Characters on Fawn Drive

* An email from a friend reminded me of how rich this daycare was with memories. No kidding, I could write a book just on this experience alone. Enjoy this small retrospective for now….

By the time I was 5 years old and integrated into Kindergarten I was used to the routine of my life. At 5:30 am I would hear Oliver walk past my room into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and leave for work shortly after. At 6:00 am my dad would rouse me out of bed for breakfast. While I was eating and making sure my furry shepherd mix companion Karma was getting some under the table scraps as well, my dad would be in my room picking out an outfit for me (no dresses though! I was all pants being the follower of Allegra that I was) and making my bed. Did I mention I was a Princess? By 7:00 am my dad was dropping me off at Jackie’s and off to work.

Arriving at Jackie’s was always an event. Who was there? Was she in a good mood? Were we watching television or was it a music day? Were we allowed outside? Can we go down to the play ground at the school? I arrived always looking for one of my friends: Allegra, Helen, Farah, Sam, Lance or Lawrence. I was never particularly fond of Jackie’s kids. Matt was closer to my age being 3 years older than me, but something was off about him and I could sense that at a young age. He also seemed obsessed with Allegra’s older sister Arianna. While I wanted to be included with her kids because Jackie watched me over the summer and when Oliver and my dad went on vacation, I just did not want to be too close. Matt would later be found guilty of being inappropriate with young girls and is currently serving time in prison for this. Yes, even as a child I listened to my intuition and no he never touched me or anyone else I knew of at daycare.

Typically, Allegra and Arianna were late and this was due to their mom. Her clock is not like other people’s clocks by which I mean hers is always about 10 – 20 minutes behind. So, I would find Helen or Farah and off we would go. Helen and Farah were girly. They liked flowers, holding hands and all things dainty. They were a good balance from Allegra and Helen lived right down the street from me so she was available even after daycare. With these two friends we became a three-some and I learned that flowers in the hair were pretty, you could suck honey out of a  certain blue flower, chew on wild mint to make your breath smell different and that being affectionate with your friends is a wonderful bond. All of us had bright blue oceans in our eyes but I had white gold hair, Helen had spun wheat and Farah’s hair was the prettiest obsidian hair I had ever seen. We were totally Charlie’s Angels and laughing was our specialty.

Lance was a child who did not respond to punishment of any kind. He was a “bad boy” even at the age of 4. A blond kid with glasses who spoke like a true sailor. It was not uncommon to find him in the bathroom crying from the soap that was still burning his mouth courteous of Jackie. Nonetheless, “no” meant go at full speed and I have never seen someone in constant trouble. Lawrence was his older brother and while he had the same face he was taller with light brown hair. He was smarter, still devious and slightly more attractive. He had an air of creativity around him all the time, but unfortunately it was directed at how best to annoy Jackie. It was Lawrence that came up with the idea one summer to make water balloons out of plastic bags with their discarded ties left on the campus from summer camp lunchtime. It was Lawrence who thought to hide up on the hill with these bags and throw them at unsuspecting vehicles trying to make their way around an unforgiving steep curve on the hill to Jackie’s house. And it was Lawrence who taught Lance how to curse with emphasis. When we were beckoned back to Jackie’s because she somehow knew what were were doing all of the time if it involved trouble, it was Lawrence who never seemed to get punished because he would arrive separately from our guilty group. Lawrence was the small devil that sits on your shoulder telling you it is okay to commit this one small infraction.

Sam was the beautifully innocent child that everyone wanted to be around. After hormones invaded my body in junior high school, he would become the one boy who was my age that I truly thought I loved. At daycare it was no different only we were lacking the hormones. Everyone wanted to play with this kid, wanted him on his team or just wanted to be around him. He was shy but social. He was never too dominating and yet he was a gifted athlete even at a young age. If he was at Jackie’s, I was next to him and because he was such a good child he never pushed anyone away. I realize now, of course, that while I thought I was a special friend to him (both Allegra and I were convinced we were his favorite playmates) he was in actuality just a really gentle soul. We were no more special to him than anyone else, but he had that affect on people. Everyone thought you were his best friend. It is a wonder he did not get into politics or some profession assisting people. I am still convinced he has yet to locate his calling.

More to come………..

This is what family looks like

Happiness is a little girl loved by her two daddys

A very happy father’s day to all of the daddy’s out there. I am blessed with two father’s who continue to love and support me as I do them. Which is all that matters to a child…do their parents love and cherish this child? Will they do everything in their power to protect their child? Gay parents, straight parents, adopted parents, transgendered parents, lesbian parents, bi-sexual parents and plain ol parents all feel the same way. Yes they will and do.

So a special HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to my two wonderfully loving dad’s who continue to guide me through the best and worst of times! I love you!!!

My Mom the explanation

My mother was a wonderfully flawed human being much like all of us. She was a contradiction and a mystery to me. She loved me but she abandoned me. She missed me but she was always in trouble. She was brutally honest at times and yet she lied incessantly. She must have been thankful to me dad providing a good life for me and yet she seemed to hate him. My mother was someone I did not really know and yet I did. Most of my family and her friends knew here more intimately than I did and yet I was someone she seemed to treasure. 

I don’t claim to understand her and I can only speak of what has been relayed to me. I hear these stories and I am able to weave them into an understanding of the person she allowed me to see through inconsistent phone calls. My mother was one of six children. She was no doubt a middle child seeking attention but she seemed to have a knack for obtaining this attention. She was outgoing, made friends easily and certainly beloved by most who met her. She was undoubtably very close and very dependent on her siblings. The photos I have her from when she was a child show her happy, gregarious and innocent. I see myself in her through these photos. She never did explain her family to me. She seemed to always want me for herself. There was never an effort for me to know my aunts, uncles and cousins – when she called me she only wanted to talk about the present and she never wanted to discuss anything but how much she loved and missed me. Because I was so young and so shy and so afraid of adults, I never challenged her on this until I was older and had found my voice. 

My mom never tell the tale of how she lost her parents and the effect this had on her and her siblings. Her mother and father died within a short period of time of each other. A family grieving wondering what to do with six kids shipped them all off to different family members. My mother was separated from her siblings not just by a few houses or towns, but by many miles and states. She was brought to Texas to live with a more religious family; this was not a life she was accustomed to. My mother the outgoing showman…the one who put on plays for the neighborhood, the one who would later get up on stage with Chuck Berry and dance, the gymnast, the singer, the artist, the writer, the joker and the one who would destroy herself through substance abuse because she could not tolerate the pain of remembering. My mother was taken from everything she knew but at least someone was willing and had the means to raise her. 

I know almost nothing about the Texas family except that she disliked the restrictions and ran to them when times got tough. I know that she never described her time there as happy, but I imagine this had more to do with grieving her parents and needing her siblings to grieve with rather than being unloved. It must have been earth shattering for her not to have anyone she depended on near her during this time and numbing to be away from anything familiar. This would have been a formative time for her. Puberty was just around the corner, it is a time when children start to separate from their parents emotionally and children begin to see highlights of who they will be as an adult. My mother was wounded and had no remedy for the pain. 

She journaled to me while she was pregnant and through my first 2 years of life. She wrote about her joy of being a mother, her depression, her worries of being a new mother, how much I stimulated and amazed her, I can see flecks of anger about my dad in her writing, I can hear her smile when she was writing and mostly she wrote about how much she loved me. In these letters, she seemed genuinely happy. It is in these letters I am assured of a mothers love and I am able to forget her flaws. I was someone who would always be hers. I would always be her daughter. I can remember her happiness when she was playing soft ball with her red glove. That smile would find me every time I needed it. I am able to remember my antics as a young free child that would infuriate her at the moment but send her into hysterics as she would relive the story. In my mother’s eyes, I could do no wrong. Not even when I eventually rejected her. 

My dad, however, would not always be hers to own and control. They had an arrangement that became disagreeable to both of them. She had, as I explained, always been adept at getting attention and the manner in which she attempted this with my dad is not something he has ever forgiven her for and I imagine she never forgave herself either. When she was most angry at my dad he would ignore her. She just wanted to have safety and security in this relationship and my dad was not able to provide this to her. This only turned her anger into a seething fury;  she knew the one thing that would get him to engage in a battle with her was if she upset me; hurt me. And so she did. And I remember the fear even though I have tried to forget. And I remember their fights: physical, emotional and a loudness that could silence a screaming stadium.

Eventually my dad left and eventually my mom discovered substances that would soothe her for longer periods of time. She was agreeable to letting my dad take me and saw no reason to fight it because she believed it would be temporary. It was not. I had a stable home and a mostly stable home life. My mother was thankful for it and insanely jealous of it. Her drug induced telephone calls to me were a stranger. She was scattered, cruel at times, inflicted guilt, babbling and needing reassurance that her daughter loved her. I was scared of her when she called and she was high. My dad not wanting to disrupt her relationship with me allowed these calls. He explained to me that he did not want to protect me from my mother. She was who she was and I needed to love her for all of her and not just one side. No one is single faceted and there were good times with her. He always said it was up to me to dictate my relationships with my family. I actually preferred when she was in jail because she was sober and I could follow her train of thought. She was funny, loving, sad at times and wanting to see me. But, she only came once when I was 5 years old. The next time I would see her it just be the shell of her body she left behind. 

My mother is an easy target to be angry at, but this is not all of who she was. This was mostly who she let me see and I see her through a child’s eyes that were trying to make sense of her life and surroundings. I stopped contact with her when I was about 12 years old. She was too far gone and too angry when she was calling. I had found my voice at this age and I started using it. I was also very angry, very hurt and confused with our relationship. I was scared of her coming to visit me and yet I could not understand what kept her from me. I asked her not to call anymore until she got sober. To my amazement she stopped heroin for sometime, we reconnected but unfortunately alcohol became her new demon friend. For my own mental health I could no longer entertain a relationship with her. Her family tried many times to help her, but she was sick and she was hurt. I believe my mother suffered from a debilitating form of depression and this was what she eventually succumbed to. 

I believe any of us could take successful aim at our parents, but what we fail to see is the love they have provided to us in their attempts to be good parents and good people. Our parents want us to see them as good people. They want to be our heros, our teachers and our role models. My mother selflessly gave up her daughter because she knew she could not provide a better life than what was being offered. She let me go so I could succeed. If that is not complete evidence of a mother’s love, I do not know what is. 

So as you read this story, I ask you to look at a few things: first and foremost the names have been changed and some of the details altered to protect those I love; there are no villains in this story (except for my 4th grade teacher); and this story is both my catharsis and my joy. I love all 3 of my parents and I am a better person for all of them.

Gay Life…the first memory

One of my first memories is when my mom and my dad were together. I was about 2 years old and we lived in the same apartment complex as my mom’s youngest sister, aka my babysitter. I remember that my dad hung out at his friend’s place a lot where interestingly enough there were only men around. This was my first clue that my dad was gay. He would take me every now and then. I remember enjoying this apartment because they all treated me like little doll. They enjoyed holding me and catering to my requests. I was, after all, a Princess in Training. I was a tiny blue eyed blonde object of affection for all of his friends. I could not get enough of them and their cooing. They bought me toys and books for my visits. My uncles took care of me. They read to me, they cradled me in the blanket my grandmother knitted for me and they would talk to me as if I was the most important person in the world. The best part of it was that I was near my dad. 

Anywho, one of my very first memories is my mom and my dad getting into an argument. I remember they were yelling at each other, I was scared with the screaming and then the worst thing that could have happened occurred…my dad left. I ran after him. He was walking quickly and all I could see, being as that I was vertically challenged at the time, were his red stitched leather ankle boots and his jeans swaying around them. I tried to follow him past the pool and to his friends house, but I kept falling. The pathway had a slight incline and for reasons I cannot remember I had an inner-tube around my waste that I was desperate not to lose. I finally relented to the ground and started to cry. I cried the abandonment cry; ya know the one where you hyperventilate? Through my stinging tears I saw what I had hoped for. My legs stopped their brisk walk, turned around and great big hands scooped me up. He pulled my head to his neck and whispered “Honey, I didn’t know you were behind me.” Everything was instantly better. 

A year later my dad left my mom. Their arrangement no longer worked for him and her acceptance of who he was waned. My dad was my world; daddy’s girl does not quite describe it. I worshipped him and was addicted to his love. He visited me after he left but not as often as I wanted. I was only 3 years old and the world I had known was constantly changing. Actually, I don’t think it had ever been stable. My dad was gay. My mom knew this but in her desperation for love and consistency, she was willing to accept anything and any circumstances. I was not planned, but I was planned manipulation. This was not the first time my dad had left her. She had seduced him one night after what he thought was his final departure and I was the result. My dad was not surprised at the news because this had been resolved before, but this was the first time she had said she was keeping the baby. My dad’s reaction was a shock to her; he was elated. I often wonder what she had hoped for, but in truth it is painful to ponder. They were back together, my mom was happy and my dad was excited about becoming a father. Life was tolerable for them after I was born. I was their glue; the only thing they seemed to have left in common. My dad was in complete wonderment of me, but my mom was jealous of his attention. Oh she adored me…there is no doubt of that. Her affection was infectious and she never held back on telling me how much she loved me. My family says it was the happiest time in her life and her journal reflects this. My dad, however, became more distant and my mom resorted to drugs to soothe her pain. He would no longer give into her requests and attempted seduction. After 2 years of this game, my dad had met someone he could not stay away from. The problem was that this man lived in California and I lived in Washington. My dad decided he could visit and moved to California to follow his heart. He did not think my mom could handle if he took me from her. 

To be continued……..