Part 3Memoirs Of A Young Woman

As I grew up my mom was always honest with me about my father. She never said negative things about him but she didn’t paint me any fairy tails either. She told me the good and the bad of my father. When I wanted to hate him and felt just in those feelings, she’d encourage me not to hate my father, but instead forgive him who and what he was.

“Your father wasn’t a bad man Hanna,” she’d say.  “He was just a product of his environment. He loved you, but he just didn’t know how to show it because he had never been shown the same love from his own parents.”

“But if he loves me, why doesn’t he call at least?” I’d ask.

Looking up to the ceiling, or some point on a wall as if the answer would come from that spot, she’d sigh and look back at me. “I don’t know Hanna. But it will be his regret someday, his loss. But it isn’t right to hate some one. You can dislike your father and be angry with him if you want, but don’t hate him.”

For some unknown reason she would in a way defend him to me.  She’d tell me how when he was born his parents pushed him off on his grandmother because they considered him a burden. When he was born, he was born with a hole in his heart and needed a lot of medical attention and time, none of which his parents were willing to give him. Granny, his grandmother, was the only one who showed my father any kind of love. She did her best to shelter him from the abuse he suffered when his parents finally took him, but she couldn’t save him from them either.

His own father drank incessively, his mother was a hard woman who showed no affection. His father also ran around with other woman, setting the example his son would one day follow.

My mom told me once that when she and my father were visiting his parents, my grandmother told my mom  “to accept what my father does. His running around is just that. It’s just something a wife must accept and move on.” My own grandmother tried to push her own twisted values onto my mother.

Despite the story of my father that my mother relayed to me through out the years, I still hated him. He never called, and only one birthday card was sent to me in the following ten years, along with a videotape of him-self showing me the snow in Michigan where he now lived, and his room in his aunts basement; and a handmade unicorn clock. Seeing him on the video and hearing his voice didn’t warm me to him though. If anything, it caused more hurt and more resentment. It was going to take more than that to win me back.

 

After my father I don’t remember my mom dating much. We moved around a lot, never really staying in one place long enough to call home. We usually lived with friends but that never worked out. Six months to a year later they’d grow tired of each other and we’d move somewhere else. She always made sure we didn’t go without though. We always had a place to live and food to eat. Many of her friends didn’t have their own children so they would take it upon themselves to help look after me. They made sure I had new school clothes, pencils, back packs, food and memories.

They’d all take me to Disney Land, Knotts Berry Farm, Six Flags Magic Mountain, the beach, the mall, McDonalds. I was their surrogate daughter. Besides my mother I had a God Father, An Aunt R & Uncle S, an Aunt L & Uncle R, a Godmother, and an Aunt P. None of these people were blood related but that didn’t matter. They were my family when I had none. My Aunt L and Uncle R had three kids of their own but that didn’t stop them from adopting me as one of their own. All of these people were vastly different from one another. I truly believe that as I grew around them I took on some of their qualities, values and beliefs just as a child would to any parent.

When I was five or six my mom met a man while out with friends on night. He later would become the tall, dark, and handsome man that would steal her heart forever. Craig was a beautiful man. He was tall and trim. Built nicely and loved to cook. He was very kind to me and treated me like I was his own daughter. I look back now and think I am sure he cared for me, but he too had lost contact with his own daughter just as my father had, and maybe I was his way of making amends to that. Sadly though, he suffered from severe alcohol problems as my own father. With Craig I don’t have any sad memories. The saddest one I have is the night he had to leave my mom and I to go care for his brother’s 9 children down in Long Beach. We saw him a few times after that but eventually he slipped away from us as well.

The best memory I have of him is when we lived in this small apartment in Fontana. My mom had a friend, we’ll call her Jane, shared the apartment and Craig nor I liked my mother’s friend. I can’t remember his reason for disliking her, but for me is  I remember her as abusive. There was a time my mother would let her watch me after I got out of school and she’d grab my arm between her two thick hands and she’d twist one hand one way and the other hand in the opposite directions. As a kid at school we’d call that “Indian Burns.” She’d “spank” me a lot too. I wasn’t a bad kid, but apparently she thought so. To get me not to tattle on her or reveal the bruises she’d buy me sweets. I told on her anyway and enjoyed the sweets. One day my mom saw the bruises and found another babysitter.

Jane had cerebral palsy and walked like a penguin. Instead of walking with one foot in front of the other, her knees wouldn’t bend so she’d have to swing a leg to get the momentum going and then she could walk. She fell a lot because her balance was so off. My mom said I disliked Jane so bad because of how she’d treat me that I would purposely make her fall.

For example one time I was sitting on the floor with my back against the foot of the chair where my mom was sitting, Jane was walking into the room and I ever so slyly slid my leg out from under the other one and stuck it straight out. The moment my small leg became fully extended her foot met with mine and down she went. Not only did I get away with it, but I also felt justified. Jane couldn’t hurt me anymore and get away with it! No way, this six year old was too smart for that.  </spa

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My mom always described Jane as a troublemaker. She would say things to mutual friends to make them turn against each other. She also was very spoiled but at the same time her mother ran her life. She said very mean things about her friends behind their backs, and it wasn’t until later after she was long gone and banned from the “circle of friends” that everyone put what they knew about her together and realized the sick games she played with them. Perhaps Craig caught onto her games early on.

Craig would prepare her lunches for her everyday before she left for work and before my mom left for classes a local community college. One morning while making her a steak sandwich he was particularly mad at her. I was standing next to him while he cooked and he got this sly grin on his face and leaned down close to mine and said,

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Yep! What is it?” I replied and cocked my head to the side, squirming with anticipation of what he would say or do next.

“I’ll show you but you can’t tell ok?! It’s between you and me. Don’t even tell mommy because she’ll tell on us too.” He whispered. I knew it had to be good!

“Okay!”

Craig straightened up, sucked in all the moister from his mouth and spit it onto Jane’s steak and continued to fry it. We both burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” My mother asked walking by the kitchen.

“Nothing!” we shouted in unison, and he winked at me. Together we had victory over the evil woman.

That night when she got home from work, she praised Craig on another amazing lunch. She’d never had a steak so good.

“Good Jane. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said with a sweet smile and watched her waddle to her room.

This man, despite his chronic alcoholism and sparatic dissapearances and reappearances, had wedged himself into my heart forever too.