My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 30: Mom’s Engagement

March 9, 2024Teri's Novelog — My Stolen DiariesA novel on a blog, Fiction, my stolen diaries, Teri's novelogTeri

CHAPTER 30

MOM’S ENGAGEMENT

August 15, 1966

Today was my worst day ever. Mom asked for my blessing to get engaged and marry “Rob,” explaining that getting married to a wealthy man and moving to an affluent town like Westport is everything she has been dreaming about her whole life.

I found it brazenly annoying that she would “ask” for my blessing while shoving her left hand with a diamond the size of our apartment into my face.

Mom is getting ready to live out her dream while I’m still trying to get used to Roberto’s new name. What a joke. What about my dreams?

According to Mem, Roberto goes by “Rob” in Westport because his given name is too Italian for the town. Why would Mom want to live in a place where having an ethnic name is a problem?

And Nick? That would be it for Nick. He would be banished forever — I couldn’t let Mom do that. So, I courageously told Mom, “No, I won’t give you my blessing,” even though the next day was her 28^th birthday.

“I really want you to want this for me.” Mom looked at me so pathetically that I almost gave in. But I didn’t. I felt like there was nothing more to say, so I stood up to leave the kitchen table. “That’s it?” she asked me sarcastically.

“What about Nick?” I asked nervously. She glared up at me with a frown and a smirk. “Seriously, Tony? Your precious Nick can’t give us what Rob can, and you know it. Do you want to live as a poor person for the rest of your life?”

The look on her perfectly made-up face told me all I needed to know. There was no use trying to talk Mom out of marrying “Rob.” All Nick could give us was love. And while love was enough for me, I couldn’t say the same for Mom.

I told her I thought it was a terrible idea. I told her that “Rob” wasn’t good for her. I was reluctant to say anything more but knew it was my last chance to change her mind.

“So that’s it for Nick? We’re never going to see him again? And Nick or no Nick, I don’t want you to marry Roberto — oops, excuse me, Rob.”

Mom’s mascara eyes were squinting angrily at me when she said, “Nick is gone; I told him it was over.” I forced myself not to cry in front of her, and my hands were sweaty and shaking. But Mom didn’t even notice. I’m forever caught up in her drama, but she couldn’t care less. It’s always been about her.

I told Mom I wanted to say goodbye to Nick, and that’s when she got unbecomingly loud. “I said goodbye to Nick for you. That’s it for Nick. And I don’t want to hear his name come out of your mouth ever again.”

“Okay, so go live with your Rob in his fancy house in Westport, and leave me out of your drama and your dreams. I have dreams of my own.”

Mom looked puzzled. “Wait, you think I’m leaving you in this crummy apartment? I’m marrying Rob next August. We got engaged last night, and you’re coming to Westport with us, little missy.” And then she stormed upstairs, muttering, “Tony has dreams. Please.”

Wait what? I’m moving to Westport with those two immature lovebirds? Mom thinks I’m leaving Mem and Mere Germaine? Oh no. Mem would never stand for that.

Here, I was worried about living without Nick. And now Mom wants to take me away from Mem? How will I ever survive without Mem?

Click here for Chapter 31: Bridgeport Hospital

International Women’s Day: Me Too, Unless You’re a Jew

March 8, 2024Me TooTeri

This post is dedicated to:

Ofra. Arbel. Inbar. Maya. Noa. Carmel. Shiri. Judith. Eden. Shani. Doron. Amit. Emily. Daniella. Na’ama. Karina. Agam. Liri. Romi.

Fourteen of the 19 women named above are still presumed to be alive, while five of them were killed in captivity — their bodies rotting in Gaza.

On this International Women’s Day, don’t be afraid to say their names and pray that they come home soon like you would if they were your daughters, granddaughters, or sisters.

Until October 7, 2023, I never felt unsafe being Jewish. I now know better.

My in-laws, may they rest in peace, were Holocaust survivors and heroes to countless people whom they saved.

As a result of her trauma, my mother-in-law was obsessed with Israel, Zionism, and watching out for the enemy, which was anyone who wasn’t Jewish.

And she told me horror stories of what happened to the prettiest Jewish women and girls at the hands of the Nazis.

Her Holocaust accounts of rape, humiliation, assault, and murder of women and young girls were beyond my comprehension — until October 7, when all her fears were realized — by me.

My mother-in-law was convinced that the Holocaust could happen again and warned me to watch out for it. “It starts small,” she prophesized. I thought her paranoia came from her unfathomable Holocaust nightmare.

Now I get it.

What shocked me the most about the brutality of October 7 was the silence from so many people. People that I respected and looked up to. People I considered my friends.

But not anymore.

Women and girls were brutally raped and tortured on October 7.

Just say it.

And please don’t insult my intelligence with a “but.”

There is no but.

Speak the truth.

What the hell are you afraid of? Or maybe it’s not fear — but distaste for Jews — the others, unlike you.

If Hamas ever came into our country and raped and mutilated our women and girls, our government would annihilate them — collateral damage be damned.

And you would agree. We would all agree.

You can be against Israel. But it doesn’t give you the right to frighten and torment American Jews on American soil. How can you possibly condone Hamas terrorists sexually torturing and raping women and girls to death?

And to all those MeToo spokeswomen whom I admired and who helped me through my own nightmarish experience, your silence is heartbreakingly deafening.

In failing to condemn the raping to death of young women and girls, you MeToo bigots have shown your true colors and brought shame to yourselves and the movement.

Another Lost Year

March 7, 2024PoetryTeri

I’ve gone ahead and moved forward in life with those I can.
But I still treasure the frozen-in-time memories of those who ran.

Today, I wished for something I know, at least for now, can never be.
She’s still young, so I have faith that one day she’ll reach out to me.

I see the resemblance in her fly-away hair and heart-shaped chin.
With tiny hands planted firmly on her hips, she’s my mighty munchkin.

Then I asked myself how many years it would take — nine or maybe ten.
Add them to my already ancient self; no respite for the unwitting tragedienne.

One day, you will wonder if I ever thought of you or who you were to me.
Every day, I think of you and curse the deliberate chopping down of our family tree.