Vignette #2

 

I continue to learn about writing and how writing can be part of a healing journey. Healing starts with naming the wound. Writing can be a journey to awareness, a way to identify what needs to be called out.

 

Sharing our stories helps us heal and can inspire others to reflect on their own
experiences.

 

The posts have shifted to vignettes from my childhood.

 

I pray, my reader friend, that God takes my words, illuminates truth and compels you to step courageously forward. Each step is trusting in His goodness that nourishes your soul and, on the journey, back to a place of shalom.

 

When I was 11 years old, my family of six moved from the south side of Chicago to the southwest suburbs. My dad worked as a truck mechanic; my mom stayed at home to care for us four kids. I had one older brother and two younger brothers. We even had a black Labrador retriever dog named Tippy.

 

My parents chose to relocate because the Chicago schools were unsafe, and teachers couldn’t control their classrooms. When my older brother was in 8th grade, students were having sex in his classroom behind the piano and the white women teacher cowered in fear. Before we moved, I was in 6^th grade, and I had an African American male teacher who commanded our classroom. They housed the younger grades in a separate temporary building, so my younger brother was safe in 1st and 2nd grade. The youngest brother was a toddler at home.

 

In the suburbs, there was elementary school through 5th grade, then junior high and high school, so all of us kids would go to separate new schools. It was scary, and I was fearful to be alone.

 

This move would be the third move for my family. When I was 6, we moved from Chicago to California for first grade and then we moved back to Chicago when I was in second grade. New schools, new neighborhoods, new environments, and new friends were not new experiences, but still caused anxiety.

 

The house and neighborhood were new builds, with farms, cornfields, creeks, and young trees, which made moving exciting. The houses were a few different models, no grass or landscaping; all dirt, including the roads. I had my own room since I was the only girl.

 

Since my mom did not work outside the home, she made friends with the neighbor ladies that were all stay at home moms. She connected with the next-door neighbor who also had a preschooler and one mom from my younger brother’s t-ball league who lived a few blocks down the street. T-ball mom was more my mom’s age while next door was a younger mom, so mom spent more time with T-ball mom named Pat.

 

Pat taught my mom to bake fancy cakes, eclairs, and other bakery goods. While they baked, they smoked cigarettes, drank beer and played loud music. The treats all tasted great and as we kids were running in and out of the house, we had opportunities to sample or lick the bowls or spoons. As their time together would unfold, they would become drunk. This scenario was common between our house and Pat’s house.

 

I was a quiet, shy, and studious girl at school; observant and trying to find my place. For my 13th birthday, my parents allowed me to have a sleepover, so I invited 13 girls from school. None of them were good friends, and I thought this would be a way to make real friends.

 

Seventh grade in the suburbs had a different vibe than Chicago elementary. I had to become comfortable changing classes and taking the bus. Thankfully, I didn’t have to manage lunch because school was from 12 noon to 5 pm. Our town was in growth mode and did not have its own junior high or high school, so they bussed me and my older brother to the next town.

 

One of my classes was music, and I was learning to play the guitar. I enjoyed it so much my mom decided to make a birthday cake shaped like a guitar for my party.

 

The day of the sleepover finally came. It was a beautiful Saturday in April, and I was nervous, anxious, and fearful. My thoughts included “will they like me, will they have fun, will they like my bedroom, my house, my cake, will my mom be drunk and embarrass me?” My mom finished the cake, and it was picture perfect.

 

The weather on that April Saturday afternoon was mild, so mom had the patio door open. Our kitchen was just big enough for our table that fit the 6 of us with little room to navigate. You would either be at the stove, sink, counter next to the fridge, or sitting at the table. The patio door was right next to the fridge, then the laundry room was right off the kitchen in an alcove. Mom would sit at the table, drink her beer, and smoke her cigarettes after she finished cooking or baking. The patio door was next to her, facing the front door.

 

With the cake on the table and the patio door open, a breeze swirled through and brought all the ashes from mom’s ashtray into the air, landing all over the cake. I was unaware until mom suddenly added chocolate sprinkles to the guitar so the ashes would blend in like it was meant to be all over the cake.

 

Did we serve that cake? Of course. Did I eat any? Not a chance. Did any of the girls suspect something was up with the cake? No, the girls were being girls at a sleepover; playing music, dancing, talking about boys and if anyone was wearing a bra yet. Did I gain a BFF that night? Not really. Did I invite any of them over to my house again? No, I did not.

 

Instead, I became best friends with the young girl who lived across the street whose nickname is BZ. Her older brother was my age, her younger brother was in my younger brother’s grade, she had a younger sister, and I had an even younger brother. We all played together on the block, kickball, freeze tag, swam in our pool, rode bikes, spud, red-light green-light and other games at our end of the block. One of my favorites was playing music on our portable record player on the concrete step in front of BZ’s house.

 

My mom’s antics were no secret to BZ, so it was nice to have a place to escape across the street into singing and dancing.