Tag Archives: memoir

Aside

Looking Back – My Reasons for Writing

One of my cousins from across the miles posed a couple of great questions, giving me food for thought. He asked:

Why do you write? And why do you write about the family?

My answer to him:

First of all, I write because I know I have a story to tell. As a kid, eventually, I discovered we were dirt poor. Looking back on my teens, I realize that I was neglected and forced to grow up too quickly. I was ashamed of my childhood and bitter for being my mama’s mother. As I “matured,” settled down, married, and had children of my own, along the way, I found I was a stronger person because of some of the things that I endured as a child. Once I embraced the God of my grandparents, I became a much better person as well. NOT that I had it all together; I still had a few things to learn. But I learned that it was much better to let go of the bitterness and forgive than to hold onto the junk. I also learned that I didn’t have to be a product of my environment! I could rise above the ashes like a phoenix and become so much better. That was my freedom — still is — and God has called us to liberty, not to be in prison. Yes, I made some mistakes along the way, but I also learned from them. It starts with a made-up mind! While I’ve managed to confront my past, I believe it hasn’t spoiled me, but has instead prepared me for the future. I may not be perfect, but whenever I stumble, I can wipe the crud off and walk on. I share my story that I might help one person, and if I have done that, then I have done a good thing, and God gets the glory.

I mention family because the little girl growing up — although she may have felt like she was all alone most of the time — was not an orphan and did not live on an island unto herself. There were others around who helped to nurture her in one fashion or another, even the antagonists in her story. And yes, some were heroes. She cannot tell her story without mentioning those she looked up to. To be truthful, she had to address some honest and raw emotions and mention the flaws — the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The story is not fiction. It is written about how she recalls the events that shaped her life as a child, a teenager, and into her adulthood. Not all the memories take her to a happy place. She has had to dig deep to find them. To some, those “happy” places may be simple and insignificant, but to her, they were her lifeline.

His response:

I am keeping this as a reminder of what it takes to be selfless.

Thanks

I did not expect THAT answer 🙂

“Tout de Suite!”

Through half-drawn curtains, I watched the other children at play, chasing one another in a circle, chanting, “Duck. Duck. Goose!”

Humpty-Dumpty, the daycare where Daddy dropped us off that morning, operated on a strict schedule. I knew I didn’t belong there. At lunchtime, they made me sit in the dimly lit kitchen to finish the tough, chewy meat on my plate while the others went out for recess. Just as I finished cleaning my plate, they announced, “Lights out.” I hated nap times, too.

By the time I was three, my parents had already been separated. My brother, Ruben, lived with Daddy, while I stayed with Mama. Daddy had started coming for me, but on one visit, he said I could stay and didn’t need to go back. I was perfectly happy. I didn’t know that Mama never agreed to him keeping me. Early one morning, determined to know where he took Ruben and me before he headed for work, Mama hunkered down inside a taxi and followed him to the daycare.

Later, parents came to collect their children. While my brother and I waited for Daddy, we played on the swings. That’s when the clunking sound of an engine caught our attention. We weren’t expecting them, but Mama and her boyfriend, Jimmy—my new stepdad—drove up in a gray jalopy. Mama stuck her head out the window and waved us on.

“Tout de suite!” My mama shouted in the single French phrase that she knew, her arm pumping for us to hurry.

Trained to move fast whenever we heard the phrase, we bolted in their direction.

Jimmy yelled at Mama, “Stay in the car, Ruthie. I’ll get ‘em.”

Jimmy hoisted Ruben over the massive stonewall and dropped him down the other side. Then he grabbed me by the arm and lifted me before sprinting toward that old heap. We clambered in and sped off. I glanced back to see the daycare worker running after us, screaming. Mama and Jimmy, cackling with glee, celebrated their successful kidnapping scheme. A strong odor of beer permeated the air inside the car.

I looked over at my brother, pretending to be brave but wide-eyed. I glanced down and noticed my scraped knees. A lump lodged in my throat, and a tear escaped my eyes as I thought, “What will Daddy think when he comes for us?”

(Intro to Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

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January 9, 2014 · 10:22 PM

Aside

Circle of Life

Once upon a time, there lived a lonely girl. Intimately acquainted with an empty stomach, she carried hunger in her heart, starving for love.

Despite her destitute and inner turmoil, she grew up and broke away in search of love. Eventually, she’d marry and have a family of her own, never dreaming of how they’d fill the void in her heart.

In the circle of life, her little ones grew to have little ones of their own.

She felt young at heart again and couldn’t imagine life without them.

And the not-so-little girl wasn’t lonely anymore.

The end.

10 Comments

December 30, 2013 · 9:29 PM

December 19, 2013 · 10:17 PM

Farewell …

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was peacefully napping.

In the hospital, time stood still as I gazed down at the man who had fought his demons since I’d known him. Vivid memories of our fifteen years of marriage before it ended many years ago churned in my mind’s eye: his dimpled smile, lilting voice, broad shoulders, bow-legged stance, the shuffling of his feet when he walked, his unselfish generosity. Recurring thoughts raced through my mind of all the what-ifs. At that moment, nothing else mattered. I remembered the good, not the bad, his strengths, rather than his weaknesses, and his triumphs, rather than his failures.

Anna Marie barged into the room, rushing to his side as if to wake him from sleep. “Dad! Dad!” she shouted, shaking him. “Dad!”

“Anna,” I spoke sharply and held her hand still. I softened my tone, “He’s gone.”

“But why, Mom? Why…?”

“Anna, I don’t know. It was his time; he was ready to go. He never wanted to grow old, become a burden…” My voice trailed off. I recalled what he had said, how he wouldn’t live past sixty, as if sixty was old, too old, and he never wanted to get “like that.” How soon the years pass.

“No, Mom!” Anna Marie shook her head in disbelief, her face red. “Not yet!” she sobbed.

I held her tight and cried with her.

Soon, the others arrived. We gathered around. My baby girl, Angela, was nine months pregnant with her first child and due to give birth any day. Naturally, I was concerned for her well-being. But when she gently placed Donny’s immobile hand over her swollen belly, I broke down.

As always, Mark — my husband of eight years — was there by my side to comfort me.

(A short excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

Note: Eleven years ago today, the father of my children sadly passed away. It was just six days before Christmas. Ten days after bidding him farewell, the cycle of life continued as we celebrated the birth of our grandson.

I am reminded of this passage of scripture: “To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born and a time to die …” Ecclesiastes 3:1,2

9 Comments

Filed under death, Memoir

Tagged as death, fairwell, grieving, life and death, memoir, personal

Aside

She Was Me

Alone in my own world, I sometimes pretended to be Shirley Temple. Her dimpled smile and blonde curly locks got her noticed. I imagined if I pouted like her and smiled like her, that I’d be pretty like her. But in the bathroom mirror, a brown-eyed, freckled-faced girl peered back. She had straight dark hair and dingy clothes that hung loosely over scrawny legs. She looked plain, clumsy, and insignificant. She was me.

I didn’t know we lived below the poverty line. I knew the hunger pangs that clawed at my belly. I remember eating cold pork and beans right from the can; it tasted really good with bread. I remember surviving for a time on government surplus with tins of soft butter, brick cheese, powdered milk, and creamy peanut butter. When we had it, smearing slabs of mayo over bread was a slice of heaven.

Food was scarce. Even after Daddy started sending money to Mama, I saw little food on the table. Liquor bottles and empty beer cans reeked and saturated the air. The constant bickering between Mama and my stepdad punctuated the tensions in our rodent-infested, cockroach matchbox. I’d see those creepy-crawlers on the walls, tables, and dirty dishes on the counter. I’d hear them scratching behind the walls or running across the linoleum floor. I could even smell them. Those pests were our relentless, unwelcome guests.

(Excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

Note: “What happened to your bangs?” I am asked this question countless times. You will have to discover the answer to that question … but not until my book is published. 😉

15 Comments

December 4, 2013 · 11:52 PM

November 29, 2013 · 10:22 PM

He Was a Great Man

Provided by Linda Flowers – Nov. 25, 1963

The week before Thanksgiving at my grandparents’ house, I enjoyed the peaceful ambiance where I always felt loved and cared for. My grandparents showered me with attention. I looked forward to the upcoming holiday, especially Grandma’s stuffed pavo with tons of mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry sauce.

On that particular day, I lay on their living room floor, watching the crowds on TV who stood in respectful silence observing a funeral procession. The clopping sounds of horses’ hooves echoed as they pulled a carriage carrying a coffin draped with the Stars and Stripes. I knew the world lost an important man. As I studied the sorrowful faces of my grandparents and peered into their misty eyes, my heart broke, too.

Days later, I shall never forget a serious Grandpa gazing out the window, deep in thought. With a sad but loud voice, he bellowed, “He was a greaaaat man! He was a greaaaat man!” I would come to realize that Grandpa referred to none other than President John F. Kennedy.

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Filed under JFK, Memoir

Tagged as Grandparent, JFK funeral procession, John F. Kennedy, memoir, rambling

Image

Thanksgiving 1976

I stared at the TV, hearing the drone but not paying attention to the program. Earlier I had eaten to my heart’s content, wishing I hadn’t stuffed myself the way we did our turkey.

Before too long, I felt a strong urge. Alone and frightened, my heart raced.

I pressed the button.

And pressed again.

I shouted.

No one came.

In desperation, I banged on the wall, yelling, “Hello, anyone out there? I have to push! I have to push!” Doesn’t anyone hear me? I . . . have . . . to . . . push!

I pounded on the wall, about to put a hole through it. At last, a nurse ran in. Much to her surprise—and my anguish—she found me fully dilated and ready to pop.

A lot of activity happened at once. Oddly enough, at the same instant, I felt like an ice cube. The nurse noticed me trembling and threw three blankets over me. She fetched Mr. Wonderful from the lounge, already stretched out half-asleep. After waking him, they gave him a hospital gown, a cap, and a mask. After he followed them to the delivery room, they instructed him where to stand.

With my knees bent and feet in stirrups, an assistant leaned me forward.

“Now push,” my doctor instructed. “Push, hard.”

I took a deep breath and held it, managing a couple of pushes, one or two deep grunts, and a long groan, feeling the blood rush to my brain. “I . . . can’t!” I gasped. “No more. I’m tired.”

“Come on. Keep pushing. Bear down. A little more.”

“Arrrrgh!”

“Shush. It’s okay, honey,” Mr. Macho-turned-coach drilled. “Stay calm.”

“YOU stay calm! IT HURTS!”

“Humph,” Donny snorted.

“All right, now give me one big, long push.”

“It . . . b-burns!” God, I feel like I’m tearing!

“Okay, now stop. Stop pushing a moment.”

Push–Breathe–Bear down–Don’t push–Breathe! My mind zoomed from ninety to zero. Oh, what am I supposed to do? Why hadn’t Donny and I completed those Lamaze classes? Finally, the answer came to me: To refrain from pushing, I had to do a series of shallow breaths. Pant. Like a dog.

Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant.

Donny watched the whole process bug-eyed and ashen-faced.

Some macho man he turned out to be.

2:56 a.m.

Gorgeous. Chestnut hair. Almond-shaped eyes. Rosy cheeks. Ten fingers and ten toes. I was in my teens and just delivered a beautiful, healthy 7 lb. 6 oz. baby girl. My baby girl! Thank you, God. With the ideal name for her—in memory of my beloved grandma and my deceased sister—I named her Anna, with Marie being her middle name.

Once home, I savored the miracle before me: An innocent life at peace in her crib. A life I had only known as bittersweet; a life filled with much adversity from being alone, cold, hungry, and frightened. My mind twirled with unanswered questions. Could I protect this child and keep her safe? As her mommy, I wondered if I’d always be there for her, and not fail or disappoint her. Would we have a close relationship? Would she always feel my love?

(An excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

# # # #

My firstborn’s birthday is just a few days away. About every four years, her birthday lands on Thanksgiving Day. From day one, she is a reminder of all I am thankful for. She is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. When she came into my life, she began a circle of three.

As I watched her grow, she taught me the rhythm of a mother’s heartbeat for her child.

A shout out to my beautiful daughter:

Anna Marie, there’s a lot more to the story that had transpired before this excerpt about you posted here, as well as a lot more that occurred afterward. I suppose your curiosity is piqued right now, but I’m afraid you’ll have to remain patient and stay tuned along with the rest of the audience until my book is published.

I love you.

6 Comments

November 21, 2013 · 10:01 PM

Aside

Love Spoken Here

Visiting Daddy in the early seventies, on weekends and during summertime, I remember how he loved to watch Lucha Libre. His favorite wrestler then was Rocky Johnson (the father of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson). Also a die-hard Yankee fan, Daddy loved his baseball team.

“¿Vite? You see dat?” Daddy shouted and pointed to the TV, asking no one in particular. “Man, dat Mickey Mantle can hit dat ball sooo hard . . . !”

Daddy and my stepmother, Gloria, were raising my brother Ruben. Yes, I was a bit jealous. Although Daddy spoke both languages to me, I never became as fluent in Spanish as my brother had. I understood the language more than I could speak it.

Daddy enjoyed many hobbies. He knew his fruits and vegetables, having worked on his father’s land in his prime. He loved gardening and showing off his avocado and gandules (pigeon peas) plants that he had planted himself, just as much as he loved chewing and sucking the juice from raw sugar canes.

Although Gloria hardly spoke English, we managed to communicate well enough. She treated me like her own child, showering me with loud smooches and tight squeezes. When she talked to me in Spanish, I responded to her in English and my broken Spanish. In the mornings, she’d asked if I wanted “Con Fley” because she knew I liked cereal, and then asked if I wanted her to fix me a huevo frito, too. She was such a great cook; we all loved her comida. Seeing her work in the kitchen, preparing mouth-watering delicacies, was a common sight. Meals were her priority. She often cooked wearing rollers under a hairnet, sometimes in a floral house dress, and always chanclas on her feet.

Back then, feathered friends scurried about in the backyard, and a number of them were nesting on eggs. I liked feeding the ducks and watching them swim in the pond. Not so much with the chickens, though, I knew they were for consumption. But I couldn’t keep from watching in agony whenever Gloria ran after one, caught it, and then wrung the poor creature’s neck. It gave me the creeps. Then I’d stay clear of the messy job of plucking feathers. Gloria also chose whatever Daddy planted in the yard to complement any of her flavorful traditional entrées, whether her arroz con pollo (rice and chicken), arroz con gandules (rice and pigeon peas), or pernil (roasted pork). Each dish was first sautéed in sofrito (a mixture of bell peppers, garlic, onions, and capers blended into a paste) in a deep caldero. The aroma alone made your mouth water. Gloria served side dishes of fried sweet plantains, large Florida avocados, simmering red beans with new potatoes, and always with a big pot of yellow rice.

One Sunday, after a tasty meal of chicken stew, we drank café con leche, a strong espresso made with hot milk and sugar.

“Mary, did you like Mami’s pollo guisado?” Daddy asked, sipping from his cup.

“¡Si!” I answered, practicing my Spanish. “Muy bueno.”

“Oh, yeah? You wanna know somteen’?” Daddy’s eyes twinkled.

“¿Que?” I asked, blowing on my cafesito, too hot to drink.

“Dat’s no chicken you ate . . . dat was un pato.”

A duck? I stared at Daddy, and then at Gloria, then at the leftovers in the pot. I didn’t feel so good. My stomach felt queasy. I raced to the bathroom without a moment to spare when my entire lunch came up.

Gloria helped wipe my face in the bathroom and pleaded, “Ay, Marí. Perdóname.”

I knew she felt terrible about what happened. But when I looked out the window, I couldn’t quit thinking about how I fed those cute, adorable ducks. And I had eaten one!

With no hard feelings toward anyone about the duck incident, I enjoyed being at Daddy’s house and forgetting my troubles back home with Mama. I noticed the way Gloria fussed and cleaned house; the same way she enjoyed cooking: fast, thoroughly, and con mucho gusto. She didn’t like dirt. She had every chair in the house, even the couch, covered with plastic! When it was time to clean the bathroom, she poured a bucket filled with soapy water on the floor, walls, and tub, scrubbing, mopping, and drying until everything was squeaky clean. She never relaxed until the evening when one of her novellas came on TV. Daddy and Gloria were affectionate and called each other pet names. Because Daddy’s skin was brown, Gloria called him, “Negro.” While many knew my stepmother as “Pita,” Daddy called her his “Mamita.”

Seeing their love in action made me smile. Although Gloria didn’t speak English, her hugs and warmth said more than the words of my own mother.

And she could cook.

Gloria making her famous pasteles.

13 Comments

November 14, 2013 · 9:15 PM

November 2, 2013 · 2:47 PM

She’s Not Tough, She’s Tenacious

At my grandparents’ home, weekends were our shopping days at Pantry Pride. Grandma pulled her two-wheel cart behind her, and Grandpa and I carried the rest of the groceries, chitchatting along the way.

“You know, young lady,” Grandpa said, “You’re going to have long legs when you grow up.”

“Are they going to be as long as yours, Grandpa?” I asked, trying to keep in stride.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will they be as long as Grandma’s?”

“Well, I’ll say there’s a good chance.”

“What about Mama’s?”

“Yep. I think they’re going to be longer than your mothers are.”

“Then I’ll be taller than her.” I skipped along thinking about it.

“Yes, yes, I think you’re right,” Grandpa chuckled.

We couldn’t walk at a fast pace on account of Grandma’s bad feet.

But one morning, we left for church later than usual. Grandma insisted that Grandpa and I run on ahead to stop the bus when we saw one. We took a shortcut along the sides of the railroad tracks. Trotting over the loose gravel became tricky, but we hurried on, determined to catch that bus.

“Papa,” cried a small voice. We didn’t hear that first call. The cry came again, followed by a moan. When we turned, we never imagined seeing Grandma lying facedown over pebbles and rocks. Grandpa moved with surprising agility and helped her sit up.

Grandma’s forehead bled from the fall. I cowered at the sight of so much blood. I felt sorry for her and helpless. Why couldn’t I have stayed close and given her my arm to hold onto?

Together, we walked back to the house. When we arrived, Grandma limped into the bathroom, and Grandpa helped her clean her face with a washcloth. To our surprise, she then insisted that we go back out.

“We are goin’ to church even if we are late,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to at least change your blouse?” Grandpa asked.

“¡No señor!” Grandma said with finality. “I’m goin’ just as I am.”

(Excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace )

3 Comments

Filed under family, Tenacious

Tagged as fall, Family, Grandma, memoir, rambling, tenacity

October 12, 2013 · 6:32 PM

She’s My Mama

Mama lives alone. She enjoys a contented life. She loves playing Bingo and the group outings on the Metro-Lift with Charles, her traveling companion. They attend church together. Mama has a provider who cleans, cooks, and provides assistance. I have reached a point where I can let go and allow her to live her own life. While Mama has learned not to rely upon me as heavily as before, she knows I will be there whenever needed.

This past week, we celebrated Mama’s 79th birthday at an Italian restaurant. She doesn’t like her pictures taken and has always been shy in front of the camera. Rest assured, she enjoyed her day, having no problem dining out and opening gifts.

Initially, when I shared with Mama that I was writing my memoirs, she laughed and squealed, “Mary, what kind of book is that going to be?”

I chuckled, answering, “Stranger than fiction, of course.”

Later, with a more serious tone, Mama asked, “So, you’re going to blame me for everything that has happened?”

While our relationship and communication continue to require work, I assured her that I don’t blame her for all the bad.

Let me be clear: I do not hate Mama. I NEVER hated Mama. I hated her behavior. I resented everything and everyone that took her away from me as a child! Though my mind may still remember the neglect, I realize that nothing I did or did not do could have changed her then. Or now. I can only change myself and aim to become better.

Several years ago, someone recommended Irregular People, by Joyce Landorf, which helped me tremendously. Nearly everyone has a difficult or “irregular” person in his or her life. They can be emotionally tone-deaf and not really hear you. They may be emotionally blind and not see you. They may even have a speech impediment and struggle to express themselves adequately to you. You cannot please that person; you cannot change them, no matter how much you wish to.

I can be at peace and know that the way Mama—or anyone else—chooses to live their lives isn’t a reflection of me.

Yes, writing is therapeutic, but if I can show just one person that they are not alone in their struggles, then I have done something good. Through it all, one can have purpose and meaning and overcome.

In the dynamic of things, I felt Mama did her best.

As we all try to do.