The Weekend.
The weekend was alright……when I was not with my parents at all.
On Saturday, there was a headstone potlatch for my Dad’s Mother. For those that do not know what a potlatch is, it is a gathering, a feast, a celebration of the person’s life. And then, usually a year after the passing of the individual, there is another potlatch, this one for the laying of the headstone. The laying of the headstone was the potlatch that was held on Saturday. Also, in our culture, we have a traditional name given to our children, usually when the child(ren) is/are born, this name is in addition to the ‘western’ name. Usually it is the great-grandmother of the new baby that gives the traditional name.
This past weekend, it was not even a family member that gave the traditional name to my Son. This bothered me. Not as much as it bothered me that my parents did not even ask me if it was ok that this person was giving the traditional name and not my Grandmother. This fact angered me. What bothered me the most was the fact that my parents invited my Son’s mother to the name giving, saved her a seat with them and told me that I could sit at another table. I stayed for a little bit, sat with my Grandmother and asked her if she could give my Son his traditional name, as it should have been from the start. I told my Grandmother that I will never acknowledge the name that was given to my Son that day. As far as I am concerned, it does not exsist. When I left, I went to my mom and told her that clearly I was not wanted there so I am leaving. I have only spoken three sentences to her since then.
My parents know how I feel about my Son’s mother. They know that I not only hate her, I despise her! After everything that she has done to me, my friends and family, after everything that she has said about me, my friends and family. After all the names that she has called us, they think that I should just firgive her and forget it all. I will never forget what she has done or said. I will never forgive her for anything that she has done or said. What I will do however, is not tell my Son my personal feelings about his mother or her friend and family. I remember what it was like as a child hearing about my other parent`s family and friends. Either it was my mom or my `dad` saying it. I do not ever want my Son to feel like he is the reason that his mother and I did not work out.
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After I had left, I came back into town and played pool. My aim is getting better, my shooting arm is starting to be like how it used to be. I am starting to get to be near as good as I used to be. I am starting to become me again. I miss the cracking sound of the cueball hitting the neatly triangle racked balls. The sounds being muffled as a ball hits the side cusion. The scent of the chalk, the feel of the chalk on my palm, on my fingers, the scraping sound as I chalk up my cue. I can hardly wait till my Son is old enough to learn how to play pool with me.
~When the last breath of my ex is taken, then and only then, will I forgive and forget~
Rand al’Mawer, 2012