Day Three - Your Parents

Man...

You know I don't want to write about this.

No I don't have the common wonderful story of "My parents are the greatest. We're close, and life is wonderful."

No, I don't have that story. It's pretty much opposite. And it's always been that constant dark cloud over my head.

I don't have a relationship with my parents. It's not possible. It would be a total sham if I did. And I would be doing it, faking this "relationship", for the approval of others.

Doing things for the approval of others versus doing from my heart or doing what's best is one of my major filters for all decisions. Any sign of me doing things to be liked or to please others, well those things are sat on the curb until a change comes about that makes me decide otherwise.

And yes, this makes me an evil bad person. Yep, I accept that. Cool.

My parents began dating when I was in highschool. My father went off to Vietnam. They divorced when I was 15 months old. End of story of having a 2 parent household.

I want to keep this somewhat brief (this is difficult, as I am longwinded).


My mother. I don't have a relationship with my mother. IThe major reason has been overall trust issues. I saw a man stab her 100 times when I was six, and well, she never discussed it with me. I've looked at her sideways every since. As young as the age of 6, I know I didn't need to tell her anything personal, as I could count on it being used against me in some way. I remember her saying to me when I was five or six years old, that she wished that I could pack a suitcase and go away. That seared into my young innocent mind, not understanding that, when people get mad, well, they say bad things. So as a result, I've always felt like a burden. I've always felt the need to apologize for being born.

I've always felt like she took care of me because it was against the law to get rid of me. I can't look at her and say that she loves me. She says she does, but it is like a foreign language in my ears. She says she is proud of me, but again, I don't process it.

Because the mental and emotional abuse crowds any accolades that she may shout.

Me and my brother have laughed about this. When she says anything positive, it's like you're trying not to laugh. It sounds so funny. Like "Really?"

But it is not funny. I am an emotionally scarred Oldgirl.

Things are worse when she has a man. We're basically dirt on the ground. Me and my siblings FULLY understand this. And accept it.

I've understood that she has always liked my friends more than me. I was never the girly daughter she longed for, and all of my friends have always been girly-girls. She is the reason for my stealth nature. My friends understood this growing up, and acted accordingly. (If you know me, I'm very stealth and secretive. VERY. I can be in a crowd of one in the room, and you would never know that I was there).

I was a disappointment to her. I know that. I accept that. I go on with my life. I pray. I send gifts for Christmas, hoping the harsh criticism of the imperfection of my gifts don't circulate back to me. I expect her not to approve of anything I say or do, but it is very painful for my siblings and family to listen to such terrible things about me, and for them to have to deal with that.

I never told her I got divorced (she learned that from my siblings, waaaay after the fact). I didn't tell her I bought a house (when she found out, she cried and cried out of being upset jealousy. Sigh). I knew all my life if I needed a shoulder to cry on, I better go find someone else's shoulder to cry on, who wouldn't laugh about it or talk about me behind my back.

I learned from my mother to keep lists. And to study hard, and this very key rule: If I didn't understand my lessons, go back to the very first page and try to understand that. It's because of her that I love science (She worked at the phone company and she got me through my Physics Circuitry and Electricity college class by explaining her job, by drawing telephone poles and phone lines). She is one of the most creative women I know, and she's probably why I have a plethora of hobbies and willingness to try new things.

She did what she could. Rearing a child doesn't come with a manual.

She gave birth to me. I am here. That is all.


My father. My father has always been a mystery to me. That's because all growing up, my mother told me he was crazy from the agent orange spray in Vietnam, and thought she was a vietnamese and would try to shoot her. She dogged the man something terrible.

Who wouldn't be afraid of such a man?

Stressed me the hell out to have to go over to his house every Christmas. We would only be there for a couple of hours. I liked his parents - the old man who never came out of the bedroom, but laid across the bed staring out the window at the world, his rheumy eyes full of joy when I walked into the room. And the old woman who always gave me a roll of dimes as a Christmas gift. The roll never contained the correct amount. But I was under the age of 10 in the '70s. A roll of dimes was good for Now-or-Laters, Funyuns, and Fanta Orange dranks.

But the man who thought my mother was a Vietnamese and would chase and try to shoot her...

He scared me.

Would he try to shoot me too?

So damn much for a child to be thinking about. And you gotta understand, by the age of 9, I was in the 6th grade. Man, I would lay in bed at night and critically think about things.

At the age of 10, my mother told me that I didn't have to go back over there if I didn't want to. That was it for me. A piece of stress was gone from my life.

My Aunt- who pretty much takes the roll of the "mother" in my life- always spoke well of my father. "He's a good man, Lisa. A very good man."

That confused me. But I trust my aunt. I didn't have to watch her and weigh every word, like I did with my mother.

I promised myself at age 30 that I would request to meet him. Age 30 came and went. Blogger LBeezy and I were reading a book together with similar subject matter, and she suggested I mail him a card, which was a GREAT idea.

I didn't want anything from him: only to meet him. No strings or anything.

So he called, and we met. I was 38, going on 39. I detailed this in a couple of posts Crazy Convos with my Father and Face to Face with my Father. These are some of the most important pieces I've written on blog. I saw my father a month later at his brother's funeral, which produced some of the most HILARIOUS pieces I've written for blog (A Most...Humble Occasion Part I and Part II).(You know how black folks act up at funerals).

I know at that funeral I shook my father's hand. Don't remember ever touching the man in the past. He didn't even know I was there at the funeral, as I sat in the back of the church.

But I touched his hand. Never thought of how his hand felt. That meant much to me.

I don't know much about him. Over a few quick phone calls, and a mere 15 minute meeting, I learned that this was who I got my sense of humor from. My like for very low room lighting probably comes from him. My extremely quiet and reserved nature may come from him. There are so many similarities between us, that it's scary.

And he, like me, hates to be a burden. He's an alcoholic, trying to find his way, living with his sister, just doing his thing.

The most chilling thing I remember is being at his house, pictures of me spread across his coffee table, and him wailing "I look at these pictures every day and cry".

To which I wanted to say, "It ain't that serious. I turned out to be okay."

I learned at that moment to search my heart and clear up whatever, because I don't want to be his age and crying over my past. No way, buddy. If I screwed up, I need to get over it. I'm human. Whatever.

And in conclusion, that's what I feel about thees two people, whose DNA combined to make me, the wondrous Oldgirl. They are human. Much prayer has revealed they didn't know what they were doing. Don't blame them. Takes much to stand up to the plate and take care of a child in the midst of whatever. Can't hate on them. And I've heard from my sister that my mother has said such. She simply didn't know what she was doing.

(That pissed me off. The only time I've snapped. You would too if you felt for most of your life that you were... nothing and useless. Quickly got past that.)

I can only grow from it. Somehow.

They got together and conceived me.

A very successful black woman, who has a good heart, who is capable of being a blessing to others.

That trumps any negative things in the past, any confusion, all of that.

A woman of purpose.

A woman who is... here. Ultimately, that is all that matters.

This wasn't a bashing exercise. I don't bash these people.

It was an exercise in what immediately comes to mind. That is all.

Good or bad. Love me or hate me.

Truth from my heart is truth from my heart.

Period.