Last Sunday was gloomy. The weather was capricious. It was a perfect day for domesticity and idleness. Clementine was slowly starting dinner; Oracio was taking a nap on the couch while distractedly watching the kids. They were sitting on the carpet playing with one of these annoying toys which make a sound every time a button is pushed. Suddenly the phone rang. It was an unknown caller. Nobody bothered answering it. And then it rang again, and again, generating the same disinterest. A few minutes later, a bulky policeman was standing in the window looking through the glass panel. Clementine almost cried in fright. Oracio promptly got up and answered the door expecting the worst.
“Someone has called 911. We tried to call you back but nobody answered. What’s going on here?”
“Huh…” Biiip. Slowly all eyes turned to Bango who was still chewing on the phone. As if on cue, he looked up and produced the most impish of all smiles.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Ground Control to You Captain
My dad has been obsessing for years about his last name. More recently he has spent hours on the phone with me voicing his frustration at having been given a name which he didn’t want. My father was born out of wedlock. In 1937 in a very religious Catholic town, being a bastard was not good. Twelve years later, my grandmother managed to secure herself a husband who was willing to adopt the bastard and give him a name, thus a chance in life. So far, it all seems rather straightforward. However, for some obscure reasons which he cannot himself quite explain, he feels diminished by this change of name which occurred over sixty years ago.
Before we go any further, let me remind you that only recently have I told my dad about the molestation I suffered as a child and since, he has been meticulously avoiding any mention of the subject. My desire is not to spend every conversation debating these matters but surely an acknowledgment would be in order.
Last week, my dad called. He was beside himself. He had been doing research on the family tree and the matter of the name keeps coming back to haunt him. He had apparently contacted whichever government agency responsible for name-change, and was appalled at discovering that should he be twelve years old today; his mother would not been able to change his name without his approval. He had been going at it rather hectically for about forty minutes by the time I finally lost patience.
“For heavens sake, are you a complete idiot? Who cares what name you have now? It is no big deal.” Of course, this outburst was not to go down well. You see, in spite of all appearances, my father’s love is highly conditional and volatile. One of the golden rules is to never, ever annoy him, in which case he would abandon you for however long, until he forgot about your misbehavior. But my days of begging for my parent’s love and approval are over. All I want is peace now.
“You don’t understand, today they would not be allowed to do it.”
“Put things into perspective. They probably did what they thought best for you at the time. You can’t compare the two periods. Children had no voice back then; life has changed in sixty years. You are no worst than all these women who had to change their names because they got married. Move on, there are more important issues to deal with in life.” My father is used to more understanding on my part. For a moment it took him aback, for a moment only.
“Have you any idea of the torment I suffer?” yelled my father. My blood curdled in my veins. I find my parents so utterly unreasonable and egotistic.
“Let me help you put things into perspective, dad. If I was starting school this year, you would all be in jail and I would be living in a foster home. Because if thirty years ago sexually molested children were unheard of, now-a-days the symptoms are pretty easy to recognize. You may have spent most of your time away from home, but it does take away your responsibility in this matter.” I was livid. “And just in case you can’t quit remember you selfish bastard, since then you have had two children who still bear than name. Does it not count for something?” It was obvious he was not expecting it and quickly changed subject.
How can these people be in any way related to me is a mystery. I am so tired of them all. I guess I may finally be ready to let go of them.
Before we go any further, let me remind you that only recently have I told my dad about the molestation I suffered as a child and since, he has been meticulously avoiding any mention of the subject. My desire is not to spend every conversation debating these matters but surely an acknowledgment would be in order.
Last week, my dad called. He was beside himself. He had been doing research on the family tree and the matter of the name keeps coming back to haunt him. He had apparently contacted whichever government agency responsible for name-change, and was appalled at discovering that should he be twelve years old today; his mother would not been able to change his name without his approval. He had been going at it rather hectically for about forty minutes by the time I finally lost patience.
“For heavens sake, are you a complete idiot? Who cares what name you have now? It is no big deal.” Of course, this outburst was not to go down well. You see, in spite of all appearances, my father’s love is highly conditional and volatile. One of the golden rules is to never, ever annoy him, in which case he would abandon you for however long, until he forgot about your misbehavior. But my days of begging for my parent’s love and approval are over. All I want is peace now.
“You don’t understand, today they would not be allowed to do it.”
“Put things into perspective. They probably did what they thought best for you at the time. You can’t compare the two periods. Children had no voice back then; life has changed in sixty years. You are no worst than all these women who had to change their names because they got married. Move on, there are more important issues to deal with in life.” My father is used to more understanding on my part. For a moment it took him aback, for a moment only.
“Have you any idea of the torment I suffer?” yelled my father. My blood curdled in my veins. I find my parents so utterly unreasonable and egotistic.
“Let me help you put things into perspective, dad. If I was starting school this year, you would all be in jail and I would be living in a foster home. Because if thirty years ago sexually molested children were unheard of, now-a-days the symptoms are pretty easy to recognize. You may have spent most of your time away from home, but it does take away your responsibility in this matter.” I was livid. “And just in case you can’t quit remember you selfish bastard, since then you have had two children who still bear than name. Does it not count for something?” It was obvious he was not expecting it and quickly changed subject.
How can these people be in any way related to me is a mystery. I am so tired of them all. I guess I may finally be ready to let go of them.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Weight of Evil
Sometime last year, at the worst possible time of my life, a friend of mine e-mailed me the link to the website of a company where my brother works. My brother and I have rightfully lost touch years ago. Still, out of curiosity I checked it out. Why I did so I’ll never be able to explain, but somehow I’m glad I did it. Never-the-less it came as a bit of a shock, in part because there was a picture of him posted online. The sight of it really threw me off. Oh, his curriculum was the one of a successful man no doubt about that, but his picture told a completely different story. He looked like a loser. He looked like a man completely defeated by life. He was not only unsightly in every possible ways but what emanated from him was discomforting. He looked lonely and off. Not a happy person. Definitely someone who’s emotions has been trampled several times over.
I looked at the picture for the longest time. This was the face of my molester. A queasy feeling at the pit of my stomach sent my anxiety level fly off the chart. I guess I never realized that I was dealing with years of repressed memories rioting their way out of hiding.
After a while, I printed the picture and showed it around the office. I wanted unbiased opinion and since they were unaware of the blood connection, it was easy. Their impression was the same as mine.
I printed a picture of myself and placed it next to his. The difference was flagrant. We didn’t remotely look related. There was a gulf separating us. I looked a generation younger; there was a glow, vivacity, life, joy springing from mine while his was devoid of soul.
Both my brother and I were molested. I don’t know who hurt him; it’s not my story to care about. All I know is that he is the one who molested me. It affected every aspects of my life, shaping it in ways that I would not have otherwise chosen. Still, I carried my cross, often with difficulty, always with courage and integrity. It was not an easy task. There was much repression, but with me the molestation ended. With my brother, he became in turn the molester himself.
I believe that in retrospect, I was protected from the worst. I believe that it is not so much the calamity that we are subjected to which destroys the soul more, but the one we inflict upon others.
I looked at the picture for the longest time. This was the face of my molester. A queasy feeling at the pit of my stomach sent my anxiety level fly off the chart. I guess I never realized that I was dealing with years of repressed memories rioting their way out of hiding.
After a while, I printed the picture and showed it around the office. I wanted unbiased opinion and since they were unaware of the blood connection, it was easy. Their impression was the same as mine.
I printed a picture of myself and placed it next to his. The difference was flagrant. We didn’t remotely look related. There was a gulf separating us. I looked a generation younger; there was a glow, vivacity, life, joy springing from mine while his was devoid of soul.
Both my brother and I were molested. I don’t know who hurt him; it’s not my story to care about. All I know is that he is the one who molested me. It affected every aspects of my life, shaping it in ways that I would not have otherwise chosen. Still, I carried my cross, often with difficulty, always with courage and integrity. It was not an easy task. There was much repression, but with me the molestation ended. With my brother, he became in turn the molester himself.
I believe that in retrospect, I was protected from the worst. I believe that it is not so much the calamity that we are subjected to which destroys the soul more, but the one we inflict upon others.
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