.


                   So I got my wish didn't I? Nothing like total abandonment to make a girl feel like she's not worth shit, right?  Yeah, well.....maybe for a second.  

So Much To Say, So Little Time

         No excuses.  The world is spinning and twirling and I'm flying high.  Last performance of the play tonight.  It has been such an incredible ride.  This play has seen me crawl from depths of an unexpected despair; shed some drama, some weight, some bitter scars.  My heart is new and full and as courageous as fuck.  Everyone loves me, and I love me too....like WHAT! 


        This week and next all the jobs are finally coming through.  Spent a few days shadowing at a daycare.  It's kinda unsettling how easily little babies will accept you as an authority figure and will immediately seek your approval and love.  They are SO impressionable!! It would be a wondrous responsibility to have them in my guard, and actually I did just that.  I could do it; I could handle it. Still waiting for the final word, but as far as I'm concerned I've proved myself to myself, to God (who already knew), to the world. Funny, I suspect the world may be just as impressionable as those little babies.  It will believe anything about you, that you believe. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU BELIEVE.  


         My daughter had another little breakdown after too much upheaval from her normal routine of waking up to find me there.  She admitted she does not yet believe we Love her; she still thinks we may toss her aside someday. Ha! Like God smiling down on his children, inside I smile even while I soothe her pain, because I know how false it is.  She will never lose me, and I will never let her go.  In my arms, she will ALWAYS fit.  But of course, I pray she will realize this Truth, just as I pray to realize the Truth of God's Love for me.  Nurturing and Patience are the seeds of Possibility.  

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         I am the only African in the play.  All along, this fact has been a non-issue, because of the wonderful and welcoming way the cast has treated me.  But on stage, feeling the audiences' confusion at my presence-hell at my perfection in the role, I feeling my skin is on fire with their projected marvel.  I feel isolated in my blackness-a feeling I have not had to experience in many years.  But the secondary result of this is even more startling.  My mother herself, who knew I was the only black person in the play, said it was not until she saw the performance that she realized that I am an anomaly in singular racial casting.  I am not the token; I am the Lead.  She could not believe the pride she felt, and those sentiments have been explicitly echoed by other Africans; they have stayed behind to thank me in reverent and sincere tones.  Shall I write my Oscar speech now? No, of course not; but the ironic reality of living this Expat African life can be so apparent in moments such as these, you feel as if you have slipped back to a time that is usually reserved for the stage. 

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        An aside: you would not believe how many servant women come to collect the little babies at the school dressed in full "Mammy" uniform, complete with apron and white head scarf. It is what it is. And if I am to represent a moment of pride in my racial community, then so be it; and what joy that it should be in something I truly enjoy doing well! 


       
            I am also full of pride.  My Love that Got Away (what a lovely term, yeah? I've never known what to call him until I saw this on someone else's blog.) has embarked on a month long road trip with his daughter. This is something he has been wanting to do for so long, and its occurrence represents so many grand achievements within him.  Though I only know all this from stalking, as I am not currently accepted into his life, I cannot help but to feel so damn proud.  You go daddy! I am there with you.  The last time he threw himself out over the ledge like this, he fell right into my arms, then I fell in Love.  God knows what He's doing with this one and that is all I can say about that.




                  Dear God, You're so cool!......
          


          

Movie Magic

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       Ah! Me! Why oh why do all my love affairs have to happen as if lifted word by word/scene by scene from an epic novel made into Oscar winning epic movie. I've had, in my disturbingly succint romance history, love affairs that rival "Out of Africa", "The Bridges of Madison County", "Before the Sunrise", "An Affair to Remember", and of course the bum who my heart insists on calling my soul mate would be cast well in such notable pics as "Walk the Line", "Memoirs of a Geisha" and maybe even a little "West Side Story" thrown in for good measure.  My romance life makes Bollywood look avant garde.
       Does that sound delicious? Am I wrong to complain that when I do fall it is always with someone incredibly handsome who says and does the most wonderful things, though only for a short while? Should I be happy with that? I want to bump into someone in a supermarket, meet someone through friends, take a class with someone, and then two to five years later joke about how we've never been apart since; I want a "When Harry Met Sally", but am more likely to get a "Friends With Benefits" (w/out the ridiculous Hollywood ending).  I am not allowed the normal.  I tried it briefly, in Uganda, to disastrous results; my Soul still threatens to make me vomit at the thought of him. But it would have been so incredibly easy.....But okay, maybe the truth is I do NOT want a normal; maybe I want incredible; maybe Harry seems like a total jackass, loser and I'd never have banged him. As envious as I get of my friends relationships, that is often the case.  If I could switch places with them, I'd never have got past the first date-ewwwwwwww, they are all so......un-magical! 
           And I get this. I do.
           I have learnt more in the times and ways I've been excluded from normalcy than I have by being a part of a real production. 


           I wrote to him as just an editor, an editor who seemed invitingly writable.  And  then he asked for my picture, and so many words that I'm not sure I actually feel slipped from my fingertips and out to him.  I could own him if I wanted to; I think, he wants to be owned.  

         I've had such an exposing week. First the editor who has now become a constant voice in my mind, and I feel I must be in his as well.  Then there is the that ka-guy who is being amusingly persistent.  And now I pushed my self to get involved with a performance.  Which leads me to think there could be even more interesting interactions in my future.  The editor has suggested a meeting.  Next week. He would fly half way across the world just to have a conversation with me, if that's not romantic I don't know what is.  All of this exposure, so fast, all of a sudden, the question is, am I ready for my close up?

Brigit Has Her Say

Brigit is said to have been born at the exact moment of day break, she rose with the sun, her head radiant with rays of luminous light, associating her with ascended awareness, enlightenment, new beginnings, sun beams and warmth. She is celebrated on Imbolc, falling on February 1 or 2, celebrating the return of the light and the coming of the spring.  Thus her solar aspects may also represent Brigit as the Promise of Spring, the Bringer of Light after the dark months of winter. This energy brings with it HOPE, renewed enthusiasm, renewal, and new beginnings.

Brigit is considered a Triple Goddess, yet many references distinguish Brigit differently than the traditional Triple Goddess aspects of Maiden, Mother and Crone.  Rather Brigit is frequently referenced having three sister selves with three distinct roles, Lady of Healing Waters, Goddess of the Sacred Flame and Goddess of the Fertile Earth.  These roles are then multiplied through Brigit’s vast and varied responsibilities . . .

Who is Goddess Brigit

             Today began on an ascending note.  One second there was come quiet grayness: I did not know who I was or what I felt for the future.  I was in a pre-dawn limbo, clinging to the dreams of the night before, shying from the nightmares.  

             My mother and I were both pulled to convene, but I'm not sure we knew about what or why. It felt like a ritual we had not meant to take part in, but that may be just the retrospective knowledge that a Goddess had arisen to claim her Authority and Bless us with her healing.

            Our communion began with an ironic discussion on the subject of communication. It didn't go well, and "we are NOT communicating" became the pat phrase to explain why we were getting heated as we tried to analyze how better to communicate, especially vis a vis disagreements had in front of the Little One and especially those that are about her.  I would have thought all this pathetic and never dared to mention it, except somehow during it, something happened.  The sun rose and so did Vannesa, and the exchange shifted to one of personal revelation.  "I am afraid," I blurted through unexpected tears, "that no one will allow me to express negative emotion."  I had become so raw seeing how the slightest scolding from me would shut Vannesa down into a frighted, trapped, broken animal-whereas the same. exact. words, from my mother would inspire an assertive, receptive, good-natured response.  And there was that same look...in my mother's eyes and body, during what I believed to be a simple, mildly uncomfortable exchange.  "I don't know how to be heard" I groaned, "without having to make a big deal of it."

        The way it goes, the way it's always gone, no matter the form-letters, jokes, broken dishes-I use to express negative emotions, is that people scrunch up and pull away.  And that is, in and of itself, So. Very...lonesome; but it gets traumatically worse that the very same people, the very same ones, yearn, demand, and nurture all that is healing and nurturing in me, never understanding, never accepting that the latter comes from the same source as the former.  I am one being, yin/yang, positive and negative. And my passionate expression of one  is the very same flame I use to fuel the other.  That is the conflict I bare; my confession to share.  I am revered and rebuked, nurtured and negated for things that come from the very same place deep within me.  The conflict is in the reception (expression); I feel faithful in the belief that the source is one whole...holistic being.  

      My confession left a feeling quite different from resolution, there was none of that. There was a gentle meditation on the Truth behind my revelation.  It was sacred, even if we didn't know we knew it.

     Somehow this bright sunshine day led us to take charge, the Little One was strangely drawn to me-well strange as there is usually a balance or her affection slightly favors Mukaka when Mukaka is around (but this isn't so terrible: I'm understandably more childish around my mother, and anyhow they hardly get to see each other, and lastly I would do the same if my grandmother were around).  But today her beaming eyes shined directly on me, like I was...well...a Goddess; and she was beautiful for her attention, though it frightened me to think how I would...manage such fierce light for the next 9 hours or so...

            We went back to the school that has given us our last hope for getting her placed; we went determined to communicate our position: "yes, you do want her, forget what the papers say, she is a light and we need a fireplace to nurture her; here, she. will. thrive". Brigit had spoken for us, it had already been decided, "yes, we do want her, we know she can thrive; we just may have to wait..."  It was good, it was very good.

           Today was a day were the sunshine seemed to burn our fears up, then bathe us in healing light of faith and inspiration.  I gave Vannesa "work" to do, "we all have to work don't we?"  and so forth, she tried to shrink in; she tried to not believe in herself-but the light was too strong for her to hide.  When she was finished she sighhhed, "I could have never believed I could do so much, Ahhh God."  I laughed, "I always knew it," I replied, "Ehhh? Since you met me?" she questioned. "Since I've gotten to know you, more and more I think, look how much she can do when she just tries!"...

             The Malaria kicked in around 5, I had to give in and lay down.  When my mother came I hadn't started dinner, she went right to it, and it was only hours later that she realized I was ill.  She had a huge report she swore she would do, and she never even mentioned it once.  The flow by evening was as if we were all one; there was no longer a need to speak. 

            Three Goddesses are we still searching for the right, the authority, to be in our power, but today we were Brigit in her 3 potent Selves; she didn't ask us to be bright, or cool, or nurturing, she just rose with the sun and in her light, we thrived.

"Competition Coming Out Now. Load. Up. Aim. Fire, Fire Pop!" (part 2)

The NGO cold-hustle meeting went as well as could be expected, “send me some shit via email, I’m incredibly busy you see, maybe later, blahblahblah.”  The woman I went to see was on her way out as director, so simply pawned me off to the new guy who was so archetypically HOT, he was a caricature: the British Explorer (which was once upon a time the Colonial Diplomat but has now transformed into the Business Savvy Savior-the Bible and sword is now the resume and the pen-ha!) Think Oliver Steeds, only clean, deliciously clean; I would eat off him in a heartbeat, and (Ah! Me!) he knew it.  I don’t think that hurt my chances actually-not that he was AT ALL interested-but only that it sort of rounded out my desperation: “so I have some good ideas and I’ve done some cool shit, but right now I’m really, really hungry, you know?” Yea…he knew. 

            The meeting happened near a nice local beach, so I used what money I had left to jump in a taxi, pick up the Little One and go back (I had to send a message to my mother to ask her to bring more money to get us home).  We had some lovely gal-time for awhile until the sun became to much for her and she started complaining of the heat and of the threat of turning black, my mind locked into the looming office behind me and it’s promises and it’s temptations just out of reach (I could actually see Explorer’s window), I sent her off to go splash in the waves. But she was too scared of the water and instead wandered off way down the shore into the distance.  She stood there looking bored, looking back at me, and I earnestly waved my arms trying to signal her to come back but she thought I was insisting she go splash so she stoically ignored me and wouldn’t move.

            Suddenly she sprang to life and leapt, no FLEW up the sand dunes in the direction of the restaurants to greet my mother who had just arrived.  The feeling of jealousy in the pit of my stomach was like a giant pus bubble bursting, filling the air with its stink.  She came running to me along the edge of the beach filled with debris, cans, and broken bottles-Careless and Carefree.  When she got to me, all she could breathlessly pant was, “Mukaka”. Apparently, the stench of my pus bubble had a sound, though I could have sworn I was just being concerned:

“Why didn’t you come back when I told you? What if something had happened? Why did you go so far away in the first place and yet you didn’t even go splashing around like I told you and yet you were complaining of being hot???” I was not shouting, just questioning, incessantly.  Her shoulders slumped, her eyes dulled and looked at me with something far worse than anger or sadness or even fear; she looked weary and disgusted (how the HELL does an eight year old know what bitching is? AND so WHAT if I WAS?!? I’m the one who is HERE. C-A-R-I-NG!!!) She went mute; my mother was approaching behind her, in the distance, and she kept looking back like, “God, get me out of this!” (How can someone so EAGERLY await a person who will dump them in an office room for six plus hours with nothing but cookies to eat; the same person who forgot you were awake the other morning 15 minutes after you came and greeted her??) I couldn’t help it, I had to go on; this was now worse than the silence; I was now, whining: “Yea. I can see you’re waiting for Mukaka. You think all my questions are tiresome and quarrelsome; well, I’m NOT her (SHUT UP) and I will NEVER be her (PLEASE SHUT UP!!) I am JUST me and this is HOW I am (can you JUST SHUT the FUCK UP!!) I only finally stopped at the arrival of my mother. “So you’re taking her.” I declare, “Wha-to my meeting??” she stumbles, as she freezes in the midst of handing me cab fare, “yea, I can just take a taxi home,” I reply, defiantely grabbing the cash (am I SERIOUSLY trying to test an eight year old?!?) Vannesa gathers her things, looking none too bothered-which BOTHERS ME! My mother is confused but assumes all of this angst is all directed at her. They leaving, I am crying. 

I did not learn my lessons from the past, though I arrogantly tried to pass them on. I did not stand my ground, but folded under the weight of my own bitterness; I keep crashing into Vannesa’s Eyeore-like shanty of Peace then going, “Damn, these tornadoes.” But you see, I am both the “foster parent” and the child; I get so caught up in being fucked up, I forget to ask the question: how do I NOT fuck this up?

“It’s all my mother’s fault; it’s all my mother’s fault”, who is signing, me or her? Which is the cause and which is the effect, and where is the Good I was told I was fed? My stomach hurts, but I am too hungry to stop and check what I am eating…

           

EATING THE BAD AND GETTING A STOMACH ACHE

            I had to have a talk with the little one about the silent tornado that’s been blowing through the house the past few days, destroying all the rhythm, routine, and joyful structure we’ve created.  It’s called cycling: the hormonal brewing that happens with women that leads to a bubbling over of nasty emotions-like pus from a popped zit-nasty because they are unnecessary and not having much to do with our True Selves.

            In the fourth and fifth grade I was in a program called T.A.G, it was a state run program in the American public school system that stood for “Talented and Gifted”.  Children were chosen by falling into a certain percentile of test scores, but then the chosen were further divided into the full-time and half-time versions of the program, apparently by names being drawn from a hat.  What is so inexplicable about this arbitrary distribution is there was a startling difference from the two, namely, full time TAG had a special bus and were given sex education-with condom demonstrations and all.  I was in half-time TAG, spending the morning with the regular kids then heading of to Mrs. Norris’ class for math and English. 

            There were many wonderful things about our little clan, but the best treat (also inexplicably unfair) for being in the half-time version was we got to put on school plays.  These were huge productions that took months to prepare and permitted us to be pulled out of class at the impulsive whim of the director. I always got the “extras” parts because I was years away from knowing I had a Light and my Light had a Voice; but no matter how small the role you played, being a part of these plays was an undeniably epic part of each of our childhoods.

            In fifth grade, one of our plays was a musical mishmash of the Greek myths; I will never forget the rendition of the Andromeda, the daughter of Casseoipia, who was punished for her mother's vanity by being trapped on an island in the middle of the sea. The theme song was as explicitly simplistic as a song could be; the chorus, in loud, whining proclamations:

It’s All My Mother’s Fault!

It’s All My Mother’s Fault!

What-EVER Happ-ens in My

LIIIFE,

It’s All My Mother’s Fault!

            So a few days ago I ask the Little One, “Do you think I’m mad at you?” She shakes her head no, which throws me for a loop; I had imagined that’s what all these puppy-dog, “why me?” looks she’d been throwing at me had been about; but I got no further explanations from my prodding. So I say, “I love you very much, more than I can even say; I love you as if you were my very own baby”, I cuddle her close to me in our living room couch, pressing her back into my beating heart [Given what will follow I feel a bit…nauseated that this was the first time I mentioned such a love……but such is Life]. “Can I tell you?, I continue, “And it’s OKAY to tell Mukaka; this is NOT a secret…but being around Mukaka-I’m not saying she is a bad person-but she behaves in ways that are not so nice…to me, that make it very hard to…take care of you and her the way I want to.” (I have contemplated this confession for days following up to this moment, and YES, there are a million alarm bells going off in my head telling me I could be making things worse, fucking things up, but I just cannot STAND the silent tornado that may very well destroy us all; whatever was going on, growing up, there was always silence, especially from my father-and it was Pure Poison; it’s no good, the silence.) “I think sometimes you copy her, and treat me in ways that aren’t so…respectful, you know?” she nods, “and it’s hard if it’s both of you; it’s hard enough when it’s just her, but when it’s both of you, it’s like two against one, you know?” more nodding, “so I just wish you could find a way to not act like that so much, to not copy that not so nice behavior…” (here it seems like I switch gears, but really I’m just so desperate to use this opportunity to say what’s been on my mind and heart for awhile now, both the pain and the pleasure…)

            “But you know, underneath it all, you are just SO amazing.  No matter how many mistakes you make in life, no matter how many good things you do, underneath it all, You. Are. Amazing. Do you think so?” “She gives a HARD shake no (from a girl who mostly communicates with her eyelashes, be it yes, no, or go f*ck yourself, this was tragically enthusiastic) I pull her close to me again, “I know you don’t but you have to learn. You have to learn because when people hurt you, you will think they are right to hurt you, and you well then hurt yourself by not being all the things you can be or doing all the things you can do, just because you do not realize how Great you are......maybe that’s what happened to me, and that is why I can get so easily upset with Mukaka; I’m still having to learn that I am amazing. SO, you have to learn to believe it so nobody, even me, can hurt you.” She got it, not completely yet, but more than one would expect of a child (most of her life has necessitated an acceptance and comprehension that is far more than one would expect of a child) I was thus not surprised that despite her hearing me out, she was not exactly sympathetic to my position…