Mama is Dead

Mama is dead.

 

They found her Saturday, on the kitchen floor of her home in Memphis. The window in her bedroom was open; the back door unlocked and a lamp was knocked over. Her little dog, Mimi, was missing. Had Mama been the victim of a robbery gone wrong? Detectives were called in. They found her purse; her credit cards were intact. The TV was still there, her jewelry. They found Mimi in a spare bedroom, starving, dehydrated and clinging to life. The detectives did not suspect foul play. Then how did she die?

 

From a picture, I see she looked fine on Thanksgiving—in good health for a woman of 77. But she was taking heart medication. Had she missed a dose–or two? There were pills strewn across her bed. Maybe she had a heart attack and went quickly. It even crossed my mind that it could have been suicide. It was almost exactly the same time right before Christmas that Daddy was killed in a car accident many years ago. Not knowing is excruciating. An autopsy has been ordered, but we have yet to get the results. 

 

My mama is dead. The mama I never truly had, and yet, now that she’s gone, I am filled with sorrow for the loss. I cried when the news sunk in. Why, after the cruel way she treated me—after the abuse I wrote about in the book? I wondered myself. Just how is a victim of child abuse supposed to feel when her abusive parent dies? I think I would have cried hearing that anyone passed in such a sad, lonely way. I think. Or maybe I cried simply because she was my mother, my flesh and blood and because I know with her died any chance of the two of us ever having a relationship. That truth is now painfully stamped into my heart.

 

My mama is dead and I am sad. I write this through tears. But wait, should I be sad? In the many private hours she spent alone, by choice, I know hers was a soul in turmoil. Now it’s at peace, and I should be relieved for her, right?  Relieved that her burden has finally been lifted.

 

Her funeral is Thursday. She will be buried beside Daddy in her home town. And I will be there. After the funeral my brothers and I plan to go back to her house and go through some of her things. In her personal effects and private papers, I hope to find some traces that she loved me after all. I will need your prayers.

 

Fruitcake

Good morning, my neighbor, and Merry Christmas to you! I’m here with a gift for you and your family! Yes, it’s fruitcake again, just like every other year, only before it was left on your porch by a woman whose name you never bothered to know.

Who, you ask? But you must have seen her a hundred times walking the street in front of your house—tiny thing, ruddy cheeks and shaggy white hair. She always wore a gauzy tie-dyed skirt and a Cardinals jersey—Pujols, number 5. Sometimes she danced for no reason and sang old Beatles songs at the top of her lungs. 'She loves you yeah, yeah'...yeah, that’s her. Don’t you remember? Every time you saw her you called for your kids to come in. Crazy’s the word you used—off in the head.

For ten years straight that crazy little lady baked a fruitcake for you and your family and left it on your front porch on Christmas morning. And every year, when you walked out your door you kicked it aside “Damn thing’s like a brick,” you said.

I never told my Lizzie this because it would’ve crushed her soul, but last year I saw you feed it to your dog. “Look,” I heard you say, laughing. “He won’t even eat it.”

This Christmas I thought I’d hand the cake to you, personally, because with your gift I have some news I think you’ll be glad to hear. There will be no more fruitcake. No fruitcake ever again to clutter your porch and block your door; no fruitcake to feed your dog. And you can rest assured that you won’t be seeing the crazy slip of a lady anymore, dancing in the street, singing her songs. No one will ever see my Lizzie again.

Why do you look so sad my neighbor, my friend? There’s no need to ruin your Christmas by feeling bad. After all, you’re not the first to turn fruitcake away; not the only one afraid to take a chance on its colorful fruits and nutty texture, choosing the smooth chocolate sheet cake instead.

Running With Scissors

On a warm Saturday morning, this past October, my husband decided it would be a good time to go out into the backyard and clear away some dying tomato plants from our vegetable garden. After breakfast, he selected a pair of garden shears from the garage and immediately began the task.

I’m not a morning person and wasn’t feeling nearly as energetic as he was, but I poured myself a second cup of hot tea and went outside to sit in a nearby hammock  and watch him work. It was a quick job, and in a matter of minutes he was done and ready to leave the garden. As he began to walk away, somehow his feet got tangled up in the mesh fence he had put up to keep wild animals out,  causing him to trip.

I should probably point out that we have a raised garden bed, and that my husband was still holding the shears, which were the kind with long, pointy blades. To be perfectly clear, he was falling headfirst with a sharp object aimed directly at the main artery in his neck—a trip to the emergency room trifecta.

Now on my feet, across the yard, I was watching the whole thing, helplessly. As he hit the ground, he instinctively jerked his head back just as the shears made contact with his neck. I ran to his side, expecting the worst, and discovered that he had, in fact, jabbed the shears into himself.

The good news is there was no squirting blood. By the grace of God the shears missed his jugular vein. When he jerked his head back he prevented the blade from penetrating deep into his neck. He was cut, though, and there was some blood, but the wound was superficial. Nothing that a tetanus shot and a butterfly band-aid wouldn’t fix. The worst of his injuries was a bad sprain in his neck, for which the doctor prescribed steroids, and physical therapy.

Later on that night, he found himself in quite a bit of pain, and as with most men who’ve been injured, he needed babying. As for me, I was pleased with the minor wounds he sustained and happy to have him alive and in one piece. If you ask me, all in all, it was a pretty good trade-off—a little whiplash for a life-threatening stab wound. I told him he should’ve bought a lottery ticket on the way home.

His accident got me to thinking about when I was a kid and my grandmother told me not to run with scissors. Or a pencil. She used to say, “Stop running with that pencil or you’ll fall and put your eye out!”  Why couldn’t she have simply said, “Stop running with that pencil” ? Why? Because that alone wouldn’t have been enough to get my attention, but by adding the part about poking my eye out, she conjured a gory mental image that I could not ignore.

Grandma also used to tell me if I crossed my eyes they would stick that way, and if I played with fire I would wet the bed. I’m pretty sure neither of these things have actually ever happened, at least not in the said sequence, and even then, I doubted the validity behind her statements, but at the time I wasn’t willing to take the chance.  

She used the word “death” a lot when she wanted to get me to stop doing something of which she didn’t approve. Some of her favorites were “Don’t eat so fast or you’ll choke to death!” and “Get in out of the cold or you’ll freeze to death!” But the one that scared me most of all was “Zip your coat and pull up your hood, or you’ll cough your head off tonight!”  That really made for a grizzly nightmare for a kid with an overactive imagination. I pictured myself in bed hacking away, face red, eyes bulging, unable to catch my breath to scream for help, hacking, hacking, hacking, until my head is thrust from my neck with a spurt of blood and rolls across my bed, onto the floor, disappearing into the darkness.   

When I grew up and had kids of my own, I used the very same tried and true phrases on them that my grandmother used on me—for their own good, of course.  Do you know of any more such phrases used to manipulate a kid’s behavior? If so, I’d love to hear them!

Until the Spinning Stops

For those of you who visit this blog regularly, yes, I've changed the name. But there's a good reason. I did it because lately, I've found that "every other Tuesday" has been coming around a bit too quickly.

Nobody hates excuses more than me, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but here goes. We are entering our busiest time at work (I work at Macy's), plus, I'm trying to get my stepdaughter ready for college. Between those two things, promoting the book, and trying to be a half-way decent wife to a man who's used to a hot meal on the table at 5 o'clock every afternoon, and has a pile of sewing repairs for me to do...well, to make a long story short, blog Tuesday rolled around this week and I completely forgot about it. Completely. Forgot. Never even entered my mind until about twenty minutes ago. So I decided, for the time being, I will post when I can.

I truly appreciate everyone who follows this blog, and please know that I'm not giving up, I'm just slowing down for a while until my world stops spinning around me.

Do Your Kids "Feel" the Love?

When it comes to disciplining kids, things have really changed, haven't they? I guess it never dawned on me just how much until a few days ago while waiting in line at a Subway in the mall. Standing behind me was a young mother with her two sons of approximately six and eight years of age. The boys were arguing about something--I think it was because they were going to have to split a foot long. Anyway, they were pushing and shoving one another like brothers do, while their mom seemed oblivious to what was going on. Then, out of nowhere, the youngest boy spit on his big brother, at which time Mom finally responded. "Jacob!" she said, wiping the spit from the older boy's face with a napkin she'd plucked from a dispenser on the Subway counter "That wasn't very nice!"

That wasn't very nice? I thought. That's all the punishment Jacob gets? My grandma would have skinned me alive if I'd ever spit on anyone in her presence! And little Jacob gets by with nothing more than a scolding?

For those of you who have read some of my previous blog posts, or my book, Call Me Tuesday, which is based on my own true-life experience, you know that as a child, I was severely abused by my mother, and for that reason I spent all my summers at my grandma's house. Any healthy discipline I received during my childhood came from her. When I was going through the abuse at home at the hands of my mother, I didn't know there was a name for it. All I knew was something didn't feel right about the way I was being treated.

Unlike when I was growing up, kids these days know the word "abuse" all too well. Some of my friends have told me that their kids have even threatened to report them to the authorities. Thank God my own children never did that. If they had it would have probably sent me into hysterics. I didn't give them a chance, anyway, because I was so afraid of turning into my mother that I left most of the discipline to my ex-husband, which, looking back, I now realize was unfair to him. But that's an entirely different blog altogether.

I remember when I was about ten, while I was at at my grandmother's house for the summer, one afternoon I decided to walk to a nearby grocery store for an Orange Crush. I had been playing in an old washtub Grandma used to fill with cool water on really hot days days, so all I had on was a two-piece swimsuit. I scraped up some change from my room, put on some flip-flops, and without telling Grandma I was going, headed down the street to the grocery store.

When I got back, Grandma was standing in the front yard, holding a length of freshly peeled tree twig in her hand. I knew I was in big trouble. She whipped my hind end all over the yard that day, and it hurt like hell. But after it was all over, a strange calm came over me. I believe somehow I instinctively knew I deserved every stripe that switch left on my legs. For reasons unknown to me then, the boundaries Grandma set for me made me feel safe, cherished. Something terrible could have happened to me walking down the streets of Nashville all by myself wearing nothing but my swim suit. Simply scolding me wouldn't have been punishment enough. Grounding me wouldn't have driven home the point either. What I needed was a good old fashioned whipping. As much as it hurt Grandma to have to do it (I can remember, the whole time she was thrashing me there were tears streaming down her cheeks), she wanted to make sure I didn't wander off again. And, you know, I never did because every time I took a notion to, I remembered the sting of that switch.To this day, I can still feel it, still hear it whistling as it sliced through the air.

My point is, sometimes a whipping is the only discipline that will do. When fear really needs to be instilled, when the consequences of what a child has done needs to be branded into her memory. But now, because child abuse awareness has gone from one extreme to the other, parents today don't feel at liberty to spank their kids. And that's a pity, because I think when done properly, a good old fashioned whipping has a way of making a kid really "feel" the love.

Murder at My House

My husband is on a business trip. I am home alone. It's about ten o'clock at night. As usual, I curl up on my bed with my laptop.

All of a sudden I get an uneasy feeling, you know, the one you get when you think someone is in the house. I'm just being paranoid, I think. But to be safe, I tip-toe to my bedroom doorway to take a look. That's when I see him, his larger-than-life shadow projected on the wall.

The realization washes over me that I'm going to have to deal with this alone. Ouickly, I back-pedal and sink into the closet for a weapon. I find a five pound dumbbell. It'll have to do. I clutch it with a death grip, assuming attack position.

As I make my way back to where I spotted the intruder, I try to remain calm, but fear is beading on my forehead and upper lip. I take a deep breath and lunge out into the hallway only to find he's already vanished from sight.

Now he has gained the edge, because nothing is scarier than that which I cannot see. My heart starts to pound like crazy; I can feel it in my throat. I search around me in a panic. Where is he? For the love of God where is he? 

He's behind a door, or under a piece of furniture, waiting for me to seek him out. And I will seek him out; I have to, because the very thought of him lurking in my house somewhere is too much to bear.

I race through every room, flinging furniture aside. I spot him in the kitchen crouched beneath the table. He is there, staring at me, in plain sight as if he's daring me to come after him.

And I do--go after him--swinging the dumbbell as I go. A miss! Damn it! I grab a skillet from the stove (thank God I had a grilled cheese sandwich for supper and didn't do the dishes) and strike him again, giving the blow everything I have. He's seriously wounded, I can see this, but I don't stop there. I continue to beat him over and over, startled by my own violence, by how much I am enjoying the killing. Yes, by now, it is officially a killing. When I finish with him he is nothing more than a black, pulpy spot on the linoleum.

Spiders are particularly bad this year. And freakishly big too. Don't you think?

To Daddy, With Love

My previous blog post was supposed to be a tribute to dads, which I thought would be appropriate since I'd written one to mothers around Mother's Day. But when I sat down with my laptop to write it, I couldn't bring myself to type the words--it was too close to Father's Day, always a difficult time for me ever since my dad was killed in a car accident years ago.

Although my mother is still very much alive, it feels to me like she's dead too, like she died when I was a child. Still, it wasn't hard for me to write the blog about mothers (This is For You), even though I've never really had one, not for any length of time. When I began writing, I just thought of all the sweet, nurturing mothers I've known in my lifetime, and what my friends have told me about the way these special women have made them feel. I thought of my own mother-in-law, of how much she means to me, and the words came easy.

Now that Father's Day has come and gone, and the deep ache for the loss of my dad has softened, I have something to say.


For those of you who haven't read my book, Call Me Tuesday, a story based on the true events of my childhood, I was abused and tortured horribly by my mother, and although my dad was aware of most of what was going on, he did little to stop it.


In the wake of the publication of the book, I have been accused, many times, of being blind when it comes to my dad. Kirkus stated in their review of the book, "... hard to take is her father’s passiveness, partly because Byrne is too easy on him. He tells Tuesday that intervention “could break up the family...”  http://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/leigh-byrne/call-me-tuesday/#review .


And what they say is true. But Daddy tried to do something early on; there were fights--serious ones.  He said he kept hoping Mama would stop on her own. He had faith that she was a good person because she had been when he married her, and he was so insanely in love with her. Then, before he knew it, things had gotten out of hand. He was sure if social services intervened, all of us, kids would have been placed in different foster homes. Truth be told, he was probably right. That's what he said, anyway. And I guess I bought it because I wanted to.


He should have turned her in, you say. But don't be so quick to judge. Take a look at your own spouse, your son, or daughter, brother or sister. How easy would it be to send him or her to prison, or to a mental facility for abusing only one child? What if the other children involved were begging you not to take their mama away? If you thought you could possibly stop the abuse on your own, wouldn't you at least try before you tore a family apart?


I know my father was a weak man where my mother was concerned. But because he was a wonderful man in so many other ways, it's  hard to hate him. Believe me, I, of all people have reason to and I've tried, but I can't. I think it's partly because he owned up to what he did--or didn't do--apologized and tried to make things right between us. And yes, I forgave him because he asked me to, and because he's my daddy, and because somehow, in the midst of all the madness that was my childhood, he was one of the few people who made me feel loved.

Nowhere to Hide

Up until my book, Call Me Tuesday, was released earlier this year, only my family and a few close friends knew about my childhood abuse. For years, I went to great lengths to keep it hidden because I feared people might think I was mentally ill, somehow damaged by the horrific abuse I had suffered.

Now, because I made the decision to publish my story, and openly admit the book is based on my own true-life experience, hundreds of people--most of which I've never even met--know I once had to dig around in the trash for food, and drink from the dog's water. That I had to defecate on a piece of notebook paper because I was locked in a room and had nowhere else to go. They know I've had my face smeared in vomit, was made to eat disgusting food and do degrading things.

Don't get me wrong, I am thankful so many people have shown an interest in my story, and the feedback has been both rewarding and therapeutic. But the last thing I want is to be defined by my abuse, nor do I want to be labeled a victim. And anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a proud and private person.  

Why then, you ask, would a proud and private person reveal such humiliating truths in a book? 

More than anything else, I love to write. From the first essay paper read aloud by my teacher in grade school, to the recent publication of my  book, writing has been my strength, my go-to in times of stress. It's the one thing I have always been able to do well. The only thing I've ever done that made my daddy proud.

I was taught in school to write about what I know. My childhood abuse left me with this really bizarre, yet compelling story to tell, so it kind of made sense to make it my first serious endeavor as a published author.

But, I naively thought I could hide behind the word "fiction." Change all the names, locals, time lines, some of the details of what happened, give the story a happy ending, and no one would ever know it was really about me. And I probably wouldn't have even included the words, "based on a true story" in the description, if my best friend (I'm convinced she's also my guardian angel) of over 20 years had not implored me to reconsider. She said that without the element of truth, the story would not have the power to help as many people. And that's the point of the book, right? To purge my soul of poison, and to help others.

Well, partly.

Like I said before, I love to write, and I just so happened to have had this strange and unfortunate childhood that I thought might make for pretty good reading. Sure, the writing of it was cathartic. Sure, the book might possibly help some people, But, in all honesty, I wrote it because that's what writer's do. They write.

When I had finished the book, which is slightly fictionalized, I realized the pain in the words was so raw, so frighteningly real, it was obvious that I, the author, had been the one who had endured it, and there was no use trying to hide from the truth any longer. There is nowhere to hide. 

The Kirkus Review of Call Me Tuesday pretty much says it all:
"Byrne conveys a horrifying story inspired by true-life experience, according to the jacket copy, and though it’s well-written, it’s also very hard to take because the prose so vividly and evocatively portrays suffering."

Kleen-N-Kleen = Ch-ching!

I open my front door and I am greeted by a giant toothy smile with a small man connected to it—a Bob Marly-esque man dressed in a crumpled white button-down and khaki shorts.

I am thinking of how much I love reggae music, when I see, on the porch at his feet, an industrial spray bottle, half-full of a yellowish liquid.

I give an internal eye-roll. Oh my God he’s going to try to sell me something! Is it too late to shut the door?

“Good afternoon, Miss. Is this a bad time?”

Did he just call me Miss? I like to be called Miss. Much better than Ma’am—sounds younger. “Oh, no, no it’s okay,” I assure him, poking my head out the door.

Extending a weathered hand, the man says, “My name is John.”

John? I was hoping for Ziggy, or something more artsy or island-y. I take his hand. “Hi John. What can I do for you?”

“Just a minute of your time, please.”

Is that a Jamaican accent? I love a Jamaican accent. “Okay, John, shoot,” I say. “But make it quick, I have to cook dinner.”

“Quick, yes, quick. Tell me, Miss, do you have kids?”

“Yes, our youngest is off to college this fall.”

“No!” he leans back, eying me. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have a kid in college!”

Giggling, I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me. It’s a step that will cost me. I don’t know it yet, but specifically, it will cost me $42.79.

Without wasting any time, John picks up the spray bottle, unscrews the nozzle and runs his tongue across the length of the nozzle tube, lapping up the yellow liquid. “Before I show you what this amazing cleaning product does, I wanted to prove to you that it’s non-toxic.”

I am grossed out. I am intrigued. I am skeptical. If it’s non-toxic, it can’t possibly clean anything...

As if he had read my thoughts, he puts the nozzle back on the bottle and pulls a white washcloth from a well-worn backpack, and then a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. He hands me the Sharpie, and somehow I know, without him having to tell me, that he wants me to mark on the washcloth. So I do. And as expected, he sprays the cloth with the cleaner. Almost immediately the mark begins to disappear.

I am not impressed. Spot Shot—$2.99 at the Wal-mart—will do that.

Sensing that he’s loosing me, he quickly begins cleaning my storm door with the liquid and the washcloth.

Okay, I think, you can’t use Spot Shot on glass. That’s why there’s Windex. But I allow him to continue, because he thinks I look young, and because I have a weakness for a Jamaican accent, and because he’s blocking my way back into the house.

When he has polished the door to a sparkling shine he runs the palm of his hand down the center. “No smudge!” he says. “Now you try. My hands are dry, but a lady like you usually wears lotion.”

I try to smear the glass with my fingers, but it remains clean. I think of my Jack Russell’s wet nose against the back sliding glass door. I could use some of this stuff.

I am now trying to decide whether I want to pay by check or charge.

But John isn’t taking any chances. He produces a wire brush from his backpack, drops to his knees and proceeds to clean a large rock (yes a rock) beside my porch. When he has finished the rock appears to have been bleached. He moves on to another one.

“No, John, stop! You don’t have to clean anymore rocks. I’m sold.”

“Thank you Miss. Thank you very much. What is it that made you decide to buy?”

“Actually I think you had me at Miss.”

This is For You

This is for you, the sentimental one who cluttered your refrigerator door with drawings of smiling suns and stick people with oversized heads. You, who glorified the dandelions we picked with a crystal vase. If we were to look inside your jewelry box, we would not find flashy diamonds, but a dozen or so little teeth wrapped in tissue paper. And in that “secret drawer” that we were never allowed to open, there are no expensive clothes, only locks of our hair and every Mother’s day card we ever made for you, preserved with care.  

This is for you, the selfless, who bought us silly toys at the grocery store when you knew they would most likely be forgotten the next day, and most surely go unappreciated. You, who went without second helpings at supper so we could have thirds.

This is for you, the overprotective, who made us wear life preservers in the kiddy pool and jackets in May. So what if we were the only teenager on the block who had to mow the lawn in catcher’s equipment and steel-toed boots?

This is for you, the tenderhearted one who, with tears rolling down your face, switched us all the way home when you caught us playing in the street. The one who gave us quarters for the gumball machine, and still slips us a twenty when things get tight.

It’s a little late, as usual, but you know us, we would forget our heads if they weren’t tied on, happy Mother’s Day, and we love you for all you have done, and all that you continue to do.

World Peace

The great thing about having a blog is that when you feel bitchy about something you can always write about it, and maybe one or two people might read it and say, “yeah, that pisses me off too!” Or not. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because the point of the bitchy blog—or as I like to call it, “the blitch”—is to vent. And we all need to vent; Dr. Phil (or maybe it’s Dr. Oz) says it’s good for your mental and emotional health. So, in the interest of my sanity, and in the spirit of doctors Phil and Oz, here’s my “blitch.”

Back in September of last year, NBA player, Ron Artest of the LA Lakers changed his name to Metta World Peace. His new first name, the Buddaist word Metta, means "loving kindness and friendliness towards others." His new last name is, well, self-explanatory. Mr. Artest...excuse me...Mr. World Peace, (or maybe it's Mr. Peace, and his middle name is World) according to his own words, changed his name "to inspire and bring youth together all around the world."

Now isn’t that special.

The name change sounds like a lovely gesture by an obviously lovely man who, out of the goodness of his lovely heart, is taking advantage of his privileged position as an NBA star to influence millions of young people around the world.

HA! 

For those of you who aren’t already familiar with the professional athlete formerly known as Ron Artest, allow me to give you a brief history of his humanitarian nature, his “loving kindness and friendliness.” I’ll start with his most recent gesture of brotherly love toward one of his fellow ball players. It happened Sunday before last, during a game with the Oklahoma City Thunder. After an admittedly impressive fast-break dunk over Durant and Serge Ibaka, World Peace came down growling viciously, pounding his chest with one fist and threw a hard elbow to the head of Thunder guard, James Harden.

It was an accident, according to World Peace. An accident forceful enough to cause Harden to have a concussion. WP later claimed he was merely celebrating the dunk and got "real emotional and excited.” But when the officials reviewed the tape and realized it was clearly no accident they ejected him on the spot. Last Tuesday the NBA announced that he is suspended for seven games. Looks like he’s probably going to miss the first round of the playoffs. Pity. In this humble “blitcher’s” opinion he got off easy, given his history of violence.

The elbow incident was only the finale to World Peace’s long list of aggressive behavior. During the 2011 playoffs, in a game against the Mavericks, he slung a forearm and struck J.J. Barea in the face. Before he joined the Lakers he had been suspended 12 times in his 13 year career. In 2007 he was arrested on a domestic violence charge. In 2004, back when he played for the Indiana Pacers, he leaped into the stands and attacked one of the fans. Now that was classy. There’s more, a lot more, I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Being the huge NBA fan that I am, I can appreciate World Peace’s talent and passion for the game. And in his defense I believe he tried to clean up his image by changing his name. He appeared on Dancing With the Stars and the cast of the show thought he was a really nice guy. Last April he was presented with the NBA’s J. Walter Kennedy Citizenship Award for his work on mental health awareness. He tried, God love him.

Every time a commentator says his name “...and World Peace goes up for the block...” I bust out laughing. As I write this I can’t even type it and keep a straight face. But that’s just me; I’m a sucker for irony. And maybe I have a warped sense of humor because whenever I see him a vision of Miss Piggy pops into my head. She’s got on her wig and false eyelashes and lipstick, but it doesn’t change the fact that underneath all the glam she’s still a pig. And she always will be a pig.

Be Aware

Is there a certain smell that takes you back to a place and time in your childhood? Does the scent of honeysuckle remind you of carefree summer days playing outdoors with your friends? Or when you walk into a Cracker Barrel restaurant and smell pancakes cooking on the griddle, do you instantly find yourself sitting sleepy-eyed in your mom’s kitchen waiting for her to place a stack of buttery hot cakes on the table in front of you?

For me, some of the smells that trigger childhood memories are sour milk, Jungle Gardenia perfume, and Southern Comfort liqueur. When I sniff a carton of milk before I put it in my morning cereal, if by chance it has gone bad, I am suddenly forcing down clabbered chunks while my mother stands over me with a threatening fist. If I pass an elderly lady who’s wearing the same perfume Mama used to wear, or sit beside someone in a bar who’s drinking her favorite liqueur, out of nowhere I can see her face above me—all flush and gnarled in anger—as she’s forcing my head under scalding bathwater.

As much as I would love to post something funny on my blog this week, I just can’t, because  it’s Child Abuse Prevention Month. So since it’s my last post for April, and I’m an abuse survivor and the author of a book based on my story, I figured it’s as good a time as any to take off my mask of humor and do my part, however small, to bring about awareness of this armpit of all crimes.

Mind you, I’m no authority on child abuse. I only know someone personally who was abused as a child. But I am an authority on her. Her abuse was severe. Not the worst—victims of the worst abuse probably are not around to tell about it—but it was bad. On a scale of one to ten maybe a seven or an eight. I believe that gives me an insight that others may not have, and puts me in the unique position to try to help a few people. So here goes.

Once, after reading my book, someone said to me, “That’s horrible, but it was a long time ago. Stuff like that doesn’t happen anymore.”

Oh yes it does. Every ten seconds a case of child abuse is reported, which adds up to approximately three million a year. And that’s only the cases that are reported. Wonder how many go unreported, like mine.

We are doing a good job of reporting suspected abuse—better than ever before—but we have to try harder, look closer. You can forget about the abused kids telling on their abusers. It’s not going to happen. I can remember my mother and father saying that I should never tell anyone what goes on in the privacy of our home; they said it would rip our family apart. As  horrible as my life was I was still afraid to tell, afraid of what might happen to my brothers and me if I did, of what might happen to our family. You see, what an adult says translates differently in a child’s mind. For instance when my mother told me I was disgusting, ugly or dirty, what I thought was, “I am a bad seed. I deserve to be punished. I don’t deserve anything good to happen to me.”

So, it’s up to us adults to report suspected abuse. I know it’s difficult. I know you don’t want to be all up in somebody’s family business. But I’m telling you it’s the only way.

Maybe I can help. Because I was once abused I know some behavioral signs to watch for when you suspect something is not right. Some signs beyond the obvious.

In a child:

*Flinching at sudden movements

*Always looking around as if waiting for something bad to happen

*Overly compliant, passive or withdrawn

*He or she does not want to go home

*He or she rarely looks at or touches a parent

What to watch for in an adult:

*A parent shows little concern for their child’s welfare

*Blames the child for problems in school or at home

*Makes comments that the child is bad, worthless or burdensome

*Rarely looks at or touches the child

I know this is Child Abuse Prevention Month, but I feel it’s important, since there’s not a month set aside for adults who were once abused, to point out a couple of things that might help those of you who are in a relationship with an abuse survivor to better understand his or her behavior.

Our biggest struggle is with TRUST, and  that’s understandable for obvious reasons. Most of us don’t feel entirely safe in any relationship with another human being. We are always waiting for the big bad to happen. We enter into even the most casual of friendships on our own terms. We may keep you at arm’s length. Many of us prefer to be alone because it’s safer, less complicated. Some of us have numbed our feelings as a way of protecting ourselves. All of us are terrified of being hurt or betrayed.

We are not freaks, but we are damaged goods. We struggle daily with confidence. Speaking for myself, I often have mini panic attacks, usually when I’m attempting to prove myself worthy, like interviewing for a job. And even when I’m doing something as insignificant as rolling a bowling ball down the lane on league night, I sometimes hear a voice in my head telling me how worthless I am, and that I’m going to mess this up. Then I usually do. Mess it up. Gutter ball.

Some of us don’t talk about what happened when we were children because that’s what we’ve been taught to do, what’s been drilled into our heads. And because we are ashamed of it. From my own experience, I’ve found that functioning in society is more difficult once people know. Now that my book is out and my co-workers have read it, I’m ashamed to face them day after day, because I know that they know about all the degrading things I was made to do as a child, all the humiliation I suffered. Now they look at me differently. I get a lot of sympathetic stares. I hear whispers. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I sense that some of them are a bit afraid of me, that they wonder about my mental well-being.

But my biggest challenge and deepest fear concerning my abusive past is that I have yet to remember the worst of it. And I have valid reason to be afraid. Before my father was killed in a car accident, he told my best friend there were horrible parts of my childhood that I have blocked out, and he prayed I would never remember. The idea that something unthinkable is lurking in my subconscious, something my mind is afraid to acknowledge, something even worse than the hell I went through, terrifies me  to the bone.

In honor of Child Abuse Prevention Month, for a limited time the price of the e-book edition of “Call Me Tuesday” will be 99 cents.

Justice for Scarlett

Just because I’m female it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate good-looking people of both sexes. The first time I saw Scarlett, a woman who works with me, I knew I was in the presence of a truly hot specimen. Absolutely gorgeous. She’s a petite, slip of a lady, but built like a brick shit-house. Blackish-brown hair, sparkling eyes, creamy skin, a button nose, knockout smile—straight up stunning.

Before I go any further, I should probably point out that her name isn’t really Scarlett. But I’m going to call her that because I think Scarlett fits her better than her real name. And because I like that name. It’s the name of one of the most colorful characters in American literature. And I’ve always secretly wished my parents had named me Scarlett. I’m convinced if they had it would have destined me for a more exciting life.

Yes, Scarlett is indeed beautiful, but be that as it may, men don’t stop in their tracks when she walks by; in fact, they hardly even notice her at all. They did at one time. At one time they followed her around sniffing her trail like a dog sniffs out a bitch in heat. They would’ve drunk her bathwater to have had a chance with her. But these days men don’t look at Scarlett in that way because now she’s a woman “of a certain age,” and women “of a certain age” are largely ignored in our society, even by the men “of a certain age.” Deemed no longer desirable.

So one day, while I was working at my job on the dock at Macy’s, I got to thinking about Scarlett and her unappreciated beauty. I looked down the processing line through the whipping sheets of plastic, through the empty cardboard boxes flying through the air en route to the baler, all the way down to the tail of the dragon where Scarlett was busy ink-tagging a stack of clothes. There she was working away with her signature red lipstick and perfectly coiffed hair, shimmering like a gem in the midst of all the dust and chaos. Looking at her, I wondered what life would be like if our concept of beauty were to become completely reversed. What if the older you got the more desirable you became? And then it occurred to me that while this was not likely to transpire in my lifetime, let alone Scarlett’s, there was a way I could make it happen—make Scarlett beautiful and desirable once again. I could write it and then it would be, at least in a story. That’s the wonder of fiction.

When I got home, I grabbed my laptop and began typing. And when I’d finished I had given birth to this:

The Evolution of Beauty

Molly twists the sprigs of hair sprouting from the top of her otherwise bald head, as she studies the restaurant menu. She always keeps her head shaved clean, except for the few hairs on top, which she dyes a dingy gray, as a style statement. She also shaves her eyebrows so that the only hair on her face is the soft, dark shadow above her upper lip. “I’ll start out with fried mozzarella sticks,” she says to the waitress without looking up. “Then I’ll have the baby back ribs—the full rack, please—and a loaded baked potato with extra butter. And for my sides, I’ll have the mac and cheese, and the cinnamon apples. And go ahead and bring me another Heineken,” she says, finishing off the one in front of her with a loud belch. “This baby’s history.” 

Kayla, seated across from Molly at the table, closes her menu. “Sounds perfect;” she says. “I’ll have the very same, right down to the beer, except I want extra sour cream and butter with my potato. Oh, and could you bring us some more rolls?”

Molly picks up the half-empty bucket of peanuts, and shakes them. “And more of these too, please,” she says. “It’s tough staying a perfect size twenty.” She grabs the last roll from the basket and begins icing it with honey butter, eying Kayla. “Did you just have your roots grayed?”

Kayla nods, proudly. “And you plucked your eyelashes!”

Molly grins, and then takes a bite of her roll. “Okay, enough chit-chat. What’s this big thing you wanted to tell me?”

Kayla leans in. “Guess who I saw at the mall last night?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

“Guess.”

“Kaaay-laaa, just tell me already!”

“Brad, I saw Brad.”

“Brad, my ex, Brad?”

“Yep, that’s the one. And he was with someone.”

Molly’s bald eyes grow wide with interest. “Shut up!” she says, her cheeks bulging with bread. She swallows hard. “Well, what did she look like?”

“Hmmm, let me see if I can remember…” Kayla says, as she cracks open a peanut and pops it into her mouth.

“C’mon, Kay, spill! Was she thinner than me? Younger? Taller?”

“Yes. Yes. And, yes.”

Molly smiles. Her teeth are as yellow and sparse as a partially-eaten ear of corn. “Lying bitch!” she says. “You’re just trying to make me feel good.”

“I’m not lying, Molly, she’s really a dog! Long, blond hair, big lips, legs a mile long and she’s at least five years younger than you. I’m telling you, Brad definitely traded down.”

Molly springs to her feet, layers of fat cascading in front of her, and stretches both arms straight above her head. “Yes!” she yells up to heaven.” Serves the jerk right!”

Kayla jumps up too, gives Molly a double high-five. Her “butt in the front,” as she affectionately calls her low-hanging stomach pooch, scoots the table out a foot, knocking over the bucket of peanuts.

After the two of them have settled back into their chairs, Molly says, “Speaking of ugly, have you heard about the new modeling agency for…let’s see, what do they call them these days…the aesthetically challenged? I saw some of the models on TV the other day and I swear to god, Kay, my ass would make them a Sunday face. I mean, none of them were over twenty, and I’ve never seen so much smooth skin and shiny hair in my life. It was really sad.”

“Sounds like the models in my grandmother’s old magazines. They were all skinny back then, and they had big ol’ white teeth. I can’t believe people used to think that was pretty. Ugh!” She shutters. “Grandma sure is hot, though. My boyfriends are always hitting on her. God, I’d give anything for her liver spots.”

“Now, you know it takes years to develop that kind of beauty. It’s easy to look good when you’re sixty-five, but when you’re in your twenties like us, not so much.” Molly sucks the butter from her fingers and then takes a big swig of her fresh beer. “That reminds me, I’m going to have to order my desserts to go. I really hate to cut this short, but I have an appointment at 1:30 to get my teeth stained. It’s the new red wine treatment. Thought it might help me look older.”

“No problem. I’ve been meaning to schedule an appointment for myself. I heard it’s awesome.”

"Well, don’t expect to get in any time soon; they have a waiting list that stretches from hell to breakfast.”

***

 

From the short story collection, “Flashes,” by Leigh Byrne. 

Crazy Optimist

As the author of the book, “Call Me Tuesday,” I am starting this blog to give readers a sense of who I am. But now, as I sit to write this, it occurs to me that who I am is not at all extraordinary.

I live in the Midwest. To be specific Evansville, Indiana. That makes me a Hoosier, and like everybody else who lives here, I’m damn proud of it, even though I’m not exactly sure what the word “Hoosier” means. Like all Hoosiers, I pretend as if I’ve never heard that in some parts of the country the term actually means white trash. Maybe that in itself means I am white trash. I say “ya’ll”—a lot. I say “a lot” a lot too. I bowl on a league. I drink cheap beer. And yes, I am friends with more than one person who has a mullet. Who knows? I could be a fried green tomato away from putting my husband’s old recliner out on the front porch.

One fact I’ve learned from living amongst Hoosiers is that they don’t have much tolerance for laziness. Folks here work hard. If you want to live respectfully in this great state you’d better wake up every day with a plan. You’d better grab your lunch and head out the door before 8A.M., and you’d better work your ass off after you clock in.

I am a Hoosier with a plan. For the first time in my life I have a blue collar job that has absolutely nothing to do with my degree in journalism. I am the receiving team leader on the dock at the local Macy’s department store. I put in long hours schlepping heavy boxes. I work like a man. I sweat like a man. At the end of my shift I go home exhausted and collapse on the sofa. Sometimes I stick my hand down the front of my jeans and holler for my husband to bring me a Busch Light (a Bud Light if it’s on sale).

When you are a writer everything you do that isn’t writing is just another job anyway. So it doesn’t matter how I make my money. I could be a doctor, or a ditch digger. It’s all the same to me because what I really want to be doing is writing.

Working on a dock is hard. But there’s something to be said for the repetitive labor—it leaves the mind free to create. Many of my short stories and some ideas for fledgling novels were born while schlepping boxes on the dock. There’s also a deep sense of gratification that comes from putting in a hard day’s work. But the best part is when I clock out I know I’m finished. While my husband, who has a white collar position, carries his seemingly endless job as a controller around with him everywhere he goes. Of course he does make over ten times much more money than I do. Guess it’s a trade off, huh?

I love love LOVE all the banalities of my Midwestern life. But things have not always been so wonderfully ordinary for me. There was a time when I woke up terrified of what the day might bring. At night I often went to bed hungry and to-the-bone sore from being kicked and punched. And more than once, when the face of rage descended upon me hard and fast, I can remember being afraid that I could die at any minute. But I was a crazy optimist as a kid, and I kept thinking things were going to get better. And as it turns out I was right.

Having had an abusive childhood has given me some gritty determination and equipped me cockroach-like survival skills. It’s made me appreciate the simple pleasures in life and to be thankful for every act of kindness bestowed upon me. And still, as an adult, when the going gets rough, in the back of my mind I know things will soon be better, because even now I’m still a crazy optimist.