I finally retired in October 2014. My sister, Kristi, had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.
Kristi’sMine
We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.
Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.
I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.
I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.
When she was only 3 years old, and I was only 5, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.
I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.
The night when souls wander freely is fast approaching. The sky is clear and in this chill morning I can even read the constellations. Lights in sickly orange and violet shine eerily from rustling bushes and the withered, brittle leaves falling sound like footsteps following stealthily close behind. A black cat steals silently across my path, but I am not startled; I look behind to see if I am still alone in the black stillness. My gaze reaches out for the lone street light still beyond my rapid shuffle through the dark street. Was the crack in the wall always there or is it opening just for me. Finally. .. the bus. “Good morning, how are you?” “Great”, I say, as if nothing happened.
If loving and being loved leads to the point of a mental breakdown, then let the breakdown commence.
There is nothing more lovely and wonderful than to love and to be loved. Yes, when a loved thing dies, no matter what the form it takes, be it human or animal, tree or rock, a work of art in the form of something to touch, smell, see, taste or hear be it physical or ethereal, there is nothing more transcendent than to have loved or have been loved by that thing.
Life is not worth living if we have not reached those heights of ecstacy or have not descended into the abyss of loss. Those wounds to our hearts and minds, where we have been rent asunder, is where the light gets in. This is the fount of our creativity.
Tears of salt, of our joy and our pain, give flavor to life… makes it savory and rich. It’s why we have something to give to another. Do not fear to love unto madness.
Let the breakdown commence and be glad that your feelings run so deep.
Can I be frank with you? I want to be perfectly honest. I’m not sure how to begin to tell the story, but I’ll just begin and here it is.
1966 – senior photo – graduated with my class
Do you know what he said to me; what my high school counselor said to me when I went in to talk about my life, my future after graduation? It was our senior year, and we were all being called in. Not even looking at me, but shuffling papers around his desk, he said that it didn’t matter because I would be pregnant before graduation anyway. That’s what he said. Just like that. What is he, like some prognosticator, like some fortune teller, like some shell casting vodou man, like some tea leaf reader?
Was it written on my face? Does he read it in my young body? Was it my short skirt? My pointed-toed shoes? The way I walked? The way I talked? Something particularly nasty about me?
But hey! Maybe he saw something, in spite of the fact that I loved learning, or was he a fucking jackass? Literature, writing, calligraphy, painting; I excelled at many things. I loved music and played in the band and orchestra, but my future was already determined according to my high school counselor. I was just going to get pregnant, so “get out and don’t waste any more of my time”. Anyway, that’s what I heard him say. Get out and don’t waste any more of my time. So I got out. No college applications, no discussion of financial aid, no what do you want to become, do… nothing. Nothing. Thank you, man. Thank you, a hell of a lot.
So, I made him a prophet. Maybe he later patted himself on the back that he had me pegged. But I showed him. I finished school and I could have gone to college; I could have done a lot of things. He doesn’t know… this is what he doesn’t know.
January 1966… 17 years old… still in school – secretly pregnant
Aunt Wilma said. “You tell her or I will”, as she met me at the front door one day after school. Mom was in her bedroom. Aunt Wilma was important.
“Are all girls who get pregnant out of wedlock bad?” “YES!”, Mom said. She’s sorry now. She did the best that she could. She wants me to forgive her. I do. What I didn’t know then was that she had gotten pregnant while in or shortly after nurse’s training and given the baby, her baby, up for adoption.
Why couldn’t she have been more empathetic? Why couldn’t she admit that she could relate to me? Take me in her arms and cry with me. Why would she wait for another decade to tell me her story? I know why really I do. She was ashamed. Always, we are ashamed. We are shamed by language. Bastard. Illegitimate child. Unwed mother. What were the fathers called?
Instead, I was left alone with my heart, my heartbreak, my fear, my dilemma. I wasn’t ashamed. But Mom was ashamed to let anyone know. I was hidden away from the family, from the neighbors, the school, the church. Dad was silent but I know that I had disappointed him. That was papable. Mom knew how to deal with the dilemma.
June 1966 – no more secrets
Mom, Kristi, me and Grandma – and Gypsy
Kristi, Mom and me
I’d love to know what to say…
January 1967 – Out of sight, out of mind? She’s gone but I don’t know where.
Johannah? I named her Johannah. I left her when she was only 3 days old. Put her into the arms of strangers. Don’t cry. Have never cried. I don’t feel anything. In the White Shield Home for Unwed Mothers. Alone. Bursting waters. Dead from the waist down. Shaved, slit open.
Tiny feet just like Jack’s, his fingers too. Fuck him. No! don’t fuck him. Why should I hate him? He’s only a boy like I’m only a girl. And I am not too young to know that love is not enough to make a family. We could make a baby but I had no way of knowing how to make a family.
What was my mother thinking to put me away like this? Hide me. Give away my baby. Old enough to get pregnant but not old enough to take care of the tiny baby, take care of the tiny baby.
Kristi has hers. She started at 15. Steve has his. He started at 17. I don’t have mine. Should I die for this? Suffer for this? Be punished? Shamed? It was out of my hands but I understood that this was right. Better for the baby. Better for me and Jack.
Apple Jacks in the morning. Girls masturbating in the night. Sobs coming from the cots in the overcrowded dormitory. There were too many girls. Cots were lined up one next to the other. Sobbing. We were crowded, pregnant and each with a sad story.
Visitors. I had only Mom; she came on Saturday and bought me a banana popsicle. It was never enough. I wanted, I thought I needed, tuna fish. She couldn’t come in because of so many secrets and the shame. She was forbidden. We ate in the car.
Salvation Army officers with stern faces. Classes about what? I don’t remember. I think I quit thinking then. While I waited, nothing. Just empty days and empty nights.
I borrowed dresses and waited for Jack to come. He never called but when I called him, if he answered, he made promises at my pleading. Me, I was waiting all day.
My house, my world was across the river. I could see my neighborhood from the windows. I was put on hold. They tried to shame me by the words that they spoke: repeating the words, illegitimate, unwed. Like that. But it didn’t work.
Does my body echo my pain today? I know that parents do damage unknowingly. Mom and Dad tried but what about me? What kind of damage have I done? How did that tiny baby feel? She knew only my heartbeat, my smell, the sound of my voice. She didn’t know I was only 17. Then she was in the arms of strangers. New smells, new heartbeats, new voices. Did she miss me? Did she yearn for me? For how long did she cry for me?
Christmas 1967 – with Dad and Steve and Kristi ~ what baby? Where did the baby go?
I didn’t know where she was. I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. A prostitute or a doctor, or if she was loved and had siblings. Was she addicted to drugs or have children of her own. There was no way of knowing. I signed a paper saying that I would never look for her. My files would be sealed. She came from me, but I gave up all rights and blocked all roads that would lead me to her or her to me. I was told only that she was going to a family who raised horses and had a son but could have no more children. That was good enough, I thought. But that was a lie. A big, fat lie, even.
I left the home without her and went on with my life. I worked, married Jack, had two more children, went to school, divorced after 27 years, traveled, had other relationships. But what was Johannah doing?
Oregon’s 1957 statute sealed the birth certificates of adoptees though it violated the State’s Bill of Rights. These were and are stored at the State Department of Vital Records. This act reflected the social mores of the time, the social stigma of the shameful act of giving birth to an illegitimate child. This act would keep the secret whether the mother wanted it or not. A separate birth certificate would be created with the new name, new mother’s name, and new address and the original birth certificate hidden from the eyes of the adoptee.
In 1984 Oregon created the State Adoption Registry. But I didn’t know that. Initiative 46. So, as soon as I could, I updated my files at the Boys and Girls Aid Society, so if she wanted to find me, she could.
Throughout the years, some people in the family and some friends wanted me to look for her. More shame. More shame. What have you done? they said. I didn’t know if I should look for her. What if her parents hadn’t told her she was adopted. What if, what if, what if… Other women shared that the same thing had happened to them. The same shame, the same sadness, the same wondering. I did tell Hannah and Jesse, my other children, her brother, and sister when they were 11 and 9 years old, that maybe there might be someone looking for us and I told them the story. Hannah was mad, “If you can give one baby away, maybe you can give another baby away too,” she said adamantly as she stomped out the door. I don’t blame her. I understand that for her it was not at all understandable. Here stood her loving mommy, telling her that she had given away a baby to someone else and she didn’t even know where she was.
Many years passed. Fifty to be exact when I received a message on FaceBook. I’m helping my wife look for her birth mother. We think you might be her, it read. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe more than a single beat. I could barely breathe. I called Jack and said I had received this message but I thought it might be a scam. Jack had always been in favor of looking for our long ago baby. “Answer”, was his simple response. So I did. My baby would be fifty years old now. The response came back, and her name was Johannah. There was no doubt, our child had found us.
No, I had no trepidation. I had no fear. I had no reservations. I wanted to know her. I wanted to see her. We emailed each other and we both had so many questions. She had been looking for me for a long time but she found Jack first through Ancestry.com. Then Facebook confirmed that I was her mother, attached to Jack, though we had been long divorced, and Hannah and Jesse were there too. She was anxious and ready to know us. She wasn’t about to wait. Within two weeks, she was on the doorstep with her wife, Raquel.
Our family is complete now. I only regret that Mom and Dad and my sister Kristi will never know her.
Here’s Tracy, Hannah, and Jesse. The family is now complete.
The family: (Back row) Raquel, (Tracy’s wife) Jack, me, Tracy, Jesse. (Front row) Yum Yum, Ancel, Hannah and Enora (missing is Jack’s wife Linda who is taking the photo.
Though I am sorry for any pain I caused my beautiful Tracy by handing her over to strangers. I could not have known the love and joy that she would bring to this family that missed her forever. Thank you, Tracy and Kelly, for not giving up.
The moon always shows its same face to the earth… most of the time, it is never truly full because there is always a bit in our shadow.
Last night, I was driving straight east on Division St. with the moon directly in my sight but way north of the horizon. It looked full to me, as there was a filmy garment of clouds softening its glow… I followed it as if it were my guide, but as I seemed to be drawing nearer, which, of course, was only an illusion, the clouds cleared and I could see that at about 7:00 if the moon was a clock, a dim shadow lay across its face. It wasn’t full but it was Dee’s birthday and she was turning 70 years of age.
Tomorrow we will see the Full Worm Moon, as it is sometimes called… or it has other names like Crow Moon, Crust Moon, and Sap Moon. But tonight it is Dee’s moon.
I turned sharply to climb the hill at 202nd. St. and wound around the cul de sac filled neighborhood to arrive at Steve and Dee’s doorstep. A party was in full swing. Four of their eight children were there with their children and grandchildren and Dee’s longtime friend Terri and her longtime partner David.
The tables were laden with food and the air was filled with an ever increasing crescendo of voices. Smokers were in the garage or just outside the kitchen door on the patio as darkness fell. The smell of sweet tobacco and marijuana wafted throughout the garden and snuck through the cracks in the doors and windows.
Steve was putting the finishing touches to the turkey gravy and carving on breast and thigh. I added my tamale pie to the myriad of dishes filling the tables. Meatballs, special mashed potatoes with all kinds of cream and cheeses, cakes and pies and bottles of wine, green bean casserole, platters of fresh vegetables and dips and chips make up a short list of temptations.
Dee’s party, it was. She has been a part of our family since I was in my 20s when she and her three boys joined the contiguous family of Steve and his three children. There are two others who have never been a presence in the family, except in our hearts, Steve’s first two sons, so there be eight. So, Dee has been around for a good, long time and has been mother to the many through thick and thin, through feast and famine.
Death is imminent, I am reminded with each birthday that comes and goes. It is certain for all of us, but that awareness may be more so if you are 70. I don’t mean to say that Dee is any closer to the end of her life than anyone because no one knows from day to day how long we have on this earth.
But 70 years of age she is, with all of the joys and sorrows, that were her lot, written in her smile lines and her scars. She has no time or energy for meaningless drivel and drama anymore. You can see the “devil may care” in her eyes; that look makes her more beautiful and charming but occasionally more hurtful to the young.
So, I wrote her a poem to honor her life on this day, her birthday under an almost full moon, and to wish her many more years to be mom, grandma, wife, sister, and friend.
And I offer to you, my friends, my recipe for tamale pie. You’ll love it.
Some kind of Poetry… if you will
My sister, my friend, but 70 years have passed.
Your life has never been more than a grain of sand falling through the narrow passage of the hourglass.
Just now, still in your infancy,
Your body, not more than particles of stardust, expands to merge with the unknowable,
Yet, your heart still persists, reaching for the beyond knowing.
My sister, my friend,
Your time of repose has come; that which you seek stands at your door.
There is nothing more for which to strive.
You have nothing more to do.
It is your time of being, of dancing and singing.
Karen’s Tamale Pie
Ingredients
3 can of beans (I use pinto and black, and of course you can make your own from dry)
1 can of hot green chilies
1 large can of fire roasted, diced tomatoes (not drained)
1 can of corn (drained)
1 onion
1 green pepper (any color would do)
1 bunch cilantro
3-5 cloves garlic
1 jalapeño
1 tsp. chili powder
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. salt ( or to taste)
1 tsp. cocoa powder
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tbs. honey (you could also use date or coconut sugar, maple syrup, agave syrup, etc.)
1 roll of polenta (or make your own; it’s very easy).
1 pkg. of Daiya grated, spicy jack cheese
Method
In a food processor throw in all the fresh vegetables. Use an amount of jalapeño and cilantro to your taste. Pulse to a chunky consistency.
Saute in a dutch oven in water or oil until onions are translucent.
Drain and rinse the beans, then add to the pot with the vegetables. Add tomatoes, chilies, corn and seasonings. Let simmer for 30 minutes or longer for deeper flavor. Let cool slightly. I like to make my chili hours or even the night before I assemble the pie, but it’s not necessary.
Slice polenta roll into rounds. Sprinkle most of the cheese on your prepared chili, then place the polenta rounds on top of the chili. Sprinkle the rest of the cheese over the polenta.
Heat oven to 350°. Place the pie in the oven and bake uncovered for 30 minutes. Cover and continue cooking for 15 minutes more. Check and if the chili is bubbling and the cheese has melted, it’s time to enjoy.
You can top this with any of your favorite toppings, but really, it’s creamy and spicy just like it is
It’s nearly Christmas Day. This is the night that many believe that the king of the universe was born and that a star led wise men to a manger where this king was made flesh and that this king came to save mankind with a promise of eternal life. This is not my mythology. This is not…
But this is a night; some say it is a holy night, a sacred night. It is only because we believe it is. I can feel a power out there in the cold night. I can feel a heavy energy. My eyes will not soon close in sleep. My heart will not soon cease to ache.
My small, insignificant being desires that everyone, in this night, sleep warmly, sleep in love, sleep in the arms of a benevolent Earth. But my desire means less than a teardrop falling from my eyes or from all the eyes in the world.
There are those that sleep the deepest of slumbers below the rubble of a bomb shelled city where only fragments of their bones might be found.
There are those who cannot sleep because of the hunger eating at their belly and the bellies of their crying children.
There are those who will not sleep because they have no love, those no one has ever loved, where the scars of a million wounds have healed only to be opened once again day after miserable day.
There are those who will not sleep tonight because they lay uncovered, bare where they float between the pavement and the coal black sky, without a shred of cloth to cover their shivering, aching body.
There are those who will not sleep tonight, who quiver beneath their covers, for fear of what ugly, painful words will be hurled at them, what fists, rocks, knives, guns await them tomorrow because of meaningless differences between them and others.
There are those who will not sleep tonight, because of a million, trillion reasons too horrible to mention.
Those that I love are nestled beneath piles of cozy blankets tonight. Those that I love still anticipate the morning. Those that I love have not experienced hunger, terror, homelessness, chaos, bone-chilling cold, fear, hopelessness. Shall I beg the king of the universe that they never do?
What kind of world is this where there are those who live with blessings and those who do not? What kind of world is this where only some experience the joy of the season and others do not? What kind of world is this?
My eyes will not soon close in sleep nor my heart find solace on this, this holy night when it has been told, the king of the universe was born on earth.
The moon always shows its same face to the earth… most of the time, it is never truly full because there is always a bit in our shadow.
eyeamdust 