Every Thursday I look forward to
Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop meme.. She
gives great prompts and the list of bloggers that link up is extensive which
means a lot of good reading. I have been
contemplating this week’s prompts since Monday when they were posted. I’ve
had a few days to envision, imagine, muse, and choose a prompt to create
something for this post. And yet, I am
stuck—not for lack of ideas but for lack of courage.
When I started
Sperk* in
October, I wasn’t sure if it would
be a journal, a mommy blog complete with giveaways and funny stories from the
home front, or a creative writing space.
I just started writing. It began
to develop into observations on parenting adolescents with commentary here and
there about education and educational technology. So Sperk* became A
parent’s view on adolescent development and education.
My tagline, or niche, sometimes can limit my expression. It also keeps me safe from sharing things too
personal. This can be a positive,
though, because it’s good to stick to one’s niche. But today I find myself unable to write anything
relating to parenting adolescents, education, or even the damn weather. I blame this on
Mama Kat's prompts. They are getting in my way. I can’t stop thinking about them. I need to write in response to them. Therefore, in order to keep Sperk* going, I
am ignoring the voices in my head saying, “No, no don’t write that. It’s not what you do.”
Writing prompt 5: Write about one of your childhood heroes.
Grandpap S., my paternal grandfather, is my one and only
childhood hero. He grew up the son of Czechoslovakian
immigrants in a tiny Ohio River town in West Virginia. He never left that tiny town in the Rust
Belt. He worked and retired from
Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel which was at the south end of Main Street, situated
under the bridge that led to Ohio. Heading
home from the steel mill, walking north on Main, he would pass homes of his
cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters.
He would pass the Catholic Church where he was very involved as a
volunteer for many years. He would pass
and usually stop in to talk to the dwellers at the TV repair shop, the tiny
market, and the neighborhood bar.
Arriving at his home, he would climb the stairs of his front porch and
take a look at the marks on the cement support beams that indicated how high
the water rose during the Ohio River flood of 1937.
As a child, my family visited his home every Sunday. We went to Mass together and then had family
dinner. His prayers before meals were
the best. After we reverently recited
the traditional Catholic prayers he would add, “Rub-a-dub dub, three men in a
tub, hooray God! Whoever eats the
fastest gets the most-est!” And we would
all dig in to chicken, pierogies, and succotash. Polka music would be streaming from the radio
left on in the kitchen by my grandmother, the cook.
If my mom and dad had plans for going out on a Friday night,
my sister and I spent the night at Grandpap S’s house. I loved those nights. He was the bingo caller at the church’s
weekly bingo night. He sat up on the
stage of the school’s auditorium, called numbers, and told jokes. He was funny.
All the lady bingo players loved him and he seemed like a celebrity to
me.
If we arrived at his house and he wasn’t there, my
grandmother would tell me to walk down to the church. He always could be found there hanging out
with other church members. I did not
know what they were doing. I wasn’t old
enough to know what church goers did besides fast, pray, and feel afraid of
God. I didn’t care, though. When I would find him there, he would always
welcome me with a huge smile and open arms.
I can remember many times running through the church hall to jump in his
arms for a hug.
One day at Sunday dinner, I choked on a piece of chicken
skin. He yelled at my grandmother for
not cutting my piece of chicken fine enough.
One Friday evening before bingo, he hung a play phone on the side of the
kitchen cabinet and my grandmother found it to be in her way. He yelled at her for being silly and said, “The
girls need this. They need to make calls
in here.”
On another Sunday after dinner, the adults sat around, poured their
drinks and got out the cards to start a game of Pinochle. Instead of leaving my sister and I bored in
front of the T.V. he took us up the street to the new putt-putt golf course. He taught me how to hold the club. He taught me how to line up my ball and put
it through the miniature windmill into the little hole in the ground.
Grandpap S. knew about kids.
He knew that I needed love. He
knew that I was not the pain in the ass that everyone else seemed to think.
He also knew I was afraid to cross the giant bridge that
towered over Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel connecting West Virginia to Ohio. One day, he walked my sister and I south on
Main to the foot of the pedestrian steps that led up to the walkway that went
across the bridge. Once we climbed to
the top, I looked across and couldn’t move my body. I was frozen with fear. He said, “C’mon, we are going to walk to
Ohio. You’re not going to fall in. I’ll be right by your side. Your sister is going to do it.”
I didn’t move.
He said, “Okay, we won’t go all the way to Ohio, we’ll just
go to the middle of the bridge.”
That didn’t help.
Ohio meant land which was better than standing on the bridge suspended over water.
He said, “Well, you wait right here. I am taking your sister.” And off they went.
They walked to the middle of the bridge. I could see Ohio beyond them and the river
below them and I was afraid a great wind would come and knock them both into the
water leaving me completely alone and frozen on that giant bridge. My sister was giddy with excitement and
leaned over the side railing to point to the coal barges passing below her. Grandpap S. was smiling and proud of
her. He yelled back to me, “See! Your sister is okay. C’mon. Don’t be a scaredy cat!”
I still couldn’t move.
I wanted to. I wanted him to be proud of me.
The day Grandpap S. died my neighbor picked me up from
school and brought me to her house. I
knew something was wrong because I usually
walked home and my mom was usually there to greet me. Time moved very slowly that afternoon. I asked many questions about the whereabouts
of my mother and father. My neighbor’s
only response was, “Your mom will be here to get you as soon as she can. Go
play with the kids. Everything is okay.”
My mom finally arrived well after my regular bed time. I remember standing in the entry way of my
neighbor’s house, looking up at her, and hearing her say the words, “Grandpap S. has died.”
I was only six years old, but I knew the detriment his death
would bring to me. There would be no
more grown-ups that understood kids were not an inconvenient annoyance. No more walks up and down Main Street, no
more faces that lit up with a smile simply from me walking in the room.
Writing prompt 3: You know the stories that are retold a
million times at family gatherings? I call them Life Stories that you just
never live down. List your Top 10 Life Stories.
This prompt contains the words that have made it difficult
for me to write this week: family gatherings. When I read “number
three” I became angry and sad. I thought, “I don’t
have to participate in these silly writing memes. Sperk* doesn’t need to. Sperk* will focus on parenting and education
and this has nothing to do with either.”
But then it became difficult to write anything related to anything. I forced out some posts, but my heart wasn’t
in it. And today, I came back to
Mama Kat's meme, remembered Grandpap S. on the bridge, and decided to walk bravely
with him.
I have some life stories that used to be shared at family
gatherings. Most are from my first six
years of life when Grandpap S. was alive. They are amusing and I remember them
fondly. But my family no longer gathers. Well, they gather, but without me. I choose not to participate. And during holidays and birthdays, I can imagine
the stories about me that are shared. In
my mind, they are not good.
One could say I am the black sheep of the family. But I choose to not take on that label. I am the one in the family that has chosen to
not deny truth. Because of this, I sense
my family is uncomfortable in my presence.
For years, I faked my way through gatherings pretending that just being
together in the moment was all that mattered.
But, for me, it has become impossible to pretend things did not happen. The
chatter becomes meaningless. The words “I
love you” become empty. I guess I am the
one uncomfortable in their presence.
My father is a child sex offender. My sister and I were his victims. I didn’t remember it until I was 21 years
old and after my mother and father had been divorced for a few years. Upon sharing the memory with my
mother she questioned, “Are you sure it was your dad? Are you sure it wasn’t your grandmother or
your grandfather?” What? Grandpap S.?
The memory had been suppressed, but once it had surfaced the identity of
the perpetrator was very clear.
The years that followed were tumultuous for me. I would describe them in more detail if time
allowed. But I want to get this post
linked up with Mama Kat before the clock strikes “link closed”. In brief, my mother denies knowing it was
happening and resents me for my behavior following recovering my memory. I question her lack of knowledge of what was
going on. Some days I believe her, most
days I do not. I no longer speak to my
sister because of an argument we had three years ago. I no longer remember what the argument was
about and it is not what keeps me from reaching out to her. She still talks to my dad. It’s her choice, yes. And when I was younger, in my twenties, I respected
that. But I no longer think it’s
healthy. I’ve seen her struggle and I
think if she would face the enemy and tell him to get lost, she would find room
in her life to heal. It's complicated. More complicated than I can articulate.
I have spent over 20 years healing. I still have work to do. Some days are difficult, really difficult. Some days are not. Being a survivor of child sexual abuse does
something to the brain that at times feels impossible to conquer. And sometimes being a mother, being in a
domestic situation, is like a war veteran being back on the battle field. Not always.
Just sometimes. But I never know
what will trigger a memory.
I thought I could avoid facing the stuff blocking my ability
to write by focusing on
Paterno,
twice.
I thought I could avoid facing the stuff blocking my ability to get
words on a page by expressing my
inability to sleep.. And I thought THAT was
bordering on too personal.
This morning I read this comment left by
mannahattamamma.com, and it lingered with me until about 2 p.m.:
Ah those voices...Anne Lamott, in Bird by Bird, calls them
the "anti-writing voices," but they are the anti-calm voices, the
anti-be-yourself voices. She advocates visually those voices as tiny mice, then
dropping them one by one into a glass bottle. Seal the bottle, put it on a
shelf. Breathe. Kind of a disgusting image but...effective. Breathe, breathe,
breathe...
So, readers, what is Sperk*?
Is it a parent’s view on adolescent development and education? Is it a journal or a creative writing
space? Whatever it is, it will not come
into fruition unless I allow my truth to be written. Thank you, Mama Kat.
