Post by gypsy on Jan 7, 2023 11:26:25 GMT -5
POOF!
Powdered blue, polyester suit, size 2, was the itchiest childhood outfit I have ever seen myself in. No, I don’t remember wearing it. I only saw a picture. There she is, my unassuming self, staring right back at me. I was dressed up like any 1976 child, at that time, posing for a photographer my mother most likely hired to boast her new-found maternal status, #babyboomerdoesitall. I didn’t know, at that exact time, that my life, like this first photo shoot, was to become imposing, unnatural, constricting and, eventually, stolen.
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Sit down.
Sit up!
Straight!
Sit as I say!
Smile!
Actually, there are far too many fashioned ‘kodak moments’ of me darning irritable clothing. They are all captured in the five coffins reflecting ‘my life in a pink Hasbro box’. Go back and read that last part of the sentence with a Rod Roddy voice. I am serious. He’s a famous radio and television announcer. Go back and do it. Now, I am wondering if you need to Google Rod Roddy. As I was saying, I wore my share of interesting clothing. Remember, I grew up when bell-bottoms eventually gave way to acid-wash jeans. I was photographed wearing these outfits, outfits that were too tight or too loose, outfits that had special tags attached to them. You see, she may not have been responsible for my birthmark or freckles, but she had purchased me. I was hers now. I belonged to her. The adoption papers were signed. This was to be my life. She dressed me with the finest clothes and substituted my head with a plastic one, one that smiled permanently. That’s how she branded me, for everyone to see.
My life was reduced to differently-shaped, glossy or matte photos, lingering in the plastic envelopes of perfectly identified and chronologically-placed albums. Now, if you can imagine those albums on a shelf, in a wall-unit, the kind that pretends that it is wood, but it is not. Imagine the 3rd shelf, from the bottom, to the left. Well, that’s where they’re entombed, when not in use, my beaming Barbie smiles.
The thing is, after I borrowed anything, it had to be returned. It had to be returned exactly where it should be. When I failed to do so (it seems I could never do anything right), I was severely reprimanded. I was always guilty, of course, which inevitably led to ‘it’ coming out, her weapon of rebuke. She aimed. She fired. She successfully eyed above the knee, a little to the left, and a little down, exactly where they should be, the albums.
Put it there.
There!
Do I need to do it?
Smarten up!
You should be ashamed of yourself.
Can you hear me?
Who is ever going to want to be with you?
Nobody!
She never ran out of verbal ammunition, but in a split second, if the doorbell or telephone rang, my sentence was lightened or forgotten, at least for that day. As soon as the front door was ajar, or a moment before she answered the phone, my mother patted down the side of her head, as if to rearrange a misplaced strand of hair. She exhaled nonchalantly, as if to un-ruffle her disgust, and she softened her brow. Chin up.
She was a nurturing mother, I assume that this is what she told herself.
I was her loving daughter. I assume that this is what I told myself.
All is well.
All is…well, not photographed.
All her words, they lurk behind, below the breast, a little to my left, and a little up, exactly where it should be, my heart. As for my mother, under the carpet they were swept, with one soft swoosh. The ultimate disappearing act, a real Amelia Earhart, without any fuss, let alone a search party to relocate them. How could there be? Nobody knew they existed.
The sound of her imaginary broom did not resemble the one heard in Neil Young’s, “Harvest Moon”. You know? The one where the dust is heard being swept to a country bumpkin melody, where his voice sways us, “...on this harvest moon… dum-Dum … Dum-dee Dum dee-Dum…”. Well, her broom was prickly, a firethorn with a screaming sound, a harsh swoosh. It wasn’t even a swoosh. Then, Poof! I was catapulted back into the room, in front of the albums, behind my mother who was about to let someone in.
Sweat.
Sigh.
Smile.
The safety sought in the sound of a doorbell.
Stand.
Stand straight!
Smile.
Actually, you need to understand what occurs in the space between the ding-donging and the door opening. Those thirty seconds are, more or less, a short reel of snippets, possible outcomes spinning strategically in my mind. I was always ready for a solicitor, a neighbour, but I preferred a family member. They actually came in for a visit, which most likely assured me a temporary ‘get out of jail’ card, even though I knew I was far from being free.
Who is at the door? How long will they be staying?
What would be my plight today? Each scenario was based solely on who could possibly be standing on the other side of the door. It’s time to use that Rod Roddy voice again, “What’s behind the door, Bob?” I can tell you that it wasn’t a brand new car or a trip to sunny Hawaii, but it sure could have been. The way she would greet one and all was quite the production. The only thing missing were the giving and receiving of leis, with an indigenous player strumming Aloha on his ukelele.
Nobody, not a soul would question her parenting, especially my father. She had established that years prior, near the end of the polyester era, for he too had been repeatedly and shamefully humiliated, until I came in the picture to take his place. He was yellow for all those years, consciously leaving me behind, defenseless and exposed. What I was unaware of, until he told me, was that she continued to dress him, every morning, noon or night, with her tongue lashings. They were simply not as cold and humiliating, as they once were, or as demeaning as they were with me. Although constricting clothing was on the way out, her « criticism », that’s what she called it, would endure. She was convinced it was for our own good. In reality, her every syllable was a skinning-knife that was peeling, little by little, whatever remained of me. I could barely breathe, and had no leeway. I was raw. I was stripped, but stood still, none the wiser, endlessly suffering.
Fear not, she had cleverly succeeded in clothing me with utter fear, steering my every move, invading my every thought. She might as well have handed me a rusty and chained dog collar, digging and damaging, a martingale, and one that also zapped me every time she thought I may have a slight inkling to behave inappropriately. Any word, thought or gesture that did not comply with her ideal of the perfect child was considered “inappropriate”. Any appearance of defiance, any flaw, no matter how small, was also considered unbecoming. She had a list. It was a long one, ongoing. I could not discern it properly at first, at the age of three, but I believed her, what she said of me. I didn't know that this was wrong; but, what I did know, a year or so later, was that these moments were never to be captured. I didn’t believe there were albums for such things nor did I want there to be. I was the one trapped.
She knew her greatest tactical play was securing my silence. It was her camp. I was her hostage, and no ransom note would be written. She was going to control every aspect of my life, and she did.
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Don’t you dare embarrass me!
Count yourself lucky that I adopted you.
I can return you!
The door had barely reached the end of its Westminster chime, when she turned back to shoot another daunting glance in my direction. As she approached the door, she instantaneously transformed her demeanor. There, before whomever was on the other side of the door, she would emerge as the epitome of motherliness, as seen on television. Yes, on television. With a simple twist of a knob, because that’s all it took, we would become the Cleavers, and what thespians we were, always ready for the next curtain call.