Identity Crisis

Channeling

2009-07-15T19:57:00.010-04:00

I’ve spent most of my childhood and still spend A LOT of my adult life watching TV.

It was my savior as a child, distancing me from the chaos, hate and violence that surrounded me. It was another disassociation I concocted along the way to survival as much as the eating was/is at times.

TV took me to places I wish I were, people I wish I had known and families I wanted to be a part of. My life and TV were parallel universes.

As a young child I was enchanted with Superman, the old black and white TV series.
It astonished me that no one could hurt him-no bullets, no punches, no slaps, and no beatings.
Nada. Nothing. He would protect all his friends and people he didn’t even know from harm.

Of course every once in a while a perpetrator would find some of that nasty green kryptonite to disable Superman’s powers, but he always found a way around it.

I can remember wishing he were my father. No one would hurt me, or call me names and I would always be protected. He was just a super man.

On other channels, shows captured my fantasies. Leave It To Beaver, The Donna Reed Show and Ozzie and Harriet and Father Knows Best.

These homes had two loving parents, brothers and sisters who actually liked each other.

The mother always stayed home and never worked and they were never beaten.
Imagine that.

My universe was devoid of any similarities. It’s as if I grew up on Mars. Mine was just the opposite. A mother who always worked, was never home, my father a mystery and gone, and well, you know the background about my brother.

Yet I always found myself airbrushing my existence into their lives, morphing into one of their relatives, where I could find safety, acceptance and love. Where people actually spoke to each other instead of punishing them with walls of silence.

I Love Lucy taught me how to laugh and be funny. Laughter in my house was a seldom visitor.

TV land is where I wanted to live.

I felt a certain kinship with the Circus Boy, a story about Corky; a young boy whose parents were killed in trapeze accident and one of the clowns in the circus adopted him. Corky then became the water boy to a baby elephant named Bimbo. Corky’s life consisted of traveling with a group of misfits whose kindness and love showed him there was hope and healing after tragedies, no matter what kind of freak you felt like.

I was in a circus of my own with the White Tower. At a very early age, I was friends with midgets, drag queens, hookers and street people who were some of the kindest and gentlest people I have ever known and who I felt safe with.

Home was more or less like the Twilight Zone. You couldn’t really believe what was happening. I used to think as a child my mind was playing tricks on me. What I “saw” of the outside world and what was happening with my “inside” world conflicted in every way how a child should grow up.

As the shows reached the end of their lives and seasons ended, I too had reached a point of knowing that this would never be my life. My so-called “involvement” with these fantasy families were archived and put on a shelf.

But there were other channels to explore and watch and other dreams and fantasies to take their place.

One thing was certain. None of these shows were mine. I was a spectator at best.

I was the audience, not a participant.

I was in the cheap seats.

Channels kept changing and so did my life. My years in art school,and working at Yale resembled the entertainment Channels.

It was there I found friends, learned by watching others, how to play and be myself and for the first time truly be accepted, or at least a hint of what it could be like. We were all misfits of some kind. Scientists, and artists who marched to a different drummer.

I fine tuned my portrait photography, had exhibits and thought life was grand and would never end. I made friends with people who I let decide what was best for me, never having the nerve to step out on my own.

It was safe living inside their dramas and never dealing with my own.

But all that came to a crashing end.

Things changed, I changed and this time I was truly lost.

It seemed as if I had run out of fantasies, channels and any kind of hope. Nothing seemed right. Nothing made me happy. There was systemic damage and I couldn’t figure or watch my way out of it.

It’s as if someone had pulled the plug on my view of life/TV.

I realized all of my life had been spent living on everyone else’s show. I had walk on parts in everyone’s play, but never a main character. It’s like when you see a soap opera and the two main characters are talking, you see people behind them carrying on conversation, but they’re not. Their lips move to indicate the illusion of a conversation. My life seemed mute. My existence was an illusion.

I was always living in someone else’s play and it had ceased to work.

I crashed hard, without a net.

Fragments of my life were scattered all around.

Nothing held together.

There was no one else’s life I wanted to copy or imitate. I needed my own.

Truthfully I didn’t even know what I needed.

One last time I changed the channel and found nothing.

The screen was blank. I had to start over. From scratch. From nothing.

I had reached the end.

But then enter, stage left, a producer.

A producer for my very own show on my very own stage.

The definition of a producer for any show is:

“The producer is the person on a movie set who makes sure everyone shows up and knows what to do when—. The producer is the person who shows up on set only when there’s trouble, and then causes more trouble, cell phone in one hand, bullwhip in the other. The producer does all the hard work on a film and gets none of the glory. The producer sits at the right hand of God, and even then sends up notes.”

Enter Dr. Hadar Lubin MD Psychiatrist. Dr. Lubin is Founder of the Women's Trauma Program and the Co-Director of the Post Traumatic Stress Center in New Haven CT.
She is also an Assistant Clinical Professor in the Department of Psychiatry, Yale University School of Medicine. She developed the Women’s Trauma Program and has written extensively on treatment of PTSD.

Dr. Hadar Lubin is a stunning Israeli woman with the proverbial wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job, teaches endurance within strength and has a gentle intensity that immediately captures your trust.

No accident that in Hebrew, the name "Hadar" means "spectacular", "splendid" and "greatness".

There is a story in the Bible of a woman named Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah. There are several versions of this story. One is that Dinah is raped. Her son born from this rape is taken away from her to become an Egyptian Prince. The bible does not give Dinah a voice to tell of her experience of rape and violence and the pain of having a child ripped from your life, and yet Dinah’s spirit has somehow survived. We ourselves can give Dinah a voice. We can imagine that Dinah found the persevering strength, to go past her victimhood and become truly free. We are most like Dinah when we find a voice to speak of our tragedies, and transcend them.

Dr. Lubin teaches us to find our voice and let it be heard, far beyond a stage whisper.

Dr. Lubin has given me the tools, resources, and guidance to finally stand center stage in my very own life.

It has taken four years to get my character right. There is still a lot of tweaking and fine-tuning left.

There are channels left to change, my character will change, but I will be the only one on stage.

Stay tuned.

Sweet Dreams

2009-04-10T10:26:00.002-04:00

Cupping my hands
Over my ears, wishing
the screaming would stop
I cling to the wall
hoping to find protection
from unkind words, threats
and accusations

Covers over my head, I fold
into a fetal position
I burrow my 5 year old body closer
to the scratched and worn
bunk bed post, finding safety in the
dark corner next to the wall

Praying the further away I get
from the outburst, the more invisible I will be
It does no good
Her words hit me like her belt strap whipped
across my body
Fear within and without

“….ungrateful kids…..I work so hard….
I don’t ask much……fend for yourselves…
maybe I’ll never come home….I don’t ask much”

Hardly a lullaby to whisk me off to sleep
Only sobs and tremors

Her shrieking ends with the slam of the door
The old Black ’48 Chevy grinds it engine
as she drives off into the night

Silence

Then a whisper from the upper bunk
“Ssh,.” my 11 year old brother says
“It’ll be alright. Ma’s just mad ‘cause
We woke her up with our laughing.”

He slides his hand down the wall.
“Here, hold my hand ‘til you fall asleep”
I grab onto it, feeling the small warts
on his rough hands.

The Fifth Chair

2009-03-31T12:55:00.005-04:00

A wedding of a friend
brings five friends assembled
Two couples and myself
Shared memories of thirty years
bond us like a Gordian Knot

Twists and turns of life celebrated,
commiserated, and endured together
act as glue
Everyone has a role
Therapist, mentor, brother, mother,
My role, clown, make them laugh
Remnants of a past life continue
Betrayers and pretenders disguised
As confidants, and mentors
Methodically assume control
never to be questioned
They are never wrong.
I am never right
I am not their equal

It’s a lie I believed
But I am not without blame
This pattern has defined my life
until now

Lives intertwined at one time, so natural,
now seem fraudulent, a lie, a fairy tale for a child
But I am a child no more
Shattering my role as the target
for everyone’s anger, projection and ridicule.

Choosing to uncover my own truths
I am pushed out of the circle
And dismissed
A loss never imagined
four years ago, abandonment, betrayal
A release I now embrace as freedom

I dared turn a mirror in their direction
And saw nothing
No longer playing their game
The lens becomes sharper
The mirrors converge
No more blurred images of my own life
And sadly, but finally, theirs

Four friends sit in a row
With the fifth chair empty
Four years ago that would have
been my seat
The place of the fifth wheel
Today
I sit two rows behind
Rolling alone and on course
Thanking God clear vision
Is finally repaired

Lot 125- Grave #11

2008-09-23T19:32:00.007-04:00

September 23, 2008
The days couldn’t be any more different.

Today is an early fall crisp day, full of sun and skies with no clouds in sight. It’s the kind of day that could mark any birth, beginning or just a kick start to a fresh era.

The cool autumn air weaves in and out of the strategically spaced and planted low rising white birch trees. Some feel that to stand here is to be aligned between heaven and earth. The landscape is groomed, orderly and unblemished not only for the inhabitants, but more for the loved ones who come here either frequently or myself, who never come here at all.

Dr. Lubin is standing by my side. Her gentle hand is on my shoulder. I am not alone. Dr. Lubin has reined in the stray pieces to the puzzle of my life and together we have rebuilt the scenes. It's a challenging puzzle. Most of the pieces were missing.
But Dr. Lubin is a master and gifted healer who believes in delving straight into your soul and discovers with you, the buried treasures that have been hidden. They surface and we celebrate together. This journey could not exist without her.

The last time I was here, 20 years ago, was a cold, bitter day in December. The wind whipped it’s fury through the sparse trees, taking with it the last vestiges of the already deadened leaves. The trees as I remember, were so much smaller then.
I tried on that day not to think of you. I tried to find any distraction that would tear my mind from the thoughts of you. We had caused each other so much pain. I don’t think we knew then even why.

So many differences between now and then, so many conflicts, and so many unanswered questions.

I was angry then. I am sad now.

I had questions then. I have answers now.

It’s sad you could not have been part of the dialog of working things out.

That I had to do on my own, like everything else.

You lived angry and died sadly. I disappointed you even in death, while trying to make you happy in life. Our lives were a study in extreme contrasts, from the moment of my conception, to the instant of your death.

I believe, in my Polly Anna world, that I wanted to be born. You, in your brutal honesty, never wanted to give birth to me. You have always made that clear.

What is done is done.

I am not here to accuse, blame or denigrate you.
I am here to thank you. From your mistakes and flaws, I learned how to steer clear of making the same ones.

I don’t know if you would like me any better today. I tend to think not.

Everything you stood for, I was against, and vice versa. I am sure you saw me in later years as cruel and unloving, the same I had seen in you when I was a child. At what point did we merge and become each other?

Strangely enough I Iearned more from you than anyone else. I took whatever you didn’t give me and looked in other places for it and most of the time found it.

From your closed heart, I searched for others with open hearts and learned to open mine.

From your unhappiness I searched how to fill my life with joy and passion.

From your dishonesty and untruths, I learned how to be true and honest.

From your narrow focus on life, I learned now to broaden my vision.

From your black and white world, I learned that there are so many gray areas to be accounted for.

From your silence and disapproval I learned how to speak with kindness.

From your lack of nuturing and love, I am finally learning how to take care of myself and love myself.
We were sent to each other for many reasons. Our journeys so different, our lives so very different. I am still on my journey.
Your journey’s answers remain with you.
I blame you for nothing. You told me in later years you didn’t think I loved you. I told you I did and still do.
How I wish I had heard those words from you.
I am sorry it has taken me 20 years to place this marker on your grave. But nothing would have made you happy.

This marker represents my last endeavor for your love.

Please accept it.

I truly hope you can rest in peace.

I know that now I can let you rest in peace and I can live in peace.

Maybe this is the first and last time we agree on anything.

As I turn to leave, I place a large plant of purple mums on her grave marker.

Next to the mums, I place the photo of my dad.

I want it to feel like a family, my family. And for a fleeting moment it does.

An Ocean of Mercy

2008-09-17T13:52:00.010-04:00

Suddenly, like magic, thoughts about work, life, writing and everyday turmoil, thrashing about in my head, come to an abrupt end. It's as if a retaining wall were put in place inside my brain to hold back the flood of thoughts, ideas, beliefs and opinions. Everything comes to a grinding halt.

In its place, from this room, the gentle sound of waves slap quietly against the shore and immediately grab my attention. I look up and out the window, well outside of myself and see nothing but ocean. The light is soft and even on this semi fall day. The ocean is calm and glimmers with reflected light. Peace and serenity surround me.

It is that time of year when summer begs to hang on, but autumn begins to display its change. Leaves begin their transformation ever so slightly and summer days waffle back and forth from warm to cool.

A gigantic pine tree burrows its old and weathered roots into the grassy area twenty yards from the ocean. It is far from a perfect shape, much like myself, but a shape that has been and continues to be be formed and twisted by the wind, and defined by the elements of its surroundings. In spite of its weathered life it remains strong, healthy and deeply rooted. Don't be mistaken into thinking this tree hasn't seen its share of hurricanes, tornadoes or ice storms. The bare patches and missing pieces on this tree, say otherwise. Storms take their toll, yet the tree stands proudly, boldly and even slopes towards the ocean, as if to challenge even more oncoming rages from Mother Nature. The tree can take it.

A woman walks along the shoreline, head down, hands clasped behind her back. Several paces behind a sea gull follows her trail and almost mimics the woman's walk. The woman seems to be looking for something, answers, ideas, or maybe just plain peace. The sea gull's head pokes down every now and then foraging for food.

I sit in my room gazing at the three living species in front of me. I too join them in their quest and challenges.

I came here to try and finish three specific writing pieces. I'm not a nature writer by any stretch of the imagination.
None of that seems to matter now. It's lost in the clutter of my mind that was silenced when I got here. All that's here right now is peace, solitude, and silence, save for the sounds of the ocean. No radio, no tv. no people.
The world has mercifully stopped for a bit.

But I am not alone. I brought someone with me who I have not seen in 60 years.
My dad.

A long lost first cousin called me 10 years ago to tell me he had a photo of my dad when he was in the army. I've never heard from him since- until Monday.

He emailed me the photo of my dad, and it is leaning against the old lamp I am using at this writing desk.

The sepia toned photo shows a young handsome man. I look so much like him, it's scary, but exciting.

Finally a face, my father's face, to put to a name, Dad. A man I have never met but have never stopped romanticizing or fantasizing over.

I have him now.

This room, this time, this view,and his face are all that matters.

Mercy Center
Madison CT.

In the Belly of the Beast

2008-08-17T15:54:00.009-04:00

They are sitting as far apart on the tan, expensive, overstuffed leather couch, with pillows at either end, as far as you can get from each other. They are unmatched bookends with a thousand volumes between them. Jake is slouching, resting his right elbow on the sofa arm, head down in hand while his left hand awkwardly brushes nothing off the log of his jeans. Jake is very handsome in a styled scruffy way. He has longish brown curly hair, shoulder length, blue denim work shirt and jeans with a hole in the left knee.

Amy sits at the opposite end of the couch stiff and upright, nestled against the other arm of the sofa as if being any closer to Jake would send her to the bottom of some horrendous abyss. She fold her arms across her chest like a defiant child, and looks straight ahead at nothing. The silence is thunderous. Tension so thick, it seems any sound would break the sound barrier, like a soprano hitting the highest note possible, shattering crystal into shards of glass.

Amy is gorgeous. Short hair, perfectly coiffed, it fits her tight angular angry face. She is wearing a Giorgio Armani pin striped suit and a simple string of pearls around her neck. Professional, tailored and very much in vogue in the corporate world.

Their careers are as opposite as their marriage and dress code appear to be.

Jake is a carpenter, cabinet maker artisan and musician. His passion is his music. He loves to craft with his hands and write his own music. Amy is a high ranking executive in a business conglomerate, a world which hires and fires people as swiftly as you spit out sour milk from it's container.

The world of opposites which once drew them wildly and passionately together, now threatens to rip that world into shreds.
They have been married for 12 years.

They are at opposite end of the spectrum. Amy is pregnant and does not want the child. Jake wants the child. They are here, in this psychiatrist's office to decide whether or not to go ahead with the birth. They already have a 10 year old boy. This is enough for Amy, but not Jake.

The bickering between Jake and Amy begin immediately and nothing is sacred. Jake accuses Amy of having an affair with her boss, which Amy denies, then accuses Jake for being overbearing, jealous and obsessed because of his lack of "performance" in bed. Words fly against each other like bullets.

The psychiatrist sits across from the both of them in his own comfortable chair. There is a square black coffee table separating the unhappy couple and the shrink, a physical reminder that there are boundaries.

The psychiatrist is here to allow them to speak about their feelings. The shrink is a moderator, a referee of sorts. The married couple is here to make the decision together- whether to abort this baby or not..

The couple spits venom at each other, but I immediately take Jake's side. He is likable, still in love with Amy, loves his son and seems to take the brunt of the relationship gone wrong. He wants to continue family life and make it work.

I do not like Amy. Not exactly the motherly type. She is callous, cold and too self absorbed. She is more interested in her career than her family.

Their weakest and most embarrassing qualities are thrown at each other like arrows, like the way Amy feeds her son to Jake's accusation of Amy having an affair with her boss, to indifference to sex with Jake. Everything once right is now wrong. Raw, dirty and unfair accusations bounce back and forth looking for a place to lay blame. The only interruption is Jake or Amy asking the shrink to side with them on a particular issue. The shrink is good. Obviously not his first couple in crisis, he hands out no answers, just throws back the questions.

The shrink brings them back time and time again to the issue at hand. True, this couple has many issues, but the decision they came to make has very little time to be resolved. If an abortion is to happen, time is a factor.

For the next couple of weeks, the sessions play out in much the same way. More accusations, more blame, more hurt.

The third week Amy opens the session by admitting that in the past week, she has slept with her boss.

Jake is crushed. You feel his pain, his tears and betrayal. Jake is angry but pleads with Amy that he will do anything to save this family, this marriage, this home. He loves her no matter what. He wants this baby more than ever.

Suddenly Amy loses it. She begins to scream at Jake for "not fucking getting it at all".

"You just don't get it do you Jake? I don't want this baby! I don't want to be a mother. I'm not even a good mother to our son.
I want my life as it is. I want my career, my freedom, my job. I want to work and travel and not be tied down by a fucking baby. I am telling you right now Jake, I WILL NOT LOVE THIS CHILD!! I will hate this child and this child will mean nothing to me. Do you want to bring child into this world knowing that the mother doesn't want it? I am too selfish and don't give a GOD DAMN about this baby. You will have to raise it and give this baby what it needs, but believe me Jake, it will always know that it's mother did not want it. It sickens to me think about bringing up another child into this fucked up world and this fucked up relationship. I cannot do that to a child. The child needs it's mother and I will not be there, now or ever."

Amy then storms out the door. Both Jake and the shrink sit there is silence. Finally Jake leaves, turns to the shrink and says,
"Thanks a lot, I came here so you could help us decide whether or not to have this child, now you have ended our marriage."

After a few minutes the shrink gets up to close the door and rearrange the pillows on the couch.

While arranging the pilllows, something catches his eye on the couch. He leans over to look. In the area where Amy was sitting is a puddle of blood.

The decision was made for everyone.

From “In Treatment”, the HBO series based on the Israeli Series "Be 'Tipul"

I sit back from the TV in amazement. Suddenly I like Amy. A lot. She may be self absorbed, but she is honest, brutal but honest.

I visualize an almost abstract picture of my mother- pregnant with me and what disgust she must have felt. I would be a bastard child that she never wanted. She never married my father, just fucked him one night in the back of the White Tower Restaurant. I was a mistake, a mistake she never let me forget. I am the mistake. What did she say when people noticed she was pregnant? Did she smile? I doubt it. Who did she blame. Did she pound her stomach with her fists and wish the child inside her would die? Nothing but backdoor abortions in the 1940's, otherwise I wouldn't be here.
Was she disgusted with herself? As I grew older and put more weight on, was I a mirror image in which she hated the both of us even more? She had a weight issue also. She hated men and I was afraid of them.
Unlike this TV series, she had no options, probably had no one to talk to either. But we both survived.

It is clear to me now, my mother was on her own journey and responsible for what she made or didn't make of it.

I am on my own journey, so very different from hers. I am responsible for my choices.

The way I see it, our paths crossed once, and only once.

Maybe that's all we needed from each other.

The Price of Healing

2008-08-05T20:49:00.009-04:00

Dr. Lubin writes these scalding words on the white board with her fiery red marker. This is the topic of the week for the trauma group. I sit in silence as my fellow comrades in this battle of survival, list what their experiences are with this hot topic of the week.

In the past 1 and 1/2 years we have become mirrors of each other, partners with each other, similar to long term friends, couples who know each other's secrets, finish each other's sentences, laughing as we do. It's a secret club. At times we open the door to each other's pain by asking questions instead of pushing buttons or just being with the moment, as sad and as heartbreaking as it is. We know we cannot change what has happened in the past, but we can change what happens in our future. A year and a half ago, most of us thought we didn't have a future. We have learned how to listen deeply and lovingly to each other. We have a spectacular teacher. Dr. Lubin sets the stage.

We are at times a funny little dysfunctional family, but always working towards that common goal of healing our wounds that have penetrated us physically and emotionally. Difficult to know which one hurts the most.

It's a tough group. No one lets anyone get away with anything. We call each other on our strengths, weaknesses and capabilities. We remind each other of who we are and how we have made it.

The Price of Healing..........There are so many roads I can go down on this one. The Price of Healing Where do I start? Where do I end? Do I end? What has this almost 3 year journey cost me?

The Price of Healing..........How do I describe the depths of dissection my entire life has gone through? Every thought, word and deed I have ever done has been examined, ripped apart, and put back together in some form of functional fashion? I have felt like a frog on the table being dissected in biology class. Nothing left to the imagination. Everything on the table.

The Price of Healing..........Is it the friends I have lost in the past 2 and a half years because I have changed? Is it my voice and my words that offend them, after finally finding it after 57 years? Is it not accepting how I have finally learned how to say NO and mean it? Or is it I have somehow touched on something they have always been good at hiding and they are afraid of being seen for who they are and what they have done to me? I've caught their act and I am now wiser.

The Price of Healing.........Is it the time and commitment I have made to myself with intensive therapy twice a week, so intense and crippling that I was accused of being self absorbed?

The Price of Healing.........Exposing a brother who had sexually abused me along with others who were supposed to be "protecting" me? The dentist, the deacon, the neighborhood baby sitter?

Yes, there is a Price of Healing.

But I would not change one thing about the past 2 and a half years. I am finally moving on.

My mother, the very first perpetrator in my life, set the pace.

It's been 20 years since her death. I have run the gamut of feelings all my life of love, hate and fear.

She didn't like or love me. That I know. I have searched for all these years to find out why. But only she knows why.

Neither myself or my brother have put a grave marker where she is buried. I always thought that she never liked what I did anyway, so why bother. I've long since stopped wondering why my brother didn't.

The Price of Healing.........In several weeks I will be standing with Dr. Lubin at my mother's grave. I finally have gotten her the grave stone she deserves. I think it's time. I will stand there with Dr. Lubin, and I will most likely read something I have written and I will say a prayer for her at her grave. And I will thank her. I will thank her for giving birth to me. I do so love this journey I'm on.

It truly is time for her to rest in peace.

Too bad that The Price of Healing isn't always as simple as just buying a grave marker.

WOMANHOOD: MY ALLY OR MY ENEMY

2008-06-22T17:21:00.014-04:00

"Women who have been traumatized often have a conflicted relationship with their body and their gender. For some it affects their intimacy, for others it is a source of embarrassment and confusion. They may associate their womanhood with the pain from the abuse. Qualities such as weakness, vulnerability, submissiveness, and dependency become connected to being a woman, and being a victim. The result can be avoiding intimate relationships, avoiding sexuality, and avoiding parenthood. It is important to remember that being a woman did NOT cause your abuse; your perpetrator caused your abuse, out of a desire for power over you."

From a mini lecture by Dr. Hadar Lubin, MD

I find a black and white faded photo of myself at the age of 12. I am standing in the bathroom on the 2nd floor of Rose Farrell’s apartment.

It is the three story building I live in at 139 Henry Street. Rose’s son Jimmy has just gotten a new camera has taken my photo.

This is what I see and feel.

I am standing next to a bathroom sink. The wallpaper is flowery, ugly and tasteless.

Although I am smiling, I am not a pretty girl. My hair is short like a boy’s, butchered by some barber with uneven patches sticking out every which way. There is no style, no rhyme or reason to this haircut.

I am wearing a boy’s plaid short sleeve shirt, buttoned all the way to the top and buttoned to the last button, making the shirt burst out at the bottom. I am clearly too big for the shirt. I am clearly too big.
I have boy’s pants on, zipper in the front. Everything about me says “boy” or “ugly girl”who looks like a boy.

I suddenly realize that this shirt I have on, is my brother’s. Frankie's. Not mine.

It’s a hand me down from my brother. No wonder it doesn’t fit. Frankie is skinny and I am getting fat.

It’s a toss up. what looks uglier or more tasteless, me or the wall paper.

My money's on the wallpaper being more attractive.

I look at myself today. Still fat, still wearing men’s shirts. My hair is better. That I seem able to control or at least identify. It certainly isn’t short or will ever be again.

No, Dr Lubin. No problem with my womanhood, then or now. It’s always been the same. Unidentifiable UFO – Unidentifiable Fat Object.

I am 8 years old and my mother has just explained to me that in a short matter of time, I will be getting what all women get. I am sitting at the kitchen formica table in one of the chrome and ugly plastic flowered chairs, just staring at her, wondering what she is saying.

“You’ll just bleed for a few days”, she says with the Pall Mall cigarette hanging from her mouth, her eyes squinting from the smoke wafting her way. She is bobby pinning her hair.
“You’ll bleed for a few days every month from down there,” as she points to my “private” parts “from where you pee. I’m not sure when, but just let me know. This is the time when you can get pregnant.”

Three years later I arrive home on a warm summer night, from babysitting around the corner. I go into the bathroom to put on my pajamas, it’s late and my mother is on her way to work.

I take down my underwear and gasp at the patch of blood I see. For a few minutes I think I might have hurt myself climbing the fence in the back that afternoon. I slowly remember the conversation of a few years ago. I run crying into my mother’s room. She is smearing her engine red lipstick all over her lips. I tell her that I think I got “that thing” she was talking about and I am bleeding.

Without looking at me and still putting on the lipstick, she doesn’t miss a beat and says, “get back into the bathroom and I’ll be right there.”

I sit and wait on the toilet afraid to do or touch anything. My mother walks in with a pillow case and two huge safety pins.

“Stand up” she says. She pulls down my underwear, takes the pillowcase and puts it between my legs and makes a big diaper out of it and then pins the sides with the safety pins.

“There, that should do it. Don’t move around too much or you’ll bleed more. Stay in bed for a few days until the bleeding lets up. You’ll be fine.”

“Can I put my pajamas on Ma”? “No,” she says, “you’ll stain them.
The pillowcase will work out fine. No baths and no getting your feet wet.”

With my t-shirt on and the pillow case diaper, I go straight to bed.

“What’s wrong with her”? my brother asks from the top bunk.

“Both of you be quiet and go to sleep.”

I live in fear for the next few days and nights, worried about moving too much. At one point, I stain through the pillow case and go through to the sheet on the bed. My mother is asleep and I ask Rose, the upstairs neighbor if she could help me find an extra pillow case. I guess my mother’s insanity was recognized even then.
Rose’s response is that I had better wait until my mother wakes up.

The pillowcase fix continued for the next couple of years until I discover that sanitary napkins exist. I ask for a box and the pillow case diapers end.

So many questions from Dr. Lubin. Did I know how mean and cruel this was? Did I know how abusive this was? Did I know how crazy my mother was?

Difficult to answer through the uncontrollable sobbing.

But I know now.

My 100th post

Penny's From Heaven

2008-04-02T14:45:00.011-04:00

I wait outside in the hot afternoon sun, sitting on the old splintered fence that is in the small front yard of our basement apartment on Henry Street. It's hot, flies are buzzing around, Ma's sleeping, Frankie is with his friends and Big Franks is at work. I swing my legs back and forth and notice all the black and blues on my legs from playing. I'm wearing plaid shorts and a palid shirt, my red Keds. I'm trying to keep my hands clean because they have to be when you touch babies. My hair is clean and washed. I just got it cut this morning at Johnny the Barbers's. Frankie says I'm not a real girl cause I go to the same barbershop he goes to and he says my hair cut looks dippy. He calls me "bowl head".

I make believe I'm just sitting here but I'm really waiting. I've been waiting all day for this and I want to be ready for her.

I finally hear a creak of a door opening. It's the outside porch screen door on the 2nd floor of the house next door. It's her! Yay! Finally!

I jump way off the fence and land on the cement sidewalk in front. I run next door as fast as I can, run up the 26 steps I've counted so many times, to the 2nd floor front door just in time.

"Hi Penny", I say. "Want some help taking Baby Lorraine down the steps in her carriage"? "Hey baby girl", Penny says smiling. "What a nice suprise to see you. Are you playing outside today?" "Yep," I say, "just hanging around".

"Well arent't you a sweetie girl to offer to help. That would be really nice, but be careful, I don't want you falling down those stairs and getting hurt."

"Nah, I'm a big girl, I'm almost 7." Penny smiles and winks at me.

I hold the screen door open so Penny can get the baby carriage out the door with Baby Lorraine in it.

Penny gently tips the carriage back and eases it down the step to the porch.

I stand guard along side of the carriage, holding onto to the metal piece with all my might, that is on the side of the carriage cover, in case in slips. Penny gently tips the carriage towards her, and plop, down one stair, another tip, plop, another stair, all the way down to the sidewalk so Baby Lorraine doesn't get scared or hurt.

On the sidewalk Penny checks on Baby Lorraine to make sure she's okay and laying right in the carriage. Penny leans over Baby Lorraine, fixes her little t-shirt and says, "Lorraine, say hello to Suzy. Suzy helped us down the stairs." I peek inside the carriage and see Baby Lorraine smiling, waving her arms and drooling.

"She's happy Penny," I say. "I think so too, Suzy," as Penny bends down to my height, fluffs my hair and draws me closer to her and gives me a hug. I love Penny's hugs. I get to smell her pretty perfume. It's not the perfume that Ma wears and then gets mixed with the fried onion smell from the White Tower. Ma never hugs anyway, but I can smell her from a distance.

Penny Jones is the most beautiful woman in the world. She lives next door to me on the 3rd floor with her husband Sam Jones, a fireman. Sam is the only Negro fireman in New Haven. Penny is tall has long black shiny hair, and is a light skinned Negro woman. She has pretty freckles all over her face. She wears a light pink lipstick on her lips, not like the heavy fire engine red lipstick Ma uses that makes her look like a clown with big lips. Ma puts the lipstick on like you ouline a drawing before you color it. Ma never kisses me anyway, but when Penny kisses me, there's always this little outline of her lips on my cheek that I try not to wash off for a long time.

"Want to walk to the store and get a bottle of milk and a few other things Suzy?", Penny asks. "I'll let you push the carriage". I smile and say, "yes please." I put my hands on the metal handle of the big baby carriage. I can just about see over the handle to Baby Lorraine.
I make believe in my head again, that I belong to Penny and that she's my mom. We walk down the street, her long soft hands on my shoulders, guiding me. Baby Lorraine is lucky to have Sam and Penny for parents. They never yell at her and really love her and are kissing her all the time.

We finish at the store and head back home. We take the baby carriage with Baby Lorraine in it back of the steps the same way we came down. Penny stands on the first step, tips the carriage gently towards her and pulls the carriage up, one step at a time. I stand by the side of the carriage again and help guide the carriage back up the 26 steps.

The best part of the day is going to happen and I can hardly wait.
Penny leaves the carriage on the second floor inside the door and picks up Baby Lorraine. I help Penny carry some of the groceries and follow Penny up the stairs to their 3rd floor apartment. Penny opens the door to the kitchen into a beautiful apartment. Windows are open, shades are open, light colors are on the walls, not like the dark yellow walls in Ma's house with all the blinds and windows closed. Penny's house doesn't smell like cigarette smoke like mine does either. Penny puts the sleeping Baby Lorraine in the crib in the bedroom next to the kitchen.

"Hey sweet girl," Penny says. "How about some Pepsi and I bought your favorite cookies at the store- Mallomars?" WOW. Mallomars, am I happy! But the best part still hasn't happened yet........

Penny gets 2 real glasses from her cupboard and 2 plates with flowers on them. Ma always uses plastic cups. I sit at the kitchen table really quiet. Penny pours the soda. "Want some ice cubes with that baby girl"? "No thank you," I say, not wanting to bother Penny. Penny opens the Mallomar package and puts 4 cookies on each plate. One for her and one for me.

We sit at the kitchen table, eating the cookies and drinking pepsi cola and Penny talks about all kinds of stuff. Am I looking forward to going back to school? Do I like to read? What kind of books do I like? Do I like tv and what do I watch.

I listen to every word she says to me and I answer politely. I want her to really like me. I'm pretty sure she does though. Penny finishes her cookies and puts her plate in the sink. She puts her glass of soda on the window sill next to a wooden rocking chair. "Hey baby doll! Want me to put your favorite record on the record player?
It's happening! It's getting to be the best part of the day!
The record player is on a stand next to the kitchen table in a special cabinet that has the records on the bottom. Penny chooses my favorite record from her records, The Platters, takes the record out of it's jacket, opens the record player, and places the record on the record changer. She turns the knob to 33 1/3, plop, goes the record onto the spinning piece of rubber, the arm moves over the first groove of the record and sinks gently into the groove of the first song. You can hear a couple of scratchy sounds before the song starts. But as soon as the music starts and it's like I'm in heaven.
Penny takes her seat in the rocking chair, lights up a cigarette and holds it between her first and 3rd finger like real ladies do. Not like Ma or Big Frank. They hold their cigarettes in their thumb and first finger like the bad guys in the movies do. Penny takes a puff from her cigarette and turns to the window and blows the smoke out the window through the screen. Ma and Big Frank always blow the smoke in my face cause they know I hate it. Penny would never do that.
After a while Penny starts to sing along with the Platters and even though I know every single word I don't have a pretty voice like Penny and I just want to hear her sing. Sometimes, she looks right at me and sings the words like she's singing just to me, especially my favorite song.

Heavenly shades of night are falling, its twilight time.
Out of the mist your voice is calling, tis twilight time.
When purple covered curtains mark the end of day
I'll hear you my dear at twilight time.

I know it's a song about men and women, but it sounds like a lullaby to me.
As the song continues, Penny opens her arms and says," Come sit on my lap baby girl".
I go over to her, sit on her lap and curl up as close as I can, wishing I could stay here forever, while she holds me, rocks me and sings the soft and slow music in my ear as the song finishes.

Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done
Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun
I count the moments 'til you're here with me
Together at last at twilight time.
Here in the afterglow of day
We keep our rendevous beneath the blue
And in the sweet and same old way
I fall in love again as I did then
Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me
Like days of old
Lighting the spark of love that fills me
With dreams untold
Each day I pray for evening just to be with you
Together at last at twilgiht time.
Together at last at twilight time.

The music continues and just as I begin to fall asleep in Penny's arms, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. It's SAM!!!! Sam's here! I LOVE SAM- Penny's husband. Sam is home from the firehouse. The kitchen door swings open and Sam Jones walks in, smiling, standing there with his hands on his hips. "Well, it's all my special girls, right here!" "Hi Suzy Baby". " Hi Honey", he says to Penny. Sam walks over to the rocking chair bends over to kiss Penny, then takes my chin in his great big hands and kisses me on the forehead. "Where's Lorraine, sleeping"? Penny tells Sam how we've been out most of the afternoon and how much I helped with Lorraine and the carriage and the groceries. Sam smiles and thanks me for helping and goes into the bedroom to see his baby daughter.

"So you girls are having a party without me again huh? How come nobody waited for me? I'm fun at party," Sam says as he pinches my cheek.

"Ah, The Platters! Suzy's favorite group and mine too," Sam says.
"Well, I sure can't sing as well as you two can, but I sure can dance"!

Sam stands in front of the rocking chair, bows to me and Penny and says, "Ladies, may I have this dance?" This is the best part of the day! I'm so happy I almost can't breathe.

I jump off Penny's lap. Sam picks me up, places me on his hip and holds me on his right side and holds Penny on his left side, and the 3 of us begin to slow dance. Dancing together, holding on to each other, and singing. The words of the song, to this day, never to be forgotten, some 50+ years later.

When the twilight is gone and no songbirds are singing
When the twilight is gone you come into my heart
And here in my heart you will stay while I pray

My prayer is to linger with you
At the end of the day in a dream that's divine
My prayer is a rapture in blue
With the world far away and your lips close to mine

Tonight while our hearts are aglow
Oh tell me the words that I'm longing to know

My prayer and the answer you give
May they still be the same for as long as we live
That you'll always be there at the end of my prayer

Soon after the dancing stopped, I could hear my mother shriek from the back yard to get "the hell home" immediately.

Penny and Sam would hug and kiss me and Sam would walk me home.
Heaven would continue on another day.

*Note: I had 2 really great summers with Penny and Sam Jones.
They moved from Henry Street after that and I only saw them a few more times. They moved to a suburb and my mother was jealous that they got out of Henry Street so visiting them was always dependent on her.
Unfortunatley Penny Jones passed away at an early age. I was 11 or 12 when I learned she passed away from kidney disease. I saw Sam and Lorraine a few times after that. They were extremely sad. I never got a chance to say goodbye to her or tell her how important she was to me, but I bet she somehow knows.

I miss her to this day. I have never nor will I ever forget her.
Even named my dog after her...Penny.

Darkness Before the Dawn

2008-03-09T18:25:00.006-04:00

Dark,no light, can't see. Don't fit in my high chair anymore. I move and my skin pinches against the wood seat, diaper wet, t shirt wet and cold from the milk I spilled on myself. My bobbie's top came off. Ma got real mad. Milk on floor she just washed. "Now you've gone and done it", she screams. "I just washed and waxed the floor and you go and spill the god-damn baby bottle all over the floor. There's glass everywhere."

Every time she screams at me I jump, scared, scared because I know what's coming. It's hard for me to take breaths, I cry so much. I didn't mean it. It slipped.

Ma crosses to where my high chair is and stands in the milk mess I made and gives me a slap across the face and scares me even more. It hurts, it really hurts.

Ma is big and strong. She opens the kitchen back door to the dark hall way and picks up the high chair with me in it and slams it against the wall in the dark hallway. My head hits the back of the high chair and I cry again, boogers coming from my nose and I can taste it on my lips. She leaves me there and slams the kitchen door.

I hear her screams even though the door is closed.

"I'm sick and tired of cleaning up your shit all the time." Can't you do anything right? What the hell was wrong with me having a second god damn kid. Don't you dare let me hear you crying out there or I'll give you something to cry about you little shit!"

I hear her tell Frankie to get the broom and watch out for the glass. I try and cry soft so Ma won't hear me. Frankie never seems to get yelled at.

Ma opens the kitchen door quickly and I jump. But she doesn't even look at me.
She walks past me and gets the bucket and mop, goes back into the kitchen and slams the door. So much loud noise, so much yelling, when Ma isn't happy.

Ma finishes washing the floor but doesn't come out into the hallway again to put the bucket and mop back.

It's so dark out here. The hallway is long and scary. Right next to my highchair is the door to the cellar. Frankie says the boogie man is down there and comes out at night. I've been down there in the day with the twins upstairs and it is really scary. There's a big machine down there that makes noise at night. Frankie says it's for heat and water, but at night he says it comes alive.

I try to look up, down, and all around for light. I think I see some light under the kitchen door. I hold up my hand to where the line of light is and I think I can see the top of my fingers. Scary looking fingers. I wiggle them to try and see them better, but I can't see all of them.

BAROOOOOMMMMMM! I jump at the sound of the big machine in the cellar. It's louder than I remember. I start to cry again, just a little. I'm afraid the big machine has arms and legs and can move at night up the stairs. Great big green arms to choke me, great big legs to kick me.

My crying has made me have hiccups. It's tight in this high chair. I put my own arms on the arms of the high chair and can feel the cold wood. I move my legs and one of my socks fall off. It's cold out here. I am falling down in the chair and can't pick myself up. It's like I'm stuck.

The big machine hasn't walked up the stairs yet to get me. I make sure my eyes are wide open, but I can't tell. I keep looking at the door to the cellar. It's all dark now. There's no light coming from the bottom of the kitchen door. Frankie and Ma must have gone to bed.

I try and stay awake in case the big machine opens the door, but then it's quiet again. Maybe the green machine sleeps too?

It's all dark and quiet. I wonder if I'm even here. I can't tell.

I can't see anything and no one can see me.

Maybe I've gone away some where.......

10-12 Months

2008-02-18T13:21:00.004-05:00

High chair sitting, I don’t make noise. Seat makes sticks of wood stick in me if I move too much. Ma yells when I cry or call her name . Ma doesn’t look my way. If I move my rattle too much, she looks at me mean. Ma talks to the Boy. I hear “sister….carriage…out….need to sleep.” The Boy shakes his head, ma yells, the Boy leaves the room.
Boy comes back. I get happy when he starts to take me out of the highchair. I flap my arms and laugh, boy says shutup and sit still. Boy grabs my rattle and sticks it in his pocket.
Boy lifts me out of highchair scraping my legs. No pants on me, just diaper and shirt with old spit up on it. I start to cry, boy and ma say “shutup or you won’t go anywhere.” I stop crying. If I don’t, big hands hit me. I get scared because it hurts.
Boy carries me to moving bed with wheels. Lets me fall in, I hit my head on the side, but it’s okay because Boy throws my rattle next to me. I still don’t cry.
Love going for these rides in the moving bed with wheels. See the bright light in the sky, see trees, and sometimes birdies. Not smoky like inside house, my nose likes it too. I flap my arms and giggle.
Boy pushes bed on wheels and my eyes close and open, close and open and then close.
Eyes open. Back of my head is wet. Leaves up in sky all around me. Bed on wheels isn’t moving. Eyes want to close again. I move my rattle. Boy’s head looks inside bed on wheels. He has spots on his face, and lots of hair on his head. Sometimes people call him Red. Boy says, “close your eyes and go back to sleep.” Boy stands in front of bed on wheels throwing a bouncy ball up in the sky and catches it. I flap my arms, to play. Boy turns away. I move my rattle lots of times, boy still doesn’t look.
Eyes close.
Eyes open fast and wide. Boy is tugging at my diaper. I wave my arms. Is Boy picking me up?
Boy looks at me funny. Boy puts his hand inside my diaper. Boy is smiling. I’m making boy happy. I flap my arms and giggle. Boy is never happy.
OUCH! Something under my belly hurts. Something hurts really bad. I cry. Boy says “shutup”. Something is pushing inside of me so hard it makes my head bump against the top soft part of the bed on wheels. My whole body goes back and forth against the top soft part of the bed on wheels. I’m scared. Where’s ma? I’m still crying. Boy is smiling and pushing harder. Boy says. “shutup, mommy says you’re a bastard, shutup you bastard”! I cry more, drop my rattle. Can’t find my rattle, Want my rattle, want my ma. Want boy to stop. I kick my legs, the more I kick the more it hurts.
Boy takes hand out of diaper. Diaper is wet. “Mommy will change your diaper, you wet bastard. Mommy doesn’t like wet bastards.” Boy pushes bed on wheels back home. I am wet, tired and scared.

No Exits

2008-02-07T13:26:00.000-05:00

It was an exceptionally painful group last night. Anniversaries and birthdays crop up from traumas past, certainly not yet forgotten, nor will they ever be. Old wounds reappear as if they happened yesterday. Raw and painful, they seem to almost physically present themselves.

There is something sacred about sitting in a room with women who are mourning so deeply. We grieve as if alone. When we speak it’s as if we are thinking thoughts outloud that we dare not say in front of anyone.

A secret society of sorts I guess.

As I drove home on this cold, dark, and rainy winter night, a sadness so palpable begins to set in. Not only for myself but for the others in the group.

It’s taken me a year to finally learn how to “just sit” with the sadness of others and myself. Sit with a hole so deeply embedded in your heart and soul, no one can understand it. There is no way around it.

No one can fix it. No one can make it better. No one can change it.

Years ago I couldn’t even think about the sadness.

Last year I couldn’t sit still thinking about the sadness. It occupied every waking moment, intruded every dream I had at night, and blinded me to any hope or aspiration.

I saw fear and sadness at each and every turn. It was everywhere. No escape. Like the Satre novel, No Exits, where different levels of hell exist for everyone. You are stuck in your own personal hell with every despicable character and perpetrator that crossed your path.

There have been many profound moments in this group.

Last night something clicked that makes so much sense to me now.

As the trauma is dissected in front of us all, TGD gently and quietly guides us through the reality and maze of tragedy and trauma.

TGD is a healer in every sense of the word. The healing is magical when you consider the depths at which you once were.

How this woman does this is beyond me. I see the healing powers with others and not just myself. And I look- I actually watch to see how she does this and it’s still a mystery to me. Her answers and even her questions just flow. It seems so natural to her, like laughing or driving or reading a book. But it’s not as trite as that. It’s her passion, her cause, her gift to others.

“You cannot alter the tragedy”, she says, “No one can take away your pain. It will never go away. It is embedded in your being. It cannot be fixed.”

“What you can do,” she continued, “is to recognize it for what it was, a horrible, senseless tragedy that has changed your life. Once that is recognized and that tragedy is put in its place, you can continue to rebuild the life that was taken. Make changes, takes risks, and begin to trust yourselves.”

Was this the first time I’ve heard these words?
Was this the first time TGD said these words?
Was this the first time I was ready to hear these words?

Maybe a combination of all three. I don’t know.
I do know that sitting with the trauma, seeing it, dissecting it outloud with others and facing it has somehow put the trauma in remission.

Yes, the trauma has happened.

But that was then and this is now.

Today remission. Tomorrow perhaps I'll discover the cure.

Two For a Nickel

2008-01-21T11:14:00.000-05:00

5 Years Old

Faster than a speeding bullet.
More powerful than a locomotive.
Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Look! Up in the sky!
It's a bird. It's a plane. It's Superman!.

I’m rocking, rocking, rocking in Ma’s big wooden rocking chair next to our bunkbeds and across from the big black and white TV, watching my favorite tv show.
“Come on, play with me,” Frankie says. “NO, I wanna watch Superman,” I say, still in the chair.
“You always want to play with me, why not now? I’m letting you play with me,”
Frankie says as he stands in front of Lois and Jimmy.
“STOPPPPP!!!, I wanna watch Superman! Get out of the way Frankie,” I plead as he turns the TV off.
“CUT IT OUT FRANKIE, or I’ll tell Mommy.”
I’ll tell mommy you’re not minding me. I’m supposed to be watching you and you know how mad she gets if I call her at work and tell her you’re being bad.”
“I’m not being bad,” I scream. “I just wanna watch Superman.”
“I’ll turn Superman back on if you play with me. You can watch while we play. I’ll show you.
I’ll even give you a dime from my dime bank for cupcakes.”
“TURN SUPERMAN BACK ON FRANKIE!”
Frankie turns tv back on. “Get on the floor Suzy and lay on your tummy. All you have to do is that, honest.”
I think about being able to watch Superman and keep Frankie quiet and what I will do with the dime from his bank.
I get off the rocking chair, lay on the cold linoleum floor, rest my head in my hands, and I lean on my elbows.
“What are you doing Frankie? Are we wrestling?”

Frankie is laying on top of me rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against me up and down up and down. Frankie stops to pull my pants down.
“Don’t take my pants off, it’s cold.” “You won’t be cold,” Frankie says, “I’ll cover you like a blanket would so you won’t be cold.” Frankie gets on top of me again.
Something hurts, like something stuck inside me. My elbows hurt from the floor rubbing against them. My hiney hurts from the stick inside. I tell Frankie. He stops, goes into Mommy’s room and gives me a pillow to lay on. “Here, lay on this and I’ll go nice and easy instead, I promise.”

It still hurts, but I watch Superman and pretend I know Superman and he knows me. People try to hurt him and they don’t know he can’t be hurt, but he pretends to be hurt so they don’t find out he’s really Superman. Superman never ever gets hurt.

Wow.

Superman ends.

Frankie ends.

I get up from the floor and pull up my pants.

“I don’t like that game. It hurts too much. Where’s my dime”?
Frankie goes to his bureau drawer and pulls out his dime bank with the letters "CSB" in big gold letters and goes into the kitchen.
He’s back with a butter knife and tips the CSB dime bank up and eases out a dime through the thin slot using the butter knife to guide it through.
“I’ll give you this dime on one condition- you don’t tell Mommy, and if you do I’ll tell her you stole it from me. She knows you don’t have money.”
I take the dime and walk to Sherman’s variety store.

My hostess cupcakes are waiting for me. Two for a nickel. Four cupcakes, all mine. I can buy two packages. I pick out the two biggest packs of cupcakes I see and pay Sherman the dime my brother gave me.

I sit on the steps of Sherman’s, open the cupcake package wrapping carefully not to squish the cupcakes. I take a big bite out of one of them. The cake part with some of the cream filling is the first I taste. It melts in my mouth and I swallow the pieces with a longing for more.

With each cupcake I follow the same rules, my rules:

Bottoms first, the cake part

Tops last, because the frosting with the squiggle is the best part.

I eat the bottom first with a little bit if the cream filling and save the chocolate frosting with the white squiggle for last with the rest of the cream inside.

The more I eat the cupcakes, all four of them, the hurt that my hiney was feeling from the game begins to go away.

I begin to feel better and not so empty.

Frankie can be nice when he wants.

Gone For A Bit....

2007-12-17T08:18:00.000-05:00

Hi Everyone,

I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who reads and comments on my posts.

I am truly flattered and honored that you take the time out of your hectic lives.

I will not be posting for while.

My attention needs to turn inward and write.

Thank you again for the kindness, kind words and support you have given.

The most peaceful and happiest of holidays to everyone and the best the New Year has to offer.

Love,
Suzy

10 Years Old (excerpt from my book)

2007-12-10T11:34:00.000-05:00

10 years
“I have to tell you some things about growing up,” ma says. She’s sitting at the kitchen table,smoking and setting her hair with bobby pins, getting ready to go to work. “Now’s a good time. Your brother is out and it’s just us. I stand in front of her listening. I was outside playing baseball when she called me in. I’m wearing my favorite gray sweatshirt with a red collar, like some of the baseball guys wear. I have my fingers still inside my Mickey Mantle baseball glove and want to get back outside to play.

Ma only calls me in the house to yell. She’s always telling me to get out of the house so I know I’ve done something bad. I won’t cry, it makes her madder and I won’t show her I’m scared. She’ll think I’m giving her “that look” that means I’m not happy with what she’s saying. Then I’ll really get it.

“When girls get older,” ma says, their bodies change so they can have babies. Pretty soon,once a month you’ll start to bleed from “down there,” as she points to my pee pee. It’s nothing to be scared about. It happens once a month. It’s called a “period”. I get one, Aunt Annie gets one and Rose upstairs gets one. Just let me know when you get yours and we’ll take care of it. You can go back outside now. Oh and one more thing, after you get this “period” and start to bleed? NEVER EVER let anyone touch you “DOWN THERE,” as she points to my pee pee again.

I almost don't believe what she's saying. Oh-oh. I’m scared all of a sudden. Boys have touched me down there. But I’m not bleeding yet, so that must be okay, I think, afraid to say anything to her. But I am really, really scared.

What if I have a baby? What if I bled already and didn’t know it? What if Ma finds out? I’m so scared I can’t hold back the tears. Ma looks at me and says, “has anyone touched you down there?” Through my sobbing and stuttering, I say very softly and hope she won’t hear me”….Frankie…..” There’s no sound except for my sobbing. Ma is still setting her hair and smoking and looking at me. She looks really mad. But all she says is, “Okay, you can go out and play now. I have to sleep before I go to work.”

I walk back outside with my fingers still in my Mickey Mantle baseball glove. I didn’t dare tell Ma about Frankie’s friend Georgie. Georgie comes over when no one is home and lets me wrestle with him on the big bed. I worry that we’ll mess it up, but Georgie knows how to fix the bed so it looks like Ma just made it. Georgie wrestles with me and most of the time it’s fun, except for when Georgie gets all sweaty and breathes hard on top of me and I can’t get up. He lies on top of me and sometimes I get a funny feeling in my pee pee that feels good.

I know it’s bad now, so I won’t ever do it again, ever.

Okay, I've Been Tagged...

2007-11-28T19:03:00.001-05:00

by the lovely My Own Woman. http://myownwoman.blogspot.com/

7 Things About Me.

1. I LOVE My favorite TV show (EVER) Law & Order. I watch the reruns, the marathons, all of them. SVU, Criminal Intent and the regular Law & Order and I have actually met and talked to Marishka Hargitay from SVU. She is drop dead gorgeous.
After that is (was) 6 FT Under, Dexter and I tape The Young and the Restless and watch it every night.

2. I once heard my German Shepherd Tony actually talk. He was sitting next to me on the couch, looked up at me and said "Whoa".

3. My real name is Maria (and don't EVER call me that).

4. I once saw a car crash as I was standing on the street corner, and ran after the car, pulled a woman from it, before it hit a tree and then threw up on her because I got scared.

5. I tried to enter the convent when I was 18.

6. I got arrested once when I was 19 when I was working at the White Tower Hamburger Restaurant.
A customer called me a bitch so I took the plastic ketchup bottle and squirted her all over with it and we both got arrested. Rode to the police station in a paddy wagon with her. The case was thrown out after a couple of weeks.

7. I think I'm the funniest person I know.

I now tag,
http://whittereronautism.com/
http://myfavoriteatistic.blogspot.com/
http://manicmotheroffive.blogspot.com/
http://selfemployedmum.blogspot.com/
http://separationanxieties.blogspot.com/

Tight Lipped

2007-11-04T17:36:00.000-05:00

I am five years old standing next to my mother's blonde bureau, leaning on my elbows with my head in my hands.

She takes no notice of me as I stand there and watch the routine in front of the mirror. It's as if I'm not even there.

My mother is dressed in her White Tower Restaurant uniform, ready for work. She wears the uniform like a Marine in his dress uniform. Her outfit is so starched that touching her dress is like touching cardboard. If you run your fingers along the uniform you can hear a scratchy sound. She has an angry look on her face, the same one all the time.

On her bureau is a line of lipstick tubes lined up like my brother's toy soldiers, all in a perfect row saluting her. Their reflection in the mirror makes it seem like there's more tubes than she really has.

She is almost perfectly dressed, except on this day you could see a scorch mark on the otherwise pristine red and white polka dot uniform she had just ironed. I am too scared to tell her. She would only yell at me.

She bends over looking closely in the mirror and outlines her lips with the lipstick tube. It doesn't matter which one she chooses. They are all the same. Fire Engine Red.

She outlines her lips with the lipstick like I trace comic book figures. Always staying in the line, never going outside of the line.
I don't tell her but sometimes the lipstick is so thick, her lips look like a clown's. Sometimes she even leaves for work with lipstick on her teeth. My mother doesn't like to be told things. So I keep silent.

Next, she takes a kleenex out of the box on her bureau and puts the tissue in between her lips and blots her lips by smacking them together. It makes a sound like you would call a puppy. She puts the tissue down on the bureau and I see the outline of her lips. It's like those wax lips at Halloween. Perfect.

I hate this. She can kiss a tissue, but she won't kiss me.

I suppose I could put lipstick on if I really wanted to. God knows I've watched her long enough.
But I never have.

Dinner Time

2007-10-27T19:35:00.000-04:00

Dinner Time

Dinner is at 4pm sharp everyday. Just the three of us. Me, Frankie and Mommy. I’m six, Frankie is twelve. The Mickey Mouse club has just ended on TV. I have pedal pushers on and a boy’s checkered shirt and sneaks, Frankie is wearing a baseball shirt from practice and my mother is wearing her usual flowered house dress, no sleeves, raggy slippers that make her shuffle like an old woman. Her hair is set in bobby pins and wound so tight on her head, you see her pulled white scalp.
There really is nothing to setting the table, not much needed for TV dinners in the aluminum tray. Just a fork, and a knife, courtesy of White Tower cutlery, and three glasses. Soda for me, milk for Frankie, and water for my mother. We have the usual, meat loaf for me, Salisbury steak for Frankie and fried chicken for my mother. The only day that varies is Friday. Can’t eat meat on Fridays so we have fishsticks. Just fishsticks. We’re Catholic but we only go to church on Palm Sunday (for the Palm you get) and Easter. Christmas we don’t go because no one can take us.
Next to my mother’s fork is her favorite metal ashtray, my mother’s extra piece of silverware at the dinner table. My brother jumps up to reach the top of the refrigerator where the comic books are kept only to be read at dinnertime.
Frankie puts his Captain Action comic book by the left side of his plate, throws my Archie and Jughead comic book at me across the table and hand my mother her Secret Romance and Confessions comic book which she places on the left side of her plate.
She pulls the aluminum trays from the oven one by one, placing them on the formica table on top of dish towels in front of us. Opening a corner at a time, the steam leaks out and mingles with the stinky cigarette smoke already in the air.
I see her through the haze of smoke coming from the stained-lipstick laden cigarette jetting out from the groove of the metal ashtray. She likes those best- easier to clean. “The cigarette burns are hard to get off glass,” she says, and “Glass ashtrays are only for company,” she declares, which is strange because we never have any company.
Other stained butts lay amidst the ashes next to the currently lit Pall Mall. She does the same thing every time we eat dinner. She picks up the cigarette like a gangster in movie, between her thumb and fore finger, brings the nasty cigarette to her lips, sucks in her roughly skinned cheeks, and inhales and all the while her eyes are squinting as if she were looking directly into the sun. She then puts the cigarette in it’s groove, turns the page of the Romance comic book on the left hand side of the plate, and blows the smoke across the table to where I sit, picks up the fork and stuffs a piece of food inside her mouth. She looks like she’s in a puppet show and some guy is pulling her strings from on top of the stage and can make the puppet’s mouth open and close, move it’s arms with a herky jerky motion. Cigarette smoke always drifts over the kitchen table. I try and wave it away with my hands to keep it at bay, but her constant drags on the cigarette and the smoke wafting my way makes the TV dinners that much less appealing.
Often one of the butts she snuffs out, still burns. She hardly notices. “Ma” I say, “it’s still smoking”. My words seemed to interrupt the flow of her movements and the look from across the table is enough to warn me not to complain any further. The rotten smell covers everything, the food, the house, and me.
“If it’s bothering you that much, get up off your ass and move it to the sink,” she yells, "and take the glasses and silverware too.” I grab the ashtray with my thumb and first finger, careful to touch it as little as I can, as if it has some sort of contagious disease that I will catch and I make a face as I touch it . I gag and give off a dry heave. “Just get the god damn ashtray to the sink and stop being a baby or I’ll make you cry like a baby. I ask you god damn kids for nothing. I ask you for one god damn thing and you make a song and dance out of everything. Give me that,” she says angrily, “you don’t know what you’re doing anyway. Get out of the kitchen and don't bother me."
That was dinner.

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

2007-10-18T14:03:00.000-04:00

"There is no doubt that you have been shortchanged as a result of the way you were treated during your traumatic events. You deserve better than that, like any person who has been fortunate enough to have parents and friends who supported her and showed their love openly. You did not deserve to be abused, put down, humiliated, or neglected. But you were. When a person is shortchanged, particularly by someone who was supposed to love and protect them, they usually get filled up with rage and a wish for revenge. It is usually manifested by uncontrollable anger and rage attacks. That is understandable; the problem is that it leads to problems with relationships and eventually leads to isolation. If you can accept the fact that you were shortchanged and you are not to blame for the abuse, then you can forgive yourself. This forgiveness will allow you to move on, to be less bitter, and to be less angry."
TGD

Picking up a purple marker from the white board tray TGD turns to the group once again and presents her questions. The same scene from last week repeats itself. We all sit in our same chairs with the same scared look on our faces. The only thing different is the clothes we wear from week to week.

"What problems do you have with your anger and rage and could you please share with the group how it manifests itself"?, TGD scans the group and asks. Once again no one comes up with an answer. This is the moment TGD calls on a random group member to be the first to respond.
"Carla", TGD says to the student, "can you think of any of the times you've shown your rage and anger either lately or in your childhood."

Carla, munching on a bag of trail mix suddenly seems to twist like a kite stuck on a tree in the wind. The bag she is clutching seems to suddenly become a stress ball. The crackling from the bag sounds like a roaring fire in the quiet room.

"I don't know. I guess I throw things and swear. Like I had a fight with my boyfriend last night and like, he just wasn't listenting, and like I had to get his attention to like, pay attention to me, so I like threw a book at him and he got pissed."

"So your boyfriend not listening to you triggers an outburst from you, correct"?, TGD inquires. "Yeh," Carla responds.

On the board with the purple marker TGD writes the words,

Not getting attention you deserve.

"Does this remind you of any experiences in the past," TGD asks.
"Yeh, well sure," Carla adds, "my parents like never listened so I guess I would act out and do stuff that would make them pay attention to me, like break something or swear, steal things and finally I started taking drugs to get their attention and that would work."

Other members then began to respond with their experiences of how they manifest their anger. Other words and phrases join Carla's contribution to acts of rage on the spindly legged white board.

Saying hurtful things to/about others
Being judgemental
Angry at someone else's success/jealousy
Pulling back and not communicating

As the list grew I sat there and thought about my own rage and where it was. I was depressed and sad about things, but rage, I don't think so, unless it is so well hidden I was missing it.

Suddenly I heard my name. "Suzy," TGD said,"can you tell us about your experiences with rage and anger."

Shit. Here we go again.

I thought for a bit and began explaining that rage was something I tried not to have.
"All my life, my mother was in a constant rage. I spent all my childhood just doing what I was told and trying not to rock the boat. Actually I have spent my entire life trying not to rock the boat. Rage and anger are the two things I don't want to see or deal with- anything but that. I will do anything to make things peaceful at all costs."

"Suzy, can you explain to the group what experiences in your childhood led you to being the "peacemaker" that you are?"
Damn it! This was a setup. We touched upon this in therapy. Now I have to spit it out here.

As I heard myself recount these stories, a slow motion video was playing in my head, the kind that slows down when the really awful part hits the screen. What I saw was a little girl standing on a old kitchen chair,matching the 1950's formica kitchen table, cheap plastic seat and metal legs,crying, sobbing. She was maybe 6 or 7. She had her 2 arms bent at the elbow and her mother was screaming at her. "Stand still or I'll give you something to cry about. Hold your arms still God damnit!" The little girl had contacted empetigo, some sort of skin infection that kids got from playing in the dirt outside.
It had already blistered and festered. Calamine lotion had been applied to it and now it had crusted over and large scabs had formed. The mother was removing the scabs by scraping them with a butter knife. But the child was in pain and couldn't stop crying. The mother finally smacked her in the head with the back of her hand and told her now she had something to cry about.
That little girl, for the 2nd time in her short life wanted to hurt her mother back. Punch her, kick her, shove her. But she couldn't. Her rage would get her nowhere except another beating.

Interesting that this infection is known as a "trauma of the skin."

Trauma, inside and out.

The first time rage entered this little girl's mind was on Christmas Eve when she and her brother had been innocently counting the wrapped Christmas presents by the cardboard fireplace, below the white artifical Christmas tree. Santa had long since been phased out. The little girl was 6, the boy was 12. Innocent enough game for Christmas Eve, but the mother took offense.
The screams of the mother actually made the little girl jump. The brother knew immediately to run and jump into his upper bunk bed and squeeze as close to the wall as possible as to avoid being beaten.
The little girl wasn't as swift and before she knew it, she was being dragged by the neck of her pajamas, smacked and thrown into bed. All the while the mother screaming," What the hell do you think you two little bastards are doing? Not enough presents? I work my ass off for this God damn family and this is the thanks I get? I'll show you two little ungrateful bastards."
The mother picked up the presents, dropping some on the way out the back door to the back yard. Seconds later, she came back picked up the rest of the presents and went out back again.

Minutes had passed when the little girl decided to get up and go to the kitchen window and look out back. Opening two slats of pristine venetian blinds, the little girl was able to see what the mother had done.
At first all she could see was smoke coming from the 4 ft hole incinerator dug into the ground in the back yard. In the moonlight, the mother was striking match after match and throwing them in the fireproof concrete incinerator. Flames began to were leap out, with sparks flying everywhere . Her mother's face looked like one of those faces in the dark where a person puts a flashlight under their chin to scare you. The little girl wanted someone, anyone to come and make the mother stop any way they could- hit her, smack her, yell at her. But that wasn't going to happen.

The little girl went back to the safety of her bed and fell asleep wondering just what was in those presents. Christmas Day was just another day. The mother went to work, the brother went to see his friends and the little girl stayed home and watched TV.

I wonder about the irony of it all and when it will finally come to rest.

The fire has spread.

My brother, a fireman who was/is a pedophile, and me hoping to heal so many scars in this renovated firehouse.

As the forest blazes, I know that TGD has come to the rescue, like a fire fighting plane swooping over the terrain to prevent the fire from spreading.

Survival Tactics

2007-10-14T17:59:00.000-04:00

"When shameful and humiliating experiences become part of who you are. getting rid of them leaves you empty and scared. That is why so many victims of trauma, especially childhood trauma, feel an overwhelming sense of emptiness, almost like having a black hole inside. Thus looking inside often leaves you in the dark. If you have had many traumatic experiences, then you are filled with a lot of these holes which may have developed into what is called a Personality Disorder, which can interfere with your self esteem and relations with others. Many times there is a wish to fill this hole up, in order not to feel the void. Often traumatized individuals will attempt to fill the void by alcohol, drugs, food and sex."
TGD

This is the opening mini-lecture of the third week of the trauma group. TGD then elicits examples from the group members as to how each one fills her own void and emptiness. The women in the group quietly give answers and TGD lists them on the white board with a fiery red marker.

Drugs
Sex
Alcohol
Food

I wonder if everyone is as embarassed and ashamed as I am to see the sins of our survival strategies posted on the white board.

I pick out my own shameful behavior and cringe at the thought of having to verbalize what is so blatantly obvious to everyone regarding the way I have tired to insulate myself from anyone. My survival strategy serves to insulate me from everyone. They see one of my many failures right before their eyes. At least if I were sexually promiscious, took drugs or was even an alcoholic, it could be hidden, but not the weight. Being overweight sends out screaming alarms to everyone. Not too obvious a visual.

The silence in the room is deafening and interminable. Guilt, humiliation, and disgust seem to spark a chord inside of everyone. Each one of these sins ignites a shame and embarassment that has stoked the fire of traumaike a joke birthday candle that keeps reigniting itself as an unsuspecting child keeps trying to blow it out.

TGD softly asks one of the group members, what she does when she finds a big dark void, a hole. When the group member responds to the inquiry, TGD then carefully probes a little more and asks, "Can you please tell the group, that when you find yourself in this dark lonely place, what usually reminds you or causes you to experience this hole? What are you thinking of?"

TGD begins to open this gaping raw wound for all of us.

As the group member relives her story of brutality and violence heaped on her by a parent, and the feelings associated with the traumas, I once again disapppear into that place in my psyche that I allow no one to enter. It's a double- edged sword- no one enters, but the memories and the perpetrators never leave- or are they memories? Is it then or is it now? The pain, humiliation and shame transcend time. The picture is clear but also cloudy. It's back to a time that sees the longing, the rejection, and the loneliness. But it's not in the past. It's still here. Still here!

At the same time, I am praying that TGD doesn't call on me to speak. Am I still a child in school fearing the teacher, not knowing the right answer and being called stupid?

No sooner do I think these thoughts, TGD turns to me and says, "Suzy, can you please tell us what images come to your mind when you look at the board and think about the various ways to fill the emptiness or voids"?

She knows me, she knows what I'm thinking and she fucking wants me to say it in front of everyone, not just in our private sessions. But there is something in her eyes, something safe, that allows me to trust her with my overwheleming sadness and not have to pretend anymore, and permits me to let her and the others in without fear of shame.

Before I know it I experience a flashback, that visual she knew I had within me, and I begin to recount to TGD and the group, memories involving food. A mother who probably didn't feed me. Memories of TV dinners being put on the table at 4pm with clear angry instructions not to talk and eat as fast as possible as my mother had to go back to bed before getting up for the all night shift. Sitting at that formica kitchen table after the aluminum tray was taken away and just feeling sad. That's all there was. No conversation, no sharing, just silence.
I have memories of going upstairs to the neighbors and knocking on their door to see if I could come in and be with someone, anyone. They would be finishing dinner and offering me their leftovers, seconds, anything that was left. "Eat it Suzy, or we'll just throw it away." The last stop before the garbage. Great, just fucking great. Seems like yesterday, and it probably was. No voids here.
I look at TGD through my tears and at once I am reassured that my "drug of choice" is nothing to be ashamed of. It was a survival tactic and I won. I am still here. My choice got me through the trauma when I could have just given up.
"If I won, why do I feel like such a loser"? I ask.

TGD explains that together we will sort through the memories, events, and traumas of my childhood and extract the past from the present and separate the trauma from the person. They are not one and the same anymore.

TGD will investigate where the hot spots are in the embers of my ashes and will identify the incendiary devices and the arsonist.

At last I feel a sense of belonging and acceptance.

I Have No Idea What the Hell a MEME is,

2007-10-13T09:27:00.000-04:00

but Jerri (LOVE HER) http://reflectionsonthepond,blogspot.com/
MEME'D me who is a grownup up and I respect my elders, so bear with me here.

1.I write in long hand first, because my thoughts are way ahead of my fingers because I can't type like Superman.

2.Even though I LOVE Carly Simon, James Taylor, and the 4 Tops, I only listen to Christian music for inspiration when I write.

3.Sometimes I really don't know where the patterns of thought come from, sometimes they just appear.

4.TGD reads each and every thing I write and post (think I should pay her more????) and loves it. She makes sure she always has her reading glasses with her and with any luck I will be cured by the time we both need guide dogs.

5.The support of the writing community astounds me each and everytime. I am blessed.

I now tag Dgibbs, a blog that is just lovely. You will fall in love with her son Connor, over at
http://>myfavoriteatistic.blogspot.com/

Untying the Gordian Knot

2007-10-07T16:16:00.001-04:00

One day, according to ancient Greek legend, a poor peasant called Gordius arrived with his wife in a public square of Phrygia in an ox cart. As chance would have it, so the legend continues, an oracle had previously informed the populace that their future king would come into town riding in a wagon. Seeing Gordius, therefore, the people made him king. In gratitude, Gordius dedicated his ox cart to Zeus, tying it up with a highly intricate knot - - the Gordian knot. Another oracle -- or maybe the same one, the legend is not specific, but oracles are plentiful in Greek mythology -- foretold that the person who untied the knot would rule all of Asia.
The problem of untying the Gordian knot resisted all attempted solutions until the year 333 B.C., when Alexander the Great -- not known for his lack of ambition when it came to ruling Asia -- cut through it with a sword. "Cheat!" you might cry. And although you might have been unwise to have pointed it out in Alexander's presence, his method did seem to go against the spirit of the problem. Surely, the challenge was to solve the puzzle solely by manipulating the knot, not by cutting it.

Keith Devlin, Mathematician

Silence numbs the small circle of women. Monica’s words have knocked the collective breath out of our flesh and bones. So many levels of pain, so many pieces of the puzzle added to the game board, so many familiar violations endured and described in one fell swoop. The words strike like a backdraft. Constantly deprived of being heard, oxygen to our souls, invisible to those who should care and with the results ending in a fatal explosion that burns everyone surrounding the fire lit by the perpetrator, the only one left standing and unharmed.

With each question TGD asks of the group members, the sadness and perverseness of what we have endured builds. “Who should bear the shame”? “Who should bear the blame”? “Certainly not the victim, but all those who took part in these heinous acts and those who stood by and let it happen.”

As TGD continues I try and concentrate on what she is proclaiming but a sorrow so deeply embedded transports me outside of myself once again and all I see before me is a circle not of women bound together, but of rope with knots representing each one of us. We are all tied together in combined terror. The only thing connecting us is the rope of our combined trauma, shame and fear . With each question TGD poses, the aggregated knots gets tighter and tighter, the silent pain being squeezed to death.
Where is my sense of humor now? Where is that escape I have used so often to disguise my real existence? As the knot gets tighter, less air and light enter and hope gives way to the encroaching darkness.
I then see my life as a succession of knots, many still intertwined around themselves, some cut off, some burned, and some festering. I am unable to get my fingers in between the thick tightly woven threads.

Someone has to help. Undo this mess, untie these knots loosen the grip that has forced me into this unyielding position I’ve gotten myself into. Whatever direction I turn, the knot gets tighter and tighter until I am paralyzed in place where it doesn’t hurt anymore. Just a chronic ache.

So I turn, in trust to TGD who has the nimble healing hands and delicate gentle fingers to help unravel these Gordian knots of 50+ years.

If Only

2007-09-30T14:26:00.000-04:00

The room is set up in the same exact way as the week before. The only sound in the room is the beating of my own heart and a hard, cold, late November rain hitting the windows of the firehouse sideways.The soft lighting from the huge globe lamps hanging from the ceiling and the art adorned brick walls almost gives the room the auora for any kind of group meeting for writers, book club or any other collection of people gathering for pleasure. Pleasure is something I don't acquaint with this room. The stories these walls could tell would set this renovated firehouse on fire itself.

Nervous, scared, and bordering on weepy, I sit in the exact same place last week at this exact time, waiting for the others to pile in. Would this be like every other social situation in my life?
Would I try and play the game I seemed to invent- appearing to be present, but anywhere but in the moment?
It's so much safer that way. Remove myself mentally and pretend I'm part of the group. The wall I had so cleverly built to keep everyone at a distance was being threatened by joining this group. TGD was way too smart to let me continue to hide. This was going to be a problem.

One week down and 15 more to go. What was going to happen then? Would I be "cured", "normal"? The women and their stories were burned into my head and heart forever.
Of course I remember the stories, word for word, but I have trouble remembering their names. It's like my being a lover of dogs, I can always remember the dog's names, but not their master's name. Do I just remember what's important to me? Am I so self absorbed as my friends say? I had more questions about myself than ever before. Why was I so engulfed in self-absorption? Was it really narcissism? Great, I am following in my mother's and brother's footsteps. That old gene pool rears it's ugly head again.

Within minutes, my group mates arrive, Monica the tall blonde, Cindy in her business suit of the day, Jackie, the ever perky student, Diane, the school crossing guard and lastly Faith, who seems so fragile, that to even talk to her would spark some sort of anxiety or panic attack. You got the message she was sending.
Everyone seems to have followed my lead and takes the same seats they did as last week. I am not the person to follow guys, trust me!

TGD enters the room with her Ringer. TGD is carrying her fiery red mug of tea and gently places it on the side table next to her chair.
"Good evening ladies," TGD begins, " I am so happy you all decided to be here again tonight. I know last week was extremely difficult for everyone, not only sharing their own trauma and letting their voice be heard, many for the first time, but also extremely difficult in hearing everyone else's. I want you to know that you all did exceptionally well listening and speaking. Not only have we not spoken of our traumas, but no one has listened. That is not true anymore. You are each other's witness and during these 16 weeks we will learn how to speak to others outside of this group and teach them to listen."

With a black marker in her left hand, TGD writes on the white board two words:

Shame

Identity

TGD then explains "victims of trauma such as physical, sexual or emotional abuse often believe they deserved the abuse.
Out of this helplessness, you conclude, "I must be bad." "For example, she continues, "what is a child to believe if her own parent attacks or violates her? "Yes, I must be no good. I must have deserved it." "So the shameful experience is internalized and becomes the way she views herself. Over the years, these internalized shameful experiences affect how a person feels, thinks, and behaves and, especially if these events occurred as a child, the person's personality and identity can be dramatically affected."

TGD then asks the group for examples of our adulthood or childhood that filled us with shame.

It takes a little prodding, but the group gives several answers that TGD lists on the board. After a while TGD says, "okay lets stop here for now and discuss these issues" and places the black marker back in the tray of the white board and sits.

Silence. Now what???

For what seems like eternity there is stillness in the room. Everyone is looking at the words on the board.

After a while TGD turns to Monica, the tall blonde and says, "Monica, can you tell me what comes to your mind as you think about how your trauma has caused you to feel shame in any way."

Immediately Monica's eyes well with tears as she explains to the group the shame and blame she bears for her young son taking his life at the age of 14. Words between sobs, fill the room and rip at your heart as you listen.

"I never realized, he never said anything, he was a good boy, if only he told me, if only I paid attention, if only I was a better mother, if only his father liked him, if only I knew of the abuse, why didn't he think that I could have helped him, why did he think there was no other solution, did he die being ashamed of something that wasn't his fault, what were his last thoughts, I'll never know, if only......if only.............IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!!

The details of a young man taking his own life, who found him, how he was found, become a visual singed into my psyche forever.

So many other words pour out letting loose a year of guilt and anger for something that never should have happened to anyone.

By this time, everyone is in tears. Her pain is exposed, raw and contagious. There is nothing worse. Listening to Monica, it's as if we all lost a son.

TGD leans foward to Monica and gently guides her through this path of mourning. No platitudes, no patronizing, just tender mercies, explaining to Monica that we are here to listen and take the blame away from her that she has been burdening herself with. TGD explains that the perpetrator has a ripple effect. It's like dominoes crashing down, one right after the other. The perpetrator and only the perpetrator are to blame. The blame or the shame does not belong to Monica.

The perpetrator ignites one fire and then stands back and fans the flame.

to be continued..........

Passing the Baton....

2007-08-15T13:58:00.001-04:00

I was honored today to be given a "Courageous Blogger Award", by Kario at http://the-writing-life.com/.
The award is given for "bloggers who are battling or have battled with physical or mental illness, those who are survivors of abuse, poverty or who have overcome other challenges in life. Those who serve in the military or work/volunteer in dangerous situations in order to provide a service or to help others. This award is for the strong, the brave and the courageous."
While I find it difficult to fit that mold, I am extremely indebited to my fellow bloggers, whether they comment or not. Their presence and their personal stories encourages me to continue writing the truth as I see it.
In turn I am passing this award to The Perpetual Search for Personal Nirvana at http://myownwoman.blogspotcom/.

Her honesty re: her life, career and her family are refreshing, and introspective.

I urge you to visit and spend some time on her blog and also urge her to write more and join our circle.

Suzy

Ring of Fire

2007-08-07T17:18:00.000-04:00

I chose the best seat in the house, the chair closest to the exit, my back to the door. Facing the women walking in for the first time would only mirror the fear in my own eyes. Trying to look comfortable as if this was an everyday occurrence, I alternated between keeping my hands folded in my lap and placing my arms on the armrest of the chair. Nothing felt natural- how could it? Who would want to be here?
Every minute or so the other members of the troupe began to enter. They would quickly scan the room, decide where to sit, (as if it made a difference) and take their seats. But it made a difference to me.
A tall attractive woman with long cork screw ringlets of silvery blonde hair falling down upon her shoulders was the first to arrive. She took the seat directly opposite from me next to the white board, close to the front windows. In one seamless motion she placed her pocketbook on the floor beside her and slipped her denim jacket off her shoulders and onto the back of the chair. A beautifully crafted shining silver cross was hanging from her neck on a simple chain and was long enough to reach her cleavage. It complimented the blue workshirt and jeans she was wearing. A glimpse of a nervous smile aimed in my direction crossed her lips. Crossing her legs and folding her arms she alternately glanced out the window and stared down at the floor.
The next woman to arrive selected the seat next to mine. I glanced over but there was no eye contact, no acknowledgement, no sign of her wanting to engage in any communication whatsoever. I felt her withdrawing into herself. She sat tightly, dressed in an expensive black pin striped business suit, clutching a small brief case in her lap, as if there were top secret documents inside. Her brown hair was cut stylishly short and matched the sharp features of her face.
A fourth woman entered who was friendly and perky. So unlike the rest of us in the room. Her backpack with books spilling out, and an Ipod speaker wire hanging out of one of the sleeves of her army fatigue jacket and pants, screamed “student”. I wondered at first why she was so happy and bubbly and then I realized that it is nothing like happiness. She was nervous and ready to jump out of her skin. The only sound in the room was the student rummaging through her backpack, trying to settle in. I pray she doesn’t sit in the chair next to mine…I don’t do “perky” very well, especially not today. But of course she did. Plopping down in her chair she rattles off in one run on sentence, “I was worried about being late but I guess I’m not how many others do you think there will be do you think we’ll get some sort of break do they have coffee or anything……..”. I shrug my shoulders and mouth the words, “don’t know,” and let it go at that. She continues to talk non stop to the others and the rest of the empty chairs.
I know I’m supposed to be kind and compassionate, but I’ve got one woman on one side of me that seems that she would rather not exist at all and probably wishes that the ground would open up and swallow her whole right here and now, like the rest of us probably feel and on the other side of me I have a Chatty Kathy who won’t shutup. I can only imagine what they must think of me, an overweight 58 year old woman with Harry Potter glasses, kahki pants, white tee shirt with a striped button down collar shirt over it. Yeh, I really look comfortable and natural sitting here, like it’s something I do everyday. I am scared to fucking death. What the fuck AM I doing in this renovated firehouse. This has to be some kind of cosmic karma joke- some parallel universe bullshit! My incestuous brother spent 25 years of his life in a firehouse under the guise of saving lives and putting out fires. How many lives did he actually torch and burn? Mine for one. Now I’m sitting in a firehouse trying to save my own life- what’s left of it- trying to get ahead of the wildfires.
The fifth woman that entered almost seemed to slither in. She was tiny, petite, and wearing all black. Black coat, black pants, black shirt, but moved as smooth as glass. She didn’t take her coat off, as if she might not stay. Her eyes stared downcast, looking neither left nor right.
Finally the last woman of the group entered mumbling and apologizing to herself or anyone else that could hear her, “car trouble, …kids got out of school late, couldn’t get a ride,” and she takes a seat. She’s a red haired woman with short curly hair wearing a school crossing guard uniform. She seemed almost embarrassed to be one of the last women to enter.
I feel as though we’re all in an elevator without the distracting Muzak playing, making the silence even more awkward. People are looking every which way except at each other. Everyone seems to be on their own private island, myself included. It’s a mystery to me how we’re supposed to bond and work together as a group. No one wants to be here. No one wants to choose this path. But this is reality, their reality, my reality. I’ve lived my life up to this point in isolation, fear and silence. But I am sick and tired of it all. What other choices are left?
The door opened and at last TGD, the Ring Master entered the room, along with her assistant, The Ringer. The Ringer is a tall thin beautiful woman with long curly hair, the kind of hair that would “kink up” on a humid day. The Ringer took one of the last seats left, while TGD stands between the white board and the last empty chair. The group turned its silent attention towards the Ring Master in Center Ring.
TGD stand about 5’7 and is stunning to look at. Everything about her exudes confidence, strength, compassion, gentleness and sensuality. There is a fluidity about her appearance and movement. She has a distinguishable, lovely and soft Israelie accent that leaves you remembering words she uses with certain inflections. Her eyes seem to peer through your heart with the understanding of whatever trauma has made it’s way into your soul.
Her shoulder length sable brown hair is soft and wavy and occasionally you can see her tucking the hair behind her ears, a gentle nuance, as if making sure there are no blind spots to impair her vision of her patients or the facts. She listens hard.
Her clothes are tailored but feminine, and had a subtle elegance. That night she is wearing a silk blouse with no sleeves, that showed her finely toned arms. Her brown flared pants were belted with a beautifully hand crafted silver belt wrapped around her waist. Adorning her graceful neck and delicate wrists are perfectly designed jewelry complimenting her entire appearance.

She is simply beautiful.

“Good evening everyone," TGD began, "and welcome to the Post Traumatic Stress Center 16 week group therapy session. We are so glad you could make it. I know you must all be very nervous. Some of you have been involved with some kind of group before and some have not. The one thing all of you have in common here today is that you have all experienced trauma on many different levels and we will work together to identify and discuss the effects that the perpetrator and the trauma have had in your life, your relationships, and your self esteem. Most importantly we will learn that silence is the power of the perpetrator and that knocking down that wall of silence defeats the perpetrator.
The 16 week course is divided into three sections. Before each section I will hand out a worksheet so you may look at it and work on it at home. I will give a brief 10 to 15 minute talk along with writing the topics on the board to discuss that week and then we, as a group discuss openly what those specific effects have to do with our trauma.
But today we begin by going around the room. I will please ask you to intoduce yourself. Silence is the power of the perpetrator and as long as we are silent we are under the influence of the perpetrator. So I ask you as you introduce yourself, please share with us your trauma and what brought you here to this point in your life.”
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who’s heart sank with these words. Shit. How am I going to do this without crying. Judging from the looks on the faces of the others, I’m not alone.

TGD took her seat and spoke to the tall blonde to her left on the opposite side of the white board. “Monica, would you please begin”?

The stories began. The room is quiet except for the almost silent weeping and gasps of others in the circle. Stories so horrifying, that you almost can’t imagine them as you hear the detailed memories of the survivors. Stories that will never leave my mind or any of the others. Your imagination can’t compare with the heinous crimes these women have endured.
The scary part is that in the telling, there is no drama, almost no emotion.

Just a monotone recounting that took away childhoods, took lives, took dreams and turned them into living nightmares. Stories that have played over and over in our heads until it was memorized as a student’s lesson in text book. No text book cases here.

The day the perpetrator entered our lives is the day we died inside.

It levels you like a building set up for implosion, all caused by someone else.

Each story from every woman is burned in my memory forever. The telling of the sexual assaults, the beatings, the neglect, the suicides, the rapes, the self mutiliation, the addictions, whether it be substance or liquor or food almost sets the circle on fire.

But TGD is here, in this firehouse to put the fires out.

Room for Healing

2007-07-26T20:28:00.000-04:00

The first door to the right at the top of the stairs is the entrance to the room where the Trauma Group meets. I had been asked and agreed to participate in a 16 week group that involves sharing the burden of my trauma with other trauma survivors. Telling our stories to each other will free us from the hook, the trauma, and hold of the perpetrator. Assurances from TGD make this an easy decision, after months of one on one therapy. In tandem, these two therapies will work to heal and fill the black hole the perpetrators have left.

It was an easy decision for me. TGD had taken me light years through a healing process in just a matter of months even though there are many months to go. This is just the beginning. No possible reason not to trust her. TGD is the facilitator to my freedom.

As I turn the doorknob. and open the gray metal door marked "Conference Room", I feel a strange resistance in opening. For a second I pause and think that it might be my own resistance I feel entering this room. No. Maybe last year at this time. But not now.

I step inside the room and hear the whoosh sound of the door closer behind me. No one has arrived yet.

I scan the room and see the clock on one of the four brick walls point out I am 14 minutes early. I planned to be early. It's my MO. Scope out the place to make sure it's safe. Still a habit after all these years. Find the best seat, preferably near the door for a quick exit if need be. Don't sit where you may have to walk by someone and be even more obvious and noticeable. Showing up is 3/4 of the game. Suit up and show up. On a good day sometimes that's all I can do.

I move away from the doorway to the circle of chairs in the center of the room. Eight arm chairs are placed close to each other with a white board with spindly wooden legs completing the arc of the circle. The arm chairs seem to have a dizzying pattern, but up close the pattern is clearly triangular shaped leaves in rows vertically running up and down the seats and backrest. The arms are wooden. Scenes of myself gripping the arms for support pop into my head. White knuckle grips they're called.

On the metal tray below the white board sit markers of various colors, red, purple, black, and green alongside the dry eraser.
From where I stand, behind one of the chairs, I can see the ghostly outlines of words that have been written and then erased.

I walk around the circle of chairs to the front of the room where 2 floor to ceiling windows peer out over Edwards Street and down at the steel girder from 9/11 implanted into the ground in front.

On one of the brick walls hangs a huge tapestry of a tree and it's roots.

This brick roomed firehouse screams words like foundation, safety, strength. All the things I didn't have.

Glancing at the brick wall that holds the clock I notice a triloogy of 3 pieces of art. From a distance they look like any other abstract work of art. But as I edge closer to stand in front of them, they tell a story.

All three are made out of very simple bed trays with handles at either end, each approximately 8"x18" in size.

The first one hangs vertically in a gilded painted frame, a piece of black boa outlining the inside of the "frame". Photos are cut from a magazine and are pasted into the collage. Photos of ceramic angels with arms folded, photo of 3 faced stone sculpture with the words underneath "Abandon all hope ye who enter here".
Small stone faces vertically arranged with the words, anger, lust, gluttony, pride, sloth, envy, and greed, the seven deadly sins.
The most provocative aspect of this sculpture is floating down the entire piece are 3 tiny pink babies, the kind that comes with a doll set. They are sitting on top of little red balls.
At the very bottom of the piece are four tiny baskets. The first, third and fourth are full of 20 or 30 gold coins. The second basket has 20 or 30 of the tiny plastic babies. Who boxed these babies in?

I move to the second in the series, which is horizontal, and the frame is silver colored with a red boa outlining the inside of the frame. On the top of the frame sits a white picket fence with wooden clothes pins blocking the gaps between the pickets.
Once again photos from magazines make a collage of various themes. A photo of a digital clock, two children warming themselves by a fireplace, a huge monster, the kind you see in Japanese monster films, overtaking a castle, and words cut from a magazine with statements like, "Nick of Time", "Sam the Man", "Down the Road", and a photo of a three monkey sculpture, "Hear no evil, See no evil, Speak no evil." Reminds me of some of the people who could and should have protected me.
But the most captivating feature of this piece is a photo of a blonde haired little girl standing behind a wooden door enclosed by a wooded gate. Was she hiding or being protected?

The third vertical piece in the series comes across a little lighter with a shred of hope displayed. The frame is in it's natural wood state. A white boa encircles the frame with a gold speckled veil flowing down from the sides. A photo from a magazine shows women of color with arms interlaced with each other alongside the words, "Sing, Love, Dance, Live."
Three clothes pins with happy faces dotted on them adorn the middle of the piece alongside the quote, "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." The bottom of the piece is lined with 7 violet teddy bears.
There is some sort of progression in these visual statements. There is also more healing to be done, for along the top of each piece of art is a mask with eyes inside cast downward. The mask to make us invisible so not one person gets through.

I glance at the clock and realize that I have about 5 minutes to take my seat. I walk to the center of the circle and stand in the middle as if I were the Ring Master of the Circus, but I'm not, not yet. I choose the arm chair closest to the door, the one I can use for the "quick escape."

As I take my seat I glance at another photo on the wall in the corner opposite my seat. It immediately reminds me of ne of my favorite dance troupes, Pilobolus Dance Theatre. The photo consists of two barely clad people, intwined, twisted and wrapped around each other and themselves. Once again, hard to tell where one begins and where one ends. Artistic, skillful and unique. Time to untangle and find where I begin and end..

At last the door opens and the circus acts begin to tumble in.

to be continued

Ladies & Gentlemen & Children of All Ages....

2007-07-15T12:45:00.000-04:00

Erected in front of the Post Traumatic Stress Center in New Haven is a piece of carnage that was once a steel girder from 9/11. Thrusting out of the foundation it is cemented into, it emerges towards the sky as an unrelenting symbol of survival we all identify with.

The brown carpeted stairway winding it's way to the 2nd floor of the PTSC, which was once a firehouse, is adorned with a huge twisted metal sculpture suspended from the ceiling. Depicting someone's inner turmoil, it is creatively displayed and immediately understood. The gnarly metal with sharp edges is tightly coiled and tangled around itself. Diffcult to tell where it begins or ends, much like someone's tangled past which is raveled around itself with no seemingly way in or out.

Ascending the stairs, art work wraps around the brick firehouse walls and continues up the steps. Nine steps and a landing. A landing placed to take a breather and glance at someone's soul displayed on the walls. Another nine steps, another landing in which to ponder and wonder about the lives of the artful survivors.

Abstract works of art, scream at you with their clashing colors and jagged shapes and beckon your attention. Other works of art are drawn with child-like mindfulness, but the content is far from a childhood lived in peace.

One drawing depicts grave markers of dead soldiers with ransom like writing- RIP - on the tombstones. Fallen comrades, drawn and remembered by the survivors with names, places, and field of death.

One startling piece is framed in a glass boxed frame. Nails, nuts, bolts and screws lie in a heap at the bottom of the frame.
The title: Pieces of the Survivor.

The artwork is stunning and dark, yet a glimmer of hope resides in each and every piece.

At the top of the stairs is the Trauma Group meeting room.

In this room on the second floor are the current survivors of their own personal war. A war that was declared on them, and not by them. They too were called into battle on someone else's terms.

The people in this room are part of my current circus. They bring their own acts as I bring mine. Escape artists, clowns, mimes, magicians, trapeze artists, sword swallowers and 1 or 2 who consider themselves to be the sideshow freaks.

We have perfected our acts that have gotten us through life to shield ourselves from our abusers and our perpetrators and anyone else who tries to get "too close".

It's now time to take off the masks, costumes, cast away the titles we've been given and face our fears with the same courage that has allowed us to survive.

The Ring Master, TGD is waiting.

to be continued.

Circus of the Stars

2007-06-07T09:07:00.000-04:00

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am not a "group" person. I don't like parties, "get togethers" or any other events, even with good friends, let alone with people I don't know. Work is different. I work with a group of people I truly like, respect and trust. It's different because not only is it my job, it is the kind of job where our our roles are defined and our interaction is between certain hours and days. I am comfortable at work and safe.

I've always considered myself a "one on one" person-a loner, a private person. Seems it's all I can handle.

I've used the term "shy" instead of "fearful" for years. But I'm not shy. Scared is what I am. All these years of my antenna being raised, scouting out who would hurt me with words, looks or whatever. So much energy spent living like this. Trapped, isolated and alone, but yet safe.

There is one group setting however, where I can actually be myself, no holds barred, no pretend smiles, no one to please, and is for me, one of the safest places I can be.

I meet with a Trauma group every week, run by the Ring Master, TGD and her Ringer, TGD's assistant.

Being a member of this group is a mixed blessing. Unfortunate to have had trauma become and overtake my life, but fortunate to have found a group of women, because of their own trauma, who "get it." They are heroes, they are stars. They are walking this tightrope of survival with me, as TGD and her Ringer hold the safety net below, so that when and if we fall, we are caught and begin the death defying feats again, until we perfect our chosen roles.

These courageous women hold within them a calliope of trauma and events that pierce your heart with a pain so palpable that you somehow merge with them, and for a brief time, you forget your own pain and trauma. Their pain becomes yours and when it's your turn to talk, and share, the process is reversed. You can actually feel the pain being split open, understood and shared for a brief, fleeting moment.

So many mixed emotions, good and bad, sad and happy, relieved and ashamed, scared that you may still be the biggest freak in the room.

I do this work week after week. It's a love/hate relationship. Not with the group, but with myself.

Hate the trauma and the trail left in it's wake, but love that it can be fixed.

There are answers and explanations with no judgement.

Not A Pretty Picture

2007-05-18T14:36:00.000-04:00

The sessions with TGD for the next several weeks were an attempt to delve into my childhood with more and more specifics. Progress was being made. At one point TGD happened to notice my new shoes. WTF?? Was TGD reading my mind? Geez, I'd better watch what I was thinking. I even started to notice a few other things in the office besides her shoes. Her coat, for example. It was a beautiful leather half jacket that hung on a pink satin pillowy hanger on the back of her door. No doubt- she was pretty cool. And I finally figured out how she knew our time "was up."
I turned around at one point while she was writing something down and saw this digital clock with huge red numbers blaring back. Okay, some of my mysteries were being solved.

Too bad I didn't seem to catch on to the mystery of my life as quickly. As I sat there droning on about my life, I was still mystified by so many things that I thought I had figured out or at least didn't question anymore. Not so.

For some reason, talking about this shit, with this woman was different than any other therapy I had before. I had the sense that we were actually going to try and fix my issues once and for all.

"Suzy, can you describe for me please, if there was any change or difference at all when your step father came to live with you. We've talked about how angry and removed your mother was. Were things any better when Big Frank came to live with you?"

"Not too much different," I replied. "I think in retrospect that Big Frank may have provided a buffer between my mother and me, but she treated him as a servant. She always said she married him for convenience, and that they never had sex."

"Do you think that they never had sex,?" TGD asked "I'm pretty sure they didn't. They never slept together," I replied.
"Why do you know that?" she asked. "Because when we lived on Henry Street, she always made me sleep with Big Frank in the big bed, and she would sleep in my lower bunk bed. She said Big Frank moved around too much."
"How old were you when this happened," TGD inquired.
"Probably about 5 or 6." "And when did it end?" she asked. "I think when I was 12 or so," I replied. After a pause TGD dropped another bomb. "Did Big Frank ever molest you"? WTF??? Was she crazy? Why would Big Frank ever molest me? He was the only one in that house that was ever kind to me. I liked sleeping with him. I felt safe, and he never ever touched me. He was the kind of guy who was afraid to be demonstrative, but I always knew he cared. He would stick up for me and not my brother, but to no avail. My mother wore the pants in the family and controlled everything. Sometimes I even had the sense that he got punished or yelled at for taking my side.

Trying not to show my anger at this question I just responded with a simple "no."

"You mentioned that you told your mother once about your brother and the dentist who had also sexually abused you. Why do you think your mother would put you in another situation that could possibly be harmful"?

"But it wasn't harmful. Big Frank was really good to me."

Fuck. Never put these two things together, nor did I want to. In fact, I was tired of digging up my mother and still yakking about her. Why were we doing this over and over I asked TGD? I was becoming one of those classic whiners that blamed the mother for everything.

"Suzy, it is very important for you to understand that your mother put you in constant danger, even when you weren't exposed to it. No girl child or any child for that matter should be sleeping with their father. You were extremely fortunate Big Frank was the kind of man he was. Mothers are supposed to be role models for their children and also protect them. You had no protection and had to learn everything on your own and it's time you realized that you survived on your own and be proud."

Maybe I should have been proud of surviving, but the sadness, loss and loneliness of doing it all on my own as a child was coming into view. This picture was getting clearer and clearer.

And it wasn't such a pretty picture. It was a pathetic picture.

So Not the Look of Love

2007-05-09T11:03:00.000-04:00

Although the medication had started to work it's wonders and calm things down, a profound sadness and seriousness took over. Yeh, the anxiety was gone, but what replaced it was an overwhelming and daunting task of this type of healing I had taken on. As I voiced this to TGD, her rely was simply, "Yes, it is a daunting process."

Thanks. Thanks so much for candy coating it. Throw me a bone here will you Doc and not just a bill? Give me a fucking answer every now and then. I know you know the answers to some of this bullshit.

Anger had set in . Anger at everyone and everything.

"I'm having a hard time comprehending the term "motherless" to describe my life," I said while glancing at her shoes. The sobbing would have started immediately if I looked into those eyes of hers. It was a strange experience having someone's eyes riveted on me and listening to every word, every inflection, every passing thought, and watching my reactions even when I wasn't aware I was having them. The intensity was profound, leaving me drained after every session, but not drained enough to have me not carry these sessions around all week, like a migraine you know is coming on. You just keep waiting to hurt more. And before you know it, it's time for the next weekly session and you do. The pain returns.

"What do you think of when you hear the term motherless,?" TGD asked. "I guess I thought that being motheless meant that the mother was dead", I responded once again.

"is it possible that even though your mother was alive, her actions and words were so harmful that she actually wasn't being a mother to you at all? Just because you lived with her does not necessarily mean that she mothered you. It was quite the opposite, wasn't it? She did not keep you safe. She did not nuture or take care of you."

That was putting it mildly. I still couldn't figure out after 58 years why she was the way she was. What happened to her to make her so bitter, so angry, so mean? She wasn't like that with my brother. She liked him. She loved him. She lived for him. She was so consistent in her anger and hatred I think at one point I stopped expecting her to be happy and just would wait for that next reign of terror to hit.

What I remember most are the looks she gave, if she looked at me at all. They were glares, looks of disdain. One of her favorite mantras for me when she was yelling was that she was "fed up with me." Strange, because I really never did anything bad. But those looks....it was as if she really hated me. And I suppose she did.

No, she never loved me. Never hugged me, never kissed or held me. There was always this distance I saw between us, even as a little kid. I can remember watching her in the White Tower. I would sit on a stool, spinning around like any other 5 or 6 year old and she wouldn't even look at me. It was like I wasn't even there. If I spent the day in downtown New Haven in the summer, and she happened to be working days, she would go into the backroom of the restaurant where her pocketbook was, come back out, and just put change in front of me. Without even looking at me, she would say off into space somewhere, "here's money for food. Go eat at the Carousel Restaurant or the Waldorf Cafeteria." She didn't want the management or her co-workers to think she was favoring me. No chance there. I think her co-workers were somewhat embarassed by her behavior. I know I always felt ashamed but never really understood why. I always saw pity in their eyes when they looked at me. Any attempt by them to talk to me was always met with my mother referring to me as "her" or "she." She never used my name. "I just gave "her" money for lunch." "She'll be back by the time I get off work." "No, "she" doesn't want a soda."

"Your mother's behavior was never about you," said TGD. "She was incapable of giving, of mothering, of nuturing. It was her lack of compassion and love. Do you understand how it has nothing to do with you"?

Maybe next week I will.

Or not.

Honor thy father and thy mother?

2007-04-30T14:04:00.000-04:00

"I would like you to continue with your earliest memories of your childhood," TGD began, "and try and put yourself back in that time and place and try and tell me what exactly you were feeling." Sure, start off with the easy questions. Fuck.
"I don't know," I stammered. Thinking back to when I was a kid was painful enough, let alone talk about how scared I always felt as a child was another issue.
"I guess I spent most of my time alone. It was safer. I made sure I kept out of everyone's way."
TGD leaned forward and quietly spoke. "Do you think it's unnatural for a small child to be alone and not feel safe?" "Well, now I do, then it was just the way it was."
"And why do you think as you say, "that's the way it was?" What the hell??? "Because that WAS the way it was. My mother worked nights, my brother was out, and my step father worked days. When my mother wasn't home, the sexual abuse from my brother would start and it was just better to be alone anytime I could get away. I never went far. Just tried to disappear and amuse myself I guess. No one was really looking for me anyway."
"What did you do by yourself all the times you were alone"? Man, this really sucked. What did I do? Interesting question but it still sucked. I thought back and images of the backyard on Henry Street came into view.
"I'd play baseball. I'd throw a pink rubber ball against the back of the brick house, where we lived, and a chalk target was drawn for pitching strikes, in or I'd play basketball. Basketball was harder because the rim was way high- for Prince Frankie my brother, and the basketball was deflated. So I made my own basketball game of throwing the stupid deflated basketball up and if I just hit the rim, it was 2 points."

Jesus, I must have sounded like a lunatic. Who the hell plays with deflated basketballs? I hadn't thought about this ever. But funny thing, the images started coming back of this funny looking little girl with the boy's haircut, throwing the pink ball against the wall, and catching it with one hand. As I recounted these memories to TGD, another image came into play. In my other hand I was holding 2 raw hot dogs.

WTF?? Yeh, I was. We weren't allowed to make noise inside the house when Mary was sleeping, so I would sneak in quietly and take whatever was in the icebox. Raw hot dogs. I used to eat fucking raw hot dogs. Yeh, I don't have an eating problem.

"What kind of mother would let her child eat raw hot dogs"? "What kind of mother would not feed her child or make arrangements for the child to be fed," or allow her to be sexually abused," TGD said.

And then TGD lowered the boom. "Suzy," she gently said, "you were motherless."

"No I wasn't." "She died when I was in my forties," I countered back.

"Suzy, you were motherless. Your mother was not there for you emotionally, physically or in any other way."

"So basically you're saying that she just gave birth to me and that was it"?

"Yes," TGD said.

Motherless. Motherless. This was the first time I had ever heard that adjective describing a mother who was still living. It took a while for me to wrap that around my head. Still does.

Motherless. But my brother wasn't. Wasn't that a bitch.

Please Identify Yourself

2007-04-13T14:58:00.001-04:00

Inpatience began to set in amongst my friends re: the time devoted to therapy with TGD and the lack of any change in my lack of happiness. Of course it had only been a matter of weeks, but good friends began to question whether or not this kind of "therapy" would do any good.
"Why can't you just move on and let it go,"? was the most familiar chant.
"It happened over 50 years ago, it can't be undone." "Deal with it".

In all honesty this had been my mantra my entire life, but these sessions with TGD unleashed 50+ years of sadness that seemed to me, was going to take another 50+ years to rid.

"Why do you think your friends are so impatient with your therapy,"? TGD said, after listening to me whine about my life and my friend's time frame ideas about therapy

How could TGD sit and listen to this stuff hour after hour? I couldn't stand to hear myself talk, week after week. I couldn't do this job for love or money. What kind of person can do this exhausting work day after day, hour after hour? Didn't it make them crazy, sad or just want to give up?

"Don't know," I said. "They just seem to be poking at me all the time."

"Describe poking," TGD said. Was every fucking word going to be analyzed? I just told TGD what they said. Why was any further interpreting needed?

"It's like they're looking for answers I don't have and keep asking the same question in different ways and won't let up"

"I'm not saying you're wrong with the way you feel about this, but just for a moment I'd like you to think about when you were a child and try and remember when your brother or mother, as you describe, "poked" you. Can you do that for me?"

"My friends have NOTHING to do with my mother or brother. They are complete opposites," I barked back.

"Is it possible that this "poking" you are describing is a very real love and concern your friends have for you"?
"All I hear is their dissatisfaction and disapproval with my therapy process," I answered as I cried. "And what does that remind you of." "Who in your life were you always seeking approval from and never got," TGD softly said.
Dear sweet Jesus. Classic therapy bullshit. This woman knew how to get to me. Was I that easy?

"Yeh, fine," I said. "I suppose my mother and brother."

"But these friends ARE not your mother and brother, TGD continued. "Is it possible that these words are just feelings of how you were mistreated as a child, and that what is actually happening is that you are going back and these are just memories and not what is presently happening."

Now it seemed I was unable to decipher whether or not I was reacting to family bullshit or friends.

I didn't want to talk about this subject anymore. I didn't have any answers. Talk about poking. This was the Olympics of Poking. WTF????? Was TGD as pissed as I was? This was one pain in the ass ordeal.

I felt like I was in one of those movies where a prisioner of war was caged and the enemies would come by and ram sticks through the cages to try and jab the prisoners. Good luck getting out of the way.
I thought there would be some relief in therapy, instead it became another war, another method of survival I would have to manuver.

Even sitting there I was craving my isolation as I did as a child.

"Everybody leave me alone," I wanted to scream. But no one could or would hear.

I was invisible to everyone except for the poking and beatings.

For some bizarro reason I was suddenly thrown back to a time where I was 8 and would sometimes take the bus to downtown New Haven. I remember like it was yesterday. I was wearing a gray sweatshirt with a blue v neck collar and my I had just had my haircut from Johnny the Barber. Hair cut so short I looked like a little boy.

As I got on the bus and threw my nickel in the money changer, the bus driver looked at me, and loudly said, "hey kid, are you a boy or a girl," and then gave a big belly laugh as the others on the bus joined in.
I remember the faces of the people seated on the bus laughing, as I walked in shame to the rear of the bus.
Jab, jab, jab.

A circus act. Half girl-half boy.

Stick me in the cage with the tigers and lions and jab sticks at them too.

No identity to anyone except for the jabs and the pokes.

Isolation is so much safer.

God damn therapy and TGD.

Then & Now

2007-04-07T17:24:00.000-04:00

"Before we begin," (we??) the TGD said, "I would like to ask you, Suzy, how you think the medication is working'?. "Just dandy Doctor- I am straight now and wearing dresses," my inside voice wanted to say.

But my outside voice calmly said, "I think it's beginning to work- the anxiety is a little better but now the sadness seems to be taking over." That having been so calmly said, I burst into tears for what seemed like 20 minutes. But how would I know? There was no clock to be found or at least I couldn't see it. On TV I had seen shows about people going into therapy sessions and just saying nothing for the whole session. Was I going to sit here and cry like a baby for this one? Silence. Only my sobbing. Now what?

It seemed like an hour had passed, but what did I know. TGD had her own internal clock that we were working with.

Finally TGD found some words. "Last week you recalled some memories about your mother and being alone and her paying more attention to her shoes. I would like you to go back there once again and tell me what that felt like." "It felt like shit," I said. What didn't TGD get? "Were you scared, angry, upset? Tell me what you remember thinking or what was going through your mind with all the silence in the house?"

I think I looked at TGD as if she had 6 heads. "I can barely tell you what I'm thinking/feeling now, let alone over 50 years ago." "Okay," she said. "Tell me what you're feeling and/or thinking now." Re-fucking-lentless!!!

I felt like a ping pong ball. What was I thinking/feeling then? What was I thinking/feeling now?

"I feel now like I probably felt then." The only place I feel safe and where I want to be is home, in bed with the dogs. I don't want to go back in time, I don't want to be here. I'd rather just be home."

"Go on," TDG said.
"Listen Doctor, the only time I can remember feeling safe from anyone, even now is when I'm home. I go to work in the morning, and it's a quest all day long to make it through the day just so I can get home and not be bothered. All I want is to get from Point A to Point B. It was the same way as a kid. The only place I felt safe was in my bed. I know that must sound strange coming from someone who was sexually abused so many times, but never ever did it once happen in my bed. It happened in all those other "safe places," church, the dentist office, the floor of my bedroom, a bathtub, places where I should have been safe but wasn't. The only place I was left untouched was laying in my own bunk bed."

As I sat there rambling off these details, images of my mother's raggy half brown slippers floated into view. I could hear her shuffling madly through the house screaming for me. I could see just the slippers up to her ankles and part of a black belt she was dragging. I was hiding under my bunk bed because of something/anything she thought I had done wrong. I hugged the wall as best I could, but with her reach and the aid of the belt, she could whip that belt under the bed at my legs with the mastery of a Lion Tamer at the Circus, snapping the whips at the tigers to instill fear and gain control over the beasts.
"Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!" And she did.

Funny how I felt some sort of refuge in staring at TGD's shoes.

A Snail's Pace

2007-04-06T16:35:00.000-04:00

On the other side of TGD's office door, life went on with it's usual bumps and bruises. When close friends learned that I was in therapy with a specialist for Post Traumatic Stress, questions about therapy abounded. Well-meaning friends with well-meaning questions would call immediately after my therapy appointment to "see how it went."
It soon became clear that Tuesday night was NEVER the night to call. I was uncommunicative more than ever and to be quite honest, pretty pissed off at the world. No one said anything right, no one cared or understood enough and the questions were stupid. "Was she nice to you?" "No," I answered, "she was mean." "Did she make you feel any better?" "Oh yeh, in just 45 minutes everything was resolved," I would answer like a snot. "Does she think she can help?" "No, she says it's totally useless but thinks I should spend the money anyway." And my personal favorite, "did you tell her about your weight issue?"
"Um, I didn't see a white cane by her chair or a German Sheperd Guide Dog by her side, so I ASSUME SHE ISN'T BLIND," I yelled back.
Yeh, Tuesdays. Gotta love 'em.
On the inside of TGD's office, issues were popping up like a child constantly playing with their Jack in the box. Cranking up my childhood when,"POP", a memory of abuse that I supposedly had resolved would rear it's ugly head. It seemed I had this memory bank of run on sentences when it came to my childhood.
At one point TGD said, "You mention that you were alone most of the time and no one was around. Can you try and go back there and remember what you were feeling and thinking as this little girl?" Once again TGD's shoes came into view. Shoes, always shoes. "I remember sitting in the front on a fence. It was a summer morning. I think I'm about 5 years old and I'm just sitting there swinging my legs back and forth and looking at my sneaks. They were red keds with white tops. I loved those sneaks. I felt taller, I felt like a grownup. I had shorts and a plaid shirt on. I think it was the first time I remember being able to think. I watched the cars go by. There weren't that many back in 1953. It was early. I had to get up because my mother had just come home from work after working the 11pm to 7am night shift at the White Tower. She always slept in my bunk bed. Never the big bed that Big Frank, my stepfather slept in. It was always my bed. Everyone had to be out of the house so she could sleep. The plastic curtains in the front room and the kitchen were drawn as were the venetian blinds. It always looked like night time, no matter what time of the day it was."
"Suzy, those are very good descriptions of what things were like, but were you happy, sad, looking forward to the day to play?"
"I remember feeling that there was nothing to do, no one to play with that early in the morning. I was on my own."
"And just what does that mean, "you were on your own." Shit. This woman and her shoes were relentless. WTF!
"It means just that," I snapped back. I took care of myself. I walked around, roller skated, and just sat around until I saw the "signal" that it was ok to come back into the house."
"What was the signal?" TGD asked. "My mother would open the front blinds. That meant she was up and I could come back into the house."
"What happened when you went back into the house"? What the hell was this? Why poke around these small details?
"Nothing," I responded. "I would watch TV and wait until my mother put the tv dinner in the oven."
"What time do you think this was"? Man, this was aggravating. "I think it was around 4 because the Mickey Mouse Club was on." "Was your mother happy to see you"? Okay, now TGD was getting on my nerves. Where's that clock that says the god damn session is over?
"No, not really. I just kept out of her way. She always seemed crabby and tired and never really had time to do anything else except get ready for work again that night."
"What would she do"? Ok, last straw time. "She would set up the ironing board while the Swanson Fried Chicken TV dinner was in the oven, open the ironing board and dampen the uniform she had washed and hung out to dry."
Then, as I sat there explaining my mother's routine looking at TGD's shoes, I launched into this detailed description of how she painstakingly polished her white shoes she wore at work. She polished those fucking shoes as if she were preparing for surgery. She had bottles of Sani-White shoe polish in the cabinet over the sink. The box had this stupid looking nurse smiling over her white shoes. My mother stroked those shoes with the applicator that came with it, like she was bathing a newborn baby with the utmost gentleness and care. Those stupid white shoes got more attention than I did.
"Well, time is up," TGD said. I would like to continue these thoughts next week.
Now the 45 minutes were up.

"The Eyes Are the Gateway to the Soul"

2007-03-25T21:06:00.000-04:00

Good news, I passed whatever "Psychological" testing there was. Although I might I have failed it depending on your perspective, as I found myself sitting in TGD's office for the third visit.

Today would be "Family History Day." HA! Maybe I should just bring in Tad Browning's 1932 circus movie, "Freaks," and we could watch the DVD together. The cast of characters there should just about sum it up. This was going to be a walk down memory lane like no other.

As I walked in TGD's office and took my appointed seat, all attempts at humor disappeared again. Once again I tried to keep the humor in my head to keep the sobbing at bay. What was it about this f%$king office that provoked tears and sadness even before one single word was spoken? What was it about TGD that provoked the feeling of my soul turning inside out whenever I sat across from her? Fear? Oh yeh. Mistrust? Not exactly, but turning myself inside out to someone you've met three times for only 45 minutes at a pop, left me with complex feelings of sadness and an overwhelming sense of not wanting to leave there.

I had been in therapy before and knew what the drill was, but this was different. Was it the process? Was it the room? Was is too much attention focused on me? WHY? Was it TGD?
But then I realized it was her eyes. Her eyes held you. Piercing softly through my soul as if she already knew everything about me. That was it! You knew TGD was listening, and listening hard. You could see that in her eyes. But at times all I could do was to focus on her shoes. Her shoes! Why her shoes? True, they are very stylish and I started thinking how much the dogs would love chewing on them and how much I would have to pay for that very expensive chew toy.

But my thoughts didn't stay on her shoes for long. TGD's gentle voice with the explosive questions snapped me back to my own bizarre reality. "If you don't mind, could you please tell me what you remember from the earliest memories of your childhood"?

As I started to spiel off a fairly rehearsed rendition of what my childhood was like, I sat there fairly pleased with myself for being somewhat coherent enough to give her the history. As I finished the synopsis, TGD looked at me and said, " Yes, those are the facts from your childhood which seem quite clear, but I would like you to please tell me what you remember feeling as that little child and please start with the earliest memories of your feelings. I would like you to describe if you were feeling pain, sadness, confusion or whatever you were experiencing."

WTF??? My feelings as a child? I looked at her and said, "you mean if I was happy or sad or scared, right"? "Yes, please," said TGD. I stopped dead in my tracks. I know how I felt as a child, but describing it and putting it to words was different. I could tell stories about my childhood, but to have to actually go back and think how I felt as that child and go inside "that child's" mind was overwhelming. Never been down this road before. Nor had anyone ever asked. A "child's feelings" were somewhat of an oxymoron.

I'd have a lot of sessions learning about her shoes at this pace.

"The Psychological Testing Appointment"

2007-03-19T13:06:00.000-04:00

As I left the Consultation appointment, TGD explained that the next session was going to be comprised of an "Evaluation." This was gonna be interesting. What I heard TGD say was I was going to be tested to see just how crazy I was. That's fine. I was probably in good hands. What TGD actually said was that there were certain questions she needed to ask. Basically she was taking down my history so we could "assess" my problems and make "treatment" recommendations.

Too bad treatment recommendations weren't available for the cast of characters in my family who were crazier than I was. Why weren't they here, worrying about their mental health? Well, most of them were dead and the rest lived as though they were had died. Seeing nothing, feeling nothing, and doing nothing was my family's MO, at least where I was concerned.

Was she ready for the truth? Or better yet, was I ready for the truth?

The first questions were no brainers. What medication was I on and what was the dosage? Any physical problems? Who were my primary care physicians? Normal questions any health care professionals would ask.
Results from this go-round produced the fact I was "under medicated" for my depression. After discussing some viable alternatives for medication, TGD wrote a prescription that would help and take me out of this fugue I seemed to be experiencing and would help in the on going sessions. The good news was that something was available to help while in therapy, and the bad news was that it would take a few weeks to enter my system. I could deal with that.

The second tier of questions got a little closer to home.
Excessive fear of people or events? Whack a mole on that one.
Sense of hopelessness, depression or despair? Only every day.
Sexual problems? Not a one, since I didn't have a sex life.
Insomnia or other sleep disorders? Only at night.
Of course I answered politely with no sarcasm. I wasn't going to give her any ammunition she could use against me.

On and on it continued. As I answered she took notes.

A couple of questions stopped me in my tracks- Do you hear voices?
I wanted to ask if she meant inside or outside voices and if the dog's voices counted. But you don't fool around with someone who can actually put you away.

But secretly, I really wanted to be put away. To be put someplace safe, and taken care of, where decisions were made for me, and where I wasn't floundering about like a fish just caught and thrown on the deck of a boat.
Out of my element. That's what it was. But where was my element?

The next test threw me. She asked me to count backwards from 100 using the number 7.
Couldn't she have picked 10?? 7??? WTF?? Great, this is where TGD not only finds out I'm crazy, but that I have the IQ of a lemon. I wanted to ask for pen and paper but I knew that wouldn't work, so I did my best. I think I got to 61 or 62 whatever.

Then the killer question- In general, what was my upbringing like?

Wow. How do I summarize my crazy life where I was the only one who didn't fit in? Ever. Anywhere. The other family members seemed to go on about their bizarre business with no self assessment and at times, no conscience. Wearing blinders seemed to help them through life. You know the kind- the type horses wear so they only have straight on vision with no peripheral vision to sidetrack them or spook them. Where were my pair of blinders? Why could I see everything, and everyone and feel everything around me, but no one could see or hear me?

Another killer question-Was I sexually abused?

Sure, I had been sexually abused, but that was different. I had that part all figured out. That was a separate issue.

Who has the problem here? Me or my family who supposedly really knew me. It wasn't even a case of marching to a different drummer.
I never heard the drums.
How do I tell TGD that I always felt as if I was always be walking a tight rope high above a crowd without a net, perched precariously and always ready to fall. How would that go over with TGD?

Why was being here with TGD for only the second time such a painful raw experience?

As I started to formulate some sort of response, the tears started and they couldn't stop.

Through the sobbing I heard TGD softy say, "WE, together, can unravel these pieces of your life, put them back together, and then put them on a shelf where they belong, where you can look at them when you choose, and where they can't hurt you any longer."

She had me.

"The Consultation"

2007-03-17T10:07:00.000-04:00

Consultation my ass! How about the f&#$king Spanish Inquisition????? As I sat in The Good Doctor's private office, all my powers of observation came to a grinding halt. No time to look around and decide if TGD had that Feng Shui thing going. Not that I'm known for my sense of design anyway, but I actually don't remember what the office decor actually looked like on that first visit. My attention was completely drawn to TGD, or rather, what she was saying. I couldn't even describe her after that first visit. Maybe my friends were right, that I was totally self absorbed and never thought of anyone else. Hmmm... better watch that attribute or I really will turn into Mary Martino Jr.
But I tried so hard NOT to be like her. If I didn't think of me and what was good for me, who would? There was no one else looking out for me.

TGD was pleasant and led me into her office. Pleasant but not patronizing and got right to the point, what brought me here.

How about a lifetime of being a freak, not just in a circus, but in every day life?
How about feeling that you don't belong to any gender, group, or any other entity on the planet? How about always feeling you're walking on a tight rope and having no net below you? No, I couldn't say that out loud, but I was thinking it. In time, if she was good, she could guess I felt this way, or so I hoped.

Instead I rattled off what I had been practicing since last week when I made the appointment.

" Well, Dr. as I mentioned on the phone, I found I recently that a member of my family molested a teenager and ultimately caused her to take her own life. This in turn made me think back to my childhood and the sexual abuse I had endured. I mentioned this for the first time ever at a friend's house and she thought it would be a good idea if I talked about this with someone." That was my spiel. That should be clear enough.

TGD surprised me by stating that many adults do not talk about their sexual abuse and it is not uncommon to keep it to one's self. Also, that some therapists were not properly educated or prepared to handle the larger issues at hand re: sexual abuse and it's life long debilitating effects on the adult. The repercussions of sexual abuse were enormous and the shame followed the abused throughout their lives when in reality, they never owned the shame. The perpetrator did. Perpetrator.

Perpetrator. That was a word used for criminals. That was also a word that opened up the floodgates. That was a word that changed my life forever, that day, in that office with TGD.

One word and the walls start to come down, like dominoes. One word. And I would never be able to look at anything the same way again. God damn Doctor. In the course of one 45 minute consultation my life had changed forever and the saddest and scariest part was that I didn't know what would actually happen next. I felt like a cartoon character falling off a cliff and waiting for something to save you. A branch or rock you could grab onto. Something, anything that would break your fall. Why was I feeling this way all of a sudden?

Then the questions. What makes you so upset about this? What does it make you think about? Who does it make you think about? What are you thinking right now? Who hurt you?

Who hurt you? No one ever asked me that and meant it. Now there was a loaded question. Too many questions from TGD with oh so many answers that I didn't think anyone would believe, much less listen to.

But I was wrong.

"The Good Doctor"

2007-03-12T18:23:00.000-04:00

They said she was an expert in her field. What the hell did that mean? Why was I even here? I had dealt with this bullshit years ago.

Following instructions that were posted on the inside front door, I pressed the intercom and waited for a reply. “May I help you”? “Yes, I’m Suzy Pafka and I have an appointment with the “Good Doctor” at 2:30. “I’ll tell the Good Doctor you’re here. Please have a seat, she’ll be right with you,” the nondescript voice responded.

Not only was I here, but I was sitting in a renovated brick Firehouse. My fucking brother spent over 20 years of his life in a firehouse, under the guise of “saving lives.” How ironic- no one knew of the lives he destroyed.

The original brick walls of the firehouse had been sandblasted and preserved to maintain the original look of the firehouse. Unique original art lined the walls, with every piece carefully placed and professionally framed. Nothing here was thrown together. Newly carpeted stairs sat off to the left which led to other floors.
The furniture complimented the art, which complimented the structure and design. Form and function at it’s best.

An enormous window looked out into the street, which at one time housed the garage that held the screaming red fire trucks facing forwards in order to respond immediately to any alarm the firehouse received.

Overstuffed wicker furniture outlined the room with enough seating for 10-12 people.
How many Doctors were in this place? Better still, how many patients?

Patients/people wandered in, went methodically to the intercom, announced themselves and took a seat. I refused to make eye contact with anyone. I wasn’t like them and I refused too be linked in any way.

Two glass doors in the back of the first floor, which were locked seemed like entry ways to other offices.

The huge sign above the door on the outside of the building, as you walked in read, “Firehouse 19 – Post Traumatic Stress Center.”

Post Traumatic Stress Center??? I wasn’t a soldier, or veteran. I wasn’t in any war.
I wasn’t in any battle. I had no scars or flashbacks to horrific events.
Was this catch all phrase- Post Traumatic Stress being taken just a tad bit too far?

True, I had a crappy childhood, but that was over 50 years ago. I had resolved all that. There wasn’t anything anyone could do about it anyway. What’s done is done. Period. What was the Good Doctor going to do about it now-almost 60 years later? Or was the Good Doctor going to be perform some sort of magic act pulled from the circus of my childhood, which hardly could be called magical, and make it all the nonsense disappear as if it never happened? Not unless the Good Doctor was some sort of magician.

Well, I would certainly tell The Good Doctor what I thought.

I had agreed to see her for 1 consultation after I blurted out at a best friend’s family’s dinner party that I had been sexually abused by family and others. In my 30 years of knowing my friends, I had never told anyone, nor had I ever mentioned it in therapy. But that was years ago. I kept it to myself and dealt with it.

My friend convinced me that I should at least see The Good Doctor, even if it was once or twice.

There was no real crisis at this point. Yeh, the news of a family member being responsible for someone’s death was very upsetting, but I had that in perspective too.

I had been on my own for many years and resolved things on my own. Things weren’t perfect, God knows, but so much better than I could have ever imagined. True, the weight was/is an issue. That came and went. The older I got the more I pulled away from people and tended to stay home, but could be explained by the mere fact that I worked at a university and had enough social contact all day long. I needed my privacy and my downtime.

I wasn’t in a love relationship, but that was my choice. I felt safer living alone.
This was my life and things were okay. I had my dogs and life was good.

At the exact scheduled time, 2:30PM, a woman emerged from one of the glass doors.

She politely asked if I was Suzy Pafka and I said yes. She introduced herself as the Good Doctor and asked me to step into her office.

Yeh, this wasn’t going to last a long time. One or two appointments at best.

To be continued.....

Side Show Freaks

2007-03-07T15:14:00.001-05:00

He had no teeth, a bald head and could barely read. But holding hands, walking anywhere with this rotund father figure gave me a taste of safety I was always starving for. I loved this man. I was proud when he bragged to people that I was his daughter. Big Frank was my step father.

He did his best to protect me from the wrath of my mother, but he was also a target of her insanity. We were silent but knowing cohorts in our struggle to avoid Mary’s wrath and contempt, for who knows what would set her off. Mary was a walking time bomb, all the while paving land mines in front of your steps. One false move or look would bring about a physical and verbal explosion on whatever target she aimed for. Her aim was perfect. The target was usually me.

Big Frank and I never did the “normal” things fathers and daughters did. We were different. I don’t really know what other fathers and daughters did, but I knew it wasn’t the same. Big Frank taught me to parallel park when I was 10. He worked in a parking lot and showed me the tricks of the trade. To this day I can parallel park with the best of them.

He taught me how to play poker at the age of 7. He tried to teach me the art of “bluffing” but would just laugh out loud when I giggled as I tried to bluff at every hand I got.

Because he had no teeth, he would show me how his tongue could touch the top of his nose and call it magic. I loved sitting on his lap and watching him perform this trick.

Having only gone to 4th grade, his reading skills were almost non existent. So I would read him comic books and the newspaper funnies. A lot of time was spent laughing with Big Frank.

Big Frank was the first person to introduce me to the outdoor traveling circus, complete with the ever mesmerizing freak show. Big Frank knew all the secret spots around New Haven where these side shows were held. The headed 2 woman, whose second head really was a mannequin head with make up, lipstick and a face painted on to look like a real lady. They could have used my mother. She certainly seemed 2 headed all the time-one nice head for my brother Frankie and one mean head for me.

The bearded woman really had a beard, but then again so did Big Frank’s older sister Margaret, or at least hairs coming out of her chin.

The midgets in the circus were nothing new to me. They would stand on the stage parading about with their normal size husband or wife, and normal size children extolling the amazing differences in their physical appearance, yet still being able to produce“normal kids.” Nothing new to me. My friend at the White Tower Restaurant, King Kong was always with tall good looking women.

The tattooed woman was no surprise. My friend Martha on Henry Street had tattoos all over and she was a wrestler to boot.

Betty-Billy was an interesting act. Betty-Billy claimed to be half woman, half man. Once again, the half woman part had a beard and HUGE muscles and the half man part had HUGE breasts, or so it seemed. My friend Timmy the Drag Queen and Helen the Lesbian could have worked this show, along with Johnny who wore his mother’s dresses and stuck oranges down his dress for breasts.

None of these acts scared or confused me. I found safety and solace in the fact that I wasn’t the only one who lived in a circus environment.

Sad thing is that these “freaks” as they were labeled seemed happier than I was.

What was wrong with “my circus”?

Send In the Clowns (please)

2007-03-05T17:00:00.000-05:00

At the age of sixteen I was about to enter one of the freak side shows you see at the circus.

When I turned 16, Big Frank, my stepfather bought a “newish” car, a pink and white 1961 Nash Rambler American Classic. I had a feeling this was Big Frank’s way of sidestepping my mother’s indifferent attitude and lack of affection towards me. My mother’s interest lie with grooming her son Frankie, to be the next Mickey Mantle.

This decision, let alone the purchase didn’t sit too well with Mary. Arguing night after night with Big Frank, her constant complaint was that “girls need to stay home” and if “she” (Mary hated using my name) had to go anywhere, Frankie would take her.

Finally Big Frank won out and I was allowed to drive “our car.” Mary and Frankie had their own.

My Rambler was fantastic. It had the push button automatic transmission buttons mounted on the left side on the dashboard- R-N-P-D. The interior was gray plaid with a dial radio, gray dashboard and bench seats in the front and back.

In the ‘60’s 2 toned cars were a big deal. The outside was pink with white detailing, with small winged tail fins in white. Driving it gave me the sense of freedom and independence I had longed for in escaping the boredom and horridness of home.

But this new found freedom would be short lived. Mary, the Human Oddity of this family circus had a plan. Her plan came under the guise of wanting me to “learn how to be independent and see what it felt like to live on my own.”
I thought I had been doing that all my 16 years.

Her plan was masterful. She had filled out an application for me at the White Tower Restaurant, where she worked. My hours would be after school at 4 until 8 pm at night. I would have Monday nights off and work all day on weekends. That way she would know where I was at all times.

Brilliant! No time for friends, (not that I had any) schoolwork, or much of anything else.

Had I known I would be donning the same Military White Tower Uniform of my mother’s, running away from home to join the real circus could have been an option.

So there I was on my first day at work. Dressed in the horrendous perfectly cleaned and pressed red polka dot uniforms and apron with a hairnet, topped off with a combination comb/Barrett for my hair and polished white shoes. I felt like Mary was one of those “pod people” that screamed to herself inside her head, “We'll Make Her One of Us!"

It was a busy Saturday at noon. My brother was sitting at the counter already making fun of the way the hair net plastered against my hair and made me look like some sort of street person whose hair had been plastered down from not being shampooed.
And oh yes, the stockings. White Tower had a rule where you could only where panty hose with garters. Being overweight and trying to keep the garters from rolling past my knees down to my ankles became a nervous twitch after a while.
Needless to say, I was mortified.

I had on white shoes that looked like I could walk on the moon with them. I’m not sure where Mary purchased them, but I have a funny feeling some astronaut is walking around without his shoes.

Although I had known the drill of customers coming and going with their orders, it’s one thing to watch, it’s another to be on the other side of the counter waiting on them.

My very first order almost was my last. As I was taking an order from someone, my mother, who was also working the counter, bellowed to me that an English muffin was stuck in the toaster and it was burning and to get something to pry it out with.

I did.

I grabbed a serrated knife from the dishwasher, stuck it into the toaster to pry the English muffin loose and ZAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!

The next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor about 5 feet away. I had stuck a wet knife into the toaster which was still on and gotten a shock.

I remember everyone laughing, but sadly enough I remember my mother’s words as she yelled, “How stupid can you be?”

Yep, this was only the beginning.

"Start spreadin' the news, I'm leavin' today" (from New York, New York)

2007-02-11T10:58:00.000-05:00

This is what happens when I travel.

I had a meeting with the incredibly lovely and talented Kim Meisner in New York.

We had decided to meet at Starbucks. After our 5 hour meeting, Kim left to take care of her precious and beautiful daughter Isabel, and meet her husband Tommy for dinner.

Kim had wanted to walk me to my car, but before driving back to New Haven, I wanted to stop off at the bathroom, so I told her to go ahead without me.

I was in line for the bathroom and this young woman had gone in before me. Soon....there were 7 people in line and the woman in the bathroom was taking a really long time. So this guy in back of me was really pissed and started BANGING on the door. I looked at him and said, "thanks, she's gonna think it's me and come out of there and KICK MY ASS." Everyone laughed and he said not to worry that he would protect me. The line got so long, the woman who worked behind the counter had to yell out which line was for the bathroom and which line was for the coffee.

FINALLY the woman came out, looks at the crowd and says, "gee, what a big line." The guy in back of me says, "did you take a fucking shower in there?"

So I went in, took the fastest pee I ever took in my life, and not caring if my pants were on or off and came out.

As I came out, the guy after me says, "way to go GIRLIE, that's how you do it." As everyone laughed and clapped, I took a bow and said, "people from Connecticut know how to do it."

It was pretty funny.

LOVE THAT STARBUCKS!!!

Gifts That Keep on Giving

2007-01-04T10:54:00.000-05:00

Over the years most of my close friends made the decision that we wouldn't exchange presents at Christmas anymore. After all, we were adults and only needed each other's company as "presents". That's all well and good, except for the fact that if you live alone as I do, opening NOTHING on Christmas Day isn't fun.
But this year I have the good fortune to be linked to the blog world and Jennifer Lauck's writer's circle and some of their friends. The lovely Michelle O'Neil michelleoneilwrites sent out a request to several of these bloggers/writers that they send me "nostalgic" toys re: a post I had written about 2 favorite toys. The toys I received were exceptional and are displayed on my writing desk within easy reach. Slinky, silly putty, translucent magnets, finger puppets, play doh, Put the Hair on Harry, (lovely game)and a baby smurf are only some of the great toys I received wrapped for Christmas in the mail.
But Michelle's gift will be memorable for many people.
I had taken a couple of the Silly Putty eggs to work with me and occasionally would play with them while working at my desk. Diagnosing computer issues for hardware and software is sometimes a waiting game. What better distraction than to fool around with Silly Putty? I was the envy of all the other tech geeks in my office.
On the last day of work before the Christmas break, the IT Department I work in held a Holiday dinner just before leaving. As I packed up my stuff for the week off I noticed that only one egg of my Silly Putty had it's Silly Putty inside. Where was the other Silly Putty? I looked everywhere, even going so far as accusing one of my colleagues of "stealing it." Everyone assured me that no one had stolen it and a search was started to recover the missing Silly Putty. But the search brought no results. Actually the only result was that we were all late for the Holiday Dinner.
I was forced to accept the fact that it would turn up somewhere at some point, but probably not until after the New Year when we returned to work.
We then proceeded to the Holiday Dinner which was set up in one of the lecture halls where we work. Great food, great drinks, linen napkins and red linen tablecloths adorned the tables.
I love my job and I am crazy about the people I work with. I was having a great time.
Until......
As I finished eating and took my elbows off the table, where they shouldn't have been in the first place, the entire tablecloth, dishes, glasses, etc. came flying off the table into my lap and the laps of the 2 other people sitting next to me.
As I sat there looking astonished, I could hear my co-worker across the table say, "Look, there's your silly putty. It's stuck to the bottom of your shirtsleeve."
Yep. It was and it stuck to the tablecloth and dragged everything off with it.

Jill, one of my very favorite if not best friend, gave me a beautiful jar of French Hand and Body Lotion for Christmas. Jill knows I LOVE THIS STUFF and wanted me to have this.
I started using this immediately. Dabbed it behind my ears, neck, arms hands, and chance I got. The scent was heavenly. Even put some on before I went to bed.
After a few days I noticed my skin was flaky like the scales on a fish. My skin was incredibly dry and I broke out in a rash on my neck.
Jill called and asked how I liked the lotion. With regret I told her what had happened. I was sure this gift was very expensive and felt bad that I could no longer use it. She then asked what I thought to be a strange question. "When are you using this"? I told her I had been using it freely over the past week. I could hardly understand her response amid her laughter. "It's a Hand and Body SHAMPOO."
I looked at the jar and indeed I had read only the first three words, "Hand and Body"...
Maybe there's a good reason why my friends have decided not to exchange presents anymore...........

Point-Counter Point

2006-12-29T16:03:00.000-05:00

This post is a response to my friend, and I am proud to call her my friend, Carrie Link's post. Take a look at it. It's a great post as always,
http://fully-caffeinated.blogspot.com/, MAYBE IN MY NEXT LIFE
After reading it, I called to mind my experience with the "other team." If you have read any of my posts, you will discover that my life has been anything but normal, nor have I. With this in mind, I decided to write what the opposing team sometimes encounters.
As I sat in the Atticus Cafe drinking coffee many years ago with my gay Serbo-Croatian dancer friend, I couldn't help but notice out of the corner of my eye, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She seemed to be speaking French and using the most lovely hand gestures I had ever seen. She was a tall, dark haired woman with hair down to her waist dressed in a great tweed jacket with jeans, a button down collar striped shirt and brown leather boots. Simply stunning.
My friend and I were discussing my lack of choosing the "right women" to have relationships with. He was badgering me about not being a good judge of character. True, I had picked some winners in the past year and he proceeded to remind me.
I had a brief encounter with a woman twice my age who I met in a French restaurant in New York. We had been sitting across the aisle from each other and had struck up a conversation. She was wearing a styish brim hat adorned with flowers and a lovely v-necked dress with pearls. As the drinks and the converstion progressed, so did my acceptance of meeting her for a date at the Lone Star Cafe in New York the next week for drinks and dinner. What could I lose?
Little did I know that when she stood up to go and hopped off a booster seat, that she was about 3' high. She was a "little person." This in no way made any difference to me. I had grown up with midgets, which is what they were called in the 1950's, at the White Tower Restaurant. I was chided by the straight friend I was with for not noticing she was a little person in the first place. No matter to me. The next week I took the train into New York and as I sat at the bar of the Lone Star cafe awaiting Madge's arrival, the front door burst open and I heard a very boisterous voice yell out, "Well folks, tonight the highballs are on me." Yes, it was Madge. She had the voice of a 9' giant. She saw me and sauntered over to the bar with her cane and said loudly, " Come on Suzy Q- lift me up on this stool and we'll start the night." I don't think it was my imagination that the entire bar and restaurant area became silent. Madge then proceeded to order a drink, with what became part of her mantra that night, "And make it a tall one," she would exclaim loudly, laughing a guttural belly laugh.
After slamming back a few drinks and bantering with the bar tender about the "shortfalls" of his job, Madge ordered me to help her off the stool and proceed to our dinner table.
The loud barrage of short jokes continued from Madge. Her questions to the waiter as to who the "short order" cook was to how "short changed" she was lately and what "petite fours" the restaurant ordered. I was fucking dying.
When Madge wasn't performing her monlogue of short jokes, she was regaling me with her descriptions of her butterfly and bird collection of which she had 1000 slides and would I come to her apartment after dinner to look at them and possibly help her cataglog them. I was hoping someone would stab me with a fork and wake me from this nightmare.
The last straw was after dinner. She ordered brandy for the both of us and then lit up a cigar and proceeded to talk and blow the cigar smoke in my face. I did what any other lesbian, straight person or martian would do. I politely excused myself went to the bathroom and snuck out the front door when her head was turned, and took the short train ride home to CT.
I also decided to have a relationship with a woman who was pursuing me. She was lovely. She was a martial artist of the highest ranking, again much older than myself. She also had 3 husbands, 2 of which committed suicide. I think the really scary thing was the machete collection she had hanging over her bed. Talk about fear of performance....
While listening to my friend remind me of the close encounters I've had, I remarked to him how lovely the French woman was in the cafe sitting across from us. He glanced over briefly in her direction, looked at me and said, "What the fuck is your problem." "She's not French, she's a deaf mute and she is signing." Ok, I'm a little slow on the uptake.
Several weeks after this I was at the Yale Women's Center looking at postings on their bulletin board for some sort of get togethers for gay profeesional women. One posting caught my eye. It read, 'Music & Mutes." It turns out that there is this contingent of mute lesbian women that met every two weeks at the Howard Johnson Motel Conference Center in Waterbury CT. I was there!! I had known mutes at the White Tower and they were lovely.
I show up right on time at Ho Jo's and notice a sign that the Music & Mutes had been moved to the pool area. Great- it was summer and sitting by the pool, listening and dancing to music with a bunch of women seemed the place to be.
As I approaced the pool, I saw the group sitting around the tables, gesturing and signing. Music was blaring, but I guess it didn't matter. They could hear the beat, but not the words.
As I tried to mingle, I began to see just how difficult it was being the outsider and the minority. I couldn't understand them and they couldn't understand me, but they understood each other. Feeling uncomfortable. I went to my car and came back with pen and paper. Bad move. No one wanted to write anything. The dancing was worse. They were dancing to the beat, and I was dancing to the tune. I looked like the one completely out of step.
One of the very last attempts I made to "socialize" was to hang around a bar that was called the Niche in another little pit town in Connecticut. That ended abruptly one night as the woman I had been dancing close with all night informed me after I had asked her what was sticking into my side while we danced, was a gun she always carried. No, she wasn't a cop. She was just a woman who owned an oil company and carried the gun at all times because you"just never knew."
So Miss Carrie. There you have it from my side.

GONE FISHIN'

2006-11-26T14:00:00.000-05:00

Christmas in my house was always very quiet. My brother and I had learned how to walk on eggshells at a very early age around the holidays and not to expect the classic Christmas that everyone else seemed to be experiencing. My mother always seemed to be angry and stressed and the holidays only provided a bigger fire to fuel regarding her moods.
The day after Thanksgiving I would wake up to the same ritual every year for 20 or more years. On top of my mother’s blonde bureau in her bedroom stood the three foot white Christmas tree decorated with one string of blinking red lights with the tree yellowing from the Pall Malls my mother and step-father chain smoked. After a couple of years the tree would smell of cigarette smoke. Below the tree sat a cardboard fireplace sitting four feet high and three feet wide. It had a black cardboard mantle, where two glass snow globes that when shook, snowed on Santa and his reinder. The other snow globe was the Nativity Scene complete with the Three Wise Men and a cow. The face of the fireplace had a red brick-like facade and inside the fireplace was a cardboard cut out of orange and red flames. Over the “flames” hung “Merry Christmas” in red foil.I remember as a kid thinking that it was a good thing that the flames weren’t real, otherwise the “Merry Christmas” foil greeting would catch on fire. I never really thought about the entire cardboard display becoming a blazing inferno.
Every single year, the day after Thanksgiving, without waking anyone, my mother would get up during the night or very early in the morning and arrange this Christmas scene. It just appeared. No conversation, no ritual of helping decorate the tree or “build” the fireplace. It was her job, her duty to decorate without help from anyone.

I had my own ritual following Thanksgiving. After Thanksgiving you could find me on Henry Street, at the age of ten, pulling my old red, squeaky, rusty Radio Flyer wagon up and down Henry and Orchard Streets. I was preparing for my own Christmas treat after realizing that Santa didn’t exist anymore at the age of 7, thanks to an older brother.
I would dress myself with courdoroy pants, flannel shirt and blue leggins’ over the pants , the kind of pants in the 1950’s that you could hardly move in and were waterproof, keeping your pants dry in case of snow and warm for playing outside, which also came along with a matching blue jacket and attached hood. I don’t think my face was very visible in this get-up, but I was warm.
My goal was one thing and one thing only. Collect soda bottles from neighbors and cash them in for two cents each. Soda in cans hadn’t yet been invented and redeemable empty bottles were a treasure. I knew who to get the most bottles from. Joany McCarthy lived on Orchard Street and her family drank a lot of Cott’s ginger ale. She was good for at least five bottles, especially after Thanksgving. Joany always washed out the bottles before giving them to me. Even though she lived on the third floor of the Orchard Street apartment house, it was worth the two or three trips up the steps. Joany would also alert me to the fact that she saw some “good bottles” in the trash bin in the back of the house.
I didn’t mind poking through the trash too much. I had mittens that clipped onto my blue snow jacket and didn’t care about getting them sticky or dirty. I could usually find three or four bottles to take back.
After getting my stash from Joany, the trash bin and other residents of 755 Orchard Street, I would appear at the local deli store, Sherman’s Corner Store at Henry & Orchard. Sherman would sometimes see me coming down the street with my red wagon full of bottles and point me around to the back of the store, where Sherman would count the bottles and give me the cash. A good Saturday would find me twenty cents richer.
I would continue this routine until I had a total of at least fifty cents. That’s all I needed for my Christmas.
With the fifty cents in hand, I would board the bus, heading for lower Chapel Street into downtown New Haven, deposit my five cents into the money machine and take my seat waiting for my stop, State and Chapel to be called.
Getting off the bus at State and Chapel I wouldwalk across the street to the most beautiful Christmas window display in Shartenberg’s Department Store. I would gaze at this display which was a huge house topped with snow with puppets in the windows looking out for Santa and his sled. The puppet children would gaze out up at the sky and watch Santa and his reindeer fly by in front of a big white full moon. The lighting was spectacular. Make believe snow fell with distinct snowflakes. Noses on the reindeer blinked, Santa’s head kept nodding and smiling, the puppets mouths opened and closed with what seemed like oohs and ahhs and all the puppet kids were smiling along with their parents who were standing behind them.
The talk around town was that even though Mr. Shartenberg was Jewish and didn’t celebrate Christmas, he loved kids. Worked for me!
I would just stand outside for what seemed like hours watching what a real Christmas should be like.
But inside Shartneberg’s on the 3rd floor was where the real magic was. I would take the elevator up to the third floor with other kids and their parents, all hoping to snag the catch of the day.
For upstairs was a round wooden fish pond maybe ten feet in diameter, draped around the insides and outsides with Christmas paper and inside the fish pond were small Christmas presents wrapped, stacked about three feet high with some kind of plastic hook attached to the bow. All you had to do was pay your twenty cents, grab a fishing pole and start fishing for your present. After paying the “Fisherman” I hung up my snow coat on racks made just for the height of a kid and proceeded to the Pond.
I waited to fish in this pond all year long. There were several methods you could use to find your catch. Sometimes I would wait and watch the other kids to see what they got and what location they got it from or you could dive right in with the fishing pole hook a present and see whether it was heavy or not. The one rule of the Fish Pond was that once the present was reeled in and you touched it, you couldn’t throw it back. It was yours.
Careful consideration went into this plan. Should I just plunge in and see what I got?
Should I scout out the area like a real fisherman would to see where the big catches of the day were or should I hook one and see how much it “weighed"? Most times I plunged in after scouting out the areas.
The two favorite toys of my entire life were caught that one day and reeled in. Spending the forty cents I had saved from the bottle deposits and fishing out just the right presents, I went to the second best attraction, the Santa Claus train that took you around the Christmas shop for free.
There on that train while riding through Christmas Town I opened my catch of the day, a Slinky and Silly Putty. I couldn’t have been happier. Two things I really wanted were mine and I had earned them.
Whatever I didn’t get for Christmas would fade into the background. I had learned how to make myself happy even back then.

St.Anne's Oil

2006-11-15T15:05:00.000-05:00

It was one of those summer days that I was told I was spending in downtown New Haven instead of staying at home. My mother had been called in to work an extra shift from 11 am to 7 pm and decided I would drive in with her and stay there until she finished work.

As Mary got ready for work, I immediately dressed in a clean plaid short sleeve shirt, long pants, and my little white socks with my Ked sneakers.
I combed my Beatle haircut that Johnny the Barber had just cut and waited in the car.
Never ever, keep Mary waiting. Igniting her short fuse would only lead to yelling, a slap in the face or threats to just “leave me alone forever.”

Driving to work with Mary was the same every time. She had a 1954 green and white Chevrolet Bel Air, four doors. As she sat there driving and smoking her Pall Mall cigarette, her black plastic pocketbook and her newly starched and ironed red and white polka dot apron sat in a place of its own on the front seat beside me in between the two of us.

I sat silently in the front, with my legs dangling off the seat. I wasn’t more than 10 years old and I barely could see out the big passenger window.

I loved riding in the car. It got me out of the house, away from my brother and his friends. I was happy to be spending the day downtown. I was lonely, sure. But there was also a strange freedom that accompanied this. I was completely on my own. The choices of how to entertain myself were mine, with no one watching me or telling me what to do, who to talk to, and no one pushing me around.

Pulling into the parking lot on the side of the glass plate windows of the White Tower, she would immediately spew out an order to me of, “make sure you’re back here by the time I finish work at 7 and don’t make me wait. If you want lunch, get the money from Big Frank. He’s at the parking lot until 10.” With that exit line, no goodbye, no hug, no kiss, no anything, she was out the door and into her “White Tower Mode,” the happy mode, the pleasant mode, the dutiful working mother mode.

As usual I was off on my own again looking for something to do to pass the time. Wandering down College Street I would pass the familiar people and places of my childhood. The Stage Door Bar and Grille wasn’t open yet, and besides, it was no fun during the day. Not many customers packed the bar until at least 5 or so. The Roger Sherman Movie Theatre and the College Movie Theatre wouldn’t be open until 2 so that was out until later.

Turning the corner onto Chapel Street right on the Corner sat the Owl Tobacco Shop with it’s assortment of fresh imported cigars, cigarettes, and fresh pipe tobacco that was mixed by hand. My mother and step father’s habit of chain smoking even while we were eating, always made me cringe as I walked by even though the shop was clean and the guys who ran it were nice.

Further down on Chapel Street on the corner of Chapel and High Street stood the Waldorf Cafeteria. It boasted of 24 hour cafeteria style dining, but the shabby interiors showing through the dirty street windows where some of the downtown New Haven street people sleeping inside, smoking, or just finding a place to stay, made people think twice about going in. I would walk by and wave to the customers I knew.

Next to the Waldorf sat my two favorite 2 stores in New Haven, The Pen Shop and the St. Thomas Moore Gift Shop.

The Pen Shop was a small well lit store front with all the latest pens and mechanical pencils in the window. Not only did they sell pens. They actually fixed them. This was no Bic pen store. This was the best of the best. Schaeffer fountain pens, Esterbrook fountain pens, Parker Pens, Waterman Pens. Ken could fix anything from a broken nib to a clasp to the refill barrel itself. He was a magician.
Walking in the front door of the Pen Shop a bell would chime and I would be immediately greeted by Ken the Pen Man. Ken would have made a great father. He was handsome, tall, always wore a white shirt and tie and smoked a pipe. After Ken appeared, Dorothy his wife would come out from the back.
“Hi Sweetie Pie” Dorothy would say. How I loved those words, probably more than I loved the pens. Ken and Dorothy always bought coffee to go from the White Tower.
They were the perfect couple. She was tall with dark brown hair, always wore a shirt waist dress and was pretty. More than that, she liked me.
Ken would grab a stool from the back and place in right in front of the 2 large display cases. He would then turn and say, “Well, madam, what pen are you interested in today”? Each pen sat in its own little box nestled among a pillow. Some pens were even initialed in gold. I would pick out a pen from the vast array in the display case and Ken would gently remove the case, lift out the pen from its elastic clip and hand it to me as if it were a newborn baby. I would sit there for hours trying out the different pens, with their different points writing my name over and over.
I used to wish that Ken and Dorothy were my parents. They had no children.
Too bad. They would have been great.

The store front window of the St. Thomas More Gift shop displayed the religious articles of the season. In the summer the window was dressed in celebration of the August 15th , Holy Day of Obligation, The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This is when the Blessed Virgin Mary ascended bodily into Heaven after her death.
The decorations were white and gold lace covering the bottom of a very large statue of the Blessed Virgin,, like the blanket surrounding a Christmas tree. Roses were placed all around the blanket in her honor. Angels hung from the ceiling surrounding Mary accompanying her on the way to heaven.
Opening the door would make a bell on top of the door jingle, like the bells rung at the Eucharist of the Mass.
Entering the gift shop was like walking into an old quiet church. The wooden floor creaked. The smell of the votive candles burning hung the air. Soft haunting Gregorian Chant music would be coming from a scratchy record player somewhere in the back.The shelves were lined with statues, crosses, holy cards, missals and rosary beads, all within reach to touch and hold.

A huge sign hung above the religious articles that said,

ALL RELIGIOUS ARTICLES HAVE NOT YET BEEN BLESSED
UPON PURCHASE PLEASE TAKE YOUR PURCHASE TO YOUR
PARISH PRIEST SO THAT THEY MAY BE BLESSED AND THEN
USED IN THE PROPER MANNER.

Everyone knew that if you didn’t have these things blessed by your priest they just wouldn’t work the same. His blessing was mandatory.
Off to the side of one of the shelves, near the cash register was a special podium.
On this podium sat the blessed of blessed articles, St. Ann’s Oil.
This tiny bottle of oil sat next to a drawing and a statue of St. Anne, mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Legend had it that if you had any ailment and you rubbed this liquid on it, you would immediately be healed. Testimonies on pieces of paper sat next to the drawing of St. Anne. Testimonies that verified how people had their eyesight restored when applying the oil on their eyelids, while others reported healing of paralysis when rubbing the oil on the affected limbs and people with severe arthritis reported pain subsiding when the oil was applied.

It was a tiny 2 or 3 ounce bottle that contained a thick yellow liquid. It was a magic liquid. I was familiar with it because this same bottle sat on my mother’s bureau next to her bobby pin box. I’m not sure how my mother came to own it, but it was a "hands off policy” at home. No touching the oil. Interesting. There were so many ailments in my family, but not of the physical kind. I even wondered as a kid if maybe, just maybe if I applied this oil to my head, would I be smarter? Or my face, prettier?

I’ll never know.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have swallowed the whole bottle.

Might have saved on some therapy bills.

Love this guy....

2006-11-12T20:27:00.000-05:00

Here's a great article for kids and writers

citynews.ca/news

The Stage Door Bar & Grille

2006-10-31T12:51:00.000-05:00

Across the street and next to the famous Schubert Theatre in New Haven sat the Stage Door Bar & Grille. It was called Stage Door because of it's location next to the alleyway of the Schubert Theatre.

The Schubert Theatre in New Haven was the last stop for any Broadway bound play or musical act. If you bombed in New Haven, your chances for succeeding in New York or even making it to New York were greatly diminished.
Extending out from the Stage Door was your basic neon sign, blaring out the name in big red letters over a black background. Nothing fancy, just your basic bar sign.

I was allowed access to the Stage Door any time, day or night. My mother's job at the White Tower 24 hour hamburger joint across the street gave me passage to most places, day or night, that any 10 year would never dream of entering, nor their parents allow.

The murky windows of the Stage Door facing the corner of Crown and College were covered half way down with old cigarette stained drapes. If you were tall enough, which I wasn't at the age of 10, you could peer over the draped partition and peer in.

The entrance to the Stage Door was an old heavy wooden door with a diamond shaped window 3/4 of the way up. Most times I had trouble opening the door by myself but if I waited a bit, some downtown neighborhood patron would come along and let me in, or I would wait for someone to come out from their daily dose of beer.

As I walked through the dense cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke I would begin to manuver through a sea of legs.
The smell of stale smoke and alcohol permeated the air.

A huge Seeburg jukebox was immeditately to your right, bigger than the one at the White Tower.It was a great big domed shaped record player with a music list to try and please all patrons. Rock and roll, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis and whatever holiday music that was appropiate at the time. The juke box 45rpm records and could spin both sides. A nickel was all it took and if you were lucky enough to have a quarter, you could get 6 plays.

4 booths sat off to the left where the downtown people gathered to talk about their day or just sit in silence by themselves pondering over the drink in front of them
One such patron was Kathie, an Italian woman with black hair tied up in a huge bun on her head, fingernails as long as spikes and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
She would smile and say to me, "Come sta Lei"? I would smile back at her and say, "molto bene." I loved how she talked Italian to me, made me feel like an adult. My mother spoke Italian to my aunts when she didn't want us to know what she was saying. I had picked up a few words in those conversations.

Before I knew it, someone would always recognize me as "Mary's daughter" and I would be swept off my feet and plunked down lovingly on a bar stool in front of the bartender. "Hey kid," "How about a Coke and some chips"?

Within seconds Rudy the bartender would slide down a glass of Coke where it would stop right in front of me. Rudy sailed the drinks right down the bar like a pro shuffleboard athlete, knowing exactly where to make that drink stop. Rudy was a pro.
He knew everyone's drink and usually had it ready and waiting.

The guys at the bar would all offer to pay for my soda, but Rudy's remark would always make me smile. "The little lady can have whatever her heart desires. It's on the house."

I would sit there on the bar stool with my Beatles haircut well before the Beatles landed, dirty pants and shirt and scuffed sneaks from playing catch in my step father's parking lot with Helen the lesbian, listening to the clink of glasses being swept off the bar and taken from the patrons in the booths.

There was always laughter and conversation and camaraderie, no matter who was there.
It was a meeting place, a gathering of minds, from office workers, to the retail store owners in downtown New Haven to people just plain down on their luck.

A few of the regulars included Dave, the punch drunk semi-pro boxer, Stan the Parking Lot Man with the fancy rings on his finger and the brand new shiny Cadillac.
It was a haven of sorts.

One hot summer night as I was perched on the bar stool, the bar became silent.

Entering the door was a handsome lightly skinned black man who seemed so familiar.

I couldn't quite place him until I heard Rudy say, "Hey Johnny, welcome to New Haven."

With that Johnny Mathis strode up to the bar and shook Rudy's hand. "Pleasure to meet you," Johnny said. With that everyone crowded around Johnny and introduced themselves. Most of the guys had stories about their wives "swooning" over his records and pointing out to Johnny that his songs were on the jukebox.

At one point Johnny looked over at me, winked and said, "Hi Darlin."
Wow. That was cool then and it still is.

Everyone offered to buy him a beer, but Rudy insisted it was on the house. Johnny had just finished a show at the Schubert and had a bagful of White Tower hamburgers for his crew back at the Hotel Taft down the street.

Johnny said he just wanted to stop in for a quick beer and say hello.

When Johnny left there was one remark about his sexual orientation.
The remark was met with a host of comments to the effect that it didn't matter.
Johnny was a gentlemen and his business was no one else's.

Even at 10, I knew what this meant.
I was proud to be one of the "patrons" in the bar.

That night stands out in my mind for a several reasons. What I seem to rememeber most about that night is the value of acceptance.

For that night, in that bar, we were all equal. No one was any better than anyone else, whether you're a star who's sexuality is questioned, a lost soul, or a lonely kid.

The Stage Door was a place to be welcome, respected and recognized.

The Mac Guy

2006-10-29T14:44:00.000-05:00

Ed sat in the Yale New Haven emergency room watching the Peter Jennings news cast.

To Ed’s right double sided glass doors kept opening allowing the sick and wounded either to enter or exit from their visit in the ER.

Entering the ER through the glass doors you immediately stood in line at the triage desks on the right.

First stop was the nurse’s desk. Name, symptoms, how long the patient had been suffering and blood pressure were taken.
You could often hear the pleading of the sick and wounded to be “seen” as soon as possible as the pain were too much to bear.
Stock answers from the casually dressed uniformed nurses with their stethoscopes hanging around their neck were almost always the same. “ The Doctor will be with you shortly, please stop by the Admission Desk to fill out forms and then take a seat in the waiting room.
At the Admission Desk all insurance information was taken and forms for next of kin were filled out.

A security and a New Haven Police Officer sat a podium next to the Nurses station to monitor any form of annoyances from patients monitor entrance into the examining rooms itself. Friends or family of the sick were given Visitor passes once inside the exam rooms in order for them to leave or make phone calls while the patient was being seen by a doctor.

Yale’s emergency room is a desolate place to visit on any day or night, weekend or weekday.

Accompanying Ed on the uncomfortable blue and orange chairs were soon to be “patients” of all kinds. Sick children being held by their mother, adults coughing and wheezing, some bent over in physical pain, all waiting inordinate amounts of time to be seen by any doctor.

It was common knowledge that inside the swinging doors of the actual ER there were patients that took precedence over the waiting room patrons. Patients arriving by ambulance, gunshot wounds and stabbings were an everyday occurrence in New Haven regardless of time or day. Holidays were also busy times.

Ed was here for a schedule CT scan. He had pneumonia with a persistent fever for several months.
The prolonged condition caused concern among Ed's doctors and a CT scan was needed to see
exaclty what was going on inside his lungs.

Towards the end of the news cast Peter Jennings made a stunning announcement that he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and would be undergoing treatment as an outpatient, beginning with chemotherapy. He vowed to his viewers that he would fight this hideous disease.

Watching this newscast at home I thought about Ed and what this CT scan would mean.
We knew what the worst possible scenario would be but just couldn’t mention the words “lung cancer.” Ironically Ed had also seen this newscast and knew that this could possibly be his fate also.

It was.

Ed was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away eight months later after
a hideous bout with chemotherapy treatments.

I met Ed at Yale. He was the “Mac Guy” but so much more than that.
He was a wizard when it came to computers. Ed and I became fast friends. He was tough, crabby and had great expectations of everyone’s work performance. But, he made sure we had the tools and resources with which to work with.

Ed was a 6ft+ burly guy. In his earlier days at Yale in the Computer Science Department he sported long hair and a pierced ear.

My first meeting with Ed was filled with fear. My then boss, John, sent me on a call to Ed’s office in Computer Science to install a new CD-rom in Ed’s Power Mac 7200 desktop. John’s words echoed from the moment I got the service call until I finished, “Whatever you do, don’t fuck up this call. This guy will have you roasted. He is big time.”

Yes, Ed was big time. He was promoted to Assistant Director of the Yale Computer Center losing the long hair and earring. He became my immediate boss.

After a year or so Ed was offered a Director’s job at the university I currently work at.
A few months later, he asked me to join him and I did.
He was appointed Director of Systems Technology and Planning.

This university changed both are lives for the good. Ed’s talents shone. His foresight regarding technology trends and innovation was incomparable to anyone’s
Ed was loved by everyone and feared by some. His low intolerance of incompetence of individuals in their appointed jobs was legendary. Thankfully only a few were on the receiving end of his wrath.

Ed became my father, brother and mentor. He was tough. He held high expectations of me, but coming from a family where I was invisible, this was a welcome gift.

Ed had no problem telling me what he thought about my life or me.
Hearing about my shortcomings was painful, but every “constructive criticism” conversation was always accompanied by his praise for my talent and abilities that I did possess.

We ate lunch everyday and spoke on the phone every night.
We could talk about anything, TV, work, sports, and sex. No topic was off limits.
Every weekend I would swing by his house and drop off a large coffee coolatta with extra whipped cream.
Ed’s wife often joked that if she didn’t know “I was on the other team,” she’d be worried.

Ed believed in my talent, my humor, and my soul. He showered me with his knowledge of computers; books, computers themselves and any new technological gadget he thought would enhance my art.

Ed passed away last December. I saw him on the night before he was taken to Hospice.
Knowing that I was leaving for France for 2 weeks, Ed asked me when I was leaving.

I told him I would be leaving in 7 days. He looked at me and smiled and just said, “OK.”
I saw Ed the next night in Hospice. He was barely conscious. I sat with him for a while and when I left, kissed him and told him how much I loved him.

Ed passed away later that night.

I know Ed chose to die while I was still in town.
It’s just something I know. No one can tell me any different.

Charting the Course

2006-10-22T09:00:00.000-04:00

I have been stalling the beginning of my rewrite for my memoirs. Anything and everything was an excuse to begin another day.

I did however manage to go to Staples and purchase a 3 ring binder, (maroon) paper punch, highlighters, packs of paper and a new cartridge for the laser printer.
I even printed out every story double spaced and placed them in chronological order of a sort and placed them in the 3 ring binder.

A beautifully written blessing was sent along I could place inside the binder by SerenityTide.

I then brought the package to my shrink and received her blessing.

Was I ready to start? Should have been, but nope.

The excuses began rolling in...

1. Jury Duty
2. Jury Trial
3. Cold or Allergies
4. Dinners I had to accept (yeh,right)
5. Sleepless nights
6. TV I just couldn't miss (never mind I have TIVO)

You name it, I always came up with a reason to begin "tomorrow."

Until today.

Last night GoMama called and we commiserated about writing, blah, blah, blah.
I casually mentioned that I had taken her advice and gone to Staples and did this and that and I now had this "entity" sitting on my desk.
She was taken by suprise. I said that I had emailed her a week or so ago to tell her of the first steps taken. She said she hadn't received any email, but that this was indeed big news (I found out this morning I had sent it to the wrong address).
What she said next struck a chord.
"You did it." "You finished the chart."
"You fu-king finished the chart Jennfier had us do at the workshop in Portland!"

Hmmmm...

This morning, as I was cleaning the dog hair and what seemed like hundreds of copies of various stories printed, out of my computer studio, I came across the chart.

There it was, rolled up and creased from traveling back to Connecticut with all the stickies I had placed there. 12 points on an astrological chart with each sector representing what I wanted to write- the events, the characters in my life, and the final stickie, what I hoped to acheive by writing.
It was all there. I really had done it.

The very last stickie on the chart startled me.
It said simply, "I am happy."

So today I will begin the rewrite. Happy but scared.
I promise myself.

Allow me to Introduce One of My Favorite Bloggers

2006-10-17T06:27:00.000-04:00

http://mysticwing.blogspot.com/

I was fortunate enough to meet this man and he
is as captivating as his words.

Visit his site. You will keep returning.

Top 3 Ways to Be Excused from Being a Trial Juror

2006-10-12T10:22:00.000-04:00

Contributed by my friends and esteemed colleagues.
(See previous post)

1. Walk into courtroom with my own gavel
and sit there hugging it like the “Log Lady”
in Twin Peaks.

2. Point out to the Judge that I am on medication
and cannot be out on an all day pass. (half true)

And my personal favorite:

3. Walk into the courtroom dressed as Judge Judy.

Other suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Trials of Life

2006-10-11T19:18:00.000-04:00

The court clerk led the 14 people chosen for voir dire into the cold austere waiting area outside the courtroom. The huge window on one side of the room looked out over a cemented buiding next door, making the outside looking gray and dull even on a sunny day,

Each person quietly took their seat. Others either stood or sat on the floor. Within seconds most people pulled out a magazine, a book they had brought or a notebook they had been writing in.

It was if no one else was in the room. It was that eerie silence like an elevator full of people but no one connecting either visually or verbally.

I had it figured out from the very beginning. I knew exactly who would and wouldn't be chosen to sit on a jury trial.

The gentlemen on my right had 2 Jehovah Witness textbooks perched in his lap. In one hand he held a small black King James Bible and a small spiral notebook underneath it, all the while chewing on his 39 cent Bic pen.
He was impeccably dressed in a black double breasted suit with black shoes and socks. He wore a white longsleeve shirt with a dark maroon tie. He never once made eye contact with anyone. His focus was on the text books, the bible and the notebook.
He was a "By the book," "No nonsense." kind of guy.
He most certainly would be selected to be on the jury.

The student sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor was taking notes in a 3 ring binder from the book "My Sister's Keeper" by Jodi Picoult. She was casually dressed in jeans and a red sweater. Could have been any girl next door.
My # 2 pick for the jury.

The tall gray haired gentleman, who looked like a model for LL Bean was standing s reading a book on
"Cabins and Cottages in New England"
My # 3 pick for a jury seat.

God, as I looked around the room at the rest gathered, all these people seemed pretty normal.

A young man in his 40's across from me was reading, "Searching for the Sound;My Life with the Grateful Dead." He had a mesh backpack with several Trail Mix Granola Bars showing through.
His rimless eyeglasses and beaded Indian necklace gave away his previous hippy life.
Now this guy would definitely NOT be selected.

A woman sporting an extremely short haircut, but with a long braid down to her waist was reading a romance novel by Kat
Martin. She definitely had the "business look."
Another "yes" for the jury.

Several middleaged women were reading "People" and "House and Garden." My guess is that they were married, had kids, and/or worked.
Count up 3 more for the jury seats.

A woman sitting directly across from me peaked my interest. She was a very attractive woman, probably in her early forties.
We had commented to each other before we entered the room that we had the same first name, Maria.
She began reading a book I had read a couple of years ago, "Journey of Souls" by Michael Newton.
During a 15 minute break for coffee we rode up on the same elevator together. I remarked that I had read the book she was now reading and enjoyed it. She explained that she was at a point in her life where she was finally beginning to enjoy what she was doing and was just so pleased to have found her passion. She then asked if I could recommend any other book that would point her in the direction of the same issues. I told her about " The Alchemist" that Carrie Link had so glowingly recommended. She thanked me and wrote down the name and author.
Okay- this was going to be the 2nd person that would not be picked. There was just something about her, that seemed to differentiate her from the rest. She seemed more "clued in" than the others. I liked her.

And I of course considered myself to be the # 3 option for sitting out this dance.

As the almost elected jury was called in to face the opposing attorneys and judge for questions as to whether or not
they would be suitable to serve on this trial, one by one, people were sent home, failing to provide the acceptable answers
to the legal inquiries posed by the court.

I was astonished!

The three who were chosen to sit on the jury trial from this group of 14 people?

Yep, you got it. "Journey of Souls" reader, " "Searching for the Sound; My Life with the Grateful Dead " reader, and me.

I was reading, "On Writing," by Stephen King.

Me, who barely knows the difference between voir dier and joie de vivre.

To be continued......

Charlie's Dog House

2006-10-08T09:16:00.000-04:00

Puddin’ was a little black girl who spent the summers with her Aunt Pearl next door to me on Henry Street. She was from North Carolina.
She was the only girl friend I can remember having as a young child. I was 7 and Puddin’ was 5. She was petite with lovely chocolate skin, which is why her family named her after a famous chocolate pudding- Amazo Instant Pudding.
I never knew what her real name was, but who was I to talk about names.

We became friends immediately after her first day of summer vacation.

Puddin’ always had 5 or 6 braids sticking out all over her head with different colored barretts. She usually wore a little white shirt with a peter pan collar and dungaree shorts with little white sneakers.
I had your basic rice bowl # 10 haircut from Johnny the Barber, striped short sleeve shirt and shorts. My sneaks were blue Keds, so I could run faster and jump higher.

Puddin’ and I kept to ourselves most of the time. My brother and his friends would continually make us a target of their cruelty, name calling and jokes, none of which were funny. They would call us vanilla and chocolate pudding.

Puddin’ would sit in my red wagon while I pulled her around the neighborhood showing her all my favorite places, Beaver Pond Park, the back lot of Baldwin School where I would roller skate, and Kane’s drugstore where we would sit at the soda fountain and order ice cream sodas.

Around the corner from where we lived was a neighborhood legend called “Charlie’s Dog House.” This was a tiny shack located in the middle of a parking lot that accessed two streets, Orchard Street and Dixwell. Charlie’s Dog House sold hotdogs, hamburgers and french-fries. Only open in the summer, it was the place to get hotdogs.
Charlie the owner was a gruff kind of guy, who took your order as a cigarette dangled from his lips. He could be heard outside yelling orders, “Two dogs to travel,” “One Frenchie with them.”
When Charlie fell on hard times, the Dog House went up for sale. Neighbors were worried that their favorite hot dog haven would be silenced.

Much to everyone’s surprise, the Dog House was purchased by the Farrells, the family who owned the row house we lived in.
Rose Farrell’s brother, Uncle Nick and her son Raymond took over the operation of the Dog House. Raymond would take the orders and work the grill, Rose would take the money from the customers. Nick would work in the back peeling potatoes and preparing them for french fries. He would place the peeled potato, one by one in a “chopping” machine that looked like a slot machine. It had a space to place the potato standing on its end, a lever next to it that you would pull down, and presto, the whole potato was sliced into long giant pieces that would then be thrown into the vat of boiling hot oil. God, they were good.
More than once Nick sliced his fingers while attempting to hold the potato in place as the guillotine came crashing down on Mr. Potato head.

One summer day as Puddin’ and I were sitting on the front steps of 139, Raymond came out with a bag in his hand and asked if I could deliver it to Nick at the dog house. He offered a dime to the both of us for this errand.
Jumping at the chance to show Puddin’ the inner workings of the Dog House,and hopefully a hot dog, I took the brown bag, took Puddin’ by the hand and walked around the corner to the Dog House.

Just as we neared the Dog House, Puddin’s Aunt Pearl walked out of Willie Mae’s Beauty Parlor. Eyeing the bag she asked what we were doing. When I told her of the errand we were on, she took the bag and opened it.

The next thing I knew Puddin’ and I were being dragged to the Dog House. As we entered the front door Aunt Pearl started screaming at Uncle Nick:

“What is wrong with you people”?
“I’m going to call the police and have you arrested.”
"My neice could have been killed."
“We came up north to avoid this garbage.”

With that, Aunt Pearl took Puddin’ and told us we would never be allowed to play together again.

Little did I know that inside the paper bag was a loaded gun.
Raymond wanted Uncle Nick to have it at the Dog House for protection.

Evening in Paris

2006-09-23T11:42:00.000-04:00

The corner store on Henry and Dixwell sold wigs, toiletries, cheap perfume (for those of you a certain age- “Evening In Paris” perfume was a dollar a gallon). It was run by Ben and Rose, an older couple living in the wealthier part of New Haven near St Brendan’s Church. Always being sent to the store on a regular basis for my mother’s cigarettes, I came to know Ben and Rose. They ran this family business with their only son, Adam.
Adam was a nice kid who tried to emulate his parents in any way he could. Charming, willing to sell you anything and everything and convince you at the same time that you really needed it. He was old enough to be out of high school and was being groomed to take over the family business one day.

During the summer on slow days, Adam would play “catch” with me in the back parking lot. Hanging around with Adam would occupy me on the days I wasn’t taking the bus into downtown New Haven to spend the day playing with the “downtown people”.

One particular evening around dinnertime Ben and Rose suggested that Adam take me to their house for supper and show me around. I had heard stories of this "mansion type” home they owned.
At least that’s what we were always told. We always trick or treated on this street because the people were rich and had the best treats. Compared to the 3 rooms I lived in, this seemed like an adventure I couldn’t pass up.

I remember leaving the store walking hand in hand with Adam down Henry Street, across Beaver Pond Park, up the Goffe Street hill and over to Elsworth Avenue.
I felt safe, happy and protected. Adam never treated me like my brother or his friends. He was kind and paid attention to me.

As we neared his house, I couldn’t believe that someone I knew not only lived in a house like this, but that I was actually going inside. As Adam opened the front door visuals came to me that I only saw on TV. I saw huge ceilings,a winding staircase, and rooms, oh so many rooms, with lots of furniture that I didn’t even recognize. The rooms were bright with lots of windows and open spaces.
Our three room apartment was always dark.
Venetian blinds were drawn either keeping the light out or the darkness in.

They must have had 2 or 3 couches. We had none.

After supper Adam took me for a tour of the upstairs. His room, his parents room which seemed bigger than my entire apartment, was full of family photos framed, art work and what I thought at that time, were rugs hanging on the wall. We had linoleum on the floor.

Adam then asked me if I wanted to see his special room in the basement. He was learning how to develop pictures. Not everyone was allowed in this room he said. The liquids in this room were very dangerous and you had to be very careful.

He explained that the room had special lights, yellow ones to protect the film and paper he was using and asked if I was afraid of the dark. Trying to be brave, I said no. I had to lie. I could never tell him that my punishment for “being bad” was to sit in the hallway in the dark for hours until “I learned how to behave.”

With Adam holding my hand we walked into this “dark room”. I was a little scared, but I was sure having Adam by my side would make everything ok. Adam turned on the yellow lights and things began to come into view. A large machine sat on a long table with a bunch of trays next to it. Adam explained that this is where the pictures were made and the trays was where the chemicals went.

He then asked if I wanted to see how a picture was made. I was excited. This was something that no one I knew ever saw this.

As Adam took a big jug of liquid from the bottom of the bench and opened it, he accidentially tipped it over and spilled it all over me. Adam said in a very soft but scary voice, “Don’t move an inch, this is very bad and you could be really burned.” I was frozen. I was scared. I didn’t move.
Adam then explained that everything would be alright as long as “we” washed it off.
Even with his assurances I was crying.

He carried me upstairs so I wouldn’t drip any of the liquids over the house and took me into one of the bathrooms on the 2d floor.
He explained that he would wash my clothes and dry them so no one would know what had happened. He undressed me slowly and carefully telling me that if we were lucky the clothes wouldn’t stick to my skin. He said the liquids could burn me.

I remember being placed in the bathtub but the perspective suddenly changes in my recall, and it was as if I were standing next to Adam watching myself being cleansed. Adam’s tall lanky frame would bend over the low set tub and slowly but gently rub the wash cloth over my chest, over my back, up my legs and between my legs, over and over, all the while Adam assuring me that I would be okay if we “got all the liquid” off my body.
After we finished, Adam picked me up out of the tub and held me while I cried for what seemed the longest of times.
He carried me to where my clothes were drying, dressed me, took my hand and walked me home in silence. As he left me in front of my house, the last words he said to me were, “Don’t tell anyone, this is our secret because we could both get in really big trouble.”

I never played with Adam again, never told anyone what happened out of fear.

How ironic it is that come 20 odd years later, I would become a professional photographer and spend the next 20 years in a darkroom at Yale developing black and white photographs.

But the “dark room” phase is gone. No more for me.

Maybe it was my way of conquering the dark, the scary, and my fears.
How ironic is it today that in my late 50’s I think I just may be coming out of the dark.

It's all relative

2006-09-21T13:04:00.000-04:00

Compassion for my mother and her problems has been haunting me lately. I really had to stop and ask myself some tough core questions. Why can’t I remember any of the good times? Have they actually all been bad? What am I missing? True, she had some tough issues and decisions to make regarding men, her husbands, my father and most importantly for me, my birth. Did she try and do her best, no matter if she failed or not?
Am I being fair blaming her for her lack of love or attention? So many questions seeking answers that I alone could not answer. Intense therapy sessions would only seem to bring more confusion and more questions to the forefront. My shrink would listen and then together we would hash over words like narcissistic, evil, crazy, self serving, etc. She would painstakingly explain each one. Still I looked for answers, anything to define my mother’s behavior.

My brother had a different experience with her than I did. I tried talking to him at one point and he shrugged it off with, “ I don’t have any of the memories of Mommy that you do.” Then half jokingly would add, “but she always liked me better anyway.” Not funny. Not even a joke, but my life or happiness was never a part of his concern.

A few weeks ago I decided to try and solicit any information I could from 2 family members who knew my mother from a different perspective. I thought if I asked them both the same questions, I could pinpoint specific events in her life before I was born, maybe, just maybe there would be that one ah-ha moment when things became a little clearer.

My first cousins from my mother’s two sisters were closer in age to my mother than they are to my age. They are both in their late 70’s, and unmarried. They chose to stay home and take care of their mothers until my aunts died. I had long since fallen out of favor for not following in their footsteps.

I started off with Cousin #1 by telling her that I was doing some writing and trying to figure out some things about my life, namely some my mother’s issues. She immediately became suspicious and asked 2 things- was she being taped- I assured her she wasn’t and was I going to write mean things about my mother. I told her I was writing the truth from my perspective. She began by telling me that my mother was a “change of life baby”, that she wasn’t supposed to be born and wasn't supposed to live. Her birth brought about her hard life.
She went on to tell me that her mother lived with them when she was younger because no one liked her.” She explained that the White Tower saved my mother’s life when they hired her and gave her self esteem and that whatever she did, she did for “the kids.”
Because of difficult times her mother was ready to adopt my brother. When I asked about my adoption, she glossed over it by explaining that “someone would have stepped in”.

Cousin # 2 had a different take on things. She said that my mother was an “unhappy soul” and she had cut herself off from everyone. She added that everyone was aware of how she treated my brother vs how I was treated, but couldn’t say anything. What she did say next caught me off guard. She mentioned that my mother’s life became even worse after “the movie theatre incident.” I pressed her further to explain.
It seems when while mother was married to Frankie’s father, he was arrested for exposing his “private parts” in a movie theatre to men and children.

The sordid circle became a little clearer. It didn’t even end with my brother’s father succumbing to syphilis. The cycle of abuse had continued from my brother’s father to my brother. This must have been what happened.
But it never stopped. Why not? Weren’t the red flags up?

I brought back these two packets of information to the only person I’ve been able to totally trust, my shrink Dr Lubin. I have faith this unbiased woman would point me in the direction of the truth, at any cost, whether I possessed some sort of inability to see the entire picture of my mother’s life, or if indeed my mother did lead such a wretched life.
I was always left with the same gnawing feeling. She didn’t have to be that unhappy.

As before, the words were the same.

Same diagnosis, same woman, same mother.

Narcissistic, evil, crazy, self serving.

What an incredibly sad way to describe a person’s life.

What an incredibly sad way to describe my mother's life.

The Spectator

2006-09-17T20:04:00.000-04:00

Catching part of the Sunday afternoon football games today snagged me back to a childhood memory of my brother.
Frankie was too "precious" to lend himself to football, or so my mother decided. She was saving him for baseball. She knew he was a gifted athlete even at an early age.
Frankie loved football so my mother, to keep her only child happy, bought him one of the very first "electric" football games by Tudor.
He would play this insipid little game for hours.

The game came with 2 sets of football players with their color coded teams. The little men were all set to go. All you had to do was plug the aluminum "stadium" in and watch the little tiny football players shake across the playing field.

Instead my brother with my mother's help, bought a set of tiny bottles of oil paint along with a pack of the littlest paint brushes I can ever remember seeing. Tiny bottles of red, green , blue, black, gray were lined up on a shelf made especially for the paints and brushes.
My mother would spread a white sheet out on the kitchen table where my brother performed his cosmetic surgery on these little men.
Frankie would sit there hour after hour painstakingly painting each and every one of those teeny football men.

First he would paint their helmets, then their shoulders, then their jerseys, then the number on top of that. One by one these little miniature football players took on a coat of shiny new paint displaying the team colors my brother had chosen.

He couldn't be interrupted during this process. You couldn't stand near him, couldn't talk to him and certainly couldn't touch these little men.

This just wasn't a toy. It was too serious. My mother's reaction was just as profound as my brother's. It was as if she were watching him play football without the fear of injury. They somehow had created life, or so it seemed. My mother and brother at times seemed like a couple. You know the type, knowing glances at each other, inside jokes only they understood. They were in synch to the exclusion of everyone and everything around them. How I envied this bond.

When the little men were painted he would line them up on opposing sides and announce the teams, their names, and their rankings.

He would then line them up on the field of scrimmage, complete with a mini quarterback with the brown painted football under his arm, turn on the black switch and watch the little men gyrate across the aluminum football field. They didn't move very fast. The vibrator under the green table was probably equivalent to 3 electric toothbrush vibrations.

It was an amazing thing to watch although watching was all I was ever allowed to do. I was never allowed to touch these figures in or out of the box. They were Frankie's.

He just didn't paint these figures once, he would paint them over and over again. This became a ritual, an obsession.

If I longed for a mother in my life, longing for a brother to share things with and play with was right up there with it. The distance between my brother and myself was always there, not only because of the abuse. Having a brother that could have helped decipher my childhood, instead of contributing to the mystery of it, will always hold a void.

In his defense, he reacted to me the way my mother did. He took his cues from her. You can't really blame him, then anyway. He was a child misled by my mother. Present day is a different story.

Memories like this bring me to the present.

Some people wonder why I don't hate men because of the incidents of abuse. Yes my sexual preference is for women, but I do love men.

These days I am blessed to have the greatest male friends who have taken my brother's role above and beyond my wildest dreams.

Men like Richard and Gilles transcend male or female. It is their souls that speak to me and bond with me.

My friend John, Jill's husband, who shares his "toys" with me, his cars, his dog, his truck, his love of baseball, his time, his friendship.

Sid, Karen's husband, who to me is the epitome of maleness. He is the consummate father, husband and gentle-man and has been a role model for husband, father and friend.

I am reminded of the great line by a hero of mine, Carrie Link who says, " Not enough has been made"......
I say, "Not enough has been made of the men in my life."

Stanley Burdette Pafka

2006-09-14T14:53:00.000-04:00

My mother Mary slept with Stanley Pafka one night after finding out that my brother’s father, Frank Kafka, had cheated on her and caught syphilis. Her retaliation was to screw some guy she hardly knew, and then find out that he made up last name, “Pafka” as a joke to rhyme with Kafka. Although this seemed to be a family joke it was never once funny to me.

I was told that my father Stanley was a bum, a drunkard, a liar, an indigent, a wanderlust, and just plain crazy and that he was dead. I was told he abandoned me and didn’t want anything to do with me and he couldn’t take the pressure of having a child which is why he made up the last name “Pafka”.

On a weekly basis my brother was given money to light candles in church for his father and trips to the cemetery where Frankie's father was buried occurred monthly.

When I dared to ask about my father, my mother's fervent prayers were that she hoped the “bastard suffered.”

I lived with the pathetic images my mother painted and was continually reminded by Mary of my father’s shortcomings and how I was just like him. I’m not sure what the similarities were, not being any of the things in her descriptions of him, but she seemed confident that I was a mirror image and would disappoint her in the same sweeping manner that he did.

I dreaded every Father’s Day. I would fantasize what park bench he was sleeping on with beer cans strewn all around him, or living in some homeless shelter or in a cardboard box on the street. There was no other image I could conjure up. Any and every bum on the street would be a focal point. I would drive by a bum and mutter to myself, or anyone else who happened to be in the car, “Hi dad.” Ludicrous I know, but I could never let it go. No amount of therapy in the world could convince me that a person like this would be better off NOT to partake in my life.

That was until I was in my 40’s. I was working at the Yale Computer Center and out of the blue I decided to “Google” my last name Pafka, just for laughs. Having lived with the theory of the “made up last name” I was curious as to whom indeed, would have the last name Pafka.

Imagine my surprise when I found 6 living Pafka’s in the New York state area. My curiosity was peaked. Who could these people be? Could it be possible that my mother had been lying? HA! When wasn’t she self serving? But to lie about something so essential, so important was beyond even her, or so I thought.

I called each and every Pafka I found and said the same exact line to each and everyone. “Hi, you don’t know me, but my name is Suzy Pafka. Can you please tell me if you’re related to Stanley Pafka”? I received the same response from everyone. Yes they replied, “Stanley is my cousin/uncle/brother in law.”
As the conversation continued these long lost relatives filled me in on what they knew to be true. Stanley had left New York, joined the army, lived in Connecticut for a while then moved on to Boston where he died.
To say I was on a roller coaster of emotions would be to put it mildly.

A few weeks later I went to Boston and spent 5 hours in the Hall of Records researching the Vital Statistics stacks for father’s death certificate. But when I found it, it was like hitting pay dirt.

There it was, in black and white- no grays about it. Stanley Burdette Pafka, the same name that was on my birth certificate.

It took me a few days later to digest what had happened. My father did exist. He did have a real last name and so did I and it most certainly was and is Pafka.
His name wasn’t made up as my mother said. At least I had uncovered one piece of a puzzle that over shadowed my life.

So on to the next. I noticed at the bottom of the death certificate a woman’s name, Loretta Reynolds. The box was checked next to her name as the “Next of Kin.”

As I searched Directory information for this woman it occurred to me that I spent the last 40+ some odd years hating this man, my father who I never knew.

The possibility of finding the truth, any truth terrified me. As my friend Richard pointed out, to be rejected by your mother each and every day while she was still living was difficult enough. Why would I want to possibly make matters worse and find out once and for all that my father didn’t want me either? The overwhelming sense of rejection was outdone by all my questions as to “why” he would choose to leave. There had to be a concrete answer that would finally make me understand this issue of abandonment and let me go on.

I phoned Loretta with a new greeting, “Hi, I’m Suzy Pafka, Stanley Pafka’s daughter.”
I’m sure I threw Loretta for a loop, although she was kind and helpful, she was of course cautious. Who could blame her? I told her of the saga and search I had been on. She told me that she was a friend of my father’s at the hospital where they both worked and that yes, that was her signature on the death certificate.

She agreed to meet me at a restaurant in Buzzards Bay, Cape Cod. I brought all the identification I had, birth certificate with my father’s name on it, my license and University ID, not wanting her to think I was some looney tune claiming to be someone I wasn’t.
As we sat and talked, my father’s life became real and clear for the first time. He had died in 1982 from a brain hemorrhage. Loretta had found him. My father had lived with Loretta and her family for 15 years. He raised her 5 children after her husband had left her for a younger woman. She was very much in love with my father and her kids considered my father to be theirs.
After a few hours, Loretta excused herself to make a phone call. When she came back, she inivited me to her house to meet her children. They were expecting us she said.
I hesitated. The emotions were mixed. I found him, yes, but too late.
They knew him better than I did, but he was my father. This wasn’t fair.
Loretta would not take no for an answer. I agreed and was met with friendship, love and acceptance, from this “extended family.” They were wonderful. The house was full of photos of my father. Up until this time, I had never even seen him. Photos of him with Loretta, her children, her grandchildren lined the end tables and bookcases. Stories of my father, his likes, his dislikes, came pouring out from this family that truly loved him. They wanted to share the memories of this man. This was all bittersweet to me. I was jealous of this family that knew him and lived with him. The only thing I could contribute to his memory was the insane story of my mother, fearing all the while the insanity would be associated with me.
Loretta gave me his favorite blanket, his key chain and his photo, took me to the hospital where he worked as a cook, and told me what an avid reader he was and how much he loved baseball and driving cars. It seemed I had so many things in common with this man, but was I just grasping at straws? How could I have anything in common with a father I was never allowed to know.
My father it seems was in the Army, spent time in the Panama Canal and then spent a short amount of time in Connecticut before settling in Buzzards Bay- 2 hours away from me..... only 2 hours.
Loretta said my father never knew about me and that if they did, they would have come to get me. She said he always wanted children.
I later found out that my mother "confessed" to my father that I wasn't "his" to get rid of him. She did just that.

He had a military funeral when he died and is buried in a National Cemetery 10 minutes from her house. She took me to his grave.

This is where for some reason, it all came together. Seeing his name on the grave stone didn't accomplish closure. It opened up a world to my father that I had been searching and longing for.

I wrote to the Army and requested his medals and honors.
I now own those medals, a piece of my father.

And I finally pieced together probably the biggest mystery in my life.

So much for the father that never existed.

So much for the “made up name Pafka.”

My mother died in 1989 and I still have not gotten a grave stone for her, and I won't. Let my brother do it. She never liked any of the gifts I picked out for her anyway.

Gunning for trouble

2006-09-13T09:47:00.000-04:00

After my mother systematically went through 3 men via her insanity- married to 2-both dying, one of syphilis, the other from just plain neglect of his health, and not married to one (my father) by telling him I wasn’t his child, you think she might have just been a little more careful about getting involved again.
But this time was different. She had worked her way up to Manager of the White Tower. She was respected in the White Tower chain as a trusted and loyal employee, forsaking family for the good of the company. She was an icon, a legend. If they only knew the truth. Actually, it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Mr. Breman was a big shot at the home office of White Tower in Stamford CT. He was charming, good looking, younger and very kind to my brother and me often stopping by the house and bringing us presents. He was married a couple of times and he and my mother would commiserate over the failure of their spouses to live up to their marriage vows.
We knew Mr. Breman adored my mother and vice versa. But this ended one day with the announcement of his upcoming 3rd marriage to a beautiful waitress he met at the White Tower. Once again my mother’s dreams crashed. Not only was this woman younger and better looking, but she was a mere waitress, not a “white collar” worker that my mother had become. How could he love someone who wasn’t in management? She consoled herself with the fact that Mr. Breman’s intended was pregnant and they had to get married, shotgun wedding as my mother called it.
My mother took it as well as she did anything else. She refused to talk to Mr. Breman about anything but White Tower business and she refused to let us ever see him again.
A woman scorned one more time.

One day, while reading the paper, I heard my mother yell out. I walked into the kitchen and was handed the startling newspaper article. It read:

Carl Breman Arrested in Deadly Shooting of Wife
The sad story told of an “accidental shooting” which had occurred at the house of Mr. & Mrs. Breman. It seems Mr. Breman had come down to breakfast with his wife and new 2 month old baby girl. Mrs. Breman at this time informed Mr. Breman that the baby which was lying on the bassinet was indeed not his. It belonged to another man.
At this point, according to Mr. Breman, he was so distraught, he went upstairs to find his antique gun, brought it downstairs and told Mrs. Breman he wanted to take his life, because he couldn’t stand the pain.

BUT the gun fell, went off, and shot Mrs. Breman right between the eyes.

Fast forward six years. Mr. Breman is placed in a half way house in New Haven 8 blocks from the White Tower. It seems he only had to serve 6 years for this heinous crime. No political maneuvering here from the honchos at White Tower.
Mr. Breman was allowed to “reenter” society and work at White Tower on a part time basis.

During his incarceration, Mr. Bremen had “hair plugs” installed in a testing program for inmates and hair loss. He had taken several more college courses to educate himself and had become closer to God.

He also became closer to my mother at this time. Jokes were passed between my brother and myself using the oh so obvious code name “Six Gun Carl,” “Hop Along Carl,” “Pecos Carl.” and my personal favorite, Wild Carl Hickock”. Yes the hits just kept on comin’. We were sure she would take the big leap and marry this lone gun slinger.

Not only did she believe this "story" of accidentially shooting his wife between her eyes, it amazed me that she would even consider this madman living in our house.

But, once again the fates would be unkind to Mary Martino. Seems Mr. Breman had met another waitress in yet another town and rode off into the sunset without Mary once again.

Mr. Nick & Louie the Mole

2006-09-10T10:24:00.000-04:00

Mr. Nick was an infamous New Haven downtown hairdresser. His beauty parlor was on Chapel Street overlooking the New Haven Green. He dressed in black pants, creased ever so perfectly, white and black small checked sport coat with a white v- shaped silk shirt, usually stained, and open to display his hairy chest. On the pinky fingers of both hands Mr. Nick sported huge fake diamond rings. His hair, was dyed black and sat in waves on his head in a huge pompadour resembling a cross between Elvis Presley and Liberace. The hair spray was poured on so much, you could see the stains on the collar of his white shirts.
Women were crazy about him. As Mr. Nick designed their coiffure, the women swooned when he flirted, kissed their hands, and promised many an older woman, “Ahh, If I were only 30 years younger……”. Flamboyant movements with the hairbrush were synchronized to whatever Italian love song he would randomly sing to his lady clients.
At one time Mr Nick had been “quite the guy,” people said. The years hadn’t been extremely kind to Mr. Nick as was witnessed by watching him color his sideburns with black shoe polish in one of his many mirrors. Seems the sideburns were the first to give up the ghost to gray before the sprawling mane on his head.
Mr. Nick’s sidekick was Louie the Mole. He looked exactly like it sounds; short, thin, bald headed, cab door ears, long pointy nose and beady little eyes. He wore brown pants, with a short brown jacket always zippered, whatever the season was. Louie was Mr. Nick’s gopher and all around Man Friday. Louie the Mole appeared each and every time, like magic whenever Mr. Nick needed anything done. It was almost as if Louie read Mr. Nick’s thoughts.
Louie would appear at the White Tower getting coffee and hamburgers for the both of them. Louie kept a vigilant eye on the order to make sure it was cooked precisely per Mr. Nick’s dietary requirements. The amount of the order was carefully calculated by Louie so as not to cheat Mr. Nick of one penny. People felt sorry for Louie the Mole. My mother would grumble,“poor bastard,” after Louie left. Louie’s only lot in life seemed to be serving Mr. Nick.
On his days off Mr. Nick and Louie would ride around in Mr. Nick’s shiny red Cadillac convertible. You could barely see Louie over the dashboard. Mr. Nick’s hairdo was like a brick in the wind, giving way to nothing.
On summer nights they would cruise the streets of downtown New Haven. Many said that Mr. Nick was trying to find Louie the Mole a girl. If anyone could help Louie, it would be Mr. Nick. He was every woman’s idol.

I came to be involved with this twosome thanks to my mother. As a much younger child on Henry Street I was sent to the local barber for haircuts for many years. Johnny the Barber was his name. If you just said, “Johnny,” no one know who you were talking about. You had to say his full name, “Johnny the Barber.”

Nice enough guy, Johnny the Barber only charged 25 cents for the haircut and it loooked it. I looked like someone had cut my hair with a # 10 rice bowl. “Nice shiny hair kid,” Johnny the Barber would say,"nice shiny hair." I’m sure he said that because of the 5 cent tip.
For some unknown reason my mother decided that maybe it was time for me to have my hair done at a beauty parlor. No, she didn’t spend the money. She bartered with Mr. Nick. I was given a haircut every few weeks for the price of a “coffee to go” every day.
It almost worked. I have a photo of that haircut. I’ve only shown it to 2 people, Richard and Jill. Richard shares an honesty with me bordering on brutality. Jill oen of my best friends, is probably the loveliest person I know. She's a gem.
Richard’s comment of my “hairdo” was, “Shit, your mother really hated you.” Jill’s comments a bit more thoughtful, “Gee, you had really nice wallpaper on Henry Street.”

I often wonder if having a best friend today who is a famous haridresser is a throwback to my childhood and as karma goes, something to "right a wrong".
Richard and Mr. Nick are light years apart, still there have been a few times, when that theory was tested, like the night we were too lazy to go to Richard’s shop to color my hair and Richard and Gilles decided we could do it at their house. They had some “stuff” they could use for the color. Two hours later after we realized that I still had the color on my head and we just forgot to take it off, my hair turned purple, the color of Barney.
There was also the time Richard was giving a class on “special” hair, or hair that was difficult to manage and was “pokey”. I was the model.

Ah, irony.

You’ll be happy to know that Louie the Mole did find his one true love. On a late summer afternoon as I slipped into the back of the Paramount Movie theatre from my step father’s parking lot on Crown Street, I saw a familiar figure in the back row locked in a loving embrace with his lover, or should I say two familiar figures…..

Louie the Mole had finally struck pay dirt.

Presents of Mind

2006-09-07T16:12:00.000-04:00

Receiving presents is sometimes a tricky and sensitive issue. It’s nothing as grandiose as my not wanting to accept them because it’s better to give than receive. Nothing as selfless as that I assure you. It’s what it conjures up. It’s what it represents.
Getting presents as a child ran the gamut from ambiguous to painful. In my case it was better to not give and not receive. Nothing was good enough to give and it seemed the receiving part lacked a little something.
My mother attempted to celebrate the holidays, but couldn’t quite make it through. One particular Christmas Eve on Henry Street, my brother and I had been “acting up.” I don’t remember my step father being around, so I imagine it was a time when my mother was “between” men.
My brother and I were counting the presents that he had gotten and then comparing the numbers to what I had gotten. I had long stopped believing in Santa Claus. I guess my mother couldn’t stand the chatter, the noise, or whatever her flavor of annoyance for the day was. The excitement of Christmas was building along with the expectations of presents. Not being able to stand it any longer, my mother started to yell and pulled out a belt which meant beatings for both of us. I of course dive under the bed, he throws himself on top of the bunk bed to get away. But she didn’t pursue the beatings this time. She just stopped. Had she changed her mind? Was Christmas Eve good enough reason not to beat us?
Nope. As I looked out from under the bed, I saw her pick up the presents underneath the 3’ white artificial Christmas tree and walk out the back door, making two trips to collect both sets, Frankie’s and mine.
I went to the kitchen window, looked out the back and she had thrown all the wrapped presents into the incinerator dug into the ground, ceremoniously lit a match and stood back and watched the presents burn. I went to bed. There weren’t that many presents anyway.

We moved to another town when I was 12, which was considered to be upscale from Henry Street. I had my own room at this time, chosen for me. Frankie got the big bedroom with 2 windows, I got the sun porch with a wall of windows that didn’t open, which might be fine for the spring and fall, but in summer you baked and in winter you could actually see your breadth. In the winter I was constantly being screamed at by anyone sitting in the living room which was off my bedroom. The issue was that having my bedroom door open into the living room would let the cold air in.

During this time, the clock radio had just come out. This was the precursor to the digital clock radio. It had an analog clock and an AM radio, no FM, but this didn’t matter.
This clock, for some reason was all I thought and dreamed about. For my birthday I requested to anybody and everybody that all I wanted was a clock radio.

On the day of my birthday my mother was working. It was a Saturday. My mother called and told me to take the bus downtown to the White Tower. She had something for me.
The expectation grew. I really wanted that clock radio. Maybe, just maybe it would happen.

I arrived at the White Tower and waited until my mother finished serving her customers. Without a word she went into the back room where her coat and pocketbook were kept. When she came out she was carrying the largest Pink Clock Radio I had ever seen. The face of the clock was cracked and the electric cord was dirty and frayed. She handed it to me and said, “Here, now you can stop complaining about not having a clock radio, Happy Birthday."

I took the bus home, went into my room and plugged the radio in. The radio came on with nothing but static on all stations and then the cord sparked.
The radio was dead.

I never mentioned the clock radio again and she never asked.
To this very day I have never had an alarm clock or clock radio in my room.
Someone or something wakes me up every single morning no matter what time I need to get up.

Who needs a stupid clock radio anyway?

Tiny Bubbles

2006-09-04T09:33:00.000-04:00

As I sat in the restaurant being toasted by my good friends, I was finally proud of an accomplishment we were celebrating. I had just closed on the purchase of my first house, thanks to my friend’s Karen and Sid. We had invested in a 3 family house across from the water in New Haven. I would be living there and maintaining the rents. Sid and Karen had their house with their 2 boys about a mile away. I was in my 40’s, always on my own and working at Yale University. Never in my wildest imagination had I dreamed I would be owning my own home.
At the table were the friends of my life, Richard, Gilles, Margo from England and a few others. During the evening I had gotten up from the table several times to call my mother and tell her that the closing had gone well. Not that she would care, but I was the dutiful daughter.
At one point Richard questioned me as to why I kept calling. My mother had this game where I would call and she either wouldn’t answer or the phone would be off the hook.
The bait was that I should worry about either scenario and think that something had happened to her. To her satisfaction, I always took the bait. It was a way for me to worry, stop what I was doing and go over there to check.
This nonsense had been going on for years. I would get there and she’d just be sitting, staring out the window. I’d ask her why she didn’t answer the phone and her answers were things like, “who cares if I live or die,” “why bother, you have your own life and never worry about me,” to “I wasn’t in the mood.” True she did have a heart condition and did have a mild stroke at one point, but I did manage to talk to her just about every day. If I didn’t, she would call my apartment late at night and just hang up. Once when I was angry at her for playing these games and didn’t call her for 2 days, she called Yale where I worked and asked to speak with my boss and then asked him if I was still working there. Yep, that’s my mom. I then lied to her and told her I couldn’t accept personal phone calls at work.
She was also a hypochondriac. That was fun.

True conversation
I’m at work and she calls.
Mary: Call Dr. Cruz (heart doctor)
Me: What’s wrong?
Mary: Something’s not right.
Me: WHAT?
Mary: There are bubbles in my urine and I can smell the rug.

Yes, you read this correctly, bubbles in her urine and she could smell the rug. I swear on my dog’s eyeballs this happened.
It turned out that she peed in the toilet and saw “bubbles”, then went into the living room and the rug had some odor. Apparently the combination of these two incidents sent her into a tailspin.
I did some quick calculating and basically told her that she probably “peed” really fast and caused the water to bubble (yes I am my mother’s daughter and sometimes find myself using the same logic). She argued a bit over this explanation, but finally accepted it. The rug odor explanation didn’t take as much creativity. It was summer and I explained that it probably was the humidity.
Well, back to the house closing dinner. After the 5th attempt at trying to reach her I sat back down. Richard turned to me and said, “Listen, she’s either breaking your balls or she’s dead. Let it go.”

Ok- she hadn’t been talking to me for 2 weeks because I was buying this house. She was angry because I wouldn’t let her live with me. She said it was a daughter’s duty to take care of her mother. Her famous line was, “A son is a son ‘til he takes a wife, but a daughter is a daughter for the rest of her life.” I hated this fucking jingle. She wore it out.

So I followed Richard’s advice and gave up calling. Later that night, 3:30am, I get a call from the hospital. Yep, Mary had been taken to the hospital the night before with a heart attack. Her neighbor had found her on the floor and of course I couldn't be found. No one called my brother. I had to call him.
I went to the hospital first thing. As I walked in her room, the nurse was giving her a sponge bath. The nurse said that they had basically ruled out a heart attack and that it probably was pneumonia. I tried to speak to my mother and ask her how she was feeling.
Without giving me an answer, she asked me if I went through with the closing. I said yes, and she began to sob. The nurse asked me not to upset her, so I told her I would see her the next day because I was moving that very day.
That afternoon as I was moving a couch up to a 2nd floor, Sid and Karen stopped by to tell me that “she was dead.” At first I didn't know who they were talking about. It seems that after I left she had a heart attack. My brother had just gotten to the hospital minutes before she died.

I met my brother at my mother’s apartment to pick out clothes for the funeral. My mother lived in a one room apartment and owned nothing. She lived on social security and her pension from the White Tower. She had ~ $200 in her checking account, and no savings. I bought her groceries every week and made sure she had enough money for her medications. My brother was convinced there was cash somewhere in the house. There wasn’t. I knew my mother like a book. But my brother insisted we look. We went through her cedar chest and found 2 letters, one addressed to me and one to Frankie from my mother. I knew the drama would continue.
The letter to Frankie simply stated that he was a son she was proud of and to “please take care of Suzy, she doesn’t have much.” Yeh, I would almost let that happen. My letter of course was filled with the inconsistency of our relationship. She stated that all her life, all she ever needed or wanted was for me to love her, and that I fell short of that. With that she wished me the best of luck with my life and the hope that someday, someone would not hurt me the way I had hurt her. My brother, the ever pompous arrogant ass that he was, simply stated that if I had agreed to let “Mommy” live with me in my new house, she would still be alive and he didn’t judge me for this, but this is what he felt. He may have been right. But this was her choice indeed.
As my brother was going through her closet, he noticed about 30 or so packages wrapped in Christmas paper. Assuming she had been Christmas shopping (this was December 1st). I watched him remove the packages one by one. As he glanced at the name tags, he then realized what I had known for years. They were presents for her from myself and my brother that we had given her over the years. She had never unwrapped them. She was never happy, no matter what anyone did. His reply was, “but she asked for these,” and “this is what she said she wanted.” He just didn’t get it. She wanted everything and nothing.
We ended up exchanging the presents with each other. I ended up throwing each and everything away. I wanted nothing more to do with her. I wanted to be finished with her.
Easier said than done.

Dr. Jacob Sharp DDS

2006-08-31T13:48:00.000-04:00

Growing up, dental hygiene was not high on the list of priorities in my family, at least for me it wasn’t. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I can’t even remember brushing my teeth on Henry Street. We had no sink in the bathroom and try as I may, I still can’t dig up a memory of brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink.
The first memory I have of seeing a dentist is walking to the office of Dr. Pitts. Yes, that was his real name. I still remember the black and white sign stuck in front of the closed Venetian blinds in the first floor of his office/home on Dixwell Avenue. The office was about 6 blocks from where we lived.
I was probably about 6 and my mother had instructed my brother to walk me to his office. The magazines on the coffee table in the waiting room held unforgettable images of rotted gums, tooth decay and photos of oral surgeries that are still visible in my mind.
Dr. Pitts was a big black gentle man. The first visit didn’t seem to take that long and I was back home with a note in my hand explaining to my mother that I had to have 6 baby teeth removed. I was never given any explanation. I don’t even know if my mother was given an explanation, and if she had been, she wasn’t sharing.
I was told it wouldn’t hurt as they were baby teeth and probably already loose.
The next week I was back on my way to Dr. Pitts office with my brother.
When I left I was bleeding heavily from the extraction of 6 teeth with a wad of gauze protruding from my mouth. No needles were given to dull the pain. Pulling my teeth was painful but quick. I spent the next 2 days in bed.
From that moment on I did everything I could to escape any dental visits. Preventive measures weren’t exactly on my mother’s list of things to do. I quickly learned to live with the dull ache of a tooth now and then. It was far better than the alternative.
When I got to about 10, my teeth were in really bad shape. My brother at this point was getting braces. Everyone marveled at the fact that Frankie was so courageous for the pain he endured at the dentist. My mother had managed to find him an orthodontist and the money along with it to pay for the braces.
Unable to cope with the dental pain, I was sent to another dentist referred by my aunt and cousins, Dr. Jacob Sharp DDS. Stories about Dr. Sharp abounded. He had written a book, he had an affiliation with Yale, he was a distinguished Dentist. On and on the accolades went.
Dr. Sharp’s office was located on the 2nd floor of a Chapel Street bulding in the center of downtown New Haven.
He was an older gentleman, white hair, white mustache, and wore rimless glasses. He was mild mannered, talked very softly and was very distinguished looking. His waiting room contained antique leather couches, chairs, and was elegantly furnished. Upon meeting me for the first time, he remarked that my aunt had called and told him that I was especially afraid of dentists, but not to worry, he would take good care of me.
No nurse was necessary for his practice he explained because he only worked part time and could take care of things himself. His dental office was simple and clean. A desk was in back of the dental chair with the old black rotary phone placed on it alongside his calendar book. An inner room contained things like sets of teeth, molds, books etc.
The big black dental chair faced a wall of windows and occupied one entire wall of his office and overlooked the rooftops of the shops located on Chapel Street. His “tool” chest was a beautiful dental cabinet ~4 feet high with 3 inch drawers and 2 glass doors that housed his pristine dental tools. Dr. Sharp always dressed in a white medical nylon shirt that had 2 buttons on the top right side, folded down and unbuttoned, somewhat like the Nehru jacket collars.

The first few visits went fairly well, except for the news of needing 2 root canals in my front teeth. I was petrified, but Dr. Sharp assured me he would be gentle and not to be afraid. I started to trust and believe this grandfatherly type man.

The day the first installment of the root canal procedure begin I was terrifed.
I took my place in the big black chair. Dr. Sharp once again assured me that he would take it slowly and gently. The first order of business was to adjust the dental chair. As he began to tip the chair back for just the right angle for himself , I noticed that the adjustment had me just about lying flat as if on a cot. Okay, all the more help to relax. He then asked me to open my mouth so the cotton could be packed down around the roof of my mouth.
He passed the time by chatting and explaining what the procedure called for. He then gave the novocain shot that would dull the sensation of the root canal.
He then stepped back, folded his hands and waited for the needle to do its magic,all the while looking down at me and smiling.
He then placed the dental bib on my chest, clipped it, and carefully took the dental instruments that he would use and placed them on the bib resting on my chest.
But something was wrong.
Everytime he placed an instrument on my chest he pushed it hard onto my breast and held it there, as if kneading a loaf of bread. Each placing of an instrument became a ritual that lasted longer than the previous “touch”. Then at some point, he would “drop” one of his instruments between my legs, reach down, and feel around for where it fell, only to probe and poke an area where I knew he shouldn’t have been. I remember trying to cross my legs so nothing “fell” between them. That only added creative ways for him to insert his fingers between my legs and poke around when he "dropped" another instrument into my lap.

The physical contact ended there, but the verbal abuse kicked in. While I sat there lying flat on my back and cotton stuffed in my mouth, unable to talk or respond, he would begin his barrage of questions, grinning with a disgusting grin. “Your mother works at the White Tower all night right?” I would mumble a yes. His next question would be, “ I bet she sees a lot of nigg--s, right’? Having nothing to say I would just sit there. And then the punch, “I bet they have great big black co-ks, right?” “They say all nigg—s have big juicy ones.” "Ever seen one"? I tried not to look at him and just keep my focus on the hideous drawing on his wall of the 16th century "tooth puller" working on a patient with 5 men surrounding him. I have never forgotten this drawing. Imagine my suprise when I found it for this post. These monologues and variations on the same topics continued for the next 3 years until I could manage to get out of going to the dentist altogether.
I did try and tell my mother, my aunts and my cousins once what happened at the dentist. We were all sitting at a table at my aunt’s house. I told them that Dr. Sharp said really bad words and that he acted strange when I sat in the chair. No sooner had I gotten the words out than I heard this reply. “Stop saying things like that. He’s a famous Dentist and you’re lucky to get an appointment with him.” Yeh, that was me, lucky. I wasn’t surprised. It was just like everything else in my childhood. I was labeled as “difficult” and a “baby” for being afraid of the dentist. After all, my bother Frankie went through so much more pain than I did and he never complained.
I still am afraid of the dentist, though I do realize the reality of it will never happen again. But it doesn’t stop the visual from playing in my head each and every time I sit in that dentist chair.
It hits me like the pain of a dull tooth ache that will be with me forever.

Room for rent

2006-08-30T15:26:00.000-04:00

Growing up I wasn’t fortunate enough to have children my own age to play with either in school or on Henry Street. During the summers, the streets of downtown New Haven became my playground.

Down the street from the White Tower on the corner of George and College Street was a rooming house that was home to a variety of New Haven “downtown people” as they were called.
It was a huge brick building, standing 3 floors high with a horizontal red neon sign that just read, “Rooms”. We’ve all seen this signage in old movies depicting less than favorable housing in low rent neighborhoods.

The occupants of this neighborhood house were as varied as you could imagine.

Barbara and Eddie managed the builing and the tenants. Eddie was a slimy looking short guy, with greasy slicked back hair. Eddie would walk around with a cigarette always hanging out of his mouth so that the smoke would always blow back in his eyes and cause him to constantly squint making him even more devious looking than he already was. He lived with his common law wife Barbara who was insanely jealous over any woman or girl that Eddie talked to. She was shorter than Eddie, always wore flowered house dresses with no sleeves, sneakers with no laces or socks. She had an annoying habit of always burping. She followed him like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, obeying his every command and wish.

Eddie would perch himself on the second step of the outside entry way smoking, squinting and grinning, so that his face was level with the chest of any woman walking by. His eyes told it all. Barbara watched from the 2nd floor, leaning out the open window as if she were going to pounce on anyone who dared to flirt with Eddie. Barbara and Eddie always held themselves over the tenants, believing that the occupants were the low lifes, not them.

Each room in the boarding house consisted of the same thing, small formica table with 2 chairs, 1 twin bed or 2, a dresser and a hot plate. No cooking was allowed and perishable food was kept on the window sill mostly in the colder months. It wasn’t unsual to walk by and see bottles of milk stuck in pots or containers holding ice, mayonnaise or mustard jars or loaves of bread lined up on the window sill.

Earl and Kevin were two veterans that lived together. They had been injured in the Army and had lost their legs. They lived on the 2nd floor and could fly up and down those steps faster than some people with their limbs intact. They used their arms as pivot points and would raise their bodies with their arms and swing their torso onto the step over and over again. Their muscular arms were sculpted like a body builder.
I would sit with them outside the rooming house and either watch or help them strap their bodies onto their home made skateboard with belts. The skateboards were made of regular 2x4 pieces of plywood, curved at the ends, with wheels taken from old pairs of roller skates that they salvaged. Extra wheels were kept in their room.
They would then paddle themselves using their gloved hands as dry oars, up and down the streets of New Haven, faster and smoother than Tony Hawk or any other skateboard contender. Upon arrival at the White Tower Restaurant or grocery store, they would then take their food, coffee and supplies and belt that to their body and then the skateboard and whiz right back to their room.

Henry and Evelyn were not as fortunate as the occupants inside the house. Most nights they could be found sleeping inside the front door to the rooming house. Evelyn was a 20+woman who was mildly retarded and Henry was her much older companion who tended to her care. Both were street people. By day, you would see them walking a grocery shopping cart with their 2 dogs inside, amidst bottles for the 2 cent return. They scrounged garbage cans for food and never would accept help, although Evelyn was caught trying to steal soda bottles for the money. There was a certain understanding to their relationship. Evelyn was childlike, innocent, and sad and trusted no one except Henry. Henry treated her as a daughter, with the utmost respect and tenderness. Legend always accompanies people like this and although it may not be true, Evelyn’s family was supposedly to have had money, but nothing could be done for her. Henry seemed to be her only source of salvation that she wanted.

No, I haven’t had a normal childhood with play dates and friends, but I have learned about people, their survival skills and acceptance.

And I have always remembered those dogs in the shopping cart.

A new leash on life

2006-08-28T19:05:00.000-04:00

I used to think that I wanted to come back as my dogs in the next life. They have it pretty good. Fed, exercised (if they felt like it), unconditionally loved beyond belief, and they have fun. At least I think they do. They may tend to think from time to time that living with me is somewhat chaotic, but it adds to an interesting life.

Then I thought about two of my very best friends in the world, Richard and Gilles. These men are my heart and soul and my life would be at a loss without them.

They have been together for 28 years and have one of the happiest and healthy “marriages” I have ever seen. I have been blessed to be a part of their lives for the past 26 years, although they may have a different spin on the “blessed” part. They are generous to a fault, loyal and kind to everyone.

They are both hairdressers, very successful hairdressers I might add. Richard was Sally Jessy Raphael’s hairdresser, hairdresser to famous people, makeup artist to stars and political figures and hairdresser to Kitty Dukakis when her husband was running for President. Poor Richard still hasn’t gotten over the loss of that campaign, nor the “Power of the Motorcade” he was part of . He had grand ideas of how to re-decorate the White House and rename it to “Mauve or Taupe House,” or some other designer color. Richard’s had a good run with fame and fortune and it continues for him, as well it should.

Richard has had his own “specials” on the Sally show, parading his talents of makeup and beauty tips and basically started the rage of the “Beauty Makeover.” He is a master, a genius at making women look their best, and feel good about themselves.

I was happy to play a small but important part in his rise to fame. It was my face he practiced on with makeup, lipstick, mascara and rouge. He would apply different makeup styles to each side of my face, until he found the magic combination. He would then look at the recently created masterpiece, fall over himself laughing, and begin again. We would spend hours watching the Donna Mills Beauty Tip makeup video. Little did we know that applying cucumbers to my eyelids and sticking my head in a pot of hot steamy potpourri to moisten the skin, would evolve into Richard receiving 2 Emmy Nominations for makeup for the Sally show. He sadly lost to Jim Henson's Muppets.

Gilles, the “Hair Surgeon” has also become an accomplished Photographer, selling stunning photographs of their trips to Europe, and the Christo Gates in New York.
And yes, I’m jealous of their lifestyle, money, freedom, notoriety, beautiful home on the water in a yuppie town, everybody loves them, they’re so wonderful, they contribute so much to the community and other causes, blah, blah, blah.

Their house holds treasures of art, beauty and distinction. Their sense of style is impeccable. They own furniture purchased from around the world that should be roped off, as in a museum, or at least when I go over. China, dishes imported from Italy and France set on a country French table 200 years old that kings and queens have dined on with lovely Murano glass candies displayed next to each dinner plate. I’m not sure why they couldn’t afford real candy, but I guess it’s a certain style.

I also once owned a set of Limoge china that was taken away from me by my friend Karen. She happened to walk in my house one day when the dog was drinking from the Limoge gravy boat on Thanksgiving.

An Italian Murano goldfish in a bowl adorns the hand made stone fireplace. I guess real goldfish require too much maintenance.

They have both worked extremely hard and continue to do so, and they deserve all the riches and more.

Richard and Gilles also own 2 pugs, that have been to more social events and galas that I could ever dream of being invited to. Giacomo and Luca are their names. Although Giacomo departed from this life last summer, Luca is still with us.

I must admit they are extremely well behaved.

These dogs have been welcomed to shop in places like Bergdorf Goodman in New York, and Ralph Lauren and Bloomingdale’s. When Giacomo was forbidden to enter the Time-Warner Building in New York, an establishment with less sophistication, Gilles went home and cancelled his Time-Warner Stock, although a month later the stock rose to incredible profits.

Although both dogs have been photograhed with their own spread in "House and Garden" along with Sally Jessy Raphael, it all hasn’t been a bed of roses for the dogs. Legend has it that bad breath halted the TV and magazine career of Giacomo.
Giacomo also had an incurable debilitating aliment. While walking him, or playing with him, to even talking to him, he would get so excited, his uvula would get caught in his throat and he would keel over and faint. Poor thing.

The dogs’ routine begins early in the morning. Gilles carefully measures out their organic natural hand pressed chunks of hand fed chicken and lamb sautéed in natural pan juices from basted free range chicken breasts.

Their water dish is Waterford Crystal, and their food dish is from Tiffany’s.
I think I still use Melmac.

The next item on the schedule is cleansing the space between the wrinkles of their skin with freshly pressed aloe, and then hand washed by Gilles, so that no infection ever enters their system.

A walk along the beach is next with the appropriate weather chosen wardrobe. Booties and little “sockettes” adorn petite ankles, baby boots when it’s wet and leather padded boots for that nasty mix of ice and sleet, carefully protecting the pads of their tiny feet, while I chose to walk around in the New England winters with Birkenstocks sans socks.

In the fall, they may don a dashing colored Hermes dog collar and matching scarf, a Burberry trench coat or sweater, a lovely Coach tweed coat with matching cap covering their precious ears.
Cashmere sweaters are hand made and fitted to their unique little body shapes, to battle the winter's chilling grip. Not just any designer clothing will suffice. Chanel attire was said to be “a little too gay”.

And in the summer, only the highest rated consumer doggie life vests, from “Outward Hound” for sailing on the high seas or trips in their kayak.

But it’s not Rich and Gil’s life I crave. For me, it’s too much pressure, too many social obligations, too many days and nights of always “being on”, too many knick-knacks to dust, and especially too many things for my dogs to chew or break.

I’m not coming back as my dogs; I’m coming back as their dogs.

Training is key

2006-08-25T08:19:00.000-04:00

Tony was my favorite dog. He was me, funny and goofy.
I knew more about Tony’s “parents” than I knew about my own. His father was a champion seeing eye dog that belonged to the owner of the Fidelco Guide Dog Foundation in Bloomfield CT. Tony’s mother belonged to a woman I worked with a Yale. Great lineage. This dog was going to be the best.
On his papers he was officially named Sir Galahad of the Sleepy Meadow Mountain Spring on the Left Side of the Hill or some ridiculous name like that. I just named him Tony.

He was a German Shepard that was rejected from the guide dog vocation. I was told that he was “too tall.” At the time it sounded right, and what did I know? I was also told before I shelled out beaucoup bucks that he had done “exceptionally well” on his IQ test. That sounded pretty good too, although I have no idea what the hell an IQ test is for a dog.

Tony grew rapidly. He had, as I liked to call them, “dancer’s legs” with a “model’s neck.” I was delusional. But Tony was my boy.

He had big ears like a donkey and would ride in the front seat of my jeep with me. Friends passing by the car thought we looked like a strange couple.

Tony was strong. One of the very first incidents we had together was when he saw a squirrel and pulled at the leash so hard, I pulled my back out and was in bed for 8 days.Okay, that could happen to anyone.

A good friend of mine came by one day during a snowstorm. She loved Tony.
She had this visual of taking him for a romp in the freshly fallen snow. I tried to warn her. The next time I looked out the window, Tony was dragging her through the snow on her stomach up the street like the dogs in the Iditarod sled race.
That was the last time she walked Tony.

One of his many talents, which I thought to be ingenious, was when I had company, Tony would sit on the floor, or the couch or wherever he wanted for that matter, and stare at someone’s shoes. He would focus in on their shoelaces. After a few minutes of gazing at their laces, he would walk over to the person and gently start pulling their shoelaces. He was untying their shoes! I was amazed. It must have had something to do with those “seeing eyes.” He was like a skilled surgeon with exacto knife teeth. I of course found this hilarious and marveled at this genius of a dog. Usually my company was too stunned to comment.

Tony was active. Actually, hyperactive was more like it. After a year or so, my form of discipline didn’t exactly work anymore (which was laughing at everything he did) and I knew I needed professional help, and so did Tony.

I hired a Personal Trainer for Tony. Ken the Dog Trainer was his name.
Now this wasn’t cheap. It was $1000. I signed a contract that said Ken would not leave my side until Tony was trained.

Ken died first.

All I needed to do was pass the evaluation test that Ken put before Tony and myself andwe could start the training. What if we weren’t accepted? We would be laughed at, ridiculed. But it was for the good of Tony.
Okay, I was ready. Needless to say we both scored low on the “Alpha Test” Tony, Ken determined was the alpha dog, I was not. The one good thing was that Ken said that Tony was so gentle that, "He wouldn't bite roast beef." And that was true. He was gentle. Ken accepted the challenge but warned us of the uphill battle.

The training went well for the first 10 months. Every kind of weather, every situation-Shopping malls, parks,playgrounds, and downtown New Haven were our testing grounds.

Tony had to be “socialized” and taught to be walked off leash. Great. My dreams come true. No more trips to the chiropractor, no more muscle spasms, just a well trained dog by my side, just like in the movies.

I also received helpful tips from Ken such as, “The dog is faster than you- he has 4 legs, you have 2.” Okay, I was up on the count. So far so good.
Also, “dogs do not think, they react.” Wow. I was becoming enlightened.
Maybe I would change careers and train dogs.
And my personal favorite, “Never ever have Tony and a monkey in the same room because they will kill each other”. Okay, that hadn’t been my plan, but point well taken. I couldn’t have spent my money any wiser...

Now for the actual training. These were the steps:
Plan A
Let Tony off the leash. If he runs away, just lie down. He will look back and think you are playing and run right back to you. Wanna guess how many times I hit the ground and just lie there without him returning? Many, many times. I looked like an idiot, in the park, on the sidewalk, on the street. You name it, I laid there.

Plan B
Throw a piece of chicken at Tony, and when he grabs it, toss your set of keys at him while saying, “TONY, COME” Okay, that kinda worked. I didn’t like pieces of chicken all around the house and Tony didn’t like the sound of the keys. But every time I picked up my keys he would race towards me. Mission accomplished.

So, with this issue fixed, I decided to go away for a week and my good friend Karen offered to watch Tony so I could save the cost of the kennel. Karen and her sons picked up Tony. I handed her the “Keys of Discipline”, gave them directions for disciplining Tony wished them well. I was free to go to California.

Upon my return, Karen was kind enough to pick me up at the airport.
Happy to see me, I inquired about Tony. Did the keys work? Was he a good boy? She looked at me and sweetly said, “Your dog is an idiot.” “Ken is an idiot and you are an idiot for hiring him for $1000”

It seems she took Tony to a public beach where dogs were allowed. She opened the door to the van, Tony bounded out as usual, romping like My Little Pony towards the unsuspecting patrons relaxing and playing on the beach.

As soon as Tony approached the beach where women and children were, Karen started jiggling the keys and screaming, “Tony, COME.”

Well, as Karen tells it, she could have been screaming Lasagna and it wouldn’t have made any difference. At this point mothers and fathers who weren’t aware that if anything, Tony would just lick someone to death, started picking up their small children and running and screaming. It took 2 hours to get Tony back. The beach had been cleared, the park had been cleared. Karen had lost the keys several times in her pursuit of Tony.,

The keys failed to work.
After this adventure the kennel became Tony’s best friend.

Tony died when he was 14, a good age for a dog. I mourned his death as I would no one else’s, or ever will.

My friends rallied round me and offered to chip in and buy another German Shepard. Although I knew I would never replace Tony, I did have a special dog in mind. In upstate New York, the Monks of New Skete raise guide dogs and also train and sell German Shepards. I could go and stay at the Monastery while the Monks trained me along with the dog. This was my choice, my dream, to have a perfectly trained German Shepard. The price tag was $7000 for this perfect dog. My friends almost would have considered it.

Their reluctance was the dog could be trained, but could I?

Deep Pockets

2006-08-24T19:36:00.000-04:00

The third day I had Penny, I decided to show her off to my friend Joany (the victim of the bureau incident-see “Cleanliness is next to Godliness (and I'm screwed)” post).

Penny was 7 weeks old and weighed about 4 pounds. Her eyes were crossed, and her head was bigger than her body. She was a little strange looking, but she was adorable to me. She was going to be put to sleep, because she was the runt of the litter and her owner thought something might be wrong with her. I couldn’t help myself- the owner sounded like my mother and this poor dog needed to be saved.

Joany was a dog lover also, and I knew Penny would win Joany’s heart as she did mine.

Joany got in my car and was sporting a brand new navy pea coat. Mistake # 2- Mistake # 1 was getting in my car in the first place. Mistake # 2 was wearing anything black or dark in my car. Dog hair abounded. But I had assured Joany that Penny didn’t shed. I may have lied.

As we drove around, Penny sat on the console between the 2 front seats. God, what a dog! I finally had a dog that would behave in the car! Could this be? I had the kind of dogs that loved cars, but would bark and whine and jump, and make the car rock as if the car were being tipped over by rioters. They bark at absolutely nothing and everything.

As we continued our drive, Joany was just thrilled to have this quiet little dog next to her who just loved to ride. At one point, Penny, being tired from her adventure, lay down on the console and lovingly put her head in Joany’s pocket of her brand new pea coat and seemed to be sleeping. Sweet sweet Penny, what a find!

God had finally sent me the dog I deserved. I was in love.

Joany and I looked at each other and smiled, neither one of us wanting to talk and interrupt this moment in time.

Until……a few minutes later, Joany turns to me and says in a very low voice, “Suzy, get this fu&*%ng dog away from me.”
Penny had not been sleeping.
She had been puking in Joany’s coat pocket.

Reason for Caller ID

2006-08-23T19:23:00.000-04:00

It was a dark and stormy night. It really was. A hurricane was headed to the east coast. The winds were whipping the leaves and loose branches off the trees. I was sitting in the living room next to my arsenal of crutches and walker, waiting for the electricity to be halted at any moment due to the storm. The dog’s constant barking at the wind was even annoying me. What was more annoying was that they kept “thinking” they wanted to go out. Then they wanted to come in. On and on the silly game went until I opted to leave the back door to the yard open. It was as painful as it was exhausting getting up, grabbing the walker, shuffling to the back door to let them in or out. They are silly dogs and I love them, but that night, with my nerves on edge due to the impending storm, my patience was running thin. As I would let them out, they would run through my walker or underneath my crutches with the frenzy of dogs that had never been outside in their lives.
They are happy dogs and I am thankful for that. After several minutes of barking at the wind outside, they would bark and scratch at the door to be let in. When they entered the house, it was if I had been gone for 5 years. The whining, the crying, the jumping and the excitement of them being let in would follow me all the way back to the living room. Up and down, barking and whining whether they came in or out. People say the barometric pressure affects the dogs and their behavior becomes strange. Not my dogs. They were “gifted” and always like this. The solution this night was to leave the back door open for a while and they could waltz in and out whenever their little hearts desired. Problem solved. They loved the freedom of dancing in and out of the house to the fenced in back yard. If they could giggle, I think they would have. They were happy, and I was relatively happy.
Half an hour later, they both rushed in side by side and jumped on the couch. I noticed their behavior to be a little strange, even for my dogs. They were sneezing and rubbing their heads on the couch. And then it hit, the smell, the faint odor of a skunk. As quickly as I could, I got my walker and shuffled to the back door. The dogs followed in their usual manner, underneath the walker. We moved through the house as if we were co-joined. I went to the back door and slammed and locked it shut. Close call I thought. No more in and out tonight. The animals in the neighborhood must be just as looney as my dogs were due to the storm. As I wheeled around and went back through the kitchen with my Velcro dogs by my side, I noticed something in the middle of the kitchen.
I froze. The dogs froze. Did I mention the 2 cats I had who also froze? There in the middle of the kitchen staring at us all was the biggest skunk I had ever seen, staring right into my eyes. It was a standoff that I was about to lose.
Within seconds, almost in slow motion movie time, the skunk spun around like a child’s water sprinkler, spraying me, the dogs, the cats and the kitchen. Round and round he went, like he was playing ring around the rosie with himself. As soon as I realized what was happening, I put the walker in high gear, grabbed the dog’s leashes and phone and went out to the front porch.
The skunk was locked in the house. Nice play.
I am convinced my friends subscribe to Caller ID because of me. They have learned that if I call, there usually is some bizarre plot or adventure they find themselves lured into.
I called my friends John and Jill. John was out, but I tracked him down like a bloodhound and screamed in the phone-“get over here please, you can’t imagine what’s going on.” Of course he could, which is why I didn’t tell him. I just hung up.

What followed was as ludicrous as what had just happened. John appeared as I was sitting on the front porch crying. The dogs were still barking at the wind, and we all smelled. John stood there in the street 20 or so yards from the front porch yelling. “What the hell’s that smell’? When he realized the smell was coming from inside the house his first inclination was to leave. Can’t really blame him. He went to his car and appeared back with a small towel covering his face, as a thief would wear robbing a bank, gagging all the way to the front steps. I begged him to go in the house and get rid of the skunk. Peals of laughter and “Are you fu&*#ng crazy”?
The night ended with my calling an Animal Remover who came to the house, spent 2 hours “talking the skunk” out of the kitchen and into a pen. The skunk went peacefully.
The dousing of the house cost $1200. 4 industrial Odor Remover machines were used with herbal spray. My clothes had to be thrown away, the couch had to be thrown away along with all the bed linens.
The dogs were washed with a mixture of baking soda and 20 bottles of Summer’s Eve, thank you, that John had to buy at several all night grocery stores.
The dogs were washed at midnight in the back yard during the hurricane, by someone that John and I both knew, who had no sense of smell, or time for that matter.
John’s brand new sneaks, purchased that day, were discarded immediately.
Yes, my friends still answer the phone when I call, but usually with fear and trepidation.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness (and I'm screwed)

2006-08-22T16:07:00.000-04:00

Two years ago, having been the recipient of 2 hip replacements gone awry, one hip being loosened by an over zealous therapist, and the 2nd hip having been defective, I was on my way to a 3rd hip replacement. The pain was intense and I was fairly crabby for a couple of years until all this was hammered (literally) out.

A week before the 3rd surgery a good friend who I’ve known since I was 10, came by to help me clean my house so that when I did return it would be all set. Now I am the first to admit, that the house tends to get a little hairy with 2 dogs and 2 cats. Add crutches, a walker and a cane to the mix, and cleaning the house wasn’t exactly my #1 priority.

As my friend cleaned up in the kitchen, I attempted to “pick up” the bedroom. I was doing my best to put things away and straighten and throw anything away that I could.

Under my bureau I happened to notice an orphaned black sock. With one of my crutches I began to poke at it and try and drag the lonely sock out. No luck. It wasn’t moving. It was stuck.
I tried with a broomstick handle, nothing. My friend, after looking at this feeble attempt of mine to clean, came in and offered to get the sock.

She promptly moved the bureau, looked down at the floor, looked at me and said, ”I fu#@*^g HATE you.” “What’s your problem”? I said. As I looked down there was one of my cats, dead. She had been missing for oh, 3 or 4 days.

I have no idea when she died.
She didn't smell. She was a little stiff and had her eyes open.
I did manage to close them. Her little front claws were wrapped around the telephone wire. Was she trying to call 911?

My dogs, which sleep in my room every night, 1 foot away from the bureau, had no idea.

Needless to say, my friend won’t help me clean my house anymore.

Camp “What the F*#k”? (For Tanya)

2006-08-16T13:42:00.000-04:00

The fifth grade in St. Brendan’s grammar school marked the auspicious beginning of a change in my thought process. Having been made the illustrious “Captain of the Jellyfish Row,” (see prior post “Captain of the Jelly Fish Row”) and becoming the target for a nun gone wild, my sense of humor began to kick in, only in my head though. Saying out loud the things I thought would have only gotten me in more trouble and or excommunicated I'm sure.
St. Brendan’s Church was one of the richest parishes in town. Yearly, boxes of envelopes were sent to each and every parishioner with their names printed on it. These envelopes were to be filled with “charitable contributions” every week. Money. Wampum. Bucks. An envelope dated for every week to be placed in the offertory basket passed around and collected by the charming Pedophilic Sacristan, Mr. Rose. My family was poor, but my mother gave to the best of her ability. She would never be outdone by anyone, or so she thought. Not only would St. Brendan’s graciously give out ready made-to-give envelopes, but every year beginning in 5th grade, St. Brendan’s Church would print out, in newspaper fashion, the names of all parishioners and the amount they had given (or not). I can still see the shiny fold out newspaper, printed on the finest high quality glossy stock, suitable for framing. But that was okay. I knew we “made the list”. My mother gave every single week. It was a ritual comparable to any sacred rite performed. No problem here, or so I thought.
As I made my way to my assigned seat as Captain of the Jelly Fish Row one morning, I saw a familiar newspaper on Sister Rotten Joseph’s desk. She probably just wanted us to tell our parents thank you for a job well done. She began, “Children, the generosity of your parents has come to my attention”. Great! We were on a roll. It was going to be a good day. No snotty remarks, just kindness and gratitude. She continued, “…..although I don’t see everyone’s name here.” “Maybe there is some misunderstanding and some people were left off by accident”. Wow, sure wouldn’t wanna be them. I knew I was covered. That envelope was dropped in that basket every week, come hell or high water.
Her next words stunned me. “Maria, I don’t see your family's name anywhere in this paper”. How could this be? It was there. I saw it. But then I remembered with dread, a yet undiscovered truth. My mother and Big Frank had a different last name than mine. Theirs was Martino. Mine was Pafka. I’ll just explain it I thought. As I stood and explained the name issue, her eyes scanned the entire newspaper, all the way to the bottom. “Here it is, Martino, at the bottom under the $50.00 amount.” If she had used a loudspeaker, it couldn’t have reached a higher decibel. A little embarrassing, but at least we had given.
But it didn’t stop there. And it should have. She did a stand up routine par with Robin Williams and Don Rickles combined. “Why is your last name Pafka”, she asked. “Frank Martino is my stepfather, Sister,” I responded. “Do you have brothers or sisters”? Again I responded, “Yes I have a brother”. Then, the killer question. “Is his last name Pafka or Martino”. I was screwed! “No Sister, his last name is Kafka”. There was a moment of silence and then the show began. This had just been the warm up act. Sister Rotten Joseph had the class in stitches, with quips like, gee, maybe someone spelled your name wrong, and are you sure you’re in the right family and with what she considered to be her finest moment, “Do all those names fit on the mailbox”? The crowd roared. I had become her straight man. Even my colleagues in the Jelly Fish Row turned on me and joined in the laughter. Who could blame them? The name game. I hated it.
It was at that precise moment I began sparring with her, but only in my head.
Do all those names fit on the mailbox? Does my fist fit in your mouth? Does my foot fit in your mouth? Can those rosary beads wrapped around your waist fit in your mouth? I knew I was being bad, and that there would be a special place for this kind of thinking sin- somewhere between purgatory and hell. She was brutal. But not only were here comedic skills honed, she had the hearing of Superman. As I sat down, I muttered something like, yeh, your face is funny too. Silence. A loud silence as they would say. I had risen to my title as Captain of the Jelly Fish Row, no control.
That little remark cost me a two week’s worth of doing the nun’s laundry in the convent after school. To be more specific, hanging their wet underwear and bras on the clothesline outside of the convent. I had all I could do to control myself from taking their underwear and rubbing the crotch part in the poison ivy in the woods out back. But I knew I would be caught, having been the last one to “handle” their underwear, and probably catching poison ivy myself.
Two weeks later, after having my poverty level exposed along with any pride I might have salvaged , I was asked to stand up along with Mary Ann Pritchard.
Sister Moron Joseph announced to the class that St. Brendan’s Church along with the school had decided to pick the 2 “neediest” students and send them for 2 weeks to a Catholic Girls summer camp in Washington CT. Mary Ann and I were the chosen ones.
The camp was situated in one of the richest parts of Connecticut. It was a mansion that someone had donated to the church so that good Catholic (rich) girls could enjoy themselves and each other’s company. This experience couldn’t be farther from my world than Mars. I had nothing in common with anyone. I don’t even think we breathed in the same air. Each morning we would rise for 7 am Mass, then gather for breakfast. After breakfast, we would gather again for “Share Time”, where we would “share our family experiences and stories, each girl relating the “happiest times” with their families.
This exercise was so everyone could learn about each other and their families.
Hmm. Which stories to share? The beatings, the sexual abuse, the breakdowns of my mother, my adoption rejections? I did what anyone else would do. I lied.
This topic moved onto the schools we went to and the extra curricular activities we engaged in. Hmm. What stories to share? The beatings from the nuns, the sexual abuse from the church sacristan, the apparent insanity of the nuns, the after school program of hanging nuns’ underwear on the clothesline? I lied again.
But it came to an abrupt end. Two nights later I woke up in my cot and had developed hives all over my body that were blistering. I was sent home. I failed camp. No one really fails camp. But I did. My punishment was to stay in the house for 2 weeks. My mother didn’t want anyone to notice that I had flunked camp.

A Woman Scorned

2006-08-16T06:56:00.000-04:00

After my brother’s fiasco with major league baseball, my mother kept and even closer eye on my brother’s life. Never wanting him to feel pain, rejection or unloved, she devoted her life to his. She was constantly paving the way for each and every opportunity that came along, plotting his every move. I marveled at the fact that he never had to make a decision on his own. She was right there by his side, practically breathing for him. And he loved it. We had just moved from Henry Street to Hamden, just outside of New Haven, and living in a 2nd floor apartment over a grocery store.
Frankie occasionally dated, but it seemed each romance ended with my mother intervening and putting her 2 cents in, usually driving the girls away. No one was good enough for her son. One serious relationship that everyone thought would go somewhere was destroyed by my mother. She had a habit of calling the parents of the girl and complaining to them that their daughter was distracting Frankie from getting on with his life, to accusing them of trying to spend his money. In time, the girl just walked off into the sunset. When this relationship ended, my mother said, “I bet Frankie stopped seeing Joanne, because she said something about me, he didn’t like.” Delusional. My mother was high maintenance. Frankie had no balls about him when it came to my mother. She always knew best. Big Frank, my stepfather, just stayed out of the picture. Frankie belonged to my mother and only her. Except for once.
Across the street from where Frankie parked cars, for my step father, and down the street from the White Tower, there was a famous barber shop. It was famous for one reason. It boasted as having the only “lady barber” in Connecticut. And it did. Men would flock to this barber shop to have Donna “do them”. Donna was an older woman, had dyed red teased hair, chain smoked and applied her makeup as a child would. As the story went, she had a “reputation”. Donna was tough and proud of it.
Frankie fell in love with Donna and vice versa. My mother, as you can well imagine, pulled every trick out of the book to stop the two of them from seeing each other. She sent Frankie down to Florida to college. When he charged $500 worth of phone calls to my mother’s bill, to make calls back home to Donna, she quickly brought Frankie back home and made him enroll in New Haven College. He then skipped classes to be with Donna so my mother yanked him out of that college.
She then decided that he should attend Stone Business College. That didn’t work. No school or trade lasted more than 4 months.
Meanwhile, my mother had banned Donna from ever being served at the White Tower restaurant. Their arguments over Frankie in public became legend, with my mother screaming names at Donna like, whore, slut, pig.
Wow, 2 women fighting over 1 man. Too bad one was his mother.
But alas, a very sad day came. This was the era of the draft and all single men were drafted. My brother had received his draft notice and my mother treated it like a death in the family. Certainly not mine though. My brother was given a party, leaving on the day of my mother’s birthday. Ample ammunition for Mary the drama queen.
Family came by and gave him presents and money. The one saving grace, according to my mother, was that at last Frankie would be rid of Donna, and their separation, my mother felt, would be the end of the relationship. Or so my mother thought. He would at last, find himself in the Army and be the man she wanted him to be.
My mother tearfully drove Frankie to the recruiter’s office where they said their goodbyes with my brother stating that he had finally ended the relationship with Donna, leaving my mother tearful and proud.
A week later, I came home from school, and found my brother sitting in the kitchen.
He said he had gone to Fort Dix New Jersey and had failed the physical exam. It seems like that “baseball arm” had reared its ugly head and he was dismissed from active duty.
You would have thought my mother had received the Purple Heart. She was beside herself with joy. Once again she was together with her son and they could plan his life according to Mary. He immediately resumed working at my stepfather’s parking lot until “something better” came along. My mother and Frankie were together again.
The happiness didn’t last long. A month later my mother received a phone call from my aunt. She was the Town Clerk of Hamden and had just received a marriage license stating that my brother and Donna had gotten married in April. He had never gone into the Army. He had found out just before he was to leave that he didn’t have to go. Frankie and Donna had eloped.

That night when Frankie got home, my mother had her script ready. She asked him to step out to the back porch. There in piles, were all his clothes, belongings, baseball trophies, and the 5 scrapbooks she had made that detailed his baseball career.
Her words were short, mean and hateful. “You want to hurt me”? “Well you might as well put a knife through my heart, because I would rather be dead than see you with this woman.” As this crazy woman is saying this, she is flinging everything he owns off the 2nd floor back porch and onto the street below. “Now get out of my house and never come back”, she screamed.
My brother walked into the bathroom, and started to grab his tooth brush and comb. She followed him, relentless in her hatred as well as her love for him, and stood in bathroom next to him screaming, “You’re just like your dead father. Want to know what he died from? He didn’t die of cancer. He died of syphilis. That’s the way you’re going to die. You’re just like him.”
As I stood by the bathroom door, I could see the reflection of Frankie’s face in the mirror. . He bent over the bathroom sink and just sobbed.
I went in my room and did the same. He was the child she adored. What happened? Tough love? Disturbed love is more like it.
When I came out of my room, Frankie and his things were gone.
My mother was doing the laundry as if nothing had happened.

The Big Bed

2006-08-14T09:34:00.000-04:00

Waking in the middle of the night to the sound of my mother crying was not routine. She never cried. Was I hearing right? In my bunk bed I could hear my stepfather, Big Frank say something like, “don’t cry, you’ll wake the kids up.” More crying. Big Frank’s whispers could be heard, “let’s go for a walk, maybe you’ll feel better." Shuffling of feet, kitchen chairs being pushed back into the table. I could hear Big Frank tip toe to the closet in the middle room where the bunk beds were and grab his coat and hers, then a reminder from my mother not to forget to take the cigarettes. I pretended to be asleep. My brother, for all I knew, was still asleep in the bunk bed on top. Big Frank and my mother left through the kitchen door and stayed out for what seemed like hours. What was going on? Where were they going and why was she crying? This wasn’t like her.
By the time they returned, I had fallen asleep. I was awakened by Big Frank gently shaking me and telling me to get up and go sleep in the “big bed”. The big bed in the next room belonged to my mother and Big Frank. I tried to ask why but before I could Big Frank explained that my mother wasn’t feeling well and she was going to sleep in my bed. He would sit in the rocking chair next to my bed to keep her company.
I did as I was told.
She didn’t go to work the next morning, or the morning after that. She had changed. Her primping and preparing for work at the White Tower had stopped. She would stay up all night and she would sleep during the day. During the day she would sit in the kitchen chair by the floor to ceiling window, staring out at the backyard at nothing.
When I came home from school, she had changed places and was sitting on the edge of the big bed staring blankly out the front window. Her bed, always so meticulously made would be as disheveled as she seemed to be. No conversation, no talking, nothing. It was as if no one was there. It was as if she wasn’t there. Sleeping in the big bed became my nightly routine.
I would lie with my head at the foot of the bed so I could see straight into the kitchen, to see what was going on. I would fall asleep soon enough but then the sounds from the kitchen would begin. The view was always the same. My mother would sit at the kitchen table with Big Frank leaning sitting next to her. She would rock back and forth, while crying and break into sobs. Words and phrases between tears and uncontrollable sobbing came gushing out. “I can’t go on like this.” “I’m so tired of this.” “This isn’t fair.” “Get me out of here.” “I can’t stand to be in my own skin.” “I just want to leave and never come back.” I couldn’t drown out the words, and sleep just wouldn’t come. I was scared. Big Frank tried to console her, but nothing worked. All she kept saying was that she she hated this life and what had she done to deserve this. What was this about? At the end of each and every crying jag, Big Frank would take her for a walk around the block be it fall, winter, spring and summer. I became a master at hearing their distinct footsteps. My mother would shuffle. Big Frank would take a couple of steps and then wait, so that she could catch up. Shuffle, shuffle, step, step. To this day, I have this unique gift of knowing certain people’s footsteps, much like my dogs too I imagine.
On one particularly sad night, her crying seemed so tormented, my brother rolled out of the top bunk and went into the kitchen to see what was going on. I followed him.
As my mother caught a glimpse of Frankie, she pleaded with a whisper to Big Frank, “Please don’t let Frankie see me like this.” As a point guard in a basketball game would do, Big Frank stood up and outstretched his arms as if to guard Frankie’s shot. “Go back to bed Frankie, it’s okay.” As Frankie turned around to leave, my mother shot a glance my way and said, in a low guttural sound, “make her go away.” Big Frank just looked at me and pointed to the big bed. His eyes said it all. I turned around and went back to bed.
Make her go away. Make her go away. What had I done? She couldn’t even say my name, just the command, make her go away. Surely it was something I had done. But what? I knew, even as a child what those words meant. She wanted me to go away, literally. My birth was the death of her life, as she saw it. How I longed for the way she used to be. I would have traded these words and feelings for a beating anytime. i guess I didn't know when I was well off.

These nights continued for a year. She had to quit White Tower. It was later said that my mother was having a hard time with “her nerves”. And as quickly as it had started, one day it just ended. We were back to the old ways. She had perfected the art of indifference towards me.

History has a nasty way of repeating itself. Many, many years later when I was in my late 30’s I received a call at work informing me that my mother had been taken to the hospital with what seemed to be a stroke. My brother was never called on these occasions; after all he was a “family man” and had responsibilities. I, on the other hand was not married, and could attend to my mother’s needs.

When I arrived the Dr. informed me that she had suffered a TIA- a stroke like symptom, but it was okay to take her home.
As I took a sharp left turn into her neighborhood on the way home, she suddenly fell over onto my lap with her body weighing heavy on my shoulder. She couldn’t move or get up. All I felt was the burden of her entire being, leaning on me suffocating me.
She was in the throes of a full blown stroke. As she lay on me, looking up into my eyes and asking for help, all I could think of and feel was, get her away from me, get her away from me.
I am still ashamed of this, not wanting to touch her, not wanting to hold her. I still carry the guilt to this day for those words and feelings. I always will. I was always the good daughter by rote. Doing but not feeling. I guess in retrospect, that’s how she did it. But the transference was successful. She had taught me how to not love or even like her, and I was a good student, although it tool me a while to learn.
Even now, when I find myself acting like her, and I do, those words ring loudly, get her away from me. I am my mother.

Take me out to the ballgame

2006-08-11T09:51:00.000-04:00

My mother, Mary Martino treated her son Frankie Kafka, my half brother as though he were one of her preferred customers at the White Tower Restaurant.
Serving him, waiting on him was her goal in life. Her first priority was the White Tower, the second was my brother. She handled them both in the same way. Prompt, courteous attention, and service with a smile became her trademark when “working” Frankie or the White Tower. It was the “White Tower Way” or “Frankie’s Way.”
They were cojoined. You couldn’t really tell where one began and one left off.
For White Tower she would show up on time, ready, willing and able to work her shift and she would show up at his school, and sports events ready, willing and able to participate and contribute. Frankie was her life.
Frankie was a talented athlete. Baseball was the only game in town. Scrapbooks my mother put together became her hobby, her passion, her obsession. Photos of his teams, articles in the newspapers, became the sole reading material for my mother right up there with the romance comic books she would read at dinner. She would pour over these pieces as though they were the original stone tablets that held the ten commandments, reading them over and over, memorizing them, only to quote them to customers and family at any time. Why not? Frankie was a god to her.
Baseball became the focal point of their lives. She never ever, missed a game. I know. I was there, dragged to each and every one of them. Adulation from coaches and teammates only intensified the mania that was building. Frankie was going somewhere, he was going to be a star and make big bucks. He was a south paw (left handed) pitcher, the likes of which no one had ever seen. Perfectly pitched games became his trademark. Hitting homeruns came naturally to him. When he wasn’t on the mound, fanning batters one right after the other, his exploits in center field were heroic. Baseball scouts came to the basement apartment on Henry Street, all trying to woo my brother to their teams. College was never an option. My mother wanted Frankie on the “fast track."
Jealous? Yes I was. No doubt about it. I probably still am.
My mother made sure that nothing, absolutely nothing interfered with their baseball efforts, from doing his homework in high school, to buying him the best baseball gloves that money could buy.
Her weekly trips to the A&P grocery stores in order to purchase the latest installment of Funk and Wagnalls Encyclopedia was a pilgrimage. Although she bought the series for Frankie, she would ceremoniously do his homework, so he could practice baseball and be the star she envisioned.
Strangely I saw a metamorphous take place. Her obsession with the perfectly starched uniform for White Tower, the polished white shoes, the ritual in donning her stockings and garter became his ritual, almost like the Stations of the Cross at church.
Different steps for different articles
The Glove
Frankie would polish his baseball glove with saddle soap until the correct shine was visible, then place a brand new baseball in the pocket of the glove, then wrap heavy duty rubber bands around it to gently break it in. Perfectly molded glove for the perfect catch. The glove would then be placed high on top of a bureau somewhere, out of the reach of anyone, not to be disturbed.
The Hat
Frankie would fold over his new baseball cap in half so that the visor or beak would touch. That also would be held by a rubber band so that the visor was perfectly formed and curved over his forehead.
He would then indent the top, the peak, as to have a little form, and the hat would not be pressed against his head. The hat would then be placed next to the glove.
The Socks
The first socks to go were the tube white style knee socks. Over that he would put on the team colored stirrups. The socks would be held in place, never to move, with a huge wad of rubber bands. Frankie would actually measure as I held the measuring tape, the exact height he wanted the stirrups to be.
The Pants
The rule was to have the pants gently rolled at the knee, just above the stirrup.
The Hair
Frankie's hair had to be perfectly combed to minimize "hat head" for when he took his hat off.
The Baseball Hat
The hat was donned at the baseball field, never before.
The Cleats
Last, but not least, the cleats. Frankie would painstakingly clean out each tiny little crevice of dirt from the game before, and then polish the cleats until the shine came back. Once again, these were only put on, on the field.

Frankie was a sight to behold. He was the perfect son and perfect baseball player.
My mother could not have been any prouder if she were on the mound herself pitching.

But her dream never materialized. It seems all that perfect pitching in high school ruined his arm, or at least that’s what the scouts said. Frankie developed some sort of elbow injury just before spring training opened. The baseball scouts disappeared from the house as fast as cockroaches scurrying when the lights are turned on.
Frankie never got to the big leagues.
Neither did my mother.

Sister Carla OP & Sister Mary Jacob OP

2006-08-09T09:06:00.000-04:00

Sister Mary Carla OP & Sister Mary Jacob OP (commonly referred to as "Sleepy & "Grumpy" respectively) were not the usual run of the mill, bullies. They weren't really malicious but they certainly possessed (no pun intended) peculiar qualities.
Sister Carla taught freshman Biolgy in St. Mary's High School, an all girls Catholic school. She was tall, serious looking as well as a quiet demeanor, and I mean quiet.
On the first day of class, in a new school, Sr. Carla waltzed into the classroom, introduced herself and immediately took roll call. Okay so far. She then proceeded to elaborate on what we would be learning that year in Biology. I was looking forward to her descriptions of what we would be doing, dissection of frogs, labs twice a week, working with microscopes, studying cells, ect. We would finally be working with something exciting off the beaten path of the stilted Catholic school curriculum.
That was until she suggested we "go round the room" and introduce ourselves. Ok-no problem. I was in the "P's" and I would just say basically what the other girls were saying. As the roll call progressed around the room, I happened to glance up at Sister Carla. She was sitting upon her perch, a platform raised about a foot above everyone else. I'm sure it was meant to be a pedestal, which all the nuns wanted to be placed on. The student's seats were 5 students across a row with laboratory benches serving as our desks.
As I watched her sitting there, I noticed her eyes were closed. I figured that she was probably really concentrating on learning about us and good for her! I was impressed, until I realized that after we had roll called about 30 students, her eyes were still closed. Being freshman on the first day of class in a new school, no one had the courage to say anything. After a 15 minute uncomfortable silence, a couple of students began to cough. Miraculously, Sister Carla opened her eyes and began talking as if nothing had happened. Okay I thought, we're back on track.
After elaborating on other details of the course, Sister Carla then asked us to open our text books and begin reading the first chapter,and explained there would be a brief discussion after the 15 minute reading period.
As soon as we began our first assignment, Sister Carla's eyes were once again closed-shut. The allotted reading time of 15 minutes had come and gone. Everyone had finished and were waiting for our discussion. It never happened. Sister Carla's eyes remained closed until the change of class bell rang 25 minutes later, at which point Sister Carla immediately opened her eyes and conveyed what our homework would be for that night. After class, as good Catholic had always been instructed, we never asked questions, no matter what the circumstance were.
To make a long story short, this continued throughout the year, every day, every class. Sister Carla had narcolepsy. You could count on Sister Carla's naps for at least 20 minutes of the 45 minute class. Any pause in the teaching curriculum and Sister Carla would be off in sleep mode, just like a computer. Any movement or sound and her lithe body would awaken.
Most times we just sat there enjoying the free time and silence. Sometimes we dropped text books on the floor just to test her reaction time. But sometimes believe it or not, it was detrimental to our education, such as the times we were in the middle of dissecting frogs, and she would drift off to sleepyland, while rigormortus set in for the poor frog.
The other nuns had to know. Everyone knew. She fell asleep in Church, in assembly and one time at a luncheon. Why didn't someone tell us? Why didn't someone tell her? But she never once yelled at anyone. She was too busy sleeping. I often wonder what became of Sister Carla. She's probably resting somewhere. Poor thing.

Sister Mary Jacob who taught Earth Science in the next class in the same room, was the exact opposite. Talk about Yin/Yang! Fast talking, swift moving, and obnoxious were her trademarks.
She would ask you a question with a smirk on her face and then answer herself just as sarcastically as she posed it. It was like she was having a conversation with herself or talking out loud, so you weren't really insulted.
Sister Jacob appeared in my life some 15 years later in camouflage. She was pretending to be a person. She had left the convent, been de-nunned or de-vowed or un-habited or whatever the terminology was.
I was at my photography exhibit at the Yale Divinity School. A friend of mine who was instrumental in acquiring the space for me, came by to introduce a friend of his.
Her face was somewhat familiar. I certainly didn't recognize her name, but as soon as she opened her mouth and said her first sentence, I was thrown back to a different place and time. Her first words to me were, "Humph, I certainly didn't think you would amount to anything, but maybe I should rethink that". BINGO!
Sister Mary Jacob. What a piece of work.
I saw her after that in a few social situations. Her inappropriate manner had followed her into civilization where it really wasn't tolerated or understood. People shunned her and were embarrassed to be with her. She said all the wrong things to the wrong people. I actually felt sorry for her. Poor thing.

The Jelly Fish Row

2006-08-07T09:45:00.000-04:00

Sr. Martin Joseph OP was my 5th grade teacher at St. Brendan’s Catholic Grammar School. Unlike Sister Teresita OP, Sister Martin Joseph had her own style of teaching and torture.
Sr, Martin Joseph OP was a tall stern looking woman whose smile was more of a sardonic grin . Her quiet, but sneaky demeanor was just a decoy for the her acerbic personality. Her beady little eyes were like missles, seeking out a target, waiting to destroy at a glance any student who went against “her rules”.
Basically, she was a snot.
She would march down the aisles of the classroom, with her arms folded underneath her habit, as if she were holding some kind of weapon. No need for weapons. Her looks could decimate you. She was a walking WMD. She never really talked to you- just snide remarks that only she appreciated. Among the many incidents, she was infamous for few that will remain branded in my mind forever.
Any student that didn’t meet up with Sr. Martin Joseph’s standards, were labeled as weak. Not being like everyone else was the biggest sin you could make. These students were usually the ones that looked a little different than the rest, were shyer than the rest and usually had problems with their studies. Rather than deal with their issues on a individual basis, or even recognize that they were different for a reason, these students were branded lazy and uncooperative.
Sr. Martin Joseph’s resolution for this was to group these children together. Not in an educational way, but an insensitive and insulting manner.
She developed the “Jelly Fish Row”. The jelly fish row was the last row in a classroom of 5 rows across the room and eight to a row. It was next to the window so the “jellyfish” could look out the window when they felt out of control and not annoy the rest of the class. Spineless, transparent, no backbone, uncontrollable jelly fish is what they were she stated.
The day the Jelly Fish row roll call was announced, you could feel the tension building in the classroom. Who was going to be selected to the Sea of Spineless Creatures?
There were only 8 slots. The instructions from Sister Martin Joseph were clear.
“Your name will be read in order, from the last seat to the first. When your name is read, please pack up your books and papers and proceed to your new desk in the Jelly Fish Row”.
First name,
8. Bobby Brueler
7. Charlie Faracielli
6. Maryann Pritchard
5. Kevin Saunders
4. Stanley Mucha
3. Maryanne Barile
2. Thomas Melillo

Whew, I had escaped the dreaded aisle of wrong.
Not.
She made a special announcement for the proud winner that held the first seat.
This person would be the Captain of the Jelly Fish Row-
The last name to be read was mine.
I guess that’s what the bible means when it says “And the last shall be first.”
Stupid jelly fish row.

This Catholic School had more mysteries than the 5 Mysteries of the Rosary.
For some bizarre reason, we were forced to take “Ball Room Dancing Lessons” from a guy named Bill Miller for 50 cents a week collected in the mornings before class. It was no coincidence that his daughter and son went to St. Brendan’s, were wealthy, and contributed to the Church mega bucks. Each and every person in the Miller family looked like models. They were perfect. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect bodies, perfect sickening smiles.
Perfect suck ups..
The dance lessons were held after school, every Tuesday in the gym. The girls would line up on one side, and boys on the other, while “Bill” and his lovely wife, “Mrs. Bill” would show us the latest and greatest ballroom dancing steps. I’m not sure what good these dance lessons were to a repressed Catholic girl from the ghetto like myself, would accomplish. No cotillion balls, no country clubs, and the only coming out I had was when I came out of the closet in my 20’s. No ballroom dancing then either.
Sadly, this exercise in futility continued throughout the year. It was especially sad for the least popular boys and girls, like myself, who often weren’t chosen for a dance by the lucky kids from the “in crowd”. Being left more than once on the sidelines with the rest of the untouchables, we were forced to dance with Mr, Bill or Mrs. Bill.
On this particular Tuesday in class, my being the Captain of the aforementioned Jelly Fish Row, I was asked to stand up at my seat. I did as I was told. I was a good soldier.

The conversation went something like this:

Sister: Did you pay your 50 cents this week?

Me: Yes Sister I did

Sister: Empty out your pockets and put the contents on the desk.

Me: ( I pulled out my beanie, a key to my house and 3 quarters)

Sister: Where did you get the 3 quarters?

Me: From my mother

Sister: For what?

Me: So I could go to the store after school and buy stuff.

Sister: I don’t believe you. 50 Cents was stolen from the Dance envelope and Stanley Mucha said you were the last to leave the room. The envelope was on my desk.

Me: I didn’t do it (now starting to cry like any other 10 or 11 year old)

Sister: Then why are you crying. I think you stole it. Sit down.

To this day, I swear I didn’t take the money, I think someone just counted wrong.
So, my official title was Captain of the Jelly Fish Row that steals and lies.

Where the hell did they get these women? Another mystery.

Sister Teresita OP

2006-08-05T21:08:00.000-04:00

Sister Teresita OP (or as the students called her “Sister Terror sit on your face”) began her reign of terror, as the Principal in St. Brendan’s Catholic Grammar School in 1956.
Students agreed that the initials OP at the end of her name stood for Open Palm, which you got when she slapped you across the face, or Open Palm for the money she would somehow coerce us into giving. In actuality, it stood for "Order of Preachers", another misnomer. Sandwiched between terrorizing the students of the school with her threats and condemnations, she also taught my 3rd grade class, due to the shortage of qualified nuns.

Sister Teresita was a large brash woman, who marched quickly and forcefully anywhere she was headed. She would sooner knock you out of the way if you happened to be in the path of her mission. You could hear her walking down the hall or over to your seat without even looking up. Her steps pounded down on the tile floors with the standard nun’s black shoes, beating in time with the swish of the belted rosary beads slapping noisily against her black belted waist.
Her cotton tunic and dress was white, perfectly creased and ironed. The rigid form-fitting white coif that surrounded her face, made her pit bull face bulge as if it were going to rupture. It was like a box that was packed too tight, with no room left to expand. The stiff white crown band on top of her forehead forced her brow to wrinkle in a perpetual frown. She was mean looking. She knew it and she loved it.

Salvatore Minerva was often the recipient of her hostile antics. He was a sweet boy that had the soulful eyes of a bloodhound. Although he wasn’t in my class, she would drag little Salvatore into the class room to demonstrate her supremacy. Salvatore wasn’t a bad boy. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, which could have meant he was anywhere in her cross hairs. He always looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Dragging him by the collar, almost off the ground, she would storm into the classroom and say, “look who I found in the hallway”. “I found baby bunting,” That was her trademark term for anyone who didn’t act like a grown-up.
At first no one laughed. But then she would turn her sour face to the class and say, “Doesn’t anyone else see this”? “Are you all stupid?” Rather than be pummeled or worse, being dragged up to be “baby bunting’s” companion, everyone soon learned to laugh. This is exactly what she wanted. Humiliation by numbers was her specialty.
If this wasn’t debasing enough, she would then take a yard stick, sit and place Salvatore across her lap, and spank him with the yard stick, while chanting like some Gregorian Chant gone wild. “You want to be a baby buntin?” “ This is what we do to baby buntings.” Usually Salvatore would cry, his face red from embarrassment, and she would then pick him up by the seat of his pants and tell him to get out of her sight.
She made him an act that she appeared with when she needed attention. It was like watching Abbott and Costello, with Costello always getting the short end of the stick.
Sister Teresita OP was an adult bully.

Her culinary directives were just as insane as she was. Every morning she would have us raise our hands to tell her how many of us had eaten onion sandwiches.
It seems in her bizarre religion, onion sandwiches were the remedy for any and every ailment. She almost made it one of the commandments.

Her other talents included having us sing the National Anthem every day. This in itself wasn’t so bad. It was the vehement directive that we memorize and sing the 2nd verse.
She would stand there, punching the words out with her fists and screaming, her face reddening as the words were shouted out in some sort of demonic beat. If she thought you weren’t singing loud enough, you could expect a punch or shove in your back, and then she would stand there and pound your desk until she heard the decibel she was expecting.
She was out of her mind
I think I’m the only person that knows the 2nd verse of the National Anthem by heart, and I never hear it sung anywhere.

The Art of Conversation

2006-08-03T16:20:00.000-04:00

From the moment she got in the car and slammed the door, I knew it was going to be an explosive visit. As usual, there was no eye contact, no conversation, and no acknowledgement of my presence. It was as if she were driving alone. Every visit or stop over was the same. Today though, would be different.
Today would be special. It was Mother’s Day.
I thought by taking her to her favorite restaurant, it would ease whatever rage, or self pity that was currently festering in her mind, if only for an hour or two.
Driving in her silence for the 20 minutes it took to get to the restaurant, I was constantly trying to engage her in some inane conversation about anything. Anything, just to make her talk to me. You think I might have learned about 30 some odd years that this was an exercise in futility. But no, I kept on yakking like Pinky Lee, trying to entertain and inquire about her life. Any semblance of normality would have sufficed. “Happy Mother’s Day mom.” “How did you sleep last night?” “That’s a nice dress, mom”. “How is Mrs. Dolan your neighbor”? On and on until I couldn’t stand hearing myself anymore. Her response was nothing. It was like having a deaf mute for a mother. She had mastered the “silent treatment’ as she called it, and was proud of it. Being with her was an exercise in delivering a monologue. No dialogue existed.
As we pulled into the parking lot of the mall, she exited the car exactly as she entered it, slamming the door.
We walked into the restaurant, with my mother well ahead of me by 10 steps, as a teenager would do at a mall, not wanting to be identified with their parents.
How ironic that her favorite restaurant was “Friendly’s.” She stormed over to a booth and sat down. I followed.

Her first words to me were, “I’m not even hungry and I don’t know why we even came here,” she said staring off into the distance as if she were talking to herself.

I told her that it was Mother’s Day and I wanted to take her out to dinner at a place she liked. I reminded her that she agreed to this the previous night. With this she picked up the menu and began her tirade of how “this food wasn’t good” and “I guess if you don’t have any money, we can eat here”, she said.
As the waitress leaned across the booth to place the knives and forks, she wished my mother a Happy Mother’s Day. No response. The waitress didn’t exist either. I of course responded for my mother and myself, inquiring if the waitress herself had any children, blah, blah, blah. I was talking for two. It was always like this. I never wanted people to think I was as miserable as my mother.
Without looking up from the menu my mother, in her icy style, ordered a grilled cheese and a coffee. “But the coffee now”, she rudely demanded, and was promptly served or in my estimation was promptly shut up so she wouldn’t complain.
I ordered the quickest item on the menu, both to prepare and to eat. I wanted this hell day to end quickly.
I always notice when I go out to eat and see people together eating but not talking, what their problem is. Do they not like each other? Do they not like the food? Do they not have anything to say? Or are they like my mother? Completely and utterly unhappy?

Not soon enough for me, the Friendly's waitress returned with our orders. As the waitress was placing the grilled cheese in front of my mother, my mother spoke. She spoke to me the way I had wished she would for years.
Her words were precise, direct and on target, and finally eye contact.
“Want to know the one regret I have in life”? “It was having you.”
“My entire life changed for the worse.” “You are the biggest disappointment in my life and I will never forgive you.”

The waitress at this point is frozen in time, as I am; only this really wasn’t news to me. This was an affirmation of our life together. At least it was out in the open. No more guessing for me. No more thinking I could change her, no more thinking that maybe the older she got, the nicer she might become. No more thinking and wishing that there might be just one thing I could do, to make her just like me, let alone love me.

The waitress however, stood there with my salad in her hand, unable to decipher what she was hearing. She looked at me, and just with a tilt of her head, I knew she felt bad. I just shook my head and shrugged it off. I felt worse.

My mother had this perfectly timed. What a performance! She was performing for this waitress. Did she think the waitress would agree with her?

Me, awkward, sad, embarassed.
My mother, relentless, impenetrable, cruel.

Time stood still for me on occasions like this. It took me 3 days to get over these encounters. She was an artist at making me feel as though I owed her everything and anything. My lot in life was to serve her. I never fully came to terms with her mandates, that's where the problems and the hate resided. I tired to fight her off and still be a "good daughter". It just wasn't meant to be.
I danced around her demands like Mr. Bojangles, always trying somehow to please her without giving up the soul she was trying to take.

The amazing thing is that she actually blamed me. I still can’t understand her thought process on this one. So, it was my fault that I was born. Yeh, right.
Nah, I don’t require therapy or medication.

Oh, and the Mother’s Day Present I got for her? As she got out of the car, I handed her a box wrapped up with a couple of blouses inside. She didn’t even look at it, didn’t say goodbye and once again, her trademark, slammed the door.
Yeh, I really like Mother’s Day.

Mr. Landy

2006-08-02T08:48:00.000-04:00

The row house 2 doors away from my home on Henry Street was owned by an older gentleman named Mr. Landy. Mr. Landy was about 60 years old and lived in the basement apartment which was identical to mine. The other 3 floors of his row house were unoccupied. No one knew why, and the thought at that time was that Mr. Landy had enough money and didn’t need to rent it out.
Mr. Landy was always dressed in a felt hat, an old brown suit with a white shirt, without a tie, buttoned at the collar. His bent frame of an old man’s body would take a “daily constitutional”, as he would call it, to a neighborhood grocery store, Sherman’s, half a block away. His purchase might include bread, milk or cold cuts. But the one purchase he always made was his daily pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. I knew because my mother had borrowed a cigarette from him once, and remarked how they both liked the same brand.
One summer, I was awakened from a sound sleep by fire engines and then someone banging on the front bedroom window. My mother was pulling her all night shift at the White Tower,while my brother and step father somehow managed to sleep through all the noise. At the window was a fireman, yelling about someone’s house being on fire and if anyone knew if there were more occupants in the house. I ran out to find out what house was on fire. It was Mr. Landy’s house.
The fireman was somewhat relieved to hear that there might not be anyone else living there. Mr. Landy had been taken out, barely conscious, and was on a stretcher trying to get his breadth back.
It seemed Mr. Landy had been smoking in bed and the mattress caught fire. He had miraculously managed to call the fire department before he totally passed out from smoke inhalation.
As I stood there in astonishment, watching the fire rage through his basement apartment and listening to the fireman yell at him for smoking in bed,
I knew this would be a lesson learned.
Not so. This happened again a month later. The same exact thing-smoking in bed. The same drill, firemen waking the neighbors, making sure no one else was in the house, and reprimanding Mr. Landy for the same foolish act.
He was a lucky man, so far.
The 3rd fire was the last. The final time I saw Mr. Landy, he was being carried out on a stretcher by the firemen. Burnt to a crisp. That’s the only way I can describe what I saw. He didn’t wake up in time, couldn’t call the fire department, and couldn’t get out alive. He burned to death. To this day the vision and the stench remain in my mind.
Three strikes and you're out.
So much for the first two fires being a wake up call.

Many years later, in my 30’s, my mother called during the night. This was nothing unusual. She had a habit of “crying wolf” to get my attention for any reason. She would feign sickness, fainting and/or heart attacks just to get me over to her house. It was a game, and I played it like a champ, or maybe chump, but she always won.
On this particular night when I went over, I noticed a strange yet somewhat memorable smell in her apartment hallway. There were about 100 apartments in the complex. It smelled like burnt toast.
I walked in her apartment and realized the stench was coming from there. She too, had fallen asleep smoking Pall Malls, setting fire to the mattress. I doused the rest of the small but smoldering inferno with water.
What did I do? I dragged the smelly, wet, burnt mattress out the back door of the apartment, stuck it in my car, took it to my apartment, threw it in the dumpster. I then dragged the mattress I was using back to her house for her to sleep on.

And oh, why did she call me in the middle of the night, and not my brother who’s a FIREMAN and lived closer than I did? Her response was that she didn’t want him to know she had done something so stupid. God, the rules never applied to her.

I’m sure there’s a message in here somewhere, but I don’t know if it’s for me. I’ve never smoked.

My top 10 myths I was taught by the Catholic Church

2006-08-01T10:47:00.000-04:00

1. Only Catholics can be saved, only Catholics will go to Heaven and everyone else will go to hell. "Extra ecclesiam, nulla salus," -- outside the Church, nothing is saved

2. Biting down on the host at Holy Communion will make the Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ come pouring out your mouth.

3. Chewing gum was immoral, only “prostitutes” chewed gum

4. Any wish you desire will be granted if you stand completely still while the Passion of Our Lord is read during Palm Sunday Mass.

5. If your infant has not been baptized by the Church, he or she could face hell. If your child has been baptized, then there is hope!

6. If you die with a *mortal sin on your soul, you will go straight to Hell.

*Mortal Sin
e.g., murder, missing Mass on Sunday, sex before marriage, birth control,any type and homosexuality

7. Praying the rosary out loud each night with your entire family will create a bond will draw your family closer forever.

8. If you get your throat blessed on February 3rd, the feast of St Blaise, you will never choke on a fish bone.

9. The Catholic religion rejects abortion, euthanasia, and embryo stem cell research. All life is precious - from the moment of conception to the moment God calls each one of us to Him. The Catholic religion also rejects homosexual activity. This is a grave sin.

10. The Church’s teaching on the ordination of only men is because Jesus was a man, the apostles Jesus chose were men, and the Church believes that Jesus intended His church to be led by only men.

Winky Dink & Me and Miss Frances' Ding Dong School

2006-07-31T09:13:00.000-04:00

In the early 1950’s, two TV shows surfaced that brought about a magical impression in my life. I used TV to escape from a bizarre childhood that no one else seemed to have. TV protected me from the loneliness, isolation and fear that seemed to fester in my family.
The first show was “Ding Dong School” with Miss Frances. Ding Dong School would start off with the lovely Miss Frances, who looked like everyone’s favorite aunt, smiling and ringing an old school bell. The clang clang clang of the old bell still resonates in my mind.
Children would be sitting on the floor while Miss Frances sat in a chair calling the class to order. This was far different than the reality of the nuns in grammar school making us march into the classroom in two steps like soldiers on a drill.
Miss Frances would gently address the class of children politely, intelligently and kindly.
Her questions to the children were sensitive and thoughtful. Questions like “Did you hang up your coats and hats like good girls and boys”? “Did you wipe your muddy feet on the mat before you came in”? Did you do all your chores your parents asked you to do”? “I am so proud of all you boys and girls”. And wonder of wonders, Miss Frances actually listened to their responses. This was a far cry from the recriminations put forth by the nuns. “Please raise your hands if you said the rosary out loud with your families last night”. “Those who didn’t please stand up and explain why”. It only took me once to realize that I would forever lie, in order not to be chastised for NOT saying the rosary out loud with my family.
Miss Frances showed the children how to finger-paint, and draw. She would also sing and read to us. She had 3 real goldfish that became everyone’s friend, Winken, Blynken and Nod.
Commandments of kindness were taught at Ding Dong School. In Catholic school, writing out the 10 commandments 50 times became a penalty for not being a good boy or girl.
But the best show by far, to stir the imagination and take me away from any danger, threat or sad place, was Winky Dink & Me.
Winky Dink & Me was a show about 2 cartoon characters, Winky Dink and his dog, Woofer. They would often get into trouble or situations where they would need help.
This help was up to me. They depended on me. Winky Dink & Me had a special kit, which was given to me for Christmas by Rose, my neighbor upstairs.
This kit contained a huge cellophane piece of red gel that would stick onto the TV screen by static electricity and special crayons that you could wash off. Whenever Winky Dink and Woofer got into trouble, Winky would ask you to “draw him” out of trouble. For example, if Winky Dink needed to cross from one mountain to the other, you could draw him a bridge. If he was swimming too deep, you could draw him a life preserver or a rope to help reel him in.
What a concept! What if I had that magical power today? What or who would I draw to get me out of my problems? That’s pretty easy. If I were stuck and needed someone to come and get me, I would draw my friends John & Jill, on their way to rescue me in their ’72 pristine Pontiac Lemans, riding with my head stuck out the window like my dogs. If I were in over my head, as it sometimes happens, I would draw Karen and Richard throwing me a rope or a life preserver (although at times I think they would opt for an anchor). Last but not least, I would draw my shrink, Dr. Lubin. I would draw her taking the bits and pieces from my mind and putting the chunks together, and putting the fragments of my life together in a jigsaw puzzle that could at last be solved

Sweet Daddy Grace

2006-07-27T14:13:00.000-04:00

Being born into an Italian family, and having been sent to Catholic grammar school and high school, elevated guilt levels to an all time high. I was sandwiched in between a religion that allowed no flexibility and a nationality that basically endorsed this principle.

In my case, both were recipes for disaster.

The Catholic Church was supposed to provide safety, sanctuary and guidance. So was my family. Both failed miserably.

Catholic school was strict and unkind, especially grammar school. Harsh discipline was handed out regardless of whether or not anyone deserved it. Slapping, spanking with yard sticks and verbal insults were part of the curriculum. Today, these nuns would be arrested for abuse.
Humiliation was the name of the game. The nuns were masters at attacking any dignity a student possessed. Denigration of the student just seemed to make the nuns stronger. It seemed to spark a tirade of “creative” insults that they themselves enjoyed.

Self esteem plummeted from the constant barrage of insults. Students were called “stupid”, and “dim-witted”.
In the 1950’s parents gladly welcomed any discipline the nuns dispensed, be it verbal or physical punishment.
The wedding ring on the nun’s fourth finger made its imprint on my face more than once. This is the same wedding band that the nuns received when they “took” Jesus Christ as their groom on the day of their vows. How happy would He have been to have an abusive “wife”?

Through all this confusion of my religion and nationality, the one religion I envied was in my neighborhood. I dare not mention this religion to anyone at school, or even my family, but I was envious of the compassion, feeling and pageantry that this “church” held.
The church was called The United House of Prayer for All People. It was situated in the black section of Dixwell Avenue, in New Haven around the corner from Henry Street. The building was a huge white stucco fortress with a huge red, white and blue oval banner on top that stated “Welcome All People”. Simple, true, accurate. No exclusions here.

Sweet Daddy Grace was the leader of this church. He was the Bishop, who founded this church. He was born in the Cape Verde Islands and came to the United States.
Daddy Grace was a flamboyant minister. He was said to have owned one of the largest fleets of Cadillac’s, had his own line of soaps and healing medicines, performed miracles, baptisms and referred to himself as “The Boyfriend of the World”.

Once a year Daddy Grace came to town and would parade for his followers.

I would squirm my way into the crowd and sit on the curb waiting for this Man of God to parade down the street.

Black children and adults would march down the street all dressed up, with batons, trumpets, banners and drums proclaiming the wonders and words of Daddy Grace.
Kids on bikes had banners of red, white and blue, flapping in the spokes of their wheels, with the words, “Welcome All People”.

Just before the float that held Daddy Grace appeared, there would be a small group of men, talking in gibberish. I soon learned that not only the Catholic Church staked the claim “talking in tongues to the Holy Spirit”, but Daddy Grace also held the Power of the Holy Ghost.

As Daddy Grace’s float came closer, there was a collected silence among the immediate crowd, and then it hit -boisterous cheering, weeping, clapping, singing and praising.
People were throwing money on the float. I wished I’d had some. I would have tossed it too.

As this old man came closer, I saw what I expected God to look like, except for his long red, white and blue fingernails. He looked resplendent with his pure white suit, long white flowing hair, and gold chains around his neck, as he blessed everyone in the crowd.

The white people in the neighborhood didn’t put much stock in Daddy Grace.
But I know what I saw, and I know what I felt.
Catholicism couldn’t hold a candle to Daddy Grace.

To me, this was what religion was all about, or should have been

The White Tower Way

2006-07-26T14:23:00.000-04:00

There was a specific technique for everything you did when you worked at the White Tower Restaurant.
Even though it was just an all night hamburger joint, the White Tower ran this business as carefully as you would run a military operation.
I remember the White Tower Way like I remember the Baltimore Catechism Q&A and the Ten Commandments from Catholic School.
Mandatory dress code included perfectly cleaned and pressed red polka dot uniforms and apron with a hairnet for the women,topped off with a combination comb/barrett for the hair and polished white shoes. The men's attire included a white shirt, black bow tie with black pants, a white half apron and a v-shaped cap with a hairnet top.

White Tower Coffee- 10 cups to a pot
Pie -8 slices
Eggs -60 to a crate
Ham -8 pieces to a pack
Hamburgers -5 to a pack
Take out Coffee Cups -60 to a plastic sleeve
Tomatoes -5 slices to each

These items, along with others, were inventoried every day and shortages or overages were tracked every day to a specific shift. Shortages were met with stern warnings and threats of a "pink slip" to follow if the shortages continued. Overages of course, were welcome.
The White Tower was like a fish bowl, open windows on 3 sides for all to see in. These windows also displayed, along with the glass pie cases, several bullet holes from drive by shootings. Luckily no one was ever harmed. I was once the proud bystander of a bullet literally whizzing by my head. Amazing sound.
Behind the counter, which separated the staff from the customers were stainless steel appliances. Beautiful, shining, pristine refrigerators, coffee maker, the Bun O'Matic, and windowed pie cases lined the floor and walls. Posters of "Whitey" adorned the porcelain enameled walls above the pie cases. "Whitey" was a comic figure composed of combining a W and a T with the W part being his torso and the T part becoming his arms and chest, with his arms outstretched holding a hamburger in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other and a stupid grin on his face.
How I hated this imbecilic figure.
Three sinks sat underneath the counter that separated the staff from the customers. One was for washing, one for rinsing and one for sterilizing the dishes. The rinsed dishes were placed in a wired basket and lowered into the third sink, heated from beneath with a gas flame and adding sterilizing tablets that turned the water blue. My mother prided herself on the fact that she could submerse her hands in the hottest of waters and not feel a thing. Not feeling was her forte.

My mother was a soldier in the White Tower army. She obeyed their commands, orders and requests as though it were her sworn duty to uphold some secret hamburger oath I visualized her pledging.

She "worked the grill" and was known for her speed. Like an army drill, she would toss the meat on the highly heated grill, grab a bun from the drawer, cut it, squirt ketchup and place two pickles on the bun, turn the hamburger over,slap a piece of cheese if warranted, wait a minute or so and then place the hamburger on the bun, whip around and hand it to the customer, wrapped if it was take out, on a plate, if it was to be eaten there.
Her movements were like the rhythmic beat of a drum.

Behind the counter, she would greet her customers with an official White Tower greeting, "How may I serve you today sir"? or ma'am. "Would you like this here or to go"? "Would you like onions on your hamburger"? "How would you like your coffee"?
After the meal was finished, "Would you like some pie ala mode for dessert"?
The same routine over and over. That is unless you were a "regular". She would have the coffee or drink ready at the counter with the hamburger already on the grill.
She was quick, intuitive and caring, often times telling a "regular" how she was looking forward to seeing them again and asking where they had been, and how they were doing.

Customers loved her. She was professional, polite, clean and at their service. Her care and concern over her customers was always a role model for new employees.
She never faltered in her service to White Tower, or to her customers, only to her family.

Mary was a company woman.

I watched in amazement. She thrived in this environment. She came alive. I almost didn't know her. This caring, ready to please, one step ahead of anyone's needs woman, had 2 different personalities, maybe even more. Customers would often tell me how lucky I was to have such a great mother. Little did they know this White Tower Warrior was forever on the warpath at home, taking no prisoners.

How I longed for any attention from her, any sign of acknowledgement that I existed and wasn't a plight or blunder in her life. I imagined she would smile at me and ask me how my day was or tell me that she missed me when she was at work.
But the White Tower was her family. No outsiders welcome.

She would arrive home late, smelling of the sweet sickening combination of Coty's Emeraude perfume, fried onions and grease, too tired to talk.

She had to regroup for the next day and her White Tower family.

No one was more important, no one.