1975-1978 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
1975 Breast Exam (grade 10)
I am in the bathroom brushing my hair.
When Mother steps inside
with Sister behind.
The two descend upon the narrow space.
Their forms double in the mirror covering the wall.
My wire brush hits a knot. I tug. Pull harder.
Mother says, “I need to check your breasts.”
“What?” I say. Continuing to tease out the knotted hairs.
Sister slides beside Mother and looks on. Mute.
Mother steps closer. “I need to see
if your breasts are the same size.”
I clench the brush
pull it from my tangles.
“No,” I say.
“Your Sister’s are different sizes.”
Mother stands firm. In front of me.
Her eyes penetrate.
Her words bore in like a tick to skin.
“So. Go to the doctor.”
“I don’t want to bother him
if nothing is wrong,” Mother says.
I stretch to my full height.
They are both taller.
“Lift your shirt and help your sister.”
I back away. Mother steps closer.
Her stone face presses toward me.
Sister stands behind barring the door.
“Now. Lift your shirt.”
I step back.
“What the fuck!” I want to say.
My words stick
like Rubber Cement in my throat.
I step back further.
My back bumps the wall.
My leg hits the toilet paper dispenser.
No further. No escape. No choice.
“Lift your shirt,” Mother orders.
I twist and turn away from Sister
and roll up my shirt.
“Take it off,” Mother commands.
She grabs one side and helps pull it off.
I stand frozen like a Roman statue
undraped on top. Breasts exposed.
I stare at the ceiling
and shiver.
Ice cold hands,
finger nails long and scratchy,
poke and pry
my right breast. Then my left breast.
Mother squeezes them like they are dough.
Mother talks to Sister. Not me.
A private discussion. About my breast size
like I am an item of clothing. A lifeless
lump of bread dough
to be pressed and poked.
Prodded and pushed.
Cold fingers against my skin. Explore
my breasts.
Goose bumps erupt
like tiny pinches all over my arms.
Mother lets go
of my breast.
and stares at my naked torso.
“My God,” she says,
“what happened to you!”
A torpedo blasts inside my chest.
Stabs like a knife right through my heart.
“Fifteen. And you’ve hardly developed,” Mother says.
“All the woman in our family line
are big busted women. Me. Your sister.”
Mother sighs and shakes her head.
I grab my t-shirt and whip it over my head.
“That’s enough,” I say.
Mother turns and leaves with Sister.
The bathroom walls cave in. Collapse on me.
Choking. Gasping. I sputter for air.
I fall onto the tub rim. Shaking.
Buried alive.
********
1975 That Time of the Month (grade 10)
Blood drips onto the bathroom floor.
A clump of toilet paper
soaked red.
I gasp. My heart leaps into my throat.
I think, “I am dying.”
Thoughts scatter
race in myriad directions.
A deep breath
overlays.
Frenetic slows. Calms.
Clarity returns.
“It’s okay,” I say aloud. Shaking.
“Period. It’s my period.”
Finally.
I exhale blowing air
through a narrow embouchure
whistling down from high C.
I hunt the cabinet for supplies.
Rummage through Mother’s hair products.
Rolls of toilet paper.
I hold up a plastic tube of two Tampons.
I stick to toilet paper.
Until I tell Mother.
Next month.
********
First Bra (1976 Grade 11)
I sink low in my seat.
Mother drives to Woodwards Department Store.
Mother parks near the front door.
It is early. And quiet.
I slam the car door and pray
I don’t see anyone I know.
We walk upstairs in silence
turn left to the Ladies Lingerie Department.
I want to run. I can manage without a bra.
But the girls at school notice
I don’t wear one
when we change for Grade 11 P.E. class.
And giggle and point.
Mother spots a saleslady
old like Mother.
“My daughter needs a bra,” she says.
My face turns red.
The lady unwraps a measuring tape
from around her neck.
“I will need to measure your bust.”
Her large firm breasts sit high.
Stare stiff ahead.
Arms adjust the tape around my nipples.
“You’re a tiny thing,” she says.
Measuring tape whips back around her neck.
“We have beginner brassieres
that will fit her,” she says to Mother.
My face turns
a deeper shade of red.
Mother follows the saleslady.
I wait outside the change room beside
rows and boxes of bras.
Trying on my first bra.
The saleslady returns
an armful of boxes.
She drags tightly folded bras
out of small flat boxes.
Bras lay limp over her arm.
Boxes line up on the counter.
“We will start with these,” she says
and marches past me. Mother follows.
The lady stacks the hooks full of bras.
“Try these on. I will be right outside.
Call me when you find one you like.”
She shuts the door behind her.
I sift through the piles. Choose two that are simple.
One fits.
“How are you doing in there?” the lady says.
“Fine.”
“Open the door so we can take a look,” Mother says.
I change fast. I open the door.
“This one fits fine. I will take it,” I say.
********
1975 Math Class (Grade 10)
I leave the dim hallway behind.
Ahead stretches the classroom
A vast sea of desks. Mine in the far corner.
Two steps from my seat. His voice booms like thunder,
bounces off the back wall.
“Looook claaass!” Mr. Forsyth rises from his chair
expands to his full 6 foot 7 height. Steps toward
the blackboard and my aisle.
He raises his arm above his head.
A basketball clings to his left hand.
My face turns hot. Student eyes zero in.
I sit down. Stare at my books.
Bell rings. Time for the Math lesson to begin.
Mr. Forsyth continues, “Miss Farenholtz….”
I stiffen.
“Miss Farenholtz has decided to join us!”
he says. A hint of sarcasm.
I crumple behind my desk.
Forsyth scores.
I sink deeper in my seat. Defeated.
Forsyth scribbles algebraic expressions
on the blackboard,
a basketball still held fast to his left hand.
“Renate leans over, “I hate you.”
I shoot her a puzzled look.
“You never come to Math class.
When you do come,
you work on French homework!”
And you still get an ‘A’! Not fair.”
I glance at the board. Simple.
Learned last year with Mr. Chin.
I write in my notebook. Absorbed
when Mr. Forsyth’s voice hits my desk.
I startle. Seek to find my bearings.
“Miss Farenholtz will you answer
the next question?”
I slip my French homework aside.
Slide my Math book forward.
“Which question, sir?” I ask.
I give my answer.
“Correct,” Mr. Forsyth says.
A point for me. I smile.
Pull out my French assignment
due next class.
********
Spring 1976
Luscious orange juice sloshes
like waves smacking the sides of the dock
at Jericho Beach.
I grip the jug with both hands
and tip the spout ready to pour.
Strands of morning sunlight pierce
the glass container.
Explode into myriad fragments
that radiate warmth.
Juice gushes out eager to fill
my cup. Overflows
and splatters like paint on an artist’s palette.
“Think!” Brother says.
His hot sweaty mass
towers over my shoulder
like an inferno.
My hand shakes.
I drop the jug onto the counter.
And brace myself.
Brother clenches his fist.
Arm muscles spill out of his shirt.
Brother shakes his fist
at the mess. At me.
“Think, Karen. Think!”
I stand mute.
I stare at the small puddle
that encircles my glass.
Brother drops his arm. His chest heaves.
He grabs his protein powder shake.
Guzzles it down.
Wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
And punches the air again.
His words hit hard.
Translate to idiot.
Embarrassment.
I look at my glass
and Think,
“A spill. A puddle
of two tablespoons.”
I Think
to leave quietly. With my glass of OJ.
Before he presses into me again
and thinks to bleed me for a pint.
Or a pound
of my flesh.
His words rattle in my head
like a note. Off-pitch. Shrill.
I glance over to see
Brother bend his right arm at the elbow and
squeeze his fist hard. A baseball shape erupts
below his shoulder. Bulges. Erect.
Brother punches with his free hand
grins and walks away
to press more weights. Not me.
I carefully lift my glass,
lean over the counter
and slurp up the tiny orange puddle
of liquid sunshine.
********
Pink Liquid (Grade school years)
I am thirsty
after biking and baseball.
I kick off my shoes
Head for the fridge.
The plastic juice container
sits on the kitchen counter
full of bright pink juice.
“Perfect. Pink Lemonade,” I say.
I grab a glass from the cupboard
and begin to pour.
Mother comes up the stairs
and says, “No. That’s for my plants.”
“What?” I say. Puzzled.
Plants drink lemonade?
“That’s for my plants,” Mother says.
My jaw drops.
“In the Orange Juice container?”
Mother doesn’t answer.
Pink poison.
I sit down. No longer thirsty.
********
1975 Broken
I look for Mother upstairs.
Find Brother downstairs
lifting weights in the basement.
Mother sits nearby on the couch.
Watching. Waiting to spot him.
I ask Mother a question. Simple.
Brother stops lifting.
Drops his barbells. Stands.
Question answered,
I turn to walk away.
Two steps forward
something crashes
into my mid-back.
A force
collides with my spine.
like a sledge hammer blow
reduces, crumbles.
Like an axe. Cut. I fall
onto the cement floor.
Limp. Breath gone.
Brother rises to full height.
Six feet expands to eight
as Brother swings above his head
the teak bowl
Mother brought in Hawaii last year.
Solid wood.
Armed to hit. Again.
I scream, “Stop him.”
Brother says to Mother,
“I have the right to hit her.”
“Oh, my God,” I say.
Muscles shiver. Vibrate the resonance of terror.
Brother says, “Robert Percival
is allowed to hit his sisters.”
Brother stands overhead
poised to attack. Weapon in hand.
“Say, ‘No.’”
Blood pumps and pounds my chest. My back.
Breath suspended.
Mother says, “That’s enough.
You may not hit your sisters.”
The platter crashes down
beside me. Brother stomps upstairs.
Mother rises.
Walks past me
without looking down.
without stopping to see if I am okay.
without asking if I can still
walk.
The Beatle’s record spins
round and round.
“Help.”
Echoes from the black and purple wallpaper.
Pain. Like pounding nails, hammers my back
between my shoulder blades.
I inhale.
My chest lifts. Stops.
My ribs say, “No.”
Breathing hurts.
Pain. Razor sharp
shoots across my mid-spine.
Buckled. Head bent
over the cold hard floor.
Muscles tight. Gripped with fear.
I straighten. Slow. One vertebrae at a time.
Toes wiggle. Slow. Knees bend.
Slowly. I stand. And hobble. To the freezer.
I hold a flat package of frozen meat
against my back.
To numb the pain. To slow the swelling.
I close my eyes.
Tears escape.
“Thank God, I can still walk.
Pain. But I can walk. Thank God,
he didn’t put me in a wheel chair.”
********
1976 Grade 11
No one warns me.
No one explains when I ask.
“You’ll find out,” they giggle.
Waves crash against logs.
The tide is high.
Wind thrashes trees.
Freighters in the harbour.
Lights nod off
on the North Shore mountains.
“A walk?” I say.
We talk instead. At first.
He leans across. A kiss.
His zipper. My heart pounds.
Our third date.
I pull back.
He pushes me down.
Pins me under. Holds
his appendage
in his hand. Shoves
it at my face.
Searches for my mouth.
I twist. Turn my head away.
He crushes my frame.
Holds my head.
“Stop,” I say.
He sits on my chest. Presses harder.
“You want this,” he says.
“No,” I say. I thrash my head away.
A light flashes. Scans.
He whips his pants up. Zips.
I straighten.
A shadowed figure. A rap on the glass.
“Open up.”
He obeys. And rolls down the driver’s window.
A flashlight beam on my face.
“You okay?” the officer says.
I nod. Wide-eyed.
Asks how old I am. “Sixteen,” I say.
“Drive her home,” the officer says.
He nods.
The police car follows us
until we turn down my street.
No one warned me.
No one explained
submarine races.
********
People whisper and stare
when I step into school
the next day.
I shake off the feeling
that students are talking
about me.
Chatter hushes
when I step into Geography class.
Mr. Speck looks at me funny.
Turns to write something
on the blackboard.
I sit down. At my table at the front.
Students whisper and stare.
“What’s going on?” I ask my friend.
He hesitates.
“I broke up with him. Last night,” I say.
A rumour. Sparks.
From a Lie. Flicked on another’s ears
like a match dropped on dry brush.
Spreads
like wild fire through the school.
The rumour. Scorches.
My truth raped. Twisted.
Cruel labels unleased.
Boasts stretched tall
to protect pride. Saves
a stud’s reputation. Hides
his lost conquest.
His first trophy.
A rumour. Devours. Screws
a teen girl’s reputation. Screws
her
over
and over.
Someone whispers
loud enough for me to hear.
Horror slams my chest.
Shame rolls over me.
I flee.
Bound down the hallway.
My friend follows.
I stop and turn.
“It’s not true. All lies.” I say.
Knees buckle. Head spins.
I sink to the ground.
I bury my head in my hands and sob.
“This cannot be happening.”
A line drawn in the sand. To protect
myself. My body.
My truth stomped. Sacrificial lamb.
His lie. Keeps spinning.
Spreading like wild fire through
my safe place.
********
I drag my feet up the back steps.
Into the kitchen.
A backpack of homework
weighs heavy on my back.
Gossip trails behind me
like ghosts whispering in the dark.
Hurtful words spin around in my head.
Blister rational thought.
Torment like an infected wound.
Waves of shame roll in like fog. Chill.
Devour confidence.
I kick off shoes.
Brother stands near. His face full of fire.
He unleashes an inferno of cruel words.
Repeats rumours.
Rages. Angry that I behaved
like a slut. His reputation scorched.
“You believe him? They are lies!”
Gossip gathers fuel. Burns hotter.
“What? Cockteaser?” I manage to squeak.
My heartbeat quickens.
I race outside not wanting to hear anymore.
I hop on my bike
pump my pedals.
Trees and houses a blur.
Tears drop
wiped away by the wind.
I drop my bike.
Sit on a rock by Musqueum Creek
that chatters childlike nonsense.
My body quietens. Calms.
I allow the mellifluous gurgling
to flow through and water
scorched places.
To quench wild fires of gossip
that still smolder.
The current is not strong enough
to wash away
the debris and unseen daggers
that punctured my playful
friendly delight in life.
********
Fear burns.
Fire ravages.
Trespasses my nocturnal subconscious.
Trapped.
A blazing inferno.
I awaken. Sweating.
Another dream
of my bedroom burning bright.
It is the weekend. Everyone home.
I stand in the kitchen
where the air the cold burns.
Another Cold War
ominous. Foreboding
between Mother
Father. Neither speaks
No words exchange.
But tension hangs in the air.
Palpable like vapour
from the kettle
suspended. Unseen
until it bumps
the glass window.
Mother butters toast.
Father sits at his spot.
Newspaper blocks his face.
The kitchen air compresses my chest.
Air so condensed a knife
could slice it.
Air tense with suppressed rage
like an atomic bomb
set to blow. To fragment
my world
with one wrong word.
With the touch of a button.
Mother’s button.
Father’s button.
I eat a bowl of Kellogg’s cornflakes.
Quickly. Quietly. Place my bowl in the sink.
Pad across the linoleum
onto the red carpet. Follow its winding blaze
down the hall to my bedroom.
Away from the epicenter.
should someone press
someone’s button
and melt the Cold War.
********
1970’s Escape
I hear Mother
raging
at the end of the hallway.
I leap for the window.
Hands on the sill
I hoist my body up
swing one leg up and over
like I do on my 10-speed.
I twist. And lower torso.
Feet search for paper thin ledge.
One hand reaches to close window.
Straighten curtain.
Mother whips open my bedroom door.
A truckload of air rushes forth
like a tidal wave onto shore.
Mother hunts the usual places.
Under my bed. The closet.
“Wait till I get my hands on you….”
Footsteps crescendo. Stop at the window
ajar an inch. Curtains rustle.
My breath catches in my throat.
Muscles hold fast.
Shoes tread on wood. Grow fainter.
Footsteps hit the carpet. Trample shag fibres.
Disappear.
I hold on. Hushed breath.
Release. Socks drop onto soil
with a hushed thud.
Eyes peeled. Ears attentive. Alert.
Sounds magnify.
Creep past woodpile.
I jump back. Muffle a yelp.
Web filaments paste to my face.
I wildly shake my head. Run fingers
through my long hair to free
a spider who may be lurking.
Peek around Laurel hedge. Scan.
“Darn,” I say.
Cannot dash across the lawn.
Neighbours sitting
at their kitchen window.
I retrace my steps.
Creep alongside the Laurel hedge.
Crawl through a labyrinth of cedar branches.
Climb over a neighbour’s fence.
Land on compost heap.
Dash down the lane to the park.
I wander lost. Dirty. Scratched.
Greenery clipped to hair.
Wandering outside for several hours.
Till the fire settles
with another vodka and orange juice.
Or till the bomb explodes on someone else.
********
1970’s Grandfather
Grandfather wears his hat and overcoat
Clasps hands behind his back.
Head high in the air
struts back and forth
across the driveway.
A neighbour greets me.
“Aren’t you lucky
to have your Grandfather living with you.
Such a nice old gentleman.”
I smile.
“He tells such interesting stories.”
I smile again.
Another neighbour hikes up the road.
Grandfather lifts his hat. Nods.
His greeting returned. His story cut short.
A car drives past.
Grandfather waves.
Smiles an ear to ear grin.
I walk onto the driveway.
Glance at Grandfather.
No one around.
Grandfather looks my way.
Launches into the story he saves for me.
A one sentence story.
“My Dear. The basement door. Is it locked?”
No wonderful war stories.
Not in our house.
Only for neighbours
and strangers on the street.
********
1970’s Locked Out
The house is dark. Only one light on
in the kitchen
when I arrive home
from volleyball practice.
I flip the screen door aside.
Turn and pull the door handle.
Locked.
I have no key. Need no key.
The back door stays unlocked
all day. All night
until the last person
arrives home.
I check the basement door.
Pull hard. It will not budge.
I knock at the back door.
Something stirs.
I knock again. A chair scrapes.
I climb up onto the porch railing
lean over. Look inside.
Grandfather sits at the table
reading the newspaper.
Torn cotton balls poke out of his ears
mingle with white beard hair.
Grandfather looks up. Sees me.
I knock and shout and point to the door.
He stares. Watches my drama.
He may not hear. But he sees.
He sits immoveable.
I plop down on the steps. To wait.
Outside in the cold.
Mother comes home.
Opens the door.
Smacks Grandfather.
“Why didn’t you open the door?”
Grandfather plays dumb.
“Dear. I didn’t hear,” he says.
Grandfather may not have heard me.
But he saw me.
********
1972 Wrist
Grandfather grabs my wrist
when I slip through the narrow gap
between the kitchen table and fridge.
Grandfather squeezes. He won’t let go.
I twist to wriggle free. He presses harder
like a vice clamping wood.
“Let go of me,” I say.
He squeezes tighter.
No one hears.
Mother comes in from the garden.
Grandfather lets go. I rub my red skin.
Mother smacks Grandfather,
“Don’t touch her again.”
Grandfather says, “The paper. Is it here?”
“Stay away from him,” Mother says.
********
1970’s My Turn
It is my turn to make lunch.
I drop one heaping tablespoon of
Maxwell instant coffee into a mug.
Sweeten with white sugar. Add cream.
Fill with boiling water.
Stir. And taste. My face contorts.
“Yuck.”
Four slices of white bread.
Cheese Whiz on one.
Ham and mustard and lettuce
on the other. I butter and slice
with kindness. Something I would eat.
My turn to deliver lunch
to the dungeon.
I descend the basement steps.
Stare at Grandfather sitting
at his desk reading the Bible.
Back turned. Head bowed.
Sunlight pours in.
Gives Grandfather an ethereal glow.
I take a deep breath. Step forward.
Deeper into the dungeon.
I call, “Lunch time.”
Grandfather rouses.
I place lunch
beside his Bible. And step back.
Pages greased from decades of touch.
I wrinkle my nose.
Grandfather smells of urine.
“Dear. The basement door. Is it unlocked?”
I nod my head. Pause at the door.
Grandfather bows his head. Prays.
Bites into a sandwich. Chews.
Slurps his coffee. Swallows.
His mustache bobs up and down.
Grandfather wipes his mustache
with a cloth napkin
he pulls from his pant pocket.
Grandfather reshapes his mustache
his fingers looping upside down
like a car on a Hot Wheels track.
Twists the ends tight. Two stiff points
that reach out to touch his ears.
fought on horseback
as a Cossack for the Russians. Who
“speaks and writes
eight languages fluently,” Father says.
“When did he turn white and cold
I shut the door. Leaving Grandfather
to eat alone. In silence.
Locked away
from four grown children.
Who never visit.
Grandchildren. Who call him
“Grandpitis.”
A lifetime of stories locked inside.
Fighting as a Cossack on horseback
in the Russian Army.
Buying his Mount Lehman farm
with his horse and the boots on his feet.
A Grandfather I will never know. A lifetime
of stories I will never hear.
********
1970’s Flying Low
I whip open the front door.
Leap down the cement steps.
Bolt onto the front lawn
flapping my arms. Wildly
to gain altitude. Vigorously
to join the birds flying by.
To flee
where wild things prowl.
Fingers cup.
Arms flap fast like wings
of a hummingbird
lift my feet off the ground.
Slow. One inch at a time
the gap widens between earth
and toes. I hover six feet up.
He bounds through the front door.
Down the steps.
My throat muscles tighten.
Nerves shatter like glass.
Arms pump harder.
Panic seizes hold
runs wild.
He stands below me.
A mountain peak of flesh. Raw.
Six feet high. His arms reach.
I yank my feet away.
Fold/collapse them to my chest.
My arms flap. Wild.
Holding six feet up.
An invisible glass ceiling
blocks. Prevents me
from rising higher.
He grabs one ankle. Grips tight. Pulls.
Hard.
I flap. Muscles fatigue. Kick. Frantic.
He pulls.
Harder.
Tug-a-war at six feet.
My mouth opens
to scream. The sound
of silence pours out.
Screams. Mute. Litter the lawn
like poppies.
No one sees.
No one saves
me.
Held hostage
by a 6 foot phallic symbol.
I bolt upright. Sweat
like goose-bumps clings to my skin.
Dampens
my nightgown.
Heartbeat hammers my chest
pounds in my ears.
Breath lost in my throat.
A dream
haunts my sleep
steals my rest.
A dream journal
for an English assignment.
I write. Dawn lighting my page.
Mother’s words buzz in my head
“People will look down on you
if they know what happens at home.”
l swat them away like a mosquito.
I drop my pen. Shut my notebook.
Abandon the tacit dream.
Wait
for a different nocturnal drama
to unfold.
One I can voice
safely.
********
1975 Saturday Nights
Another Saturday night.
And Mother sits in her armchair. Stained.
Mother watches television. Stories that terrify.
Fingers in her mouth. Chewing
her long nails to stumps.
Mother eats in the dark. Alone.
Foliage
her only company
crawls up the walls.
Spider plants drop
their babies overboard.
Dangling. Connected by a
thread. An umbilicus left uncut.
Rubber Trees discard leaves.
“Bone dry” and dead on the carpet.
Mother cranks the sound.
Characters yell. Cars screech.
Commercials disturb.
Mother clutches a drink
disguised. In a mask
of orange or cranberry.
“It’s just juice,” Mother says.
Snapping. Slurring. A simple sentence.
Mother hides. Stuffs
grey hairs inside a wig.
Mother hides. Stashes
vodka bottles behind cleaning products.
Mother’s keys hang on the hook
by the back door.
Her car sits in the driveway.
Mother staggers to bed.
Mother would never know.
But I ask permission
anyways.
“Mother?”
“What?” Mother says. Like she is under water.
“Can I borrow the car?”
No response.
“Can I borrow the car?” I say. Again. Louder.
Mother mumbles. Something.
“Good enough,” I say to myself.
I dash out. Grab the keys.
For a night out on the town
cruising Kerrisdale.
Drinking
orange crush
at McDonalds.
********
1978 Graduation
Graduation day.
My long gown sweeps the gym floor.
Two hundred sixty queen bees
buzz around me
dressed to celebrate the end
of high school.
Ceremony over.
Parents swarm the grads
to congratulate.
Mothers hug.
Fathers pat backs, shake hands.
Smile. Laugh. Snap pictures.
Hug some more.
I scan the gym.
Move closer to the entrance.
I spot Father. Mother. Wave them over.
Mother stands. Stares at others. Distracted.
Father stands. Stares. Mute.
I throw a nickel into the candy machine
to extract a sweet.
To stimulate conversation.
To make a connection.
I lift my hand. Two envelopes
flap like flags signaling success.
“So. I received two awards,” I say.
Mother waits. Lips pursed.
I look at Father. Silence.
Empty. Awkward. Silence.
Father stares. At me. Cold. Mute.
I shiver. My joy shrivels.
Mother says, “For God’s sake. Say. Something.”
Father stands. His coldness sears my heart
like hydrochloric acid on skin.
Nerves rattle. Chest pounds.
I thrash my scholarships in the air.
“I got straight ‘A’s. Two of six scholarships
and you can’t even smile!”
Fury unfolds. I crumple
and crush the paper envelopes
Heave them in Father’s face
Storm off.
Not my most glorious exit.
Emotions escalated.
Rage rushed through like a tsunami.
The end
of following
Mother and Father home.
A new path
carved by me
leading me out
of a dead end
street
a dead end.
To begin anew.
********
1975 Mother Forgets
Granny dies
while we swim and play
in Florida.
Mother never tells anyone
what city. Or what hotel.
Father never asks.
Her brothers bury Granny
while we hop the train
to Disney World.
Rain greets us at the Vancouver Airport.
News that her mother is gone
Mother crumples to the floor.
“They didn’t wait,”
Mother wails.
“Why didn’t they wait?”
Mother says
over and over
as she vomits into toilet.
********
May 1990 Visit
I teeter on the top stone step.
Reach for the latch.
“Ouch.”
Chicken wire shackles the gate.
Tears my flesh. Blood trickles.
I hug my finger.
“Keep out. Not welcome. Not wanted,”
the gate seems to say.
I search for another way
to reach the front door.
Foliage grows thick and high.
Shrubs press shoulder to shoulder
like sentinels guarding.
Branches entangle
lock arm and arm.
I walk around to the front lawn.
A wall of foliage bars the way.
Trees long forgotten rise tall
their limbs
twisted and tangled
poke at each other.
I sigh. I phoned earlier
from home.
I look up at the massive gray stone bricks
stacked one on top of the other. Rising
like a tower to the clouds.
Windows cloaked and shut tight
choke out all light.
“Mother,” I shout.
And wait.
Nothing stirs.
I toss a small stone.
It hits the window pane.
A shadow passes crosses one window.
My heart thumps.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,”
I say aloud.
A rumble at the side of the house.
I pick up my baby’s car seat
scurry to the driveway.
Garage door half opens.
A hand reaches out from the darkness
motions me inside.
“Hurry up,” Mother says.
I inhale. “Why do I think
this time will be different?”
********
Inside. Mother scowls.
Anger brews on her face
like a kettle ready to shriek.
Before Mother can speak
my finger darts to my lips.
“Hush, my baby sleeps,” I say.
Mother marches away.
I hold on tight
to my baby in her car seat.
Follow Mother
through the garage.
Rakes, tools, and buckets
threaten to topple or trip me.
I tuck my shoulder
lift my baby as I squeeze
between the side mirror of an old truck
and boards piled haphazardly.
In the basement.
Pink insulation droops.
Wires run wild between two-by-fours.
Daylight dizzy with dust filters in
through windows layered with scum.
I watch my feet. Careful to step
around random piles of recycling
and scraps of wood. “Your Father
won’t get rid of this junk,” Mother says.
Smoke from the fireplace.
And something rotting. Like death.
“It smells bad,” I say. Holding my breath.
“Well, I found dead rats in the back walls.”
I hug my baby closer.
Up a winding staircase.
Plastic flowers in a vase
thick with sawdust.
I follow Mother into her kitchen.
Pause by the door.
Loose papers, spilled kitty litter,
toppled plants, dirty dishes,
peeling laminate.
“Sit down,” Mother says.
Chairs piled high with old newspapers.
Table cloth covered in papers and dirty dishes.
Dusted with dander and cat hair.
A black cat stretches. Grooms himself.
My arms grow tired. I cringe
afraid to touch anything.
Mother says, “What’s your problem? Sit down.”
“There is nowhere to sit or put my baby,” I say.
My baby stirs.
“Can you clear me a space?”
Mother swings her hand in the air.
“Shoo. Shoo! Karen doesn’t want you here.”
Smacks her cat off the table.
Mother returns to the stove.
I roll back the tablecloth.
Place the baby seat down.
I stretch and rub my right arm.
My baby awakens. I smile at her. Soft words.
Soft touch to her cheek and tiny fingers.
Her lip trembles. I scoop her up.
Hold her in my arms.
The teapot screeches. Water boils.
Mother smacks the cat again.
“Get outside,” she shouts.
Mother slides the back door open
pushes the cat out with her shoe.
Closes the sliding door with a bang.
My baby cries. I hold her close.
Mother walks over.
Leans close.“Bad girl. Bad girl,”
Mother says to my baby.
I recoil. Rise tall.
Fierce protective
anger like a new mother bear.
“She – is – a – baby. Babies cry.
Never call my baby bad again.”
I grab the car seat. Turn around.
Walk away. Mother follows.
“Open your door. I’m leaving.”
Today I say, “No more.” To her bullshit.
Today marks a turning point
where I take back my power.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
Tears for the way
she labeled my baby.
Tears for all the pain
she dumped on me.
Tears
for the Mother I don’t have.
and never have had.
Tears.
For I am now the mother
she never was.
And capable of being the mother
I never had.
Of giving the love
I never received.
Of creating a connection
I have always longed for.
Where my child rises up
and calls me beautiful Mama.
********
QUOTE: “Her children rise up and call her blessed” (Proverbs 31:28 ESV).
********
1990 Doctor Peter
Vanessa sleeps in her carseat.
At my feet. While Dr. Peter and I talk
in quiet tones.
I sit back. Stunned by his clarity.
His words float in the air
like mist on a sunny day.
So light they drift away like dandelion seeds
launched and carried away by one breath.
“Can you repeat what you just said?
Please? I need to hear again.”
Dr. Peter smiles.
“They beat your body. But did not touch your spirit.”
I smile through tears.
Grateful.
Footsteps light. Skipping.
I walk out of his office
carrying the carseat and Vanessa
my little butterfly of hope under my arm.
They may have beat my body.
But could not touch my spirit.
Butterflies take flight
Dandelion seeds soft in my palm
I blow
They lift
fly off
into the air. Charting their own way.
I set off along my new path
as a mother.
Spirit strong and full of light
and joy
and hope.
Baby Vanessa safe in my arms.
Her eyes open.
Sunshine splashes her cheeks.
I smile
she smiles
I blow dandelion kisses
her way. Everyday.
********
2014 Beautiful
Creating beautiful relationships
with my children
has been my life work.
It is something I invested in
and did beautifully.
I succeeded
in building loving connections
with each of my daughters
who often call me their
“Beautiful Mama.”
********
1978 Don’t
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” I say
to Father.
********
1970’s Masked
Mother wears a mask
out in the world. “All is well,” it smiles.
At home.
Behind closed doors.
A different story.
A different mask.
IMAGE:
Mother wearing mask as dressed up in 1950s dress and cutting meat with a butcher’s knife.
Steven Klein, December 2007 Vogue: The Editor’s Eye, pp. 314-315
********
1968 Mental Institution
Fear
follows
like a stalker in the night.
“You’re going to send me
to the mental institution,” Mother says.
Driving to Granny’s in Haney.
Pass by New Westminster.
Mother points. “Look. The mental institution.”
I crane my neck. Stare out the window.
Up the hill. No crazy people in the window.
A cold stone building.
I shudder. Huddle under my coat.
Tuck my head down low.
Afraid they could lock me away.
Mother says, “Do not tell
what happens at home.”
I cannot confess
the truth.
Of why I cannot walk.
Or sit down.
They could put me away.
I could be locked inside
the mental building.
Unfit for society.
Instead of drinking
Ginger Ale at Granny’s.
********
Grade 10 Dairy Queen
It is summer. Temperatures run high.
Mother told Father.
Now he is angry.
Father wants me to work
at his law office. With Mother.
With him. Like last summer.
“I won’t be working for you,” I say.
Father makes me type legal wills.
Perfect. I make mistakes.
Grade 9 typing. 15 words per minute.
I am slow. I type wrong letters.
Father yells. I shake.
Summer days. Clouds. Hang heavy.
Threatening. In Father’s office.
In constant fear of another mistake.
At Father’s office.
“Sorry. Gotta go,” I say.
Swing my bag over my shoulder.
Dash out the back door.
Down the steps two at a time.
Onto my ten-speed bike.
A string tied around each pant leg
to protect bellbottoms.
From a bike chain that grabs.
Grinds grease.
I pump my legs hard up Dunbar hill. Till
it crests. I let go of my handlebars.
Stretch tall. Sail down.
Wind in my hair. North Shore Mountains
jutting up over rooftops.
I fly toward the Dairy Queen.
“Good morning,” my new boss says.
I untie pant strings. Tug a red bib
over my t-shirt. Begin my first shift.
To serve customers ice-cream.
Dipped in chocolate. Covered in fruit.
Sprinkled with nuts.
The ice-cream maker. Empty.
I step into the freezer to grab a refill.
The door shuts. Locked inside.
Cool air swirls around me.
I knock. “Let me out,” I say.
Door swings open. I emerge chilled.
Employee stands. Grinning.
“Welcome,” he says.
I hold a cone. Drop ice-cream inside. Swirl.
“Oops,” says employee. Grins.
“Made a mistake.” He chuckles.
My cone. Sits upside down. In melted chocolate.
He smiles and drops his in the freezer.
We take our break together.
He pulls open the freezer.
“Mistakes are free,” he says. “Choose one.”
He whips open the back door. Sunshine
fresh air burst in.
We sit on the curb. Lick ice-cream.
A new job. Where mistakes shrink
with every bite.
After lunch I work the grill.
Sweat trickles down my face and neck.
I pour onion rings into the deep fryer.
Flip beef burgers. Grill white buns.
Patties sizzle. Spit grease.
Employee hauls open the grill drawer.
Dips an onion ring into tartar sauce
pops it into his mouth.
Waits for me to do the same. I grin.
Afternoon. Debbie, Donn, and Mike visit.
Smells of baby oil and sea air greet me.
Noses burnt. Sand clings to wet hair
damp bathing suits. Stories of swimming
suntanning. Of being bored. Missing me.
Friends wave goodbye. Laughter.
Lick ice-cream.
Beach sand tumbles off bare feet.
A wave of longing to join.
Sun drops behind the trees.
I untie my red bib
that smells of bovine grease and milk.
Arms sticky with sugar and sweat.
Change into my bathing suit.
Pedal to Jericho Beach.
Waves. Steady. Stroke the shore.
Smooth rough places.
Wash work out to sea.
Sun. Soft. Like warm chocolate.
Sand. Radiates. Like embers of a log fire.
I drop my bike and bag on sand
still warm. I scrunch it between my toes.
The tide sneaks up. Nips at my toes.
Water foams at my feet
as I run
and plunge in. Salty sea stings.
I bound over waves. Stroking forward.
Flip over. Float on back. Cleansed.
I drop onto a log. Tingling. Refreshed.
Feet slip inside running shoes.
For the bike ride home.
I drop into bed.
Sand between my toes.
Salt in my hair.
A grin on my face.
********
1975 Date (Grade 10)
Mother hovers as I get ready to go out.
“If you wore high shoes
you would look taller,” Mother says.
I roll my eyes. Without her seeing.
“You should at least wear lipstick.”
I zip to the front door. Wait.
My date knocks at the front door.
I answer. Mother rushes up.
Before I can escape
Mother barges in.
“Wouldn’t she’d look better
if she wore a dress?”
My date says nothing. Smart guy.
“Let’s go,” I say. Pulling
the door closed.
********
Earplugs
I wear earplugs
hidden by long hair
so the words
that poison and jab
pass by
unnoticed.
********
1977 Heaven
I sit on the concrete
outside the Colosseum.
To see Led Zeppelin sing
Stairway to Heaven.
I wait. Chat to friends.
Two hours pass. Three to go
till the doors open.
People gather.
A sinewy line lengthens. Stretches
around the building.
Chatter thickens. Broadens.
Two hours to go
someone stands up.
Others follow. The line
ripples like the domino effect
in reverse.
People press forward. The line expands
to six and eight people wide.
The crowd pushes.
Compresses my head
into a man’s back.
Human sardines waiting.
Wishing I was 6 feet tall
to breath air
not someone’s armpit.
The doors open. Crowd rushes in.
Tired. Disappointed. Concert over.
And no favourite song.
Musicians run back on stage.
Sing a final encore.
Stairway to Heaven.
I stand up. Energized.
Join in with the magic
in the air. The best at
last.
********
1979 Shades if Grey
Shades of grey. Drizzle
over water, sky, clouds, and land.
An empty canvas
awaits strokes of colour.
My brush sweeps across
drips wet.
No passion
No excitement
No smile.
No fire.
Blank. Dull.
Did Mother and Father beat me
too many times?
Zap my vitality. Dampen my spark.
So my legs have no strength
to rise this time?
I want smiles in my belly.
Joy ringing in my heart.
Hope reaching out like a lamp
showing me the way.
Giving me a reason
to carry on.
Like before.
********
QUICK WRITE February 5, 2014 (Move to Artist’s Rationale??)
Strange rumblings within.
Stir awake
old places
long buried. Water rises
pushes blockages. Clears debris.
Facilitates remembering.
I bow to allow passage.
To honour what I lived. So long ago.
In a house on Highbury.
Curtains closed. Masking
a Mother’s pain.
Hiding a child’s abuse.
Her Pandora’s Box split wide open.
Vile. Vomit spat all over me.
Writing is difficult.
Sometimes.
Unexpected emotion
surfaces.
I put down my pen.
And surrender
to the pain.
Tears fall.
Grief washes away.
All is well again.
********
2005
I startle.
Someone else’s mother
with black cropped hair
and pinched mouth.
Someone else’s Mother
pulling bread apart
throwing it at the crows.
I wander in to Gourmet Cafe
where Mother worked
before she died. I scan the desserts.
Salads and soups.
Beef Barley Soup. Chocolate
Zucchini Cake. Carrot Cake
with Cream Cheese Icing.
Hermit cookies. Her recipes.
Mother incarnate
in each day’s menu.
I order Borsche Soup. A Date Square.
Two fragments
that connect
me to her.
The only nourishing part
of Mother.
********
QUICKWRITE: March 4, 2014 (?? Cuckoo’s Nest Rationale??)
I linger
in a liminal space
between semi-consciousness
and awake.
Miss Ratchett turns her key in the lock
Appears on the scene.
Bust hosted high. Dressed with
power. Authority. Holding the fine balance
of the vulnerable in her hands.
Miss Ratchett.
Determined
to break
to crush. To control
McMurphy’s indominable will.
Like Mother and Father
tried to do to mine.
McMurphy holds fast
to his fiery temperment
his wild passion, his joie de vivre.
His humour and laughter ring out
like a bells singing out across the land
welcoming. Inviting.
Even as the blows seek to flatten.
To weaken him
into submission.
McMurphy pushes back. Protects
his will. His personal dignity. His Self.
Even to death.
The key turns. 25 years later
Dr. Peter’s words make sense.
A deeper connection for McMurphy
and his role. His actions. Fist thrust.
Power exerted. Boundary drawn
in broken glass.
Mine in a slammed door.
I held fast to my will as a child.
The more I held my own
the more determined Mother
and Father became
to break me
to crush. To control.
My will. My Self.
Dynamic. Vibrant.
To make me small
inside. Like them.
My four-year-old self
no taller than their knee.
To mine own Self
I would be true
even unto death.
So Mother hit.
Father beat and hit again. And again.
With blows
that broke flesh.
Bruised bone
but didn’t squelch my fire
for life.
********
QUICKWRITE: For Rationale??
Mother pretends.
Locks the rubble
of her story
away in her cedar chest
with other keepsakes from the past.
She fabricates a new story.
A pretty story. Without imperfections.
Religiously follows
the Sears catalogue.
Dresses like Barbie.
Hides her hair under wigs.
Her own thin black hair
out of sight.
Crimps. Scrubs. And practices
until she is squeaky clean
on the outside. And shines
like her waxed floor.
Mother pretends the messy bits
belong to someone else.
Mother wears someone else’s story.
So many masks she disappears.
Mother looks over her shoulder. Anxious.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Mother says.
Reminds.
“They will look down on you.”
Mother drills. Others will think less of me.
I will look weak. Dangerous
to disclose
my real story.
How do I heal from the horrors of my childhood
if I don’t share its stories?
With someone.
How can I see the beauty of my Self
Reclaim who I am
And what I love
If I don’t dig down
beneath the rubble
and clear away the horror first?
Blotted with Fear and Shame.
Lost to beautiful real me.
I need to reconstruct my identity.
To listen to what makes my heart sing.
And follow that.
Like the Pied Piper. Follow
the magic and music of my soul.
Wherever it may lead.
********
QUOTES: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, by Ken Kesey
“When they hate like this, better if they don’t see me. I creep along the wall quiet as dust in my canvas shoes…” (p. 3).
“I’m mopping near the ward door when a key hits it from the other side and I know it’s the Big Nurse by the way the lockworks cleave to the key, soft and swift and familiar she been around locks so long. She slides through the door with a gust of cold and locks the door behind her and I see her fingers trail across the polished steel–tip of each finger the same color as her lips. Funny orange. Like the tip of a soldering iron. Color so hot or so cold if she touches you with it you can’t tell which” (p. 4).
“So she really lets herself go and her painted smile twists, stretches to an open snarl, and she blows up bigger and bigger, big as a tractor, so big I can smell the machinery inside the way you smell a motor pulling too big a load. I hold my breath…” (p. 5).
“…all the patients start coming out of the dorms to check on what’s the hullabaloo, and she has to change back before she’s caught in the shape of her hideous self. By the time the patients get their eyes rubbed…all they see is the head nurse, smiling and calm and cold as usual…” (p. 5).
“I hide in the mop closet and listen, my heart beating in the dark, and I try to keep from getting scared, try to get my thoughts off someplace else–try to think back and remember things about the village…” (p. 6).
“He opens out his nostrils like black funnels, his outsized head bobbing this way and that as he sniffs, and he sucks in fear from all over the ward. He’s smelling me now, I can hear him snort. He don’t know where I’m hid, but he’s smelling and he’s hunting around. I try to keep still…” (p. 7).
“The least black boy and one of the bigger ones catch me before I get ten steps out of the mop closet, and drag me back to the shaving room. I don’t fight or make any noise. If you yell it’s just tougher on you. I hold back the yelling. I hold back till they get to my temples…and the only thing I can hear over the wail I’m making is the Big Nurse whoop and charge up the hall…I holler thill she gets there. They hold me down while she jams wicker bag and all into my mouth and shoves it down with a mop handle…It’s gonna burn me…finally telling about all this, about the hospital, and her, and the guys–and about McMurphy. I been silent so long now it’s gonna roar out of me like floodwaters and you think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my God; you think this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the truth! But, please. It’s still hard for me to have a clear mind thinking on it. But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen” (pp. 7-8).
“I realize all of a sudden it’s the first laugh I’ve heard in years” (p. 12).
“Even when he isn’t laughing, that laughing sound hovers around him, the way the sound hovers around a big bell just quit ringing–it’s in his eyes, in the way he smiles and swaggers, in the way he talks” (p. 12).
“That palm made a scuffling sound against my hand. I remember the finger were thick and strong closing over mine, and my hand commenced to feel peculiar and went to swelling up out there on my stick of an arm, like he was transmitting his own blood into it. It rang with blood and power. It blowed up near as big as his…” (p. 25).
‘“Since I started on that ward with that woman I feel like my veins are running ammonia, I shiver all the time…”’ (p. 29).
“The Big Nurse gets real put out if anything keeps her outfit from running smooth” (p. 41).
“The air is pressed in by the walls, too tight for laughing. There’s something strange about a place where the men won’t let themselves loose and laugh…” (p. 49).
“…society is what decides who’s sane and who isn’t, so you got to measure up” (p. 49).
“I had so many insults I died” (p. 54).
“For forty-five minutes they been chopping a man to pieces, almost as if they enjoyed it…” (p. 56).
“Seen ‘em all over the country and in the homes–people who try to make you weak so they can get you to toe the line, to follow the rules, to live like they want you to. And the best way to do this, to get you to knuckle under, is to weaken you by gettin’ you where it hurts the worst…If you’re up against a guy who wants to win by making you weaker instead of making himself stronger, then watch for his knee, he’s gonna go for your vitals. And that’s what that old buzzard is doing, going for your vitals” (p. 60). WHEN MOTHER SAYS,”No one will ever love you”==where it hurt me the most; my vitals.
“The hell with that; she’s a bitch and a buzzard…” (p. 61).
‘“That’s right,” Cheswick says, coming up beside McMurphy, “grinds our noses in our mistakes”’ (p. 63).
‘“This world…belongs to the strong, my friend! The ritual of our existence is based on the strong getting stronger by devouring the weak. We must face up to this”’ (p. 64).
‘“Look at you, talking yourself into running scared from some fifty-year old woman. What is there she can do to you, anyway?…She can’t have you whipped…They got laws about that sort of thing nowadays; this ain’t the Middle Ages” (p. 68).
‘“Well, when she asks one of those questions, why don’t you tell her to up and go to hell?”
“Yeah,” Cheswick says, shaking his fist, “tell her to up and go to hell”’(p. 68).
‘“And, my friend, if you continue to demonstrate such hostile tendencies, such as telling people to go to hell, you get lined up to go to the Shock Shop, perhaps even on to greater things, an operation, an–”’ (p. 69).
‘“You are strapped to a table, shaped, ironically, like a cross, with a crown of electric sparks in place of thorns…Five cents’ worth of electricity through the brain and you are jointly administered therapy and a punishment for your hostile go-to-hell behavior…Even when you do regain consciousness you are in a state of disorientation for days. You are unable to think coherently. You can’t recall things…turn into a mindless organism that eats and eliminates….”’ (p. 69).
‘“Or look at Chief Broom clutching his namesake there beside you.”
Harding points his cigarette at me, too late for me to back off. I make like I don’t notice. Go on with my sweeping.
“I’ve heard that the Chief, years ago, received more than two hundred shock treatments when they were really in vogue…Look at him: a giant janitor…scared of his own shadow. That, my friend, is what we can be threatened with”’ (pp. 69-70).
‘“Don’t you see you have to do something to show you still got some guts? Don’t you see you can’t let her take over completely?”’ (p. 70).
‘“I haven’t heard a real laugh since I came through that door, do you know that? Man, when you lose your laugh you lose your footing”’ (p. 70).
‘He never walks very fast, and I can see how if he don’t get a move on she might freeze him and shatter him all to hell by just looking; all the hate and fury and frustration she was planning to use on McMurphy is beaming out down the hall at the black boy, and he can feel it blast against him like a blizzard wind, slowing him more than ever. He has to lean into it, pulling his arms around him. Frost forms in his hair and eyebrows…Then McMurphy takes to whistling “Sweet Georgia Brown,” and the nurse looks away from the black boy just in time. Now she’s madder and more frustrated than ever…Her doll smile is gone, stretched tight and thin as a red-hot wire’ (p. 98).
“…her voice is shaking out of control, she’s so mad” (p. 99).
“He draws a long breath and concentrates on his willpower, the way she did this morning, and tells her he is very sorry to have bothered her, and goes back to the card table” (p. 107).
“She’s too big to be beaten…We mustn’t let McMurphy get our hopes up any different…” (p. 113).
“Right now, she’s got the fog machine switched on, and it’s rolling in so fast I can’t see a thing but her face rolling in thicker and thicker, and I feel as hopeless and dead as I felt happy a minute ago, when she gave that little jerk–even more hopeless than ever before, on account of I know now there is no real help against her or her Combine” (p. 113).
‘“A man that would want to run away from a place as nice as this,” says fat-faced Public Relation, “why, there’d be something wrong with him”’ (p. 127).
“You had a choice: you could either strain and look at things that appeared in front of you in the fog, painful as it might be, or you could relax and lose yourself” (p. 131).
“I can’t give you a new mother. And as far as the nurse riding you like this, rubbing your nose in your weakness till what little dignity you got left is gone and you shrink up to nothing from humiliation, I can’t do anything about that, either” (p. 137). POWERFUL QUOTE!!
‘“Don’t give me that noise, lady. When a guy’s getting screwed he’s got a right to holler. And we’ve been damn well screwed’” (p. 141). WHEN SLAMMED THE DOOR AS A CHILD TO VENT UNJUST BEATING
“I’m just getting the full force of the dangers we let ourselves in for when we let McMurphy lure us out of the fog” (p. 150).
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