My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 18: The Secret Is Out

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries, , , , , ,

CHAPTER 18

THE SECRET IS OUT

January 1965

I should have never taken the chance that Roberto might see me at Mem’s window, but I was sick and tired of worrying about some guy I didn’t know. Plus, I was boiling mad at Mom for refusing to tell Roberto about me, and deep down, I wanted to punish her.

So late last night, when I saw the bright lights outside, I knew that Roberto was dropping off Mom, and I decided to take my chances at Mem’s window. Mem was busy on the sewing machine at the other end of the apartment, so I snuck a quick peek.

As I peeped out from the bottom right corner of the window, a cockroach ran out from under Mem’s bed, making me jump around and scream like a banshee.

That was the stupidest thing I could have done because Roberto looked up and saw me! I quickly dropped to the floor despite the cockroach. A few minutes later, I heard the kitchen door open and loudly slammed shut.

“Where is she? I’m gonna kill her,” Mom yelled out from the kitchen. I crawled under the bed, praying there weren’t more cockroaches, but from the sounds coming out of Mom, I was safer with the bugs.

Mom was screaming and swearing, and Mem warned her to stay away from me. Mom came into the bedroom with a broom and kept stabbing me under the bed with the bristles. It was painful, and I was crying. Mem tried to pull Mom away and threatened to call Mere Germaine on her if she didn’t calm herself down.

Then Mom dropped to the bedroom floor, sobbing. “Roberto saw Tony at the window. She did this on purpose. Roberto called me a distrustful liar and broke up with me. That Tony of yours is pure evil, and I wish she was never born.”

Mem responded by reminding Mom that I was her kid and not Mem’s and that I could hear every word she was saying. Mem warned Mom that she would regret her words later. “The only thing I regret is having that brat,” she yelled as she picked herself up off the floor and slammed the back door as she left.

Mem ordered me out from under her bed. When I crawled out, I was covered head to toe with blood pricks from the broom bristles. My bleeding body stung, but not as much as Mom’s ugly words.

Mem stayed quiet. She put me in the bath to clean off the blood and removed some broom bristles stuck in my hair and scalp.

Then Mem called Mere Germaine to ask what she should do because it wasn’t safe for Mom to be outside in the dark. Mere Germaine said she was walking over to our apartment, which was a very long walk, so Mem begged her not to come. But Mere Germaine said she was on her way.

I hated myself for what I had done, but there was nothing I could do to change the situation. If it weren’t for Mom refusing to tell Roberto about me, none of this would have happened.

When Mere Germaine finally showed up, Mem ran outside to look for Mom. Before Mem left, Mere Germaine told her to take a can of Raid with her so if anyone tried to hurt her or Mom, she could spray it in their eyes.

I told Mere Germaine what happened, and she scolded me but held me tight while gently patting my still-bleeding arms and legs with her dainty needle-pointed handkerchief as I cried uncontrollably in her lap.

She put me to bed and told me not to move a muscle. “When your mother gets home, you pretend to be asleep, tu comprends?” Oh, I understood, all right.

Soon after, I heard Mem and Mom come into the apartment. Mom was still sobbing hysterically and telling Mem and Mere Germaine that she couldn’t take me anymore.

“If it wasn’t for her,” she cried to Mem, “my life would be so much easier. All of our lives would be easier.”

Mere Germaine was quiet, but Mem said, “How can you say such a thing? She’s a child. Your child.”

“Tony just had to put her ugly, scrawny face on the window. How many times have I told her not to do it? She ruined everything. We will never get out of here now, thanks to her. Roberto demanded to know who the kid was. This is not how I wanted him to find out about her. He’ll never speak to me again; I just know it.”

Mem and Mere Germaine did their best to calm her crying fit, but she wailed away for hours. That’s what Mom gets for being a big fat liar.

Mom’s words were way more painful than the stabbing she gave me with the broom, but getting Roberto out of our lives was worth the pain of all of it, and given a chance, I would do it again and again and again.

Click here for Chapter 19: The Boot

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Obituaries

Maya Angelou was born on April 4, 1928 — an Aries, like me.

In June of 1973, my roommate at Delta Flight Attendant training school in Atlanta, Georgia, was a Black woman from Chicago, Illinois. Our training only lasted six weeks, but our friendship spanned several years.

I don’t remember her name, but I’ll never forget the secret she shared with me.

As a result, I shared my secret with her as well.

The Christmas following our Delta graduation, she gave me Maya Angelou’s book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Maya Angelou was raped at seven years old — her attacker was dating her mother back then. Maya eventually told her brother about the attack, who subsequently informed their mother. And lucky for Maya, her mother reported it to the police.

Her rapist was found guilty but spent just one day in jail. Immediately after his release, he was found kicked to death.

Some might be appalled by what I think, but in my mind, justice was served as best as it could be.

Upon learning of her rapist’s death, Maya refused to speak for nearly five years, thinking that her saying his name had killed him. Oh, if it were only true for all of us.

In the five years that she was intentionally mute, she depended solely on her listening and observing skills, to which I can relate.

Growing up in Bridgeport, Connecticut, my Franco-American grandmother taught me that kids are to be seen but never heard. When my grandmother didn’t want me to know what she was saying, she spoke to my mother and great-grandmother in French.

As a result, I became adept at listening, observing, and translating conversational French into English.

It was Angelou’s teacher, Bertha Flowers, who helped her regain her voice, and the rest is poetic history.

Over the years, Angelou’s words have been an enormous comfort and continue to resonate deep within me.

Here are some of my favorite words Maya Angelou taught me to live by:

“There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.”

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.”

“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

“Each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, without claiming it, she stands up for all women.”

“Every storm runs out of rain.”

“Hate: It has caused a lot of problems in the world but has not solved one yet.”

“You may shoot me with your words; you may cut me with your eyes; you may kill me with your hatefulness; but still, like air; I’ll rise.”

“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

“You may not control all the events that happen to you but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

“It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength.”

“We allow our ignorance to prevail upon us and make us think we can survive alone, alone in patches, alone in groups, alone in races, even alone in genders.”

“I learned a long time ago, the wisest thing I can do is be on my own side.”

“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”

“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life’s a bitch. You’ve got to go out and kick ass.”

“If you’re always trying to be normal, you will never know how amazing you can be.”

“When you know you are of worth — not asking it but knowing it — you walk into a room with a particular power.”

“If you’re going to live, leave a legacy. Make a mark on the world that can’t be erased.”

“The idea of overcoming is always fascinating to me. It’s fascinating because few of us realize how much energy we have expended just to be here today. I don’t think we give ourselves enough credit for the overcoming.”

“I sustain myself with the love of family.”

“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

“Develop enough courage so that you can stand up for yourself and then stand up for somebody else.”

“You should be angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it…”

“I am a Woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal Woman, that’s me.”

The Tale as Old as Time

Me Too

I had a boatload of to-do items on my list for this past Monday, March 20:

Email an assignment to my ColdFusion tech guy, finish decoupaging an old end table, add an article on my website Worldpress.org, post another chapter of My Stolen Diaries on my blog, The Teri Tome, write an inscription in a Maya Angelou book I was mailing to my friend Kathy, swing by the post office to drop off two packages before getting a mammogram/sonogram, and then dinner at 7:15 with a friend.

Whew. It was going to be a busy day.

But then, at 3:30 am, I woke up drenched in dread and sweat after interrupting an awful dream — about him. As I tossed and turned, unable to will myself back to sleep, I asked my dead grandmother to send me a sign to help me get through the day.

I was sleepless in New York, so I went down to my desk, wrote the inscription below, and taped it into the front pages of Maya Angelou’s poetry book titled Phenomenal Woman:

For Kathy,

I’d like to think that, like Maya Angelou,
sharing some, but not yet all, of my truth
has helped me to rise above insecurity,
abandonment, guilt, abuse, regret, shame,
remorse, sadness, depression, and who
knows what else. And yet I have somehow
managed to rise.

I have often described myself as a bird with
a broken wing — maybe two. A fragile bird
afraid to sing and unable to fly.

Not because of my impoverished, chaotic
upbringing. But because my metaphorical
cage was and still is, my inability to say his
name — not through song but through words.

I still carry deep remorse for many things
that happened or didn’t happen in my past.
Even the tiniest regret leaves me wondering
how I missed the things worth stopping for.

Like you, Kathy. How sad we didn’t get to
know each other very well at Brevard. I
am convinced that we would have been
great friends.

But I have learned through my sometimes
painful, often weary, yet wondrous seventy
years that it is never too late to surround
myself with brave, phenomenal women.

A phenomenal woman, that’s you.
~Teri 3/20/23

By the time I finished writing, taping, and packaging, it was time for a shower, followed by a strong cup of coffee and the New York Times. To say I was emotionally spent would be putting it mildly.

But then there it was. The sign.

In the New York Times, there was an article about filmmaker Jennifer Fox (my grandmother’s last name), who, after a half-century of refusing to name her sexual abuser, had finally come forward with his name almost two years after his death. She identified him as Ted Nash, a two-time Olympic medalist in rowing — a legend in his sport.

In 2018, Fox wrote and directed The Tale, an acclaimed American drama about her pieced-together memories of sexual abuse when she was 13, at the hands of an older man, but she never revealed his identity.

Fox recently told the New York Times that she finally said his name because she wanted abusers to know that even death wouldn’t spare them from being found out.

The last paragraph in the article was a quote from Fox, and it gave me the chill bumps:

“The adult part of me wants to move on, but that child in me, she wants to face him and get it over with and name him. There was a part of me saying, I will not let you rest until you name him.”

My Mammy

Family & Relationships


Today marks forty years since I lost my precious grandmother.

My grandma, who I called Mammy (pronounced May-Me), was my everything.

My mom had me at a very young age, so she had difficulty caring for me. Thank goodness for my grandmother, who so lovingly stepped in and took over for her.

As I got older, I understood the importance of Mammy and was very thankful that she raised me to be a strong, courageous, independent young lady.

She also taught me how to cook, clean, and bake. But most of all, she taught me how to be a loving mother and grandmother.

Everything I am is because of Mammy. And even though she was everything my mom couldn’t be, that was okay for me. Because I knew that my mom was doing her best, and as long as I had Mammy, I felt safe.

The only downside to being raised by my grandmother was that I never knew what it was like to have a traditional “mom.”

My grandma raised me as best she could, although there were always unsaid boundaries because she didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings or cut her out as a mom.

There were many occasions when I was told to lie and tell people that Mammy was my mother so as not to be poorly judged.

And then there were many times I freely lied — and answered “yes” when asked if Mammy was my mother. I learned early on that people could be cruel and unfairly judgmental regarding my untraditional family.

Of course, I always knew who my mother was, but with each leaving space for the other to step in, Mammy and my mom unintentionally left a lot of the parenting void up to me to fill in and figure out on my own.

And being from a “broken home” was a permanent stain, and as they say in Catholic speak, my cross to bear.

Let’s just say that I didn’t garner any trust points with the moms and dads of my friends, as they were wary of me and my unorthodox family unit.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a creative writer, voracious reader, and deep thinker.

One of my most treasured books was my children’s dictionary. I can still see its bright yellow cover — the title displayed in a rainbow of primary-colored letters. I poured through the pages of my dictionary while most other kids were reading about magical and imaginary beings and lands.

There are so many words that I can still recall being used to describe me and my female dynasty as a kid.

If nothing else, I was a curious, practical child, so for every word spoken that I didn’t understand, I would look up. Here are a few I can still recall coming up a lot back then.

Broken. The meaning of “broken” is having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order. That’s not how I remember my “family” of women: My mom, grandmother, and great-grandmother were my pillars. Another word that I learned very young in life.

Pillars. A tall vertical structure of stone, wood, or metal used to support a building or as an ornament or monument. Or, in my case, they were flesh and bone pillars used to support and lift me up.

Awkward. Causing difficulty, embarrassment, or inconvenience. There was nothing awkward or embarrassing about me or the three women in my life, although sadly, my mother often considered me so. I sometimes wonder what she thinks of me now or if she thinks about me at all. I wish I could call and ask her, but that ship sailed a long time ago.

Even though Mammy has been gone for 40 years today, her memory still brings tears to my eyes, and I think about her every single day.

Rest in peace, Mammy. I miss you terribly, and I sure hope we meet again.