A Moment with Oracio - 2

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.

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.

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.

It Must Have Been Karma...

But it’s over now. Last weekend I was strolling along the beach, enjoying the fine weather when someone started waving in my peripheral vision and calling my name. It was him. I couldn’t suppress a rolling of the eyes.

“Oh! I knew that soon or later I would come face to face with you. Only I had hoped it would be much later.” He apparently didn’t grasp the contempt in my voice for he carried on all smiles and enthusiasm.

“How have you been? It’s so nice to see you, you look fabulous”

As fast as my mind works, I couldn’t come up with an insult based on so little information “Hum… thanks.”

“Do you have five minutes so we could sit down and chat?”

“Not really. Five minutes is asking much from me.”

“Please…” Sigh.

“What the heck.” We walked to a log on the beach. I sat a good yard away from him. At once he started creeping into my personal space, missing the point entirely.

“I just wanted to tell you how much I miss you and how fabulous it was to have you in my life. It could have been so different, could still? I have such fond memories of you, of us. You’re an amazing woman.”

“We are so utterly disparate once again. Unfortunately, my last impression of you is one of a man without principle, a liar and a cheat.”

“You don’t understand. Things are different now, I’m different, I’ve changed.”

“Really. Let me guess… you realized how stupid you were with me and you’ll never do it again.”

“I said I was sorry. Doesn’t it count for something?”

“No.” Although he tried hard to control himself, he lost patience, got up, wished me all the best, and left. I’ll tell you that, he’s got a way about swift leaves…

I doubt I’ll hear from him again, there is something terribly wounding about looking into the sunglasses of a loved one and see but your own begging eyes looking back at you.

A Moment with Oracio

Oracio is a dear friend of mine. At the outset, he appears to be a slightly aloof and distant personage who imposes respect. But he is also gifted with limitless wit and intelligence. Therefore, it is with delight that I watch him deal with the many surprises life threw at him: children.

Last Christmas, Oracio had a nasty car accident. No one was injured but the car was beyond repair. It was in many ways a blessing. It had become quite an ordeal to load two children in a two-door sports car. Resigned to upgrade from bachelor wheels to a proper family car, Oracio went shopping. When he finally set his mind to a particular make and model, came time to choose the color and sign the contact. Before leaving for the dealership, Oracio kissed his two-year old daughter for good luck; the previous car had been a lemon.

“Daddy is going to buy a new car today. What color should daddy buy it?”

“Yellow?”

“Hum. Well. I’ll see what I can do.” Yellow? Hardly part of his regular color palette.

“And what color would you like it to be?” asked the salesman, “With the options you chose, there are two cars readily available, a black one and a light grey/sage with a tint of goldish yellow…”

I never thought Oracio would look so distinguished in a yellow car…

The Apple

A few weeks ago, I was talking on the phone with my dad. He was telling me how disappointed he was that my brother and I both live so far away from home. Little does he know that home is precisely where I live but of course, he meant by that to live in the same city as my parents. He could not understand why both his children had chosen to move far away and keep contact to a bare minimum, if at all.

How he could even remotely be surprised by such a fact is beyond me. Are we not invariably similar to our parents? Don’t they say that the apple never falls far from the tree? I mean we got our family values from them.

As a child, I understood that my dad had to work, and that his work took him away from home. Still, he was not home. Sporadically he would spent a few days with us, but most of the time, he was away. To us, he was doing something, somewhere, with other people whom we didn’t know. My dad certainly had both advantages and disadvantages in this situation. He could only call home when he reached a port, but then again, much depended on the time of day, on his workload or mental disposition at the time. I don’t believe for a moment that my father ever forced himself upon calling us when he was tired, irritated, in a bad mood or in great need of sleep or further time off for himself. He chose the periods of interactions between us all depending on his own needs. I remember times when my mother would wake us up in the middle of the night because my dad wanted to say hello to us. Was it really for our own good? Doubtful. When my father was home, there was the discomfort of having a clumsy and irritable – stranger – giving orders and making new rules, which added confusion to our already miserable lives. When he would come home, he’d be bringing bags of toys and goodies and later on money, becoming an instant favorite to my mother’s great damn, and as we were slowly adjusting to his presence, he would leave again.

So what did my father instill in us? That nothing last more than a few days? That unless it is fun, fun, fun, there is no point in doing it? That continuity is but an abstract concept? That love is something you must earn? That a family is these people you think about but never get to spend real time with? That when love and affection comes your way, you’d better be in a good mood or the connection might get cut off? Or simply that it’s still easier to stay on the outside and avoid being hurt altogether? I wonder how he expected us/me to be so utterly different from him? Because he is getting older and he would like to be surrounded by his loved ones, not to be left to feel so alone? I know the feeling.

My mother on the other hand, was a paranoid narcissist with a deep inferiority complex. She did what her duty required by getting married and having children but she resented the world for it. In her mind, everything rotated around her, everything was about her, and you were either on her side or against her. If you were deemed to be on the wrong side, you were never to be forgiven. Her memory to this day is perfect and perfectly adaptable to her needs. I can spend fifteen minutes on the phone with her and be reminded of every ones of my failing moments. She has innocence in her scorn and disdain. It always takes a few seconds to realize the full atrocity of her speech. She lives in a world of appearances. As long as we looked normal and acted accordingly, the rest mattered not. That her children may be emotionally crippled, that her husband may be totally disengaged, that her family be but a farce had nothing to do with her. She was so utterly terrified at the idea that others might have to come first from time to time, that when my parents divorced, she refused alimony; she could not bare the thought of having to spend that money on us. Instead, we were left to deal directly with my father who, of course, was never nearby when we needed him. There was simply no room for us. Not in her life, not in her heart, not in her house. A few years ago, my mother started complaining of solitude. She felt neglected by her ungrateful children, we had responsibilities towards her and she demanded we moved nearby to fulfill them. As you can imagine, it is downright out of the question. After several months of gentle persuasion, she eventually got a cat. She went to a local shelter and took an older one whose previous owner had recently passed away. She kept it almost three weeks and brought it back. She was berserk. The cat had the unfortunate misconception that it was all right to roam around the house. Freewill had been that poor cat’s downfall. A few months later, I went to visit her. She had bought a stuffed cat. It sat motionless on a designated chair. She even bought a stuffed child which was standing against a wall; back facing her and rubbing its eyes as if it had cried. She felt surrounded, she was contented.

As you can imagine, my mother’s legacy was no more glorious than my father’s. The mere fact that we made it both alive is a miracle in itself. That we chose to never have anything to do with one another, quite predictable. How could my parents believe for a moment that they could sow emotional aloofness, neglect, indifference and think that when the time comes, they would harvest love and affection?

Sadly enough, we all have to live with the choices we made.

The Flu

Although last week it seemed as though I was brought to my knees by a perfectly banal migraine, it turned out it was rather the peak of a full blown flu. Since I have gone through all the hellish symptoms from fatigue, muscle pain, dry eyes, nausea, fever, to a vicious stomach flu, which, oddly enough, reminds me of my last Mexican holidays, but that’s another story. Still, the point here was not to gross you out, but to advise as to the reason for my prolong silence. The simple act of looking at the computer screen sends me rushing; wobbling really, towards the bathroom, in a fun game of hit and miss.

So bare with me and I’ll make another attempt at connecting in a few days.