All posts by Teri

I Am Who I Am

Family & Relationships

Whenever I get anxious or triggered, the best way to quiet the disquiet is to write it out of me.

It works every time, and today is one of those days.

On May 26, 2013, I received a Facebook message from someone I used to love, ordering me to remove my maiden name from Facebook. I felt outraged. I felt sadness.

And I also felt shame.

The hurtful demand may have been sent to me over ten years ago, but I still feel the sting of it. And the shame.

I angrily responded that I earned that stupid name, although I failed to elaborate on the gory details. I wish I would have.

Instead, I gave this cold-hearted faux family member a crushing piece of my mind — so word-crushing that I haven’t heard one peep since. Let’s just say Bridgeport “Terry” was unleashed.

It took years for the emotional anguish of that Facebook message to fade, but the shame never really went away. It hid just below the Teri surface.

Then, in December of 2022, one of my closest friends suggested that maybe I shouldn’t share so much about my life. That, perhaps, my oversharing makes people uncomfortable, or worse — makes people feel sorrow for me.

And just like that, the shame seeped out of all my tenuously glued-together surface cracks.

I disagree that what I do is overshare. What I do is uninhibited truth-telling. And my truth-telling takes courage, my friends.

My truth through words helps to quell the mental chaos. Isn’t that a good thing?

Every word I write comes from the introspection of self: rejection, failure, loneliness, depression, divorce, death, betrayal, sexual assault, despair, alienation, trauma, poverty, bullying, fear, not having, and then having.

I’ve tried to write about the giddy, lighthearted, silly things, but there is no written urgency in blissful contentment.

It’s the struggle, the regret, the doubt, the unspeakable — that’s where the heart of the written matter lies. That’s what compels me to write it all out.

Maybe one day I’ll write about the happy, peaceful events in my life. Maybe one day I will. But not today.

I have said this countless times and will say it again: I don’t write the words; the words write themselves.

To be clear, I don’t need or want anyone’s sorrow, and I could write so much more — but all in good time.

If my revealing and divulging words make some people uncomfortable, then so be it.

How about the thousands of people who have sent me the kindest of messages lauding me for having the guts to speak out about the life stuff most find uncomfortably unspeakable?

What about those who bless me for helping them to heal?

What about the endless numbers of women who thank me because they are terrified, unable, or unwilling to speak up for themselves for fear of being unbelieved or shamed? Or worse, punished?

Don’t they count for anything?

So, whatever — some will say I overshare. I really don’t care.

It’s the shame I care about — those flashes of shame get to me every damn time.

Sadly, on July 21, 2023, someone I would take an actual bullet for — came for me and my blog with a word-riddled bullet and told me my writings were a stain on their family and suggested that if I wanted to continue to write, I should change my last name.

More shame.

My first tearful thought was, “Change my last name? Again, with that?” Then I wiped away the tears, and my reply was swift, deadly, and meaner than mean.

Shame be damned.

Ordering me to change my last name is a sore point for me. It has now happened three shameful times in my life, and I am fed up.

And how else can I cope with my exasperated, shameful self but to write it out, aka overshare?

So, here you go.

In 1967, at fourteen, I was forced to change the last name on my birth certificate. To be clear, I did NOT want to change my last name.

I put “Terry” in quotations in paragraph seven of this blog post because the spelling of my first name was also changed when I was fourteen — also against my wishes.

In so many words, it was explained to me that “Teri” was way more Westporty chic than Bridgeporty hood “Terry,” so the spelling of my first name was eradicated.

Shame.

Additionally, as if changing my first name wasn’t shameful enough, it was further explained to me that I was being legally adopted, which is why I needed to change my last name.

I was matter-of-factly informed that my father gave me up, so I couldn’t use his last name any longer — it would be illegal for me to do so.

Shame.

Seemingly effortlessly — to everyone but me — my first and last names were changed.

I felt despondent. I felt heartbreak. I felt abandoned by a father I didn’t even know.

And I felt knife-like pangs of unrelenting shame.

Unbeknownst to me, and something I didn’t find out until six shameful years later — my last name was changed ILLEGALLY without my father’s permission, which resulted in me being unable to get a passport for over ten years.

I honestly don’t even know how I was able to get a driver’s license since the first and last name on my birth certificate and social security card was different from the last name on my high school records, with no legal adoption documentation to back it up. I guess I got lucky for a change.

As a Flight Attendant in 1973, during the thick of my dealing with an illegal last name, Delta Airlines made an unusual exception and provided me with a written passport exemption letter, which I used for all the years I flew for them — a shameful and daily workplace reminder of my illegality.

In 1983, I happily got rid of that illegal last name — when I married the father of my children. I thought by finally ridding myself of my illegal maiden name, I could also get rid of the shame.

Getting rid of the name was easy, but the shame, well…

And then, when Facebook came along, what choice did I have but to bring back that illegal maiden name so people from my past would know how to find me? So, I unhappily, reluctantly, and shamefully brought my illegal maiden name back into my life.

Now, let’s move on to my legal and current last name.

And I don’t need to explain myself to anyone, but I will anyway because that’s what I do.

Professionally speaking, I made a name for myself under the auspices of my married moniker. Like it or not, I’m stuck with it.

So, NO. I’m not getting rid of my last name(s) — the legal one or the illegal one.

You can try to shame me all you want — those names will be written on my grave. (Oh wait, I’m getting cremated, so make that my proverbial grave.)

But to be honest, the hateful July 2023 name-change request spewed out so vitriolically from someone I loved more than life itself slammed me hard.

The stinging, callous request shamed me so grievously that I decided to take a break from writing and rethink the whole blog thing. And I literally and agonizingly thought through the logistics of what it would take to change my last name.

FOR LIKE ONE TEARFUL DAY.

Then, I picked my shameful self up and convinced myself to stop letting others shame me.

I am who I am.

I expose my heart and soul through my words despite the criticism. And as far as I’m concerned, nothing is more courageous than that.

It took me until today to realize that they may have been able to take “Terry” out of Bridgeport, but they can never take Bridgeport out of “Teri.”

Yours shamelessly and always, Teri Gatti Schure

My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 25: The Tony Telling

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries, ,

CHAPTER 25

 THE TONY TELLING

 March 3, 1966

Now that Roberto is back, Mom’s dirty little secret—me—is finally out. I told Mem it was time for Mom to admit to everybody that she has a daughter and to stop telling lies about me. Well, okay, maybe she shouldn’t tell the truth to St. Ambrose School and Church.

Mem responded that the truth always comes out, for good or bad.

But when I asked her about the lies we told to St. Ambrose, she explained that nothing good would come out of telling the Catholic Church that Mem and Mom were excommunicated sinners.

From what I heard, when Roberto told his family about me, the “Tony telling” created an enormous problem, so I’m sure nothing good will come out of that either. Should anyone be surprised?

Mom said Roberto’s mother, Bella, was hopping mad and told Roberto that Mom needed to figure out a way to get back into the good graces of the Catholic Church, or he needed to part ways with her. Is there such a thing as getting un-excommunicated?

Oh, and also, according to Mom, Bella wants to meet me and have a talk. A talk with me? What kind of talk could she possibly want to have with me? I don’t have a say in my life. I don’t have a say in anything. I’m invisible, remember?

I overheard Mom tell Mem that Roberto has two sisters, and Babs, the youngest in the family, refuses to have anything to do with him now that she knows that Mom is divorced and has a twelve-year-old kid.

His older sister, Gia, adores Roberto and loves Mom. And it turns out that Gia has a daughter, Patrice, who’s my age, so Mom said maybe that’s why she’s open to meeting me and giving me a chance.

I told Mom that Gia’s daughter might be the same age as me, but the difference is that she has a dad, she’s nobody’s secret, and maybe I should be the one to give them a chance, and not the other way around. Mom told me to shut my trap.

Mom also informed me that we are all having dinner at Bella’s house soon. I’m scared to death. What if Roberto’s family hates me? Then what?

When I asked Mom what was going to happen to Nick, she just glared at me. But I know for a fact that she’s still going out with him because Mem told Mere Germaine that she was “stringing Nick along just in case.”

Since Roberto got back with her, Mom’s been pretty sneaky about where she goes these past few weeks. And I know Nick calls because I hear them on the phone together.

I still had hope for Nick until today when Mom came home from somewhere secret. It wasn’t that much of a secret because I saw Roberto’s fancy black car drop Mom off.

Speaking of fancy black cars, I was riding my bike on the sidewalk by Court D yesterday when I noticed a black car driving slowly past me. I figured it was loser Roberto.

But when I looked up and into the car, I could see it was my father. I’ve certainly seen enough pictures of him in the local newspapers to recognize him.

I saw his handsome face, and I felt pride, but I also felt his pain. And I could see from his dark, beautiful eyes that he saw me, too. And for a second, it seemed like our pain was something we could share.

But then, just like that, he quickly drove right past me. I chased after his car, hoping he would see me riding my bike behind him and stop.

The whole time I was peddling to catch up with his car, I kept praying, “Please see me, please see me, please see me.”

But he didn’t see me, or if he did, maybe he got scared and decided stopping would only cause everyone trouble.

I knew he was trouble—double trouble—but I didn’t care. I rode that bike as fast as humanly possible. As I watched his car fade into the distance, I had no choice but to give up trying to catch my troubled but handsome dad.

Maybe he saw me, and maybe he didn’t. I’ll probably never know.

I rode my bike back to our apartment and felt crushed—while Mom was in an unusually happy-go-lucky mood.

“Roberto’s mother is making a huge Italian feast, and the whole family will be there,” Mom kept repeating herself over and over again like a broken record.

Also on repeat: “And if you embarrass me, I’ll kill you.”

I was still hurting from failing to catch up with my dad, and I was thinking about all the different ways that I could try to find him. And for the record, he also has a big nose, which fits his beautiful face perfectly, giving me new hope for myself and my nose.

Mom broke into my thoughts with, “HELLO. Anyone in there?”

I burst into tears and ran upstairs while Mom asked Mem and Mere Germaine, “What’s her problem?”

What’s my problem? I miss Steve. I miss Adam. I miss Yolanda. I miss Nick. I even miss White Street, but not the rats and cockroaches. And I miss my dad, even though I don’t know him.

Mom should be able to see that I’m hurting.  And yet, all she cares about is that I shouldn’t embarrass her so that Roberto’s family will accept me. It seems to me that I don’t have any control over whether  Roberto’s family accepts me or not.

How can I possibly know what NOT to do or say so as NOT to embarrass Mom? Why is the pressure on me? Mom is the one who brought me into the world, so she should be the one they need to accept, not me.

I didn’t ask to be born, and yet I’m the one everyone’s blaming—and my acceptance or rejection is all up to them and completely out of my control.

I hope they hate everything about me. Then maybe Roberto will kiss us all goodbye, for good this time.

And who knows? If Roberto’s family rejects me and refuses to accept me, then maybe Nick just might have a chance.

Or maybe even my dad.

Mem came upstairs, ruffled my hair, and asked me why I felt so blue. I lied and told her I was sad and afraid for Mom and there was nothing I could do to save her from making the biggest mistake of her life—when, in truth, I was sad and afraid for myself. How much more should I have to suffer for Mom’s irresponsible decisions?

Then Mem said something that will stay with me for a long time. “It seems to me that with your Mom and Roberto, it’s all about the chase. For both of them. Once the chase is over, who knows what?” I nodded in agreement because I just had a chase of my own.

I collapsed into Mem’s arms and tried to cry it all out. I accused Mem and Mom of keeping me in the dark about everything. “I’m not a baby. I need to be heard. I need to be seen. I’m strong. I can take the truth,” I whimpered through my tears.

Mem hugged me tight and kept apologizing for stuff I wasn’t even crying about. “Go ahead. Ask me any questions you want. I’ll answer you truthfully.”

I sat on our bed, dead silent. The only question I had was buried deep inside my scrambled-up brain:

Dad, did you see me?

Click here for Chapter 26: The Tony Show

The First

Poetry

First apprehension,

then euphoria.

The one today

is your second

but you were

the first.

A sizable first,

but oh, so

vulnerably

fragile.

The surgeries,

the disquiet,

the…

other things.

It was a lot.

The wound

in my heart

was worth

the flashes

of rhapsody

though.

I’m not sure

what else to say,

so better to say

nothing at all.

That’s all we have left.

Nothing

My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 24: He’s Baack!

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries, , ,

CHAPTER 24

HE’S BAACK!

February 1966

The phone rang yesterday, and when I answered it, a man was on the other end asking, “Is Natalie there?” When I replied that Natalie wasn’t home, he asked me to tell her Roberto called!

Roberto? Oh no, not again.

I wanted to tell him off, but what good would that have done? I also wanted to say, “Do you know who this is? THIS IS NATALIE’S TWELVE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER!” But, of course, I didn’t.

I ran outside and told Mem, who was hanging sheets on the clothesline. She put her bag of clothespins on the ground, gave me a worried look, and we both sat down on the stoop.

“What now?” I asked Mem, but she didn’t answer me. Then Mem went into the house and told Mere Germaine about the phone call, and the three of us sat at the kitchen table in silent shock. Even Rib was upset, letting out tiny, high-pitched cries. “What now?” I asked again. This time, neither one of them answered me.

When Mom came home, and I told her that Roberto had called, she lifted me off my feet and kissed me all over my face while laughing like a hyena. I liked the attention, so I forced myself to look happy for her, even though I felt pure misery inside.

Mem and Mere Germaine warned Mom to think carefully about what to do next. But she knew exactly what she wanted to do and called Roberto, whispering to him from inside the closet next to the phone.

When Mom got off the call, she was the happiest I’d ever seen her and told us that Roberto was coming to the apartment to pick her up and take her out to dinner at some fancy Country Club in Westport called Longshore.

She group-hugged me, Mem, and Mere Germaine and then ran upstairs to get dressed while we stood there dumbfounded.

About an hour later, Roberto showed up at our front door. I was sitting at the kitchen table with Mem. Mere Germaine was boiling water for tea at the stove, and Mom was still upstairs getting “all dolled up,” as Mem called it.

Mem asked me to answer the door, but I said a big fat NO. Mere Germaine took off her apron and opened the front door. Mem stood up and walked into the living room, but I sat at the table with my back turned toward Roberto, and I refused to turn around unless asked to. It was no surprise to me that nobody cared to ask me anything because, as usual, I am invisible. Or maybe I’m visible, but no one takes the time to hear what I have to say.

And unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything because I was facing in the opposite direction. I heard Roberto say “Nice to meet you” to Mem and Mere Germaine, but nobody said anything to or about me. I’m sure they were all nervous about what I might do or what I might say. Rib, who barked non-stop, had plenty to say.

Mom ran down the stairs, and Mere Germaine blurted out that she looked like a movie star. Mom always looked like a movie star. I quickly turned my head around just in time to see the two of them kiss, which made me want to puke.

Mom and Roberto said goodbye to no one in particular, and from a side eye, I could see that the two of them made it a point not to look in my direction.

After they left, I ran to the front window and peeked through the blinds. They walked hand in hand to the parking lot and then drove away in his fancy black car. Mom looked especially beautiful in a green velvet mini dress that Mem always thought was too tight and too short for her. But I thought Mom looked perfect. I just wish it was for Nick and not Roberto.

Mem said she was upset that Roberto never looked over at me in the kitchen. I told Mem I was upset that Roberto didn’t open Mom’s car door for her like Nick always does.

At breakfast this morning, while Mom was still sleeping, Mem accused them of being out until the wee hours of the morning. Even Mere Germaine complained about Mom carousing around all night and made it loud and clear that she planned to speak to her about it.

The only loud and clear thing I know is that Westport Roberto and his fancy black car are back, which means poor Bridgeport Nick and his old, beat-up used car are most definitely getting the boot.

Click here for Chapter 25: The Tony Telling