I'm back!!!

After a brief hiatus, I realize my mind races if I don't write my thoughts down. Its called my "Mind Dump". And you all know that if you don't empty out time to time, things can get really backed up. So I promise a weekly excerpt, even if it doesn't make sense. But does anything in life make sense when push comes to shove?

Thursday, March 29, 2012

The Red Sofa

I remember that sofa. It was red with black grainy threads running through the fabric.

I was there pretty much all the time, watching our black and white television with the rabbit ears. I would have to stop rocking to get off the sofa and adjust the screen. I am not sure what Larry's father actually did to 'fix' the tv whenever we lost the picture, but I was convinced that I was a better technician than he was when I fixed the picture quality with the antenna.

The rocking situation intensified over the years. It started off very slow and infrequent so not to cause my parents any worry. But as I got older, the speed and intensity increased.

My father, who lost faith in the doctors, thought it was related to my delayed growth and tried to remedy the problem on his own.

But he was overwhelmed when the springs jutted through the fabric and the frame had been damaged as a result. My problem was getting worse.

My childhood home was a split level structure. A semi-detached house with a large hill for a front yard and one single pine tree in the middle. We needed physical dexterity to manuever our tobaggans down that hill to avoid the tree. Cement stairs led up to the front door. Then another staircase leading up to the kitchen and living room. There was a railing divided the living room from the family room. A staircase from the kitchen went below to where there was one bedroom set aside for me and the family room with sliding doors leading out to our small but quaint backyard. And yet another staircase leading downstairs to the basement and garage. The last staircase was only six steps and led upstairs to two bedrooms--one for my parents and the other where my sister and brother-to-be would share. These stairs would represent my life at the time, like the game, Snakes and Ladders.

Each night became a daunting task, as I travelled from my room, upstairs, to join the rest of my family. It took nightly courage to fling the covers off, step out of my bed and trek up all those stairs. By the time I reached the kitchen and turned the corner to go towards the bedrooms, there was a hanging light fixture in the dining/living room that looked quite monstrous in the middle of the night. My fantastical world became nightmarish. This light had eyes, a long beard and a gaping mouth with fangs. And each time I passed this light, I would shout with all my might, "Shut up!" I knew now that this tactic was to release my nervous energy and overcome my fear of this monster. Instead of succumbing to my fright, I made sure I had the upper hand -- the shouting made be believe the monster was more scared of me than I was of it.

However, to my downfall, this outburst was the signal of my approach. My father would hear me and cut me off at his door before I had time to run and jump into the covers for protection. Most nights, he would turn me around and walk me back to my dungeon.

"You are a big girl with a big bedroom. Why do you think we saved this room just for you?" he would say.

As a child I wondered why I was separated from the rest of the family, residing in that one lonely bedroom, two staircases away from my parents. Somehow, his explanation did not go over well.

I would protest, beg and plead to sleep in his bed, seeking solace in my mother's arms but he would have none of it. I crawled back into my large queen sized bed and positioned the pillows around me to pretend someone was with me. But it was no use. My nightly ritual was duplicated many times over--sometimes I would be turned away THREE times in one night. The night and I never became one. And the monster was one flight of steps above me. Sometimes, when I was resigned to my bed, I would shout at it from my room. No one was going to devour me without a fight.

During the day, when I was home from school, I rocked like I was preparing for launch. My mother would come down and tell me to stop but as soon as she left, it would commence again. My father would come home from work and yell from the balcony of the living room to stop rocking. I would stop, stare and then wait for him to leave. Many days, he would have to reposition the sofa to its original place because my rocking had propelled it several inches forward.

"Why are you rocking?" he angrily asked me one day while sitting in the living room over his newspaper.

"I have to rock," I yelled, still rocking and staring at the television.

"Its not good for you or the sofa," he joked. I rocked harder. I felt a lump in my throat and tears well up in my eyes. I looked up and saw my mother in the doorway. She was holding my sister and swaying her back and forth.

Later that night as I made my way up the stairs, after telling the light to shut up when I reached the top of the stairs, I nearly fell backwards in fright. There stood my mother with her arms stretched out before her. She sat down on the top step with me in her arms and swayed me back and forth. After five minutes, she came downstairs with me and we sat down on the red sofa, in the dark, together. She put her arm around me and said, "As long as you are on this sofa, no monster will eat you up."

It was daylight when I awoke and I realized I had fallen asleep. My mother was right there, asleep next to me, half lying, half sitting with her arm around me on the red sofa.

It took only one night.

And I never rocked again.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Cover that Soul!

The concept of NO is a very hard concept to understand and accept even at my age today.

We gradually learn the dynamics of NO as we grow older but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. In any relationship, wife/husband, parent/child, friend/friend, NO becomes a give and take.

"Ok, if NO, then what about...."

"NO? Come on, let's talk about this...."

"NO way! Well, let me think about it...."

NO is an ultimate phrase but many variations exist by way of sacrifice and compromise.

I was used to hearing NO from a young age. Ironically, most children's first words revolve around the things their parents teach them. Mama, Papa, Dada, Baba. Some combination of a consonant and vowel.

My first word was NO. Does anyone wonder where that came from?

Hint: Not my mother. Even when I was babbling as a baby, it was a succession of "No,no,no,no,no,no" at all times. Happy, sad and mad, NO was a popular outlet.

After my father argued with the doctor about my lack of ability to speak, I am positive he took it all back when I mastered the art of arguing. There were many conversations where I would be interrupted mid-sentence with a flat NO from my father.

"But you don't know what I am going to ask!" I stomped my foot and crossed my arms. My father would hold up his hand and simply say NO. Usually, there was no explanation given and it was "just because I said NO". His flat refusals were not enough for me. NO was always followed by 'why?'

At four years of age, my negotiating skills were weak and my suppression of anger even weaker. Throughout the many attempts I made to turn the NO
into a YES, I was presented with my father's stone face and intimidating glare. But I would never show my trepidation in his presence. After his NO, I would run to my mother and bury my head in her bosom.

"Mama, does Daddy EVER say YES?"

I waited for the day where I would not have to argue, state my case or stomp my feet to hear YES. If he ever said YES in my presence, I would think he was inexplicably ill.

"Daddy, Shanta is going to the circus and she has tickets for me. We just have to pay $10" I said to him, breathless after running back home to collect the cash.

He looked at me with anger and raised his eyebrow. Here it comes...

"Enough of this running out at all times. NO. You are not going to the circus and you are grounded today. You will not leave this house for the entire day."

I muffled a cry while my father watched my drama unfold. I flung myself on the couch, then kicked my feet and threw the cushions across the room. My father lifted his paper and ignored me. I ran over to him and grabbed his knees, pleading with him to let me go to the circus.

"But why? Why? Why?" I sobbed.

"Because I said so. NO means NO. Don't ask me why," he barked. "Why do you want to go to the circus? The way you are behaving is a circus. YOU WILL STAY HOME..." He abruptly stood up and left the room.

I had to go to that circus. I imagined Shanta sitting in the front row, enjoying the show, the cotton candy and seeing the animals up close. I had every right to be there with her. For some reason, my father did not think I deserved to be there. I remember frantically looking in my bedroom for the tickets. We had received free ones in the paper and we put them away in a special place. The ignorant me thought that it was a question of money. The smarter, more latent me knew that my wandering ways invoked anger and frustration in my father. I sat on my bed and cried while my mother continued to look for the tickets.

I do not remember what happened next but I was told years later that I had escaped from the house only to be missing for an hour. I returned home one hour later after a call from a neighbour down the street had confirmed a sighting....

Being painfully shy for most of my childhood, I was shocked to learn that I was found by my father, completely naked in the street. He brought me home, very ashamed and now fully aware that he was dealing with a very shrewd negotiator. My mother told me later that I was non-responsive upon my return home, tears streaking my face. She was so perturbed by my state that she sat my father down and tore a strip off of him. A very rare moment for her.

Although I did not go to the circus, the word NO was now always followed by an explanation. My mother had gotten through to him...well sort of.

My actions bared my soul--among other things. Something he never wanted to see again.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Embrace the world...but be back before dinner!

Our neighborhood growing up was like the UN. We had Italian neighbors right next door. Larry was 6 or 7 years old and his father was an electrician. Our black and white TV always had issues with the antenna and Larry's father would spend hours in his garage-converted-into-a-shop fixing our TV I dubbed "Henry".

Shanta lived across the street and I practically lived at her house. She kept telling me she was from Ceylon which I could not comprehend. I am pretty sure I did not know I was Pakistani at the time. Being only 4 years old, my world only encompassed the population on my street.

My backyard was across the backyard of a Mexican family. I cannot remember the name of the overweight boy from their family who used to follow me everywhere. He was the cowboy and I was aptly rendered the "indian" as he chased me all over our neighborhood. Windows would fly open with people yelling at us to stop yelping and hooting.

My claim to fame at the age of four was my ability to ride a two-wheeled bike. My father started me with training wheels but grew tired of coming home after work and holding my bike while I wobbled for an hour. Our German neighbour, Godfried, who lived two doors down was the father of my best friend, Melissa. He was a kind and gentle giant. Over 6 foot 4, this statuesque man bent over nearly everyday to hold my bike and push me on my way. My father would sit on the porch of our house, peeling pistachios and cheering Godfried on as if I was HIS daughter.

After four days, the bike and I became one. And I felt the gears automatically shift inside of me. I developed a new found confidence. It also meant that I was never home. Like the teenage daughter who received her driver's license, my little green bike took me away from home, from my sister's howls, my father's disapproving looks and my mother's harsh bathtime hands to a world where I tasted the various countries I had never actually travelled to.

Germany, Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Mexico, India, Scotland, Italy, etc. I went to these exotic homes, learned the language (well just the curse words), ate the food, learned the religion (my Indian friend--whose name eludes me right now--had many pictures of Gods that resembled elephants who wore ample lipstick and were very flexible) and I eventually became a fixture in each house because it was a new experience I craved everyday.

I do remember most parents asking me if I had to go home. I would humbly shake my head and insist that my father knew where I was. Truth was, most of the time he had no clue and would wander our street and adjacent crescents for his wayward daughter. My mother would sigh as I left the house at 8am in the morning and return at 9pm at night.

My father would trek out every night, find me, put his palms together, offer his apologies to the owner of the house I hijacked and drag me home.

"It is not honorable for a girl to be out all hours of the day. People will think you don't like to live at home with us," my father said repeatedly.

"But I DON'T like living at home! I need peace and quiet," I replied, mimicking the exact daily sentiments my father passed onto my mother about my sister's incessant crying.

He threw his hands up in the air. "You think you are so smart? One of these days, you will learn your lesson" as he wagged his finger at me and lightly smacked my bottom. This loose punishment was a daily exercise I knew all too well and thought nothing of.

She understood my need and did not stop me. Now that I look back, I think a part of my mother left with me when I would back out my green bike from the garage and embrace each day's new adventures. Upon return, my father would sit me down in our living room, which in fact became the 'interrogation' room, while my mother would smile at me from the kitchen, with encouragement, as I rolled my eyes at him each time.

She always had my back even when she scolded me in front of him, which I understood immediately was a sign of conformity so not to elicit more anger from her husband.

Despite having a three month old baby and another one on the way, she ignored her own hardships to ensure I had two things: Love and Freedom.

But it would end all too soon.

Monday, March 19, 2012

How dare she.

I sat looking at her out of the corner of my eye. I do not recollect exactly when my sister was born, but this alien had invaded our home in a blink of an eye. She was small, hairy with oddly shaped hands (too big for the rest of her body) and she howled day and night. She had entered the world that once revolved around me. My dominion. My sphere. My haven. The place where my parents only worshipped me.

How dare she.

I immediately made up my mind. I did not like her.

I vaguely remember the night when my mother and father were at the hospital. My babysitter was a buxom teenager who lived down the street. She had red hair, red lips and freckles all over her body. These spots intrigued me. With my jet black hair and dark skin, freckles were a novelty to me. We got along because she was a free spirit too. She allowed me to 'connect the dots' with her freckles using a pen and laughed when I asked why her boobs were so big. She told me that my mom was having a baby and I remember asking her where babies came from.

"The hospital, of course! But a man and a woman have to kiss first."

That was my first introduction to the concept of sex and I pondered her explanation while I ate dinner, as I changed into my pajamas and while I sat with her as we both watched TV. I felt special that night because it was past my bedtime and she allowed me to hang out with her. So my father kissed my mother and now they were picking up the baby from the hospital? What the heck? The pen marks on her legs looked like varicose veins.

"So if my dad kisses my mom again, they will have to go back and pick up another baby?" I asked incredulously.

My babysitter shook her head and took the pen out my hand. "You will find out when you grow up. It will spoil the surprise if I tell you everything now!" She lifted me up off the carpet and put me on the couch. I began to rock furiously back and forth

The more emotional and utterly confused I became, the more I rocked. My parents had kissed me on the cheek and I knew no baby had resulted from this action. It took me awhile to figure it out.

Ephiphany: Man and woman must kiss on the lips to create a baby.

But how did this relate to receiving the baby at the hospital?
How did doctors at the hospital know my parents kissed?
Or was it my parents duty to call the hospital to inform them and then they were awarded the baby?

Millions of questions were flung at my babysitter as I rocked violently on the sofa. So much so that she grew impatient and picked me up to put me to bed.

"You told me you kissed your boyfriend last week. Where is your baby?!" My babysitter rolled her eyes and closed the door. Darkness enveloped me.

And that was the last thing I remembered as I sat looking at this wrinkly, ugly, creature sitting in a bouncy chair. She was only two months old. I don't recall her age but because this story has been recounted over and over again within the family, the age factor has a huge impact on the story's end.

My mother had her back to me as she cooked in the kitchen. She was talking to me as I sat at the table but I was plagued by the fact that she offered me no eye contact. It made me feel less important. My sister sat in the bouncy chair close to my mother but slightly behind her. Her proximity also caused me great distress.

How dare she...be closer to MY mother.

I sat on the edge of my seat, unable to focus on my colouring book. It was a second choice pick of Robin Hood and his merry men. I wanted the Disney book with all the princesses. I was downgraded because my mother had to find my sister new bibs and no time was allocated to dig through the colouring book pile to find my princesses.

How dare she.

I pushed my colouring book aside and slithered from the table towards the bouncer. I watched my mother stirring the pot out of the corner of my eye and tipped toed towards the alien. She was fast asleep for once. Her cries kept me awake night after night and I knew deep down inside that she was a banshee let loose from hell to torment me.

I slowly moved the bouncer away from my mother towards the kitchen table. I answered her questions from the table so she would not suspect anything.

We lived in split bungalow with our kitchen, living and dining room on the second floor. There was a deep staircase leading down to our family room and the one bedroom where I had been stashed away upon the birth of the alien.

I moved the bouncer to the top of the stairs and stopped. I turned slowly to my mother who continued to cook, unaware of my strategic plan to eliminate the alien presence once and for all.

I had it all planned out. Robin Hood even seemed to be cheering me on from the cover of that stupid colouring book that fell precariously over the table. I opened my mouth, synchronizing my verbal alert with my foot at the helm of the bouncer. Humpty Dumpty was about to be catapulted from the wall.

"Mummy, ....and we all fall down..." My mother turned just as I launched my foot against the bouncer. I will never forget the horror in her eyes as the alien/banshee/ugly creature/Humpty Dumpty went over the top step.

My dear mother, the one who never raised her voice nor screamed, fought to find her voice as she ran down the stairs after my sister. My father heard the ruckus from the third floor bedroom and came running down as I returned to my dreaded colouring book and put a moustache on Robin Hood. Now he looked handsome...just like my father.

Needless to say, the banshee survived. And I had to put up with her and the lack of attention. Rebellion never looked so good....