We knew it was coming for a long time, but that doesn't make it easy.
My Granny died yesterday.
The doctors have been giving her a week to live for the last three years. She was a tough cookie and fought to stick it out.
Although we shared no DNA, I was closer to her than my biological grandparents.
I haven't quite wrapped my brain around it.
I'm heading to The 'Sip tomorrow for the services.
I think I mentioned this potential promotion(?)/job change thing a while back. Well, the powers-that-be decided this week was a good one to throw me into the proverbial fire and see how I do with it.
Nevermind that I'm set to start training for the position in a few weeks (read: I have absolutely no clue what the hell to do right now, today, while I'm in said fire). Nevermind that I have little useful information or knowledge pertaining to the project at hand. I'm in.
But, so far, so good. I kind of feel like I've been given a seat on the wing of the plan, but I'm expected to co-pilot. Or, erm, something.
Wait, does it sound like I'm complaining? Oh, no... that won't do. It's good. Somewhat stressful, but good.
My supervisor is out of town, and I have been pulled into this whole deal by his supervisor, our VP. Oh, and his supervisor, the Sr. VP, is in on the project, too. (One more rank, and we're literally at the top of the food chain here.)
Anyway, I'm having to completely fake all this shit. Off the cuff, you know? And hoping I don't totally screw anything before I can get my ass into training and get a little grasp on what the hell I'm supposed to be doing.
That the VP trusts me enough to include me in the meetings is no small vouch for his belief in me, though, so I'm feeling pretty good about it.
Okay, enough disjointed work BS.
I'm heading for The 'Sip today. One of my bestest friends is tying the knot, and I'ma stand up there beside her and smile while she does it. Woo hoo!
Yep, three days in The 'Sip. If anything attests to the fact that I'm owning my Maid of Honor duties, it has to be the two HUGE suitcases standing in front of my door right now. (Don't give me crap about girls always packing too much. I can pack light. Just not this time.)
The wedding is Saturday, and I've been in a kind of weird I-can't-do-it-from-here place with most of the planning process. But I'm giving her a lingerie shower Friday night, so I've been running around like freakin' crazy organizing that. And my overflowing suitcases are the keepers of the party.
Since there isn't much time, I was going to skip out on seeing the fam, but it's Nephew#3's second birthday, and there's a party, so I'ma go surprise everyone with my radiant presence for a few hours before getting the hell out of dodge.
Wish me luck. (With the new 'do, I'ma need it. They aren't the most tactful bunch, and they definitely fear and loathe change.)
I reached for the ringing hand set and glanced at the Caller ID. Father. Bracing myself for bad news, I answered guardedly.
As soon as it became clear that no one was dead, I relaxed. Breathed a little easier.
It still makes me nervous when he calls, I would tell Roommate later.
I vividly remember the first time I ever got a phone call from Father. Which isn't really that remarkable, since it was only two years ago. Considering I literally made it 23 years before ever picking up the phone to hear his voice, it makes a bit of sense that I'm still inclined to think the worst when he dials me up.
Before that Stepmom had always done the calling, no matter the reason. Father got on the line only when she passed the phone his way.
When I went away to college, I talked to Stepmom at least once a week, and Father slightly less often. At first.
Then, I started thinking about my relationship with the man. Or, more precisely, the lack thereof.
I decided that he didn't know how to deal with me. From what I could tell, Father viewed women in two ways:
1. As mother-like figures to be respected.
2. As sexual objects.
As his daughter, I didn't fit into that equation. Our conversations rarely drifted from the subject of the weather. They became incredibly frustrating.
Frustrated with his lack of initiative and tired of having entire conversations that consisted of It's 110 in the shade and same here, I stopped calling him. Stopped asking for him when I called Stepmom. Stopped letting her hand the phone off.
Stepmom: Your dad just walked in. Do you want to talk to him?
Belle: Nah.
She tried to get me to talk to him. Growing less and less acquiescent, I began refusing to fake politeness to my own detriment.
Stepmom: It hurts your dad's feelings that you don't talk to him when you call.
Belle: It hurts my feelings that he never calls me. That he's never called me. All we talk about is the weather, anyway. We both know it's hot and miserable. It's always hot and miserable.
I wasn't refusing maliciously. I just didn't see the point. I'd resigned myself to the fact that I was an anomaly in my father's life. That our bond was weak, at best. That our views on life were so different the only polite conversation we could have was discussing heat factors and humidity.
Then, one night while I was working, my phone rang. Father. I stepped outside to take the call, expecting to hear that someone was gravely ill or had passed away.
But it wasn't that at all. He'd just called. To chat. To see how I'd been. To offer fatherly advice. To let me know he was thinking of me.
That was in the spring of 2005. We usually catch up with each other once or twice a month these days. Last night our conversation moved from the weather to work to the merits of fresh seafood over frozen to softball to his grandsons/my nephews. It may not sound like much to some,* but it's a helluva lot more than I ever expected.
I know you've been on your own for a while and you take care of yourself. Just keep an eye out. Be aware of your surroundings. It's your best defense... I just want you to know I'm always thinking about you.
The man, he's trying. And I have to give him props for that.
* Roommate, I'm thinking of you and your daily parental contact here. ;-)
An excerpt* from my IM with Roommate tonight.
Roommate: We can look after you bring me home tomorrow night too. After I give you some of your goodies.
Belle: Good god, your dad didn't pick bras out for me, did he?!?!
Roommate: no- you're saved
Belle: Thank god!
Roommate: I think you really will like what he got you. I got one too. Already tried it out.
Belle: Now I’m really scared.
* Slightly edited to eliminate the schizophrenia that epitomizes our IM exchanges.
The Moms: Well, I'm pretty boring and stable. You know I don't have much gossip for you or anything.
Belle: Stable... Be proud of that! It's an achievement!
And it is.
Today marks the momentous occasion 53 years ago that brought The Moms into this world. Whatever our differences might be, I have to give the woman some credit for all she's done for herself (and for me) in this life. Since our family isn't given to sappy expressions of emotions and whatnot, I'll do it here on the Internets, where I'm fairly certain she'll never find it.
Born to a soon-dead carny father and a crazy, manipulative, evil bitch of a mother, The Moms was at more than a slight disadvantage from the start. Change, change, change, her mother, brothers, and stepfather had always told her. You'll never be good enough.
At 18, she was ready to get out of a household that might as well have had a needlepoint plaque at the front entrance boasting, "We'll beat you down until you don't have the will to get up. Then, for good measure, we'll kick you some more."
Marriage was the road she chose to get her out of that hell hole. After a short-lived honeymoon period, The Moms found that her partner 'til death was a controlling, mentally abusive man-whore with a knack for business deals gone sour and a penchant for barely-legal secretaries. Keep your mouth closed and your eyes down, Woman. Change, change, change.
The Moms popped out two kids (namely, Older Brother and Belle) before popping into a hotel to witness the man of her dreams dallying with the hired help and, subsequently, popping out of marriage one.
Despite the marriage having survived to the 10-year mark and The Moms having indisputable evidence of infidelity, her loving mother, The Matriarch, all but refused to help The Moms in her next phase of life. You couldn't keep him. I told you you'd never be good enough. Father stopped paying the mortgage on his children's home. The Moms had to pick up her kids and move.
Shunned from all social circles, lacking viable work experience or an education beyond high school, she set out to find a way to support herself and two brats too young for the free babysitting service we call public schools.
So, at 28, with two little ones, an ex-husband who was just this side of being a deadbeat dad, and little familial or social support, The Moms went to college. She struggled through it, subsisting on tomato soup for weeks so her kids could enjoy cheese sandwiches and the like, making games for us when a weaker person might've been reduced to a sobbing mass on the floor from the stress of it all.
The man who vowed to serve and protect through sickness and health moved on to a new life with a new, younger wife, doing his part by having Stepmom pick us up every other weekend and holiday. Sending his pathetic, court-ordered $40 per week every two months or so.
When The Moms donned her cap and gown and crossed that stage, she was the only person in her graduating class to shed tears. Surely they were long overdue.
She entered the working world more starry-eyed than one might expect, choosing a profession she thought would help people. A much-needed service to the public. She took a pittance of a salary, and worked for the next decade to pay off her student loans and credit cards.
Meanwhile, Father used every opportunity to tempt Older Brother and me from our life with The Moms. Biting comments. New bikes she couldn't afford. Don't you want to come live with us? With your new Baby Brother? Older Brother took the bait. If you come with us, you can never go back. I stayed.
Terrible bosses, monstrous boyfriends, the cliquish women in the Lord's House. The vengeful and malicious acts of Older Brother who'd adopted a distorted view of life. Everywhere she went, The Moms met opposition. Keep your voice down, was what they told her. You shouldn't say that. We don't do things that way here. The subtext, always: Change, change, change. Being you will never be good enough.
Defiant, she became more of who she is. Smart, brusque, sensitive, loud, honest, thoughtful, defensive, caring.
Determined not to follow in The Matriarch's emotionally distant and verbally abusive footsteps, The Moms took an interest in my life. In Older Brother's life, as much as he would let her. Faithful scout leader. Reliable sleepover host. She planned trips to the beach and outings to the park. Money was still tight, but The Moms made sure my childhood didn't consist of drudgery and lack fun as hers did.
Many years after the divorce, The Moms found herself living in the woods with a smart-ass, defiant teenage daughter who resented her attempts at loving gestures. You're embarrassing me! Change, change, change. Rare visits from her only son yielded shouting matches and vows to maintain distance. Most of her post-divorce friends had scattered to various cities, states, countries. She was alone in everything but reality.
When The Moms met someone who claimed to love her, who shared her passion for The Lord, who said they should be together 'til death parted them, she bought into it. She married the maniac, flaws and all. She lived with the mental and physical abuse for a few months before getting divorced and lived with the experience bottled inside until a few years after I left for college.
The Matriarch, long estranged, was diagnosed with breast cancer. The Moms went back to her. She visited daily, took the old bitch out when and where she wanted to go, helped in any way she could. The Matriarch repaid her by telling lies about her only daughter. By planting seeds that would sprout into hate in the hearts of her husband and sons. The Moms would only find out much later, when disputing the word of the dead could only make things worse than they already were.
When The Matriarch started losing her mind, The Moms was shut out by her stepfather and brothers. No matter that The Matriarch's claim of wrongdoing was rooted in a haze of dementia warped by her longstanding routine of evil manipulation and backstabbing. No matter that The Moms was her only daughter. She wasn't welcome in the house. The Matriarch passed. The Moms was no longer welcome in the family.
What, with Older Brother too busy living in a drug-induced sub-reality of paranoia, rage, and remorse, I became The Moms' only family. And I lived hundreds of miles away.
Finally out of debt, The Moms bought her dream house, just a few short blocks from the tiny home we'd occupied before. She surprised me with a new room when I went home for Thanksgiving, a new house. A nicer house than she'd ever owned. And without so much as the tiniest bit of help from any man. She was proud of it. I was proud of her. She deserved something nice.
A month after signing the deed, she was laid off. Cutbacks at her company. After eleven years of service, she was given a day to clear her office and a month's pay.
Not nine months later, every worldly thing she'd worked for in her life was wiped out. All her possessions gone. Photos and memories destroyed in an instant.
Neighbors who stayed watched through a small attic window as the storm surged, gutting every house on The Moms' street. The sea was in and out in a couple of minutes. The debris on the bits of sheet rock that remained in her once-beautiful home showed the water had reached nearly nine feet. Still, she and her neighbors were some of the lucky ones. Not a block away, where every house was ripped from its foundation and washed out to sea, seven people who'd taken shelter in one home were never seen again.
Aid was slow in coming for those who survived. I sat helpless hundreds of miles away, knowing, finally, that my family was alive but little more. Unable to help in any way.
A week later, The Moms came to live with me. Shocked and demoralized, wearing donated clothes and shoes, having little cash on hand and fewer resources at her disposal, she started searching for a job, seeking help. She called me daily in tears, lost and distraught.
Soon we found ourselves in a tiny rented house, surrounded by used objects donated and procured from thrift stores and estate sales. Everything surrounding us was a reminder of all that was lost. After my fixed-term position ended, we found ourselves facing a bleak, unemployed Christmas and the dreary winter months that followed.
The Moms finally found a job, and I left for better prospects. Once again, her only real family was hundreds of miles away, and The Moms was alone. She started fighting then to get back to what she'd worked for.
Today, she's finally back in her newly-finished house. Older Brother has settled down, started a family, given her grandsons. They still go rounds on occasion. Not valuing her strength and independence, he still feels the need to tell her to change, change, change. He projects his own feelings of inadequacy on her. You'll never be good enough.
What Older Brother doesn't realize is that she's earned the right to speak her mind, and loudly. That she's worthy of being who she wants and of living her life her way.
When I talked to her today, she seemed happy. Stable.
Happy birthday, The Moms. You've achieved a lot.
After last Wednesday evening's tears, I managed to make it all the way to the Southern Homestead on Friday without shedding a single one. The visit was mostly good, despite my dread.
I started out keeping notes. The first few looked something like this:
17 minutes after arrivalLittle Bro: I need to get me one of them Vietnamese wives. (In front of his wife, and referencing my cousin's new wife, Asian Bride.)
Belle: Asian Bride isn't Vietnamese.
Little Bro: Well, what is she then?
Belle: Chinese.
Little Bro: I need to get me one of them Chinese wives...
36 minutes after arrivalSister-in-Law: The Mexicans are everywhere now. We were at a gas station the other day and saw a whole school bus full of 'em.
48 minutes after arrivalSister-in-Law: We even got Vietnamese working at McDonald's now. You don't know whether to order a hamburger or shrimp fried rice.
12 hours after arrivalBelle: How do you like living in New Southern Town?
Aunt By Marriage: It's a little dark. (laughs)
Belle: (Utter confusion... Is New Southern Town mountainous? Does it lack street lights?... ??? ... Ohhhhhhhh...)
Aunt By Marriage: But they're good people. They're good people...
Yeah... I just had to stop. I mean, I would've spent the whole time I was there scribbling furiously. Even my cousin who married Asian Bride was spouting homophobic BS the whole time.
My favorite exchange of the trip?Uncle Smartass: How do you like the D.C. area?
Belle: I really like living there.
Uncle Smartass: Yeah, it's a good area... except that it's giving you liberal ideas.
Belle: Well, actually, Uncle Smartass, somehow, despite coming from this family and this state, I managed to develop those liberal viewpoints all by myself before I moved up there. I think I should have my DNA checked...
Obese Cousin: What you need to do is see a therapist. (laughs)
I wanted to point out that the most effective therapy I found came in the form of moving 1,004.30 miles away from the Southern Homestead. Instead, I bit my tongue and just smiled sweetly at Obese Cousin. There is no point arguing or defending my views to these folks. It will do absolutely no good, and I know that. If I want to maintain anything resembling family ties with these people (which I'm ambivalent about, by the way), I'm the one who has to play nice.
Other than those things (and all the similar/redundant incidents I didn't bore you with), the weekend was good. I got to see Father and his side of the family, The Moms, a family with whom I was really close, and my best friend from high school. I spent time with my adorable nephews and even got in a little shopping on The Moms' dime. I came back a little worse for the wear physically (oh, sun, how you torture me!), but mentally as sound as I was before (which may not be saying much...)
It's nice to be back.
Walking through the lobby of my office this afternoon, I hid the tears behind black sunglasses, thankful that my latest purchase was larger than the shades I'd chosen in years past. George, the security guard who usually engages me in a few moments of small talk as I exit the glass-enclosed lobby each afternoon, was distracted by a man in charcoal suit leaning on his desk with both elbows. I managed to avoid eye contact with quick steps and a strategically-timed hair flip.
As the revolving door turned me through to the too perfect sunshine of the too perfect evening, I muffled a sob. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. I focused on counting my steps and keeping a straight face as I passed the flower-laden meditation pond. When my foot hit the second step in the parking garage stairwell, my vision blurred to blindness, and I had to stop and wipe away the tears before moving on.
In the safety of my car, the sobs flowed freely as I leaned on the steering wheel for support like a distraught heroin on the silver screen. I collected myself enough to set out for home, but the tears didn't cease.
I cried for a potential loss in the fast-approaching future. For the lack of certainty in my career choices. For the absence of a shoulder on which to let my tears. But, primarily, for the things I endured in the Southern Homestead. For the scars I still carry. The scars I fear I will always carry. For the fast-approaching revisitation of the crime scenes. For the silence. For the lack of closure. For the things I fear are happening now and feel I can do nothing about.
Belle: (to Roommate less than 48 hours ago) I'm not typically one who drinks to drown my sorrows.
And, yet, tonight I drove at least two miles* out of my way during rush hour to purchase the whiskey necessary to do just that. For the last three hours I've been catching up with old friends and gardening and cooking and blogging and hanging out with my ferocious hunter of a cat. But I've primarily been working on making that whiskey disappear. And I've nearly accomplished my goal.
Oh, the weekend at the Southern Homestead should be the best ever.
* I'm sure there's a liquor store closer than that, but I've been on the outs with liquor lately and haven't noticed the actual location. How sad is that?
LADirtyDisco called one night last week. She was back on the West Coast after spending a week or so with her family in the 'Sip. I asked about her trip.
LA: (sighs wistfully) It wasn't long enough. You know when you go home and you think, 'This is wonderful! I love it here. Why did I ever leave?'
Belle: Not really... I cry every time I go home... On the way there...
I booked a flight ages ago for our family reunion this weekend. As it nears, my fearful anticipation is constantly evolving. My stomach has been knotted with dread for weeks already. I've stopped myself from checking my itinerary online for fear I'd cancel my ticket in a moment of desperation.
I've never quite felt like I belonged in my family. They're my family, and I love them and feel loved by them (in varying degrees), but I've never felt like an integral part of what's going on with them. Always the outcast. The black sheep.
And why am I the black sheep?
Because I'm female and did not make wifedom* and motherhood my primary ambitions in life.
Because I read.
Because I don't constantly exhibit the prescribed and acceptable attributes of a nice Southern girl.**
Because I'm not a bigot.
Because I wanted to see more of the country, more of the world.
Because I obtained a university-issued degree.
Because I don't think that a woman's place is in the kitchen unless that's where she fucking wants to be.
Because I don't espouse the ideas of the Christian Right.
Because I made it through 25 years without getting locked up or knocked up.
Because I escaped the 'Sip.
That list pretty much exemplifies why I'll proudly tell you I'm the outcast of my family. But it does very little to ease any tensions I have when I revisit the Southern Homestead.
Roommate pointed out that any visit home confirms that hightailing it out of there was the best decision I could've made. That I'm happy with the life I've chosen. She's right, but it doesn't make the whole experience less emotional or exhausting.
* Yeah, like serfdom. You got it.
** I'm fairly certain I'll remain a girl in the eyes of the fam until I pop out a kid or get hitched.
The Moms called me several weeks ago and requested we plan a trip to Europe. To France, specifically. Maybe even a little jaunt to Italy. Together.
*sigh*
So many things factor into this being a terrible idea.
I.
The Moms has been having her nails manicured regularly for about 10 years now. Down in the Southern Homestead, that all but requires visiting a shop operated by Vietnamese women (and the occasional man). The Moms takes great offense when any of the people in the shop speak their native tongue. She is convinced they are talking about her.The Moms: I know they're talking about me. I can hear them call me "cow."
Belle: Oh? When did you learn to say "cow" in Vietnamese?
The Moms: I didn't, but, you know, it sounds like "cow" when they're talking...
Belle: The Moms! They speak another language! A very different language. I'm sure the word for cow does NOT sound the same in English and Vietnamese.
The Moms: (mumbles) ...well, it sounds like cow to me...
As much as I hate to admit it, The Moms has actually said things like, "They need to speak English if they're going to live here. This is Ahmericuh."
And I'm supposed to go to a foreign land with this lady? To France?
Right.
II.
In December of 2001, The Moms and I journeyed to good ol' PA to visit some of her friends acquaintances. Initially the idea was sold to me as a trip to NYC.** I'd never been. The cost for me was nil, and I'd been out of The Moms' house just long enough to forget how wonderfully we get along with one another.
The night before our flight, the two of us were standing in the kitchen. She was nagging me about something, and I was being a 19-year-old pain in the ass, I'm sure. But then she had to go and do it. You're acting just like Older Brother!
The thing about Older Brother had been a sore spot for years. You see, Older Brother's entire life had been devoted to breaking every rule, crossing every boundary, doing whatever it took to get what he wanted and hurting as many people as possible in the process.
But, somehow, it seemed he was never punished or held accountable for any of his actions. No, not Older Brother. He was the Golden Child. No matter how much property he destroyed or how many people he emotionally maimed, his word was still valued above anything I ever said or did.***
Comparing me to Older Brother when I took even a pinkie toe off the line was a favorite past time of every adult in our family. And doing so was the ultimate insult because it was pretty much the only time anyone acknowledged that I was basically a good kid, but at the same time it put me in the same boat with this relative monster. And the comparison was always unfair. I wasn't malicious or hateful. A mouthy teenager? Yes. But I was not evil.
That night in the kitchen with The Moms, having been out of her house for about two years and having a bit of family-related counseling under my belt, I couldn't stand it anymore.
You're acting just like Older Brother! she'd said, pointing an accusing finger at me.
And I lost it.
FUCK! I yelled. I am NOT Older Brother! You always say this to me. FUCK!
I'm pretty sure I was a bit more verbose in my high-volume response, but I can't remember the specifics, and the point is that I yelled 'fuck' at The Moms. She stood there a long moment with her jaw slack before tears filled her eyes and she left the room. Yeah... She pretty much didn't speak to me until about 24 hours later... well after we'd arrived in PA and sat through an uncomfortable dinner with a bunch of people I'd never met.
The trip itself only got worse. We actually got into an argument on a bus in NYC. I vowed to never travel with The Moms again, and her sentiment was "ditto." We didn't speak to each other for another 12 hours or so after that one.**** (And no one else spoke during the entire trip back to PA.)
III.
A few years later, The Moms decided to send Older Brother and me on a cruise for Christmas. The day before we were to depart, Older Brother went MIA, and The Moms ended up accompanying me to Mexico.
I have to admit that we had a better time on that trip (the massages and booze helped), but things were still tense between us. Especially when our ship docked and The Moms and I ventured out for a little shopping. She refused to buy anything from anyone who tried to bargain with her, which caused me infinite annoyance and meant she paid a great deal more for items at stores than she would have paid for the same goods at local sellers' shops. It also showed me she's not willing to deal with anything unfamiliar, even when she's in another effing country.
IIII.
Due to circumstances beyond our control,***** The Moms moved in with me for a time soon after I left The Black Hole. The city was bigger than any she'd lived in before, and she was completely unfamiliar with it. Rather than equipping herself with maps and finding her way around, The Moms called me at work at least once a day, lost and sobbing. I had to try to figure out where she was and where she needed to go.
And, guess what? That was a city in Ahmericuh, and pretty much everyone spoke English there.
Did she ask for directions? If she did ask, were the directions accurate? If they were accurate, were they useful to her? The answer to all of these questions: Not Likely.
Now take all these factors and mix them up. Put The Moms and me in a country where the primary language isn't English. Where we aren't familiar with the methods of transportation. Where the money isn't what we're used to. Where the people aren't what we're used to... You get the idea.
Sounds like a recipe for disaster.
At least I convinced her of one thing and demanded a second the last time we spoke on the subject.
1. We will go only to Italy.
2. She will learn some Italian before we go.
* The Misogynist saw a shirt that said this when we were in O.C. Ugh.
** In reality, we were in NYC for a matter of hours, almost all of which were spent watching The Lion King on Broadway.
*** Younger Brother had the same lot, but he and I don't share The Moms.
**** Making our hosts quite uncomfortable, I can assure you.
***** Mother Nature is a bitch, and the U.S. government was (is) neither equipped nor prepared at this time to deal with serious natural disasters. And that's all I've got to say about that.
