Daddy Issues…
One Life to Live…
“Hi world my name is Nova, and I… am a Nomad.“
And the world says… “HI NOVA!!!”
HOME was Queens, the big house with the front yard, the side yard, the back yard and the detached garage. The 3 family house with the basement converted into an apartment for extra income (making it 4 HAITIAN families living on the premises). I was born in Mary Immaculate Hospital in Jamaica Queens, New York. I had always planned to visit for some reason, to walk down the halls… never happened. They shut down in 2009. My mother was alone when I was born, my dad didn’t bother to come to the hospital. She named me Sammantha Carlyn, but apparently at some point between my birth, and her leaving the hospital my dad went in and changed it. So I’ve been dragging around a variation of his name as my first ever since… Carlyn.
My Dad left when I was 11, he married his mistress and started a new family. I saw him once when I was 12, he popped up at my school. I was heading for the bus and there he was… this man I had once loved more than anyone. He was smaller than I remembered. He’d lost weight and I was taller than him. He was with my God Father, a friend of the family… someone I hadn’t seen since we’d moved to Florida.
Hi face was shiny and his nose was split across the top like it had been broken recently and was healing. His shoulders were hunched forward. This wasn’t the man I remembered. He had a new family… I guess the old one didn’t matter to his new wife considering he was a married man with a family when she met him. However the new wife ‘got him’… my dad’s health was failing. The man I saw that day was broken. There were rumors of course… rumors that his new wife had ‘gotten’ him with Voodoo. Rumors that his health was failing because my mom had ‘gotten’ him with Voodoo… Rumors that the new wife’s method of ‘getting’ him was eating him alive… three different forms of ‘getting’… the end result the same I guess. He was gotten. See the thing about love spells is they ultimately destroy the object of your affection. People become obsessive, obsession leads to jealousy, jealousy breeds anger, anger births insecurity and insecurity makes people abusive.
I came out of class that day and made my way over to where the buses were parked. The students would line up waiting for them to load up. I usually met up with a friend of mine and we would ride the bus together… we lived in the same apartment complex… Pier Club. I was searching the crowd for her, not aware of anything but the sound of the school students… hundreds of kids milling about the parking lot getting picked up by their parents and being loaded onto buses… “Carlyn…” that voice… HIS voice, he never called me Sammantha. At first I froze, then I turned around and we looked at each other. I looked down at him, and he looked up at me.
My God Father hugged me, I loved that man smh but I barely noticed him. My dad and I just eyed each other for what felt like an eternity then he asked, “You don’t remember your father?” and I… just looked at him. My God Father was speaking to me… from the corner of my eye I could see his lips moving but didn’t hear anything. It was like all of the light in the world had gone out and all I could see or hear was my Dad. A thousand things raced through my brain, how much I’d missed him. How much I loved him. How lost I was when he left the family, how hard things were since he left my mom, how different my sister was since he left her, how hurt I was because he left… me.
“You’re getting big.” He said while reaching into his pocket. He tried to hand me some money. “Here take this” and I looked at him. He waved the money at me and I just looked at him. There were so many things I wanted to say to him. So many questions I wanted to ask. I’d worried I’d never see him again. I had dreamed of happy reunions, dreamed of hugs… dreamed of kisses. I needed to hear him say “I love you”, I just wanted my dad… like any little girl. What I got was a stooped shouldered shadow of the man I loved, waving money at me… a stranger. A little more than a year had passed since he left and I realized something. That was all I would ever get from him, and so I answered the only way I knew how, “I don’t want your money.” Like all little girls, all I wanted was my dad.
He looked at me kind of shocked; I looked at him kind of amazed. He put his money away and I stepped away from him. He looked at me… I looked at him, and then I turned and walked away. I walked away from the father I remembered. I walked away from the dad I imagined. I walked away from the dream dad I invented. I walked away from the only father I had ever known… AND HE LET ME. That was the last time I ever saw him.
I got on the school bus, sat in the back by myself… silent. I taught myself something that day. If I sit very still, and stare at one object… take very shallow breaths and think about nothing… just focus on thinking about NOTHING… I can bear any pain. It becomes a part of me… deep… persistent. I learned if I sit very still and very quiet I don’t cry… I can bear it.
When I got home I made dinner for my mom and sister as usual. I didn’t eat though, I had no appetite. When they got home I told them what had happened. My sister didn’t have much to say other than, “Of course he would come to see YOU. He just wants something.” My mom ranted and raved about how he had come to kidnap me, and how glad she was that I didn’t take his money. That was the first time I got sick. I spent the next three days home throwing up with a headache and fever. I’ve gotten sick when extremely upset ever since.
I guess I’ve come to realize a few things. My Dad is the reason I love my loves for themselves and not for what they can ‘do’ for me. My mom is the reason I assumed all men were grimy for so many years. My Dad is the reason I NEED for my loves to NOT walk away, to STAY… with ME. He’s the reason I need my loves to WANT me to stay… to NEED me to STAY. My mom taught me to rely on myself… because no one ever does.
I loved my father. He was amazingly flawed, and beautiful. He taught me to respect someone who works with their hands… he taught me to analyze everything… see he was all about ‘the con’… all about ‘business’. As a result I’m all about ‘understanding’… all about ‘business’. I was angry at him for so long I had forgotten how much he was some of the best parts of me.
I spent years afraid to speak his name or acknowledge him in any way that wasn’t insulting. My mom, sister and I took to referring to him as ‘Doo Doo Head’… all the time… in public and everything smh it reached the point we didn’t even realize we were doing it until people looked at us funny. My sister destroyed every picture of him in the house from every album except MY ALBUM. I used to hide it… it was mine, given to me by my mom to do with what I wanted. I had my own personal stash of pictures of him… OUR pictures… things like my first communion, Christmases, Birthdays… etc… my last and only connection to him. One day when I was missing him terribly I opened that Album… and he was gone. Each photo where he had been was carefully destroyed… his face cut out of every single one. Devastated I ran to my mom and confronted my sister. They both laughed… it was extremely funny.
My mom was curious as to why I was keeping pictures of him anyway. That day I figured something out. If I was anything but derogatory… or insulting when it came to my dad… my mom took it as a betrayal. So I stopped speaking about him at all. I only chimed in on the insulting stuff… ‘Doo Doo Head’ and all that, oh I was still very much angry with him but I never stopped loving him. I still believe Karma took a big bite out of his azz for the grimy things he did… but still… I never stopped living him, but growing up in that house… survival meant I had to pretend that I had. With every move I hoped he would pop up… with those hugs and kisses. Never happened…
Just so you understand… these are the moves…
February 1979 – June 1987
- 3 Family House Hollis Queens to Mom’s cousin – Miami, FL
June 1987 – November 1987
- Mom’s cousin – Miami, FL to Embassy Blvd – Miramar, FL
November 1987 – June 1989
- Embassy Blvd – Miramar, FL to Mom’s sister – Miami, FL
June 1989 – September 1990
- Mom’s sister – Miami, FL to Pier Club – Ft. Lauderdale, FL
September 1990 – May 1991
- Pier Club – Ft. Lauderdale, FL to St Charles Place – Ft. Lauderdale, FL
May 1991 – June 1992
- St Charles Place – Ft. Lauderdale, FL to Dyckman St. Housing Projects – New York, NY
June 1992 – September 1994
- Dyckman St. Housing Projects – New York, NY to Vermilyea Ave – New York, NY
September 1994 – August 1995
- Vermilyea Ave – New York, NY to Fox Meadows – Maple Shade, NJ
August 1995 – August 1996
- Fox Meadows – Maple Shade, NJ to Bishop Terrace – Stratford, NJ
August 1996 – December 1998
- Bishop Terrace – Stratford, NJ to Sister’s – Philadelphia, PA
December 1998 – April 1999
- Sister’s – Philadelphia, PA to Vine St (on my own) – Philadelphia, PA
April 1999 – February 2001
- Vine St. – Philadelphia, PA to Ludlow St – Philadelphia, PA
February 2001 – April 2001
- Ludlow St – Philadelphia, PA to B’s Mom’s – Brooklyn, NY
April 2001 – March 2002
- B’s Mom’s – Brooklyn, NY to Jefferson Ave – Brooklyn, NY (me B)
March 2002 – July 2004
- Jefferson Ave – Brooklyn, NY to 150th & Broadway (just me) – New York, NY
July 2004 – August 2006
- 150th & Broadway – New York, NY to B’s House Macon St – Brooklyn, NY
August 2006 – October 2007
- B’s House Macon St – Brooklyn, NY to Warner Ave – Jersey City, NJ (me and B)
October 2007 – March 2009
- Warner Ave – Jersey City, NJ to Clerk St. – Jersey City, NJ (just me)
March 2009 – August 2011
- Clerk St. – Jersey City, NJ to Claremont Ave – Jersey City, NJ
August 2011 – December 2013
- Claremont Ave – Jersey City, NJ to well… figuring it out as we speak.
This move in December is going to be my 10th move as an adult… meaning a move by my own choice and not because my family is dragging me around all over the place. So I need for it to matter… it matters to me. I’ve spent so many years planning for a family that has not and may not ever happen. I’ve spent too many years trying to make the family I have feel like the family I want. This move is for me… it’s for myself… no more… no less. For the first time in my life I’m embracing that expression… “It’s all about me…” and while I’m not entirely comfortable with that. I’m working toward a home that I want, with no room for anyone but me… the cat… and the dog.
I’ve started at the bottom and I’m still working my way up. I’ve worn so many different hats that multitasking has become a second skin. Pick any 5 year span of my life and realize I’ve started over more times in that single 5 year span than most people do in their entire lives. So no… I can’t compare myself to any other woman. There will always someone ha has better, who does better, and who is probably just BETTER. I can’t help that, I do the best that I can. I’m the best I can be… a constant work in progress. I had both of my parents in their own way… and yet… I grew up feeling like an orphan.
We only get one life, one opportunity to live it to the fullest. I want my existence to be relevant. I need to matter to do things in this world that matter. So I’ve decided to put going back to school for the life-coaching on hold. I have wayyyyy too many issues. I need to work more on myself. As much as I’d love to help other people… I have to admit these days I can barely help myself.
I’m definitely a work in progress. I need to be a better person.
I need to be a better woman. Not for anyone else. Just for me.
Yes… I’m selfish that way.
– NovaCSA
Dancing in the Rain…
When we lived in Florida (Hurricane central) the thunderstorms were brutal… heavy rain… heavy lightening… and I would always ended up outside during the craziest storms. My mom thought I was nuts and I was ALWAYS in trouble for it. One weekend we went to an Indian reservation (still in Florida I think it was the Seminole Tribe) an old toothless woman took one look at me over a barrel of jewelry pointed her finger in my face and said “Oh child… you… (wagging her finger in my face) YOU are a Rain Walker!”
Where the love affair began: when we lived in Queens (where I was born)… my sister left me alone with them one summer… with my parents. It was one of those odd times between relatives staying with us. I’m not sure how old I was… I just know it was sometime after 5 and before 9 years of age. I spent that summer alone… bored and entertaining myself. I had imaginary friends… Dukes of Hazard and Woody Woodpecker were my favorite shows (Woody was my first husband by the way lol) and I explored our yards… front… back and side.
She was spending the summer at a friend’s older sister’s house (and her husband). Thinking on it now that in and of itself was odd… considering my mom never let us go ANYWHERE, but she didn’t mind these visits… it wasn’t the first time my sister went. Someplace deep in Spring Valley (Upstate New York)… Someplace far away from my parents… someplace far away from me. You see back in those days we didn’t get along my sister and I… AT ALL. She didn’t get along well with my dad either… which I think is the real reason my mother agreed to these extended visits. I think she wanted some peace in the house even if it was only for a little while… and those two? My dad and my sister? They fought and fought and fought like cats and dogs… my sister and I fought and fought and fought… like wild animals… smh you would think the world was coming to an end.
So picture this… my dad was low key (very). He was rarely home… he just made it a point to make it in time for dinner. My mom would lock herself in her room all day and read… and read… and read… I believe this is where my affection for books started… standing quietly in the doorway of my parent’s bedroom watching ‘the most beautiful woman in the world’ (because that’s what moms are to their children) sitting up in bed… glasses perched on the edge of her nose… reading a book. So I entertained myself. These were the days prior to cell phones… the internet… and Facebook. My source for all things fun and adventurous was… wait for it… GOING OUTSIDE!!! Ha! Imagine that. I did EVERYTHING… I would sneak around the block… into neighbors yards… pet peoples dogs… play with strays… climb trees… climb the rain gutters onto the roof… dig up worms… make mud pies… ride my bike… play hop scotch… jump rope… fight with the neighborhood boys…sit on the front steps… watch cartoons (Silver Spoons, Punkie Brewster oh the list goes on and on) climb in and out of the side window… harass the other people who lived in the house (it was a three family home) … pretty much anything I could think of… anything that I could DREAM of. I was a GOONIE! Fearless and curious… and mischievous and FUN. The template for all children… at least back then.
The rain started one sunny afternoon… we had a stretch of more than a week of weather of 90 degrees. I remember the grass was beginning to scorch and the branches of ‘Mr. Magick Tree’ (also known as the huge tree at the side of the house) were turning hard and brittle… most unsuitable for climbing. I was tying a rope to a high branch on the tree… I had an idea… I was making a swing. Lord was I excited… funny what excites a little mind. I remember clearly looking upward, standing on my tippy toes reaching high above me trying to tie a knot… and the rain started… catching me right in the eyes. The heavens opened up and God let loose on the summer. There hadn’t been any reports of rain and when the sudden storm started the sun was still shining. Those are the weirdest… heavy rain in sunshine and no clouds.
My little foot slipped as I tried to wipe the water from my eyes. I hugged the tree trunk close while I looked out over our neighborhood; the house across the street had been painted white the day before… from yellow to a bright white. I was fascinated. All of my adventures were technically on my block… I would go all the way around from one end… to the other. I hadn’t graduated to crossing the street yet. I was still afraid of the cars… big zooming monsters that could smash my little self like a bug. I would make my way over there… eventually.
I listened to an unseen dog barking in the distance and sighed… the day was a bust… time to go in and watch TV. So I shimmied my way down the tree trunk being extra careful as the rain made everything slick and hard to grasp. I was reckless lol but I didn’t want to fall out of that tree (I wasn’t supposed to be in… in the first place) and wind up having my mom beat my azz. The climb felt like it took forever… I only realized I was holding my breath when my feet touched the ground. As I steadied myself I looked up at the tree… the rope/unfinished swing and sighed… now this was a storm. As I turned to head back into the house the thunder started.
It rained like that for 2 weeks. I remember going mad cooped up in the house, my mother refused to let me play outside “Its RAINING!!! YOU ARE NOT GOING OUT THERE TO GET SICK!!” she would screech at the top of her lungs as only a mother can lol. That felt like the longest 2 weeks of my little life. The sky had darkened to a perpetual dark gunmetal grey… the sun was nowhere to be found. Some days thunder and lightning… other days just thunder… other days just lightning… but most days… just heavy rain.
We were all going stir crazy. My dad had started coming home earlier due to the weather… and this annoyed my mom to no end. I remember how her lips would pucker and she would look at the clock grumbling under her breath when he started that lol. On this one day in particular he walked into the house glassy eyed… (who am I kidding he looked a lil crazy… just a lil bit lol) and demanded to know where dinner was. This of course irritated my mom… as he was interrupting her reading… something I WAS NEVER ALLOWED TO DO. So we sat down to dinner… early.
“Where is your bathing suit?” my dad asked me around a mouth full of food. “In my room Papi,” I answered hesitantly… with my dad you could never be sure if it was a trick question or not. “Go put it on” he said around a new mouthful of food. I looked over at my mom; she just shrugged and rolled her eyes. So I got up and walked out of the kitchen… “You too…” I heard him say to my mom as I raced to my room… we never kept my dad waiting. When I emerged from my room a few minutes later my mom was waiting for me by the back door… in her bathing suit… with a shower cap on her head. “Come here.” She said opening a fresh package as I made my way over to her. She placed a brand new shower cap on my head just as my dad came out of their bedroom… wearing swim trunks.
My dad went into the bathroom and came back out carrying towels and 2 bars of soap. “Papi? What are you doing?” I asked him shyly… that’s how I talked to my dad… shyly… very quietly kind of like you would to a wild animal you were concerned about spooking. My dad was easily spooked and turned mean whenever he was. He started laughing and dancing in place “We are going to take a bath in the rain!” He announced while opening the back door. I looked up at my mom who was standing right beside me… again she shrugged and just rolled her eyes… but as I realized I would be OUTSIDE!!!! In the RAIN! I was suddenly excited… and in the ways of children my body vibrated with it and I smiled… and smiled… and smiled.
So we went single file down the steps toward the door that lead outside… and my dad placed the towels on the bottom step, handed a bar of soap to my mom and broke the other one in half handing me the smaller piece. “Ready?” he asked and as I nodded excitedly he threw open the back door and began his crazy laugh that always made me giggle,”Ha … ha… ha… hiiii! Ha… ha… ha… hi!” smh thinking back on it now I believe that man was one crayon short of a whole set. We stood there briefly looking out into the storm.
It was mid-day… dark… overcast… warm with high winds and we scattered. My dad went left my mom and I went right. I ran around the yard happily… so excited to finally be back outside. I slid in the grass… rolled around… belly flopped into puddles… the works. Then I looked for my parents. Both of them were standing under rain gutters at opposite ends of the yard, soap in hand… just washing away. So I looked for another gutter… this one was tucked close to ‘Mr. Magick Tree’ and I stood under the deluge. The water was cold… relentless and took my little breath away.
I took that bar of soap and began scrubbing… I watched as the mud, leaves and grass fell away from my little body. I jumped up and down… I broke out into song… I was HAPPY. In the midst of that happiness I looked out at our neighborhood wondering if we were being watched (and not caring in the way children don’t lol). I stood under that cold spray and breathed in the rain… this felt right… like coming home. I bent at the waist and looked for my parents… both still immersed in their own private waterfall… that’s what it felt like… our private storm… and our private waterfalls.
This is my most cherished memory of my parents together. They weren’t warm and fuzzy together… to be honest they barely got along… but on THIS day… we did something together… something FUN. With no arguments… no yelling… no walking on egg shells… and most importantly ME not getting SMACKED IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD (as dear old dad was want to do). This is something I know I want to do with my future children… play in the rain… as a family. To wrap them in my love… wrap them in God’s love and wrap them in the love of their other parent. That’s what rain has always been for me… a physical manifestation of God’s love. *shrugs* (yes I know I’m a weirdo lol)
That was the first time… or the first memory I have of feeling a complete and perfect peace. Rain still does that for me… till this day I will go sit out on the back steps during a rain storm… sometimes with a glass of wine… sometimes something else ;-). Sometimes I go for a walk… most times Ely is with me… some not. Feels like a communion… practically the only times I feel like God is speaking directly to my spirit. I’ve laughed in the rain… cryed in the rain… kissed in the rain… danced in the rain… and I’ve loved every minute of it.
– Nova
Kitchen Fire…
They say “if you play with fire you get burned.” I was never one to follow someone’s advice just because they were giving it, even as a little girl. So here’s the thing… this recollection falls somewhere between the ages of 5, 6 or 7. I was curious… had just mastered the art of ‘Eggs a la Jack’… my very own recipe for scrambled eggs (the first thing I ever learned to make)… of course looking back on it now the recipe was pretty much as follows:
Salt
Black Pepper
Eggs
Butter
Burn it
Short and sweet. No? Lol, well… what do you want… I was 5! My mom had this HUGE empty white paint bucket I used to stand on. I would Cha Cha my hips standing on that thing and swing that spatula with the best of them… all while burning the hell out of those eggs. These were the days BEFORE smoke detectors. You bet your azz I would eat them though… BECAUSE I made them … of course as time went on my palate became a bit more refined… and runny charred eggs lost their appeal.
Now to get back on topic, I had a… not so little… fascination… with fire (hot and pretty) and I thought knives were beautiful (shiny and sharp). Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t a baby serial killer in training or anything. I just liked looking at these things, and sometimes handling them. Never to hurt myself or someone else… just to… you know… play with (and yes that is exactly how Baby Nova thought of it). My adult self cringes to think of the damage I could have done…but hey… God protects Babies, and Fools right? Did I mention that after I learned to walk whenever my sister and I would play Hide and Seek I’d climb into the stove to hide? Yes, you read the right… THE STOVE! We had one with a glass door, and I’d lay face down with my fingers curled around the grate, my feet touching the back of the stove and watch people walk around in the kitchen, and giggle. My mother says whenever someone looking for me would ask “where is she?” she’d hear those giggles. Till this day my mother is paranoid about turning the stove on without checking first. Yup… God protects babies and fools.
So on this particular sunny day my Grandmother and sister were in the living room watching The Muppet Show. I found myself in the kitchen alone and bored… (Hear that? It’s the movie background going dun… dun… dun… duuuunnn!) Lmao sorry I just fell into fits of giggles. To explain… anyone who knows me… knows a Bored Nova is a Dangerous Nova. I mean well but… damn if I don’t always get myself into trouble! Ok back to the story. I decided I wanted to burn spaghetti, don’t ask me why but that was one of my favorite things to do in the kitchen. I used to climb the counter, grab the box of pasta, climb down and turn all of the stoves gas burners on. I’d then take out handfuls of pasta and set them one at a time on the stove… with the ends in the flame. (I know I know). I found it fascinating the way the shaft of that pasta went up in flames; kind of like the way stick incense burns.
Well my faithful pastime of burning pasta wasn’t enough so I decided playing with one of the kitchen knives a bit (mothers… watch your kids!) would keep me occupied. I pulled out one of our kitchen chairs. You know those old sets with the thick hard vinyl and the metal feet. I dragged the chair to the entrance of the kitchen so I could stand at the door to hear if anyone was coming, and I took the tip of this knife and started poking holes into the vinyl. Poke… poke… poke… into the chair’s backrest and seat cushion (I’d done this before) but on this particular day… I poked into other holes I’d poked before and made them bigger. The holes in the seat cushion began to split open… the stuffing was showing. This was an interesting change of pace… so I poked some more… and before I knew it there was a nice sized hole in the middle of the seat of the chair. “Hmmmm….” I used the knife to pull some of the stuffing out.
Bright Idea!!!! I ran over the sink, dumped the knife and pulled out some more pasta. Once I got a nice burn going on a few pieces… I walked over to the chair and set the stuffing on fire. I repeated this several times with several different results. I watched the vinyl bubble then char. I watched the stuffing blacken then melt… then out of nowhere the whole thing pretty much went up in flames. WHOOSH! Picture my little self standing in front of a smoking chair with flames shooting up taller than her head, holding a piece of burning spaghetti between her fingertips. Hmmm… my mother raised no fools… after the initial panic I ran over to the sink, dumped the pasta, grabbed a cup and filled it with water. I then ran back to the flaming chair and reached in quickly to pour the water directly onto the seat.
Just like that the flames were out. I breathed a sigh of relief… then I heard my Grandmother calling my name… and worse heading toward the kitchen! I ran to the counter, grabbed the cutting board, covered the burned seat and quickly sat on it. Just at that moment my Grandmother entered the kitchen sniffing the air suspiciously. “What are you doing?” She asked me in Creole. I swung my little legs back and forth on the chair “nothing…” I answered her in my sweetest sing song of English. I then watched as she started inspecting the kitchen, opening this, closing that, looking in the trash, gazing into the sink frowning at the burned pasta while shaking her head and mumbling under her breath about ‘Crazy American Babies’ (my sister and I were first generation Americans in the family by the way). She cleaned out the sink then turned to me with what I could tell was a ready lecture (we’d been down this road before). I just sat there swinging my legs silent (which was probably a dead giveaway since I argued with this woman about everything)
“What are you hiding?” she asked. “Nothing! I didn’t do nothing!” I quickly answered. She gazed at me intently… now I’d probably say that look was appraising. “Get up.” She said finally stalking over to me. “Why?” I cried with alarm as she grabbed my arm and pulled me up. We stood side by side looking down at the cutting board. She eyed it… eyed me… then shook her head again mumbling about Crazy American Babies. “I’ll put it back!” I said when she reached for it. “Mmm hmm…” she said standing up straight and eyeing me. She shrugged her shoulders and made to walk toward the sink… just as I sagged with relief… she reached past me and picked up the cutting board… then paused. She looked down at the blackened chair seat (that was now wet) and up at me. Back down… then back up. That was all she wrote. “Thalia!” She called my sister and told her to go get the belt (obviously this was before I’d trashed them all) My sister came in the kitchen to see what was going on, looked down at the chair open mouthed, looked back up at me, back down… then back up. Finally shaking her head she left the kitchen… presumably to see what the Muppets were up to.
I’ll keep it simple… my Grandmother gave me a spanking… a well deserved spanking. I shudder to think what I’d do to my kids… So I ended up sitting on the floor in my room alone watching TV till my parents came home. My dad arrived first. I ran to greet him as usual, then returned to my room. After a few minute I heard voices in my parent’s room. My dad sounded angry. My sister was in the room arguing with him (she was 11 or 12 by the way). The door opened and my Grandmother rushed into the room and grabbed my hand. She pulled me up and dragged me to the kitchen. Surprised at first I just followed… confused I started to ask her what was going on but she just put her hand over my mouth and shook her head. She opened one of the lower kitchen cabinet doors and pushed me inside… kinda… stuffed me into it.
I heard my dad marching through the house calling my name, he was looking for me. My Grandmother stood in front of the cabinet door saying nothing. When he finally came into the kitchen demanding to know where I was I looked through the crack in the door and saw he had a belt in his hand. My sister ran up to join my Grandmother in front of the cabinet. Then the fighting started. My Grandmother quietly told him to calm down and put the belt away, she’d already given me a spanking. He told her to shut up, it was his house and he was gonna give me a beating. (Note the difference between the two… spanking… beating… trust me… they are NOT the same) My sister chimed in with “she’s already got spanking Papi; Grandma already gave her a spanking!”
Through the crack in the cabinet I looked at my father’s face. He was a light skinned black man… but in that moment he was kind of… I don’t know… purple maybe? Belt in hand of course. I think it was then as I looked at him he realized I was inside the cabinet… “Get out of the way!” he shouted, grabbing my sister and pushing her aside, but when he turned to my Grandmother. She looked down at him (yes down because he was a short man) and said very precisely. “You are not going to hit this child. I am not moving.” Color me surprised… there was no love lost between me and this woman mainly because she would tell us that we weren’t her ‘real’ grand children… her ‘real grand children’ were back in Haiti… and she missed them. Believe me this story right here is one of my few fond memories of her.
My dad stood toe to toe with her for a while, shouting in her face. (He couldn’t stand her) Calling her all manner of things… things I know today to be obscene… things a man should never say to a woman… let alone to his mother in law. He waved that belt under her nose. He told her to mind her own business… to get out of his way his way… to get out of his house. When he finally stopped his enraged tirade she just looked down her nose at him and said “I’m not moving.” Finally he screamed at her… “Fine… you’re going back to Haiti!” hopping up and down. She looked at him some more… (She hated him) then quietly said, “That will be tomorrow. I gladly go back to Haiti tomorrow. Today Carlo… you will not hit this child. I am not moving.” He finally stopped shouting… peered up at her, breathing heavily… then turned and walked out of the kitchen. A short while later we heard the front door slam. He’d left the house.
I’d watched this entire exchange through the crack of the cabinet door in my hiding place. I was still too young to be afraid. I hadn’t yet developed fear for my father… but I respected it when I saw it in others, and I knew my Grandmother was afraid. She stood there for a long while quiet. My sister nudged her out of the way and helped me out of the cabinet, and my Grandmother stood there quiet and trembling. I looked up at her and realized she was crying. I wrapped my little arms around her waist and said “Don’t cry Grandma… its OK.” My sister also wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged her. She stood in that kitchen crying for a long while. That’s how my mom found us when she finally got home. She walked into the kitchen, looked at the three of us hugging… tears streaming down my Grandmother’s face. She asked sharply, “What’s happened?” My Grandmother just looked at her and finally smiled for the first time in what felt like hours. “I’m going back to Haiti.”
True to her word she was gone in a couple of weeks.
– Nova
Jack of All Trades…
He was a cab driver, a mechanic, a restaurateur, owned his own store, a limo service, an import export business (and these are the jobs I actually know about), pretty much a Jack of All Trades and a Master of None… i.e… a con man. My dad was one of the original silver tongued devils. He’d come up with an idea (see above) and talk you and your next door neighbor into financing it. Did anyone ever make a profit… did they ever get their money back? Let’s just say most didn’t.
When he drove the cab he would take me out for drives in the back and we’d end up at some garage where he’d hang out with his buddies for what felt like hours… and hours. He’d look back at me and say “Get down” and I knew the drill… I’d have to lie down in the back of the cab so no one would see me until he’d completed his business. Some of those days were rainy days… I remember looking up at the ceiling of the cab humming something (anything) to pass the time, and on those rainy days I’d fall silent… awed by the sound of Mother Nature tapping on the window. Rain makes an awesome sound on the metal of cars… I think this is where my love of rainy days probably started. I could lay there for days wrapped up in the smell of gasoline and my simple imaginings… fall asleep enveloped in the low drumbeat of raindrops on the roof.
There were days he’d come home sweaty and smelling like motor oil… a hush would drop over the house every day when we heard his heavy footsteps in the hall… the house would fall silent. I remember running to meet him at the door “Papi!” there were days he’d acknowledge me, and there were days he wouldn’t, depending on his mood. I remember his dirty hands, blackened with motor oil underneath his fingernails. I know this is where my affection for someone who can work with their hands started. My mom would always have dinner ready… and we’d eat 3 home cooked meals virtually every day. Things like Wendy’s, McDonalds, Chinese food and pizza… well those… were treats.
We had a detached garage, so a key was required. We kept all manner of things in there… tools, furniture my bike… my sister’s. It was the weekend and on this particular sunny afternoon my sister and I went bike riding. We asked my mom for the key to the garage and set out looking for adventure. We rode around the block several times, amazing how back then no one thought or cared about safety. We rode on the side walk, in the street, without padding and without helmets. Rebels right? When we were tired of moving in circles and had updated ourselves on the ‘going ons’ of the neighborhood we headed home, put our bikes away and my sister locked up the garage. She went into my parent’s room and placed the key in my mom’s glass vanity tray on their dresser. We went about the business of burning through the rest of the hours in the day watching TV and doing our own thing.
I remember hearing the front door open, running to greet my dad at the front door. He ws tense… and had with him a KFC bag and a bucket of chicken… TREATS! My mom was in the kitchen making preparations’ to sit down to dinner. I’ll never forget my dad’s face when he said he needed to go to the garage… “Where is the key?” My sister looked at him and said “We went bike riding today. Its on your dresser.” My dad walked into the kitchen, sat down at the table and said very quietly, “Its not… find it.” She hurriedly went into their room to get the key, when she came back in a few moments later she stood in the doorway of the kitchen and nervously said, “Um it’s not there, I can’t find it.” My dad stood up and said “Find it or I’m going to beat you.” I looked from his face clouded over with barely suppressed anger and her face wide eyed with the first sparks of fear, and we went to search.
We tore the entire house apart. I went into the junk drawer in the kitchen and got out the flashlight. My mom was seated at the kitchen table chewing away at that fried chicken. My sister and I went outside in the dark together to retrace our steps. She asked me over and over again if I touched the key, did I move it. While I was apprehensive I wasn’t really worried because girl genius that I was… I had secretly disposed of all of the belts in the house. Yup… in the trash… weeks ago, my dad had been pulling up his pants for a while now. As we made our way back she stopped me before going into the house, “Ok, we can’t find it, if it’s out here we can’t find it till morning. You won’t get in trouble, you tell him.” I looked up at her, and bravely said, “Ok.”
He was standing in the dining room… in what appeared to be a full blown rage. “Where is it” he demanded pacing back and forth. “Papi, we can’t find it. Maybe it fell outside… we can find it when its daytime…” he stalked toward his bedroom (presumably on the hunt for one of those long gone belts) and I stood there with my sister, uncertain but not yet afraid. My mom sat there looking at us through the kitchen door… eating that fucking chicken. When he came back into the room he had a long brown extension cord in hand. My sister and I looked at each other, then we looked back at my mom, she just shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me you should put things back where you found them.” I was still uncertain but not yet afraid SMH, sadly though… I should have been afraid.
He wrapped the two ends around his fist… leaving the rest loose and called me… “Carlyn… come here.” Now what you must remember is while I was intimidated by my father I never really feared him. Up until this point in my life his spankings almost always consisted of those damn thick leather belts (not that silly light weight stuff people buy off of the street corner… real leather) or the hand slap. He used to tell me to put out my open palm and he would slap it as hard as he could, and lastly… the head slap. He’d wait until we were walking by and would slap the back of our heads… really hard (this was usually followed by some variation of “STUPID”). In that moment when he called me and I eyed the cord in his hand I felt the first real fear of this man of my short little life… but then calm washed over me… reason prevailed… ‘he’d never hit me with that’… I looked him in the eye and I walked up to him.
When I looked up at him, my little heart trying to thump out of my chest I looked for something… anything in his face that would tell me everything would be ok. He looked down at me… nostrils flaring… eyes dilated… a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip… and raised his fist. I could tell you I braced myself… or that I flinched or even that I was clear on what was coming, but I’d be lying. The first lick of that cord on my skin was white hot… I didn’t see stars… I didn’t black out… my vision turned white and all of the breath in my body released as I dropped to my knees and the world was perfect silence.
Everything moved in slow motion and then I heard it… the screaming… like an out of body experience I listened… curious… until I realized it was me… I was the one screaming. Seems like the second that was clear I was back inside of myself. My wrist was in his grip and with each rise and fall of that extension cord I was screaming “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… please Papi… please!” Thinking back on it clothing is a Godsend… every place that cord touched me was on fire.. ruby red welts would form and stick around for days to come… but those places where that cord touched my skin? On impact… shredded. Thin white strips appeared… agony… those would bleed later. I remember two in particular… the one on the back of my knee… and the one on the inside of my elbow… I can still see the outline of the faded scar today.
When he finally let me go I took off running. I ran to my mother (still sitting there eating that fucking chicken) she shrugged me off and said, “Get away from me.” I looked at her and climbed underneath the kitchen table, where I sat and cried. Then he called my sister, “Thalia, come here.” She stood in the doorway of the dining room and just looked at him for a minute, “Not if you’re going to hit me with that.” He stood up a little bit straighter… pulled up his pants and said “Come here.” She stood her ground and said, “Not if you’re going to hit me with that” then he reached for her and she took off running.
He chased her through the entire house, lashing out with that extenstion cord, by the time they made their way back to the kitchen one end of the cord was loose and he was flicking it out like a full blown whip. He caught her mostly on her legs… she was fast. She ran into the kitchen… where my mom was still eating that fucking chicken and dropped down to her knees next to my mom… wrapped her arms around my mother’s legs screaming, “Mommy please” we looked at each other… me crying under that kitchen table and my sister cowering at my mother’s feet. My mom put down the piece of chicken she was chewing as my dad ran into the kitchen, panting heavily. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and said “That’s enough.”
I cried for hours… the kind of tears that are silent and numb. My mom took us into the front room and started applying rubbing alcohol to the worst of our wounds, chiding us the whole time…chiding us, “Next time you’ll be more careful, next time you’ll put things back where you found them, next time you’ll be more careful”. I looked up at her… my little heart broken for the first time in my life, “Next time? Mommy next time I’m calling the police” (yeah I know but my 7 year old azz was as serious as you can be at 7). She looked at me… “Oh yeah… call them… see what happens…” and resumed her rubbing alcohol torture.
My sister and I shared a bedroom and went to bed wordless. I lay for hours with water just leaking out of my eyes… just leaking… like a faucet someone forgot to shut off. I cried myself to sleep that night for the first time ever. The next morning my sister and I were stiff and moving slowly, sudden movements caused the freshly scabbed wounds to split open again. We ate breakfast in silence. I sat in our room watching tv… rather looking at it but not really seeing anything. “Carlyn… come here.” I paused before I realized it was my sister calling. Slowly I picked myself up and followed the sound of her voice. She was standing in my parents room, at the dresser shaking. “Look.” She said as I hobbled over and stood next to her and there in my mom’s glass vanity tray… rested the key to the garage. We looked at each other… silent… what was there to say really?
Dance Lessons…
We had one of those ‘Living Rooms’… you know… the kind no one actually LIVES in. It was at the front of the house in Queens. I remember my mom only let us go in when we had company. Or at least that’s when we were ‘allowed’ to go in, so of course you know I was in there all the time. I was crafty… I had stealth. In this living room we had an old school stereo system. You know… when systems were actually SYSTEMS. Everything was encased in a glass cabinet with a lock on it (probably meant for yours truly) equalizers, cassette decks, huge speakers with wire that went on and on for miles and the crown jewel… the turn table.
I remember there were times my mom would play music in there, Haitian music, Spanish music, Country Music. She’d get all dressed up, perfumed down and sit or dance around in that living room. I asked her a few times “Mommy, where are you going” and she’d look down at me and say “Ohhhhhhh… I have to be going somewhere to look nice?” So I’d climb onto the forbidden sofa and placed both of my sweaty palms on the mirror (two of the walls were floor to ceiling mirrors). I’d blow hot breath so I could draw patterns onto it and watch her reflection dancing around behind me.
Now the living room in question was the ‘scene of the crime’ for many events in my young life. The earliest memory I have was of the all glass… two tiered coffee table. The one we ABSOLUTELY were not allowed to touch because we’d leave finger prints all over it. (Mostly me in that we), picture me almost out of diapers (2 maybe 3 years old) dressed in nothing but some white cotton panties (no idea why people let little naked babies run around) climbing on top of that coffee table and doing my first ever booty shake, shoot I thought I was a star. Of course there was the inevitable… crack… crash… bang… boom… and everyone came ‘a runnin’. I sat a bit stunned surrounded by glass bits… looked up at my mother (who was practically tearing her hair out by the way) my sister and my dad. “Hmmm maybe not again” was my only thought as I picked myself up, “Stay there! Stay there!” my mom screeched at me practically jumping up and down. Hind sight tells me she was probably afraid I’d be shredded and bloody. I on the other hand had no such notion, so I hopped my barefooted baby azz through the shards of glass and rubble then bounced out of the room completely unscathed before my mom could switch gears and start screaming at me. Not a scratch on me, and I think everyone was so relieved I was OK I didn’t even get in trouble. Hmm… who says God doesn’t protect Babies and Fools?
Next were those afternoons I would sneak in and watch ‘The Muppet Show’ on the big TV, and by big I mean one of those huge monsters that were built into an actual cabinet, speakers and everything. I’d watch and call my grandmother (my mother’s mother) anytime Miss Piggy was on the screen. One of my only fond memories of her (as I have exactly 3) in those moments we got along (we mostly didn’t). She thought I was headstrong and mischievous (which I was) and should be more like my nerdy complacent older sister (which I wouldn’t). I thought she was cold and not very ‘grandmotherly’ but… she loved her some Miss Piggy and THIS was common ground. She was amazed that food could walk, talk and wear lipstick on TV. She’d clap her hands and squeal like a little girl, sit down on the forbidden sofa and watch until that glamorous bit of swine was off of the screen.
We had functions in there, like my dad’s surprise birthday party, my first communion party, pretty much all of the parties, and believe me my mother loved throwing a full swing Haitian house party. Our Christmas tree was always set up in there. My dad would talk me into ripping open all of the presents so he could find out what they were, and I’d only ‘half’ get into trouble because my mom would know he put me up to it. I was in love with all things Christmas. My mom would leave the tree lights burning all night and I used to get out of bed and stare at the tree. We had a wooden mini bird in a birdhouse that chirped the night away and I’d get swept away by thoughts of Santa, Rudolph and Chip and Dale. I’d curl up underneath the tree and fall asleep surrounded by gifts…looking up at those lights. Every Christmas till puberty struck that’s how my mom would find me… every morning, until the tree went down.
Now to the best memory in that room PICTURE IT… there is music playing (something with a lot of bass and REAL instruments) the windows and shades are all open (never happens) sunshine drenching the room… ‘Mommy’s not home’ I thought to myself, ‘whose in the living room?’ So enter… the stealth… I tiptoed my way through the dining room, slowly peaked around the corner and assessed the situation (I was an avid Inspector Gadget watcher) there was my dad, alone, beltless, slacks drooping low, right hand on his ‘Santa belly’, wife beater, eyes closed, left hand raised like he was going to recite the Pledge of Allegiance swaying back and forth like leaves on a tree. “Papi! What are you doing?” I demanded stepping boldly into the room. “Ha ha ha hiiiii” (his signature crazy laugh smh) “I’m dancing” he announced then proceeded to do HIS version of MY Chi Chi dance. “Na Uh… that’s not dancing” I laughed my way over to him. “Let me show you something” he said placing both of my bare little feet on top of his, taking my hands in his. He then proceeded to shimmy around the room with me in what I’m guessing was his version of a waltz… yes… to something with a lot of bass and REAL instruments. I giggled the whole time looking up at him. He looked down at me, winked and said… “This… this is how you dance”.
Devil in the House…
Her name was Ann Breanette, my mom’s baby sister and the youngest of 7. The first time I heard her name was when my mom announced she was coming all the way from Haiti to come and live with us. I was 6 or 7. Having lived in a house where my mother’s parents were splitting their time between our home in Queens and Haiti, this was only special because it was my AUNT, ‘Ta Ti Breanette’. Someone new and fun! I mean, everyone knows aunts are fun? Right?
The day she arrived was a big production. My mom spent the week scrubbing everything down, preparing an area for her in the basement apartment in our house. I ran to the window… and the first glimpse I had of her as she exited my dad’s car was momentous. “She looks like Mommy.” She looked up at the house slowly and I would swear to you our eyes met. Hers assessing, mine curious. My dad lugged her bags in behind her as my mom ushered her into what was now to be her home. (A lil background, my mom spent a lot of time, money and effort bringing several of her family member to the States from Haiti… with the intention that they could start fresh and lead better lives, hmmm believe me… that’s another story.)
My dad put her suitcase down in the kitchen and my aunt quickly unzipped it as everyone spoke at once. She handed my mom a bag of mangos, my dad a bottle of Barbancourt (Haitian Rum). When my mother made the introduction, “This is Thalia,” my aunt rummaged through her bag again, ‘oohed and ahhed’ then handed my sister a pair of sandals, authentic hand braided sandals… straight from the island. When my mom made my introduction, she folded her hands in front of her and looked down at me for the first time. We looked each other in the eye and there you had it, two wild spirits instantly offended by the other. “Hi.” I said cautiously. She just continued to stare me down. “Give her a kiss” my mom scolded. I folded my hands in front of me and looked up at her. “Nothing for me?” I asked bluntly (as is the ways of opinionated children… and trust… I was MUCHO opinionated). Now to be clear for this part I need you to know she didn’t speak a lick of English her response in Creole, “You? Ha, I didn’t even know you existed.” Considering I was my dad’s favorite, and my grand parents lived with us half of the time… doubtful. I suppose there is someone, somewhere that will tell me it sounds harsher in translation. I don’t think so… but who knows (shrugs)? Either way… that was the beginning.
I was a Daddy’s Girl, he was short, and fat, a liar, mischievous, a user, a little crazy, had stinky feet … and I loved him. He was the kind of man to get his kids to do something he knew his wife wouldn’t let him do then feign ignorance if they got caught. He taught me different ways to lie, the planning of the prank… the art of the grudge… and the methodology of payback. Considering he was only around until I was 11… in hindsight I can say these were odd life lessons for a child. She was young and wanted to do her own thing, and my mom was a grown ass married woman with kids and was having none of that. My dad never gave her a hard time though. Needless to say ‘Ta Ti Breanette’ took an instant shine to my dad. She started dressing like my mom, wearing my mom’s clothes. Styling her hair like my mom, wearing her jewelery. They would drive around town together… go off on shopping trips together… honestly I don’t know what they did together… all I know is they weren’t home and I was either playing outside or inside terrorizing the tenants, (Dennis the Menace had NOTHING on ME). My aunt and I would get into awful knock down drag out fights. I let her know, “This is not your house, this is my house.” She beat my ass a time or two… but that last time… when it was for something as simple as me not hearing her when she called me… he put his foot down. “You have a problem you tell me. You don’t hit her. I’ll hit her.” So she started running to my dad to complain and he would laugh his head off at her, “She’s a little girl! You can’t control a little girl?!” Needless to say we were not friends. We didn’t speak, or acknowledge each other. If a little heart could have hatred in it for another human being then I truly hated that woman. Things went on this way for about a year and a half. In my youthful ignorance I realized my mom had some sort of falling out with her family. No one was visiting, no one called, very weird. One day out of the blue my dad announces “We are moving to Florida”, my sister was very upset, she didn’t want to change schools or leave her friends, I was won over when he whispered to me, “We can go to Disney world EVERY DAY”. Disney World? What child that grew up on Sesame Street, Electric Company, Loony tunes and Everything Disney… could resist that? I was all in. So the house went up for sale, people came to see it and then we were on our way. My mom stayed behind to settle things with the house. My dad, my aunt, my sister and I all moved in with some relatives of my mom’s that lived in Miami. We lived with them for a little over a year. Interestingly enough, my sister and I slept in the room with the girls Merlandi and Ruth while my dad shared a mattress on the living room floor with my aunt… YES… you read that correctly.
The relationship between my sister and my dad went from bad to worse, we hated it there, the kids hated having us there, and we were miserable. My mom was still in Queens finishing up with her job and finalizing the sale of the house. When she called us my dad would stand right in front of us while we spoke to her, hand on his belt, stance threatening, monitoring the conversation. I never really got why he looked so crazed and angry when we spoke to my mom, ahhh… the innocence of an 8 or 9 year (back THEN). So we bought a house. My dad went looking, and my mom was on her way. Embassy Blvd. Miramar Florida… 3 bedroom, 2 bath, ranch style house (as most are out there), circular driveway, 4 car garage converted into a Den off of the kitchen, living room, dining room, a full size patio and pool and Lily… our parakeet that lived in a cage that was built in to the patio wall by the pool. (She didn’t talk but she was lovely). I of course was in heaven, spent every day of that particular summer in the pool. Sadly that was the year my mom decided to give me a jerry curl too. Between that mess on my head and the ignorance of sun block I became a rich dark chocolate color, man… do pics from THOSE days tell a story smh.
So now Mom is on premises. She works, he works, blah blah blah. Time passes in the way of children… as ‘who knows’ (shrugs). My aunt’s room was the Den. My sister, aunt and I shared a bathroom, our bedrooms in the front of the house. My parent’s room was toward the back of the house; their bathroom had another door that led out to the pool. (All of this becomes important later). So my aunt Elizabeth had a baby boy… and wanted my sister to be the God Mother… a big deal in traditional families. A TRIP!!! So my mom and sister pack their bags and go off on a 2 week trip back to Brooklyn. Leaving me (don’t ask me why) with THEM. Now let me explain to you how this went down. Mom and Tia (what I’ve always called my sister) left and the house was a ghost town. My Dad had the only car in the household, my aunt didn’t drive, and our house was nowhere near any form of public transportation. Everyday I’d get up (9 or 10 years old) and the house was a ghost town. I’d go check my parent’s room… nothing. I’d go check my sister’s room… nothing. I’d go check my aunt’s room… Locked (nothing odd about that though… she always kept it locked), “Nobody’s home.” I would make myself breakfast… usually something wildly inappropriate. I’d make myself lunch… probably something else inappropriate… dinner… need I say more? Now that first day I alternated between watching TV in my parents room (a forbidden pleasure) and swimming in the pool. On my way back from the kitchen with an unsuitable snack I noticed a car was parked outside, I ran to the window and saw it was my dad’s car. “He’s home.” So I checked the entire house again… Nothing… and my aunt’s door was locked. This went on for the WHOLE 2 weeks. I never set eyes on either of them. When my mom would call and ask for either of them I would say “I don’t know where they are.” Hmmm she didn’t seem worried so why should I? They came home and everything was business as usual.
I remember the day she ‘slipped and fell’ in the bathtub. There was a lot of banging, a lot of screaming and then the ambulance. A few days later after school I played hopscotch in the hospital corridor waiting for my mom to finish signing some paperwork before we could see ‘Ta Ti Breanette’, “Mrs. Andre and you come with me please.” The man I now knew to be ‘THE DOCTOR’ said to her. My sister followed closely behind her and I skipped away at their shadows on the floor as I followed them. “Your sister had a miscarriage.” I have never forgotten the look on my sister’s face… she was 15 or 16… and nobody’s fool. “What? That’s not possible. She’s new to the country, doesn’t have a boyfriend…” my mom argued. The doctor glanced at me and my sister before clearing his throat “Uh Mrs. Andre, she miscarried. It appears self induced. From the scar tissue we found this would not be the first time. There’s a lot of damage, conceiving again may be a problem.”
I watched as my mother vehemently shook her head, “No, no, that’s not possible. Are you talking about the right patient? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend!” He just sighed and handed my mother a chart. “No mistake, this is your sister.” When my mom opened her mouth to continue to argue… my sister touched her elbow, “Mom, stop.” My mother looked at all of us then walked out of the room. It’s funny how despite my lack of time keeping ability back then, I can tell you it was only a matter of months between my aunt’s return from the hospital and her moving out. She ‘met’ someone, got engaged and moved out in a matter of months. This heifer had lived with us for almost 3 years, no boyfriend… nothing. Seems she figured she should get out of Dodge before my mom grew a brain (I love you mom, but it’s true). Hmmm… now let the rumors fly… seems the whole family knew my dad and this b*tch were knocking boots (obviously). My mom disavows any knowledge that this was going on. Don’t even get me started on that. Ann Breanette went on to other things (another story) and stayed in touch with him rumor has it… they continued their friendly acquaintance after my parents divorced, during her marriage, after her divorce and even after he remarried. She even went to his funeral, to his funeral… like the ‘Gran Dam’ that she is. Interesting… since his children i.e. me and my sister were not welcome (yet another story) but SHE was there.
The child in me looks back, and I always wonder if there was possibly something I could have done to avoid that situation. I wonder if my terrorizing her and not allowing her to terrorize me… may have brought those two closer together, but the adult in me… the GROWN ASS Woman… knows better.
She was just a disloyal dirty bitch and he was the unfaithful dog that lent her his bone. Funny how he could sleep with her, knock her up then keep her around for fun but never marry HER. Damn… I’ve got to say they taught me a lot about people, denial, relationships… Loyalty and Faithfulness… but mostly… they just taught me ‘Never invite the Devil into your house”.
– Nova
Daddy Issues…
Carlo Andre – June 25, 1948 to July 10, 2004
I don’t think about him, seriously. It’s usually something or someone else that brings him to mind. My sister and I have called him Doo Doo Head since I was 12 years old. Yes, Doo Doo Head. I’m 33 years old… she’s 39… He’s been dead 8 years and memories of him are like scenes from ViewMaster… good and bad… a movie reel I don’t dust off.
Its odd how easily one can focus on the negative but today? Today I had the purest memory of him. The kind of memory little girls with good fathers grow up to have:
We lived in a corner 3 family house on 189th Street in Hollis, Queens. Our house… the big tree in the front yard had a fallen branch my sister and I swung from… but mostly me. I called him Mr. Magic Tree. My days were spent driving my mother’s tenant’s crazy (they were the other ‘families’ in the house), climbing trees, exploring the area, rolling down hills or just running around playing ‘war’. I wasn’t a wild child, but I was smart… and mischievous. I liked to figure out how things worked… how to break them… and how to put them back together again. Nothing irritated me more than something I couldn’t fix.
Then the bikes came. My mom and dad came home one sunny afternoon with a big blue 10 speed for my sister and a cherry red 3 speed… training wheels and all. I was 5 or 6, and excited. My dad whipped out the screw driver fully intent to remove those training wheels, but my mom told him no “Not until she knows how to ride it” and in his way he grunted his agreement.
I watched as he spent some time teaching my sister how to ride, and I just sat on mine patiently waiting my turn… leaning forward… making all types of “vroom vroom” noises. I watched as he held onto the back of her seat, running along beside her as he gave various orders, “pedal, sit up straight, watch where you’re going.” They performed this ritual once or twice. His expression frustrated, hers just terrified (I still find that funny), and then it happened. He let her go… and she kept on pedaling. He ran few steps more after her laughing… his big ole pot belly jiggling like jello and then he turned to me.
I braced myself as I listened to his instructions, calm because what did I have to lose? I had training wheels. He ran along beside me holding the back of my seat, and we worked this way for a while, my face scrunched up, determined with him panting along beside me… then he let me go and I pedaled this way and that for a time. “I got it!” I shouted as I stopped to look back at him, and I heard him laughing, “Now you learn to ride” He approached me and my cherry red bike screw driver in hand and proceeded to remove my training wheels. “Let’s go.”
I sat frozen for a minute… long enough for the fear of falling to fully claim me. “Let’s go” he said again in the tone I knew better than to argue with and we performed the same ritual he had with my sister earlier. I pedaled when instructed, sat up straight, and fell over almost as soon as he let go several times, until I landed too hard and skinned my knee and elbow… every time I fell down he would disentangle me from the bike, dust me off and tell me to get back on. Bruised in several different places I began to cry… I didn’t want a bike anymore. He looked down at me “Stop crying. Wipe your face. Get back on. You can do it.”
Sniffling and tortured I cried through the next session, pedaling as tears streamed down my face. I pedaled as I had my mutinous thought. ‘Oooooh he’s so mean!’ and I pedaled waiting for the impact of a fall that never came. Surprised I looked behind me and he wasn’t there. I was riding my bike! I watched my father in the distance doing a big bellied victory dance and I panicked… looking quickly ahead of me I pedaled and tried to remember what he’d said about stopping. I followed his instructions panting and stopped. I looked around for my sister but she was long gone, probably riding around the block somewhere. I felt the sun on my back as I looked up at my father’s beaming face “I knew you could do it”
This always brings a smile to my face. He was a rubbish father but this… a perfect memory left by an imperfect parent and as I look back if I’m honest, I have a few of them. Not everyone can say as much. I knew from my snooping that my toes could barely reach the pedals but in that moment I set my sights on my sister’s 10 speed…
