Tag Archives: family

A Long Overdue Memoir About the Power of Kindness

Ode to Ms. Patsy

This memory flooded into my mind this morning in the shower seemingly out of nowhere. It must have laid dormant somewhere waiting for the right thought to release it.

Somewhere in the fog of several lifetimes ago

I was in a place where I felt lost and alone, overflowing with my story that there was no one that understood me and no one near that I could comprehend — a place where those around me would see me fail before they would reach out or lend a hand — I walked away from all of them, every single one, ensuring that except for my young boys, I physically was actually alone… well, were it not for those neighbors.

Though her face and features have dimmed from my mind, and even her voice, I still remember these things about Ms. Patsy: her hands, the texture of her hair and the few white spots in it, her living room, and above all, the extreme kindness. That will live on in me forever. And when I close my eyes and transport myself, I remember vividly the warmth of her apartment below mine, and the smell of red beans and rice and cornbread from a particular night. I don’t believe I have ever had a pot of red beans and rice as good as the ones from that night.

Somewhere, I think I still have a borrowed Tom Clancy or John Grisham novel of hers with her name written in it. I borrowed it and never gave it back. I am disturbed that I cannot locate it. Right now, I cannot even remember her last name, but I feel compelled to find that book so that I can see it In her own handwriting on the inside front cover. I feel like I owe her at least that — to see her full name, run my fingers across it, and to say it out loud. If I find it, I will update!

The marvelous universe delivered us both to the same desert location. She was our new downstairs neighbor, and at the time I had no inkling how much I would need her later on. She was much older than I, older than my mother even at that time, in her early 70’s if I recall. I was somewhere around 27. She became a surrogate, a sort of mother/grandmother figure in the quadruplex inside of the apartment complex where I and other young parents lived. I was drawn to her. She was hip, modern, funny, brilliant, and a master at acceptance. We bonded over a love for Earl Klug, the Blues, a love of reading, and memories of the Bay Area in California where I had lived and from where she had recently retired and moved. Little did I know that at some later date she would be the one who may have saved our lives, mine at least, and for sure saved my heart and soul one evening.

We talked about so many delicious topics, and she was one of the first Black women that talked openly with me about race and social justice, and about her son who was living with AIDS. At that time there was a lot of stigma around it and it was pretty much a death sentence. I think she knew that I was open and wanting to learn about the world around me, shoes that I would never (could never) walk in, and that it would expand my perspective. She took a liking to my kids who are biracial, and I think felt it a compelling and important reason to share some of the things with me that she did. It seemed like she had lived many lives, and now that I am closer to her age at that time, I understand.

We would sit out on the stoop with neighbors between all of our apartments and chat for hours about all kinds of things. Our kids would run around out front in the little play area or sit in one of our living rooms watching TV and playing games. I found her fascinating, powerful, brave, funny, and loving. She was as outgoing as she was outspoken. I admired that.

When Ms. Patsy first came to us, I was married with two young boys, not realizing there was a series of heavy, life-altering events ahead. Not long after she moved in, I became pregnant with my third child, and shortly after he was born my husband and I separated. The boys and I stayed at the apartment.

Change. Whoa, CHANGE!

At the time of the separation, I was a member of a religious organization that was extremely rigid and stifling. I received a lot of rhetoric for separating from my husband, and I was very unhappy at treatment that not only I was receiving from some of the women in my congregation, but also how they were treating another young sister after a family tragedy.

I was unemployed and chose to go to allied health school to make myself more marketable for employment. I needed a way to sustain my family. When I received strong criticism from the elders in the congregation and was ostracized and harrassed by some of the other wives for doing so, I felt it was just too much more to bear and I walked away from my entire community. To this day, I can’t imagine how they expected me to care for my family without finding a way to obtain a decent job. Except for my boys, I had absolutely no family near me, and no friends outside of the congregation… well, were it not for those neighbors.

We were poor — not broke, poor. I went from being a housewife and stay-at-home mother, and an active member of a full congregation, to a student and single mother of three boys (one of whom was an infant) without any friends or family around in the same month. We had no telephone. There were no cell phones in that day, no internet or email. In order to call my mother, I had to walk to another building in the apartment complex and call her collect on a payphone. I had no transportation. I had no money of my own. I had a neighbor drive the boys and me to the Department of Economic Security (DES) so that I could apply for food stamps and “welfare.” I was terrified, depressed, bewildered and overwhelmed, but determined.

My neighbors, and especially Ms. Patsy, leaned into me. It was EVERYTHING. They were encouraging, kept me company, and would even help me with the boys once in a while so that I could study for tests or finish homework.

In the morning, I would walk with all of the kids to take my oldest son to school about a half mile down the street. Some mornings, their father would pick up the younger two and take them to daycare a few miles away. Sometimes, I had to walk them. From there, I would go to school which was another half mile from our apartment in the opposite direction from my oldest son’s school. It was a lot of walking. But I was determined to finish this 9-month program that so many people worked hard to convince me was a ridiculous endeavor. At the end of my school day, I would walk back the mile to my oldest son’s school, and from there we would walk another two or three miles to the other side of the freeway to pick up his younger brothers from daycare and go home.

Spiraling

One morning in February 1993, our electricity was turned off for nonpayment. It felt like another hit, but I knew I had to get us to school so I put it out of my mind and told myself I would deal with it later that day. I left school a little bit early that day hoping to get a ride from a friend when I got home later to go pay the bill. It began to rain. I wasn’t expecting it and I was not properly prepared. It was very cold, and I had on my nursing whites, which consisted of white starched and creased pants and a white blouse, as well as my white nursing shoes and knee-highs, and a white lab coat. This is what was mandatory for us to wear to school back in that day. Thankfully, I had a decent winter coat left over from my days of living in California. So I hurried down the street to my son’s school, dragging a folded up umbrella stroller as fast as I could. It wasn’t raining super hard at this time, but it was cold and I was definitely getting wet. I picked up my son and we went on our way. He thankfully had a winter jacket that my mother had purchased for him, and put his hood on.

As we began our walk, it was still raining, mostly drizzling. By the time we had reached the daycare to pick up the two younger ones, it was pouring and we were pretty soaked. I bundled up my 4-year-old as best I could, and put my infant in the umbrella stroller. He had on a little sweater and sweatpants and had a blanket. As we began rushing as fast as we could towing a 4-year-old and pushing an infant, thunder and lightning began and it was raining so hard that I could barely see. When we left the daycare, I had draped my coat over my infant son to keep him warm and dry, but it was raining so hard that we were all wet. My lab coat and pants felt like a drape of ice. It was so cold. It was just SO cold! All I could think of was how cold I was, and how miserable this must be for all my babies. At one point, all four of us were crying. But we just kept walking. I don’t know what other choice we had! I was a mess. I could feel the mascara running into my eyes, and I was consumed with grief and fear.

It all just felt like too much that day. I had another six or seven months to go in school to finish my certification, and another month or more of cold weather. I didn’t feel like I could do it. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to quit. I thought about dying. But even that felt like too much to think about, and like a betrayal to my kids, to my mom. I felt like I was failing and letting my kids and myself down. I was lonely. I was tired. I couldn’t see for the life of me how I was going to make this work.

I was just so damned cold, frozen to my core, it felt.

By the time we reached our apartment complex, my face, hands, legs and feet were numb and burning with the cold, and I knew it must be the same for the boys. Our clothes and shoes were completely soaked through. I was scared to death that my kids would get sick and I wouldn’t be able to afford to take them to the doctor or have to miss school.

As we approached our building, all I could think about was laying down and just sleeping forever. And then I remembered… the power was off! This meant that I had no heat and no way to cook what little food we had.

THIS
  WAS
    ALL
      JUST
        TOO
           MUCH.

I had to walk past Ms. Patsy’s patio to get to the stairs to my apartment above. At the realization of the power and food situation, I burst into a wail. The kids were bawling. At that moment, Ms. Patsy came out onto her patio, hands to her mouth when she saw us. I just looked at her and could not stop crying. I was probably blubbering unintelligibly.

She instructed us to immediately come into her apartment. I didn’t even try to resist. We walked into her foyer, all of us dripping and frozen. She dumped towels over us, and went into her bedroom and retrieved a pair of sweatpants and large t-shirt and some socks. She handed them to me and told me to go into the bathroom and change. She said she would take care of the boys. I barely even recall what she put on them — I think it was just some T-shirts. I remember how relieved I was that they were dry and warm because of her. It was so warm in there, and it smelled so good! Something on the stove just smelled like love, warmth, and safety. And did I mention how deliciously warm it was in there?

Once dry, she sat me down on her couch and just hugged me and hugged me, ensuring me that this would be the worst of it all, and that everything was going to be alright. I wept and sobbed, and she just let me. She told me that she had grown worried about us when it started raining, and she had gotten in her car to come and get me from school, not knowing that I had left a little early that day. She didn’t know which way the daycare was and had driven around just guessing, knowing that it was somewhere on the other side of the freeway.

She had a small stackable washer and dryer unit in her apartment, and had thrown our clothes in the dryer. I sat there and told her how hard it had been, all the feelings and fears I had, about the power being turned off, about the woman at DES treating me so poorly once she eyeballed my biracial children, about leaving a whole community behind, about missing my mother, and she never once told me I was wrong or tried to convince me that there was something I needed to change or do. She just listened and let me hang out in my misery for a bit. She continued to listen until I had squeezed it all out of me.

She really took care of us that evening. She invited and insisted that we stay for dinner. She had made a big pot of red beans and rice and some cornbread. She had intended on bringing it up to us when we got home that day, but of course invited us to stay and eat with her. I have to tell you again — that was probably the very best pot of red beans and rice ever, and probably because it was made and served with unconditional love.

We were there for probably about three hours while I finished crying, while we ate and talked some more, and while we waited for our clothes to dry. She offered for us to stay the night there, but I was really wanting to get into my own space, and didn’t want to be any more of a burden to her. She told me she would bring up some red beans and rice leftovers the next day, and sent me upstairs with flashlights and $60 to pay for the light bill the next day, and an offer of a ride to get there. The boys and I all slept together in one bed that night under a pile of blankets with our bones and soles thoroughly warmed.

She saved us. She loved on us. Everything changed after that night. Well, maybe not everything, but something in my head clicked and felt better. It was a dark night of the soul for me, and she was the beacon that was right where and when we needed one.

Regret

I live with regret that I didn’t thank her thoroughly or say a proper goodbye when we left that apartment complex many months later — a decent farewell befit of such a gem. I only saw her once more after that when I returned to the complex to return a cradle that I had borrowed from a neighbor. I was in such a hurry all the time, living in this massive web of survival chaos and anxiety. I pray that from somewhere on the other side of the veil she knows the deep gratitude I have.

This memoir is the flowers and the grateful and loving words I wish I would have given her back then, our dear Ms. Patsy.

Love,
Debora

P.S. I finished school that August with a 3.90 gpa. I got my certification and completed an externship. I got a job. I bought a car. I missed my mother and moved back to my hometown 10 years later. My kids grew up. I have three grandchilden, three dogs, one cat, and one husband.

Aerial view of the complex where we lived. Outlined in aqua is our building, and our stoop is circled. The area in yellow is the area where our kids would play.

This is me at my graduation feeling very accomplished and excited for the future. It’s a bit blurry. What can I say, we didn’t have these fancy cell phones back then!

Loyalty

A DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD

Loyalty can be a positive or a negative quality. It’s always worth taking a closer look when someone claims that attribute.

Loyalty is only as good as the person, group, or cause for which the loyalty is given.

Sometimes it’s completely worthy, but it can also be toxic.

Loyalty to an abusive individual because they haven’t done anything to you or because you’re family… TOXIC. You’re complicit in the perpetuation of abuse.

Loyalty to someone who did you that big favor but is actively destructive with others… TOXIC. Plato said: Silence is consent.

Examine the loyalty. Examine YOUR loyalty.

But I Love ALL People

I often wonder if we truly came to realize how much our apathy, our overt and covert racism, homophobia, genderism (or pick an ism/phobia) hurts us on a personal level — would we finally do something about it? If we found out it was making us sick, if we felt it in our own lives, on our own bodies, in our own homes, in our own minds, would we finally be compelled to do something? Or would we still just be stuck on “right” to save face and suffer silently, or blame it on “them?” I think we put a lot of energy into saving face, and a lot of running from the truth… or even mangling it, covering it up. We think, “I’m not the one; surely it’s not me,” and even get mad when confronted.

We put a LOT of energy into this, and yet we think we remain unaffected by the covering up, the pretending, the avoidance to look at ourselves squarely and honestly. We put on a mask when we go about our daily business outside of the home, but when we return the mask is put away and we discuss all about “those people,” and we have strong opinions on people we can’t even see honestly. We pretend (or do we really believe this) that if we don’t talk about it, refuse to give it attention, that we somehow are not contributing to the racism, the homophobia, Islamic hatred, etc. We tell ourselves and others that we just won’t participate in the discussions because that would be contributing to the problem. But…

WHEN HAS IGNORING SOMETHING EVER MADE IT BETTER?

If you let it, this might set you free from the invisible box you have created for yourself and probably the children you might be influencing…. Do you know that you don’t even have to understand how or why people are who they are to just let them live, and even to love them? And here’s the REAL personal freedom…. Once you are able to embrace that, it’s no effort to embrace them just as they are. That’s where love lives, and that’s what it looks like.

We like to say that we love all people, don’t we? It sounds right, and feels good to say — even seems logical. For added theatrics or emphasis, we even wave our hand when we say it as if we’re brushing off how ridiculous it is to even have to say it out loud.

  • You have a good relationship with your Black neighbor, and your kids even play together.
    • But do you love Black PEOPLE?
  • That Muslim woman in the next cubicle is hilarious, and you frequently lunch together.
    • But do you love Muslim PEOPLE?
  • The Mexican woman who babysits your children during the past four summers is a wonderful addition to your lives and with whom you entrust your children. She even teaches them Spanish!
    • But do you love Mexican PEOPLE?
  • You’re nice to Emily, the transgender checker at the grocery store that you look forward to seeing every week.
    • But do you love transgender PEOPLE?
  • Your love your cousin who is gay and you get along great with him and his husband.
    • But do you love gay PEOPLE?

I’m sure you’re onto me by now, and may have already begun making excuses before you reached the end of the list or stopped reading the list altogether. Hopefully none of that’s true and you get the point. But if it is true, I hope you ask yourself why that is, and I hope you go even further and begin really thinking about this. One thing that can happen is that you will start showing up as the person you’ve been saying you are. You remember — the one that loves all people!

I get it. (I don’t, actually, but I do know something about this personally.) You’re secretly afraid of what other people in your circles might think. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s true. You’re afraid of what you will lose, and this is a driving force for so many of us that causes us sometimes to double down on the excuses, and why so many of us turn to apathy, ignoring, or defending all the “good people on both sides.” We are more afraid of how we might look, what we might lose, or even who we might have to talk to in a new way.

Freedom. That’s what you get. You get freedom from the excuses, freedom from toxic ideas and people. You get new vision, and you get to do the work of self-repair, self-reflection, and self-love instead of the arduous work of covering up, the laziness of apathy and tolerating, and the sweat-work of defending terrible people, systems and ideations. You get freedom from the pain of giving and being an assist to systems that hurt other people. You will lose some; you will. And then you will be free from people who won’t operate on a higher level of humanity.

Operating from this is also work, but it isn’t the kind that hurts us on a soul level or the level of hurting humanity. In fact, it’s actually restorative on a cellular level. And the best part of all… you will be on your way to telling the truth when you say, “I LOVE ALL PEOPLE.”

Together. Apart.

Impressions

Walking & Thinking #8

What’s in a name?
That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.
Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

So, what IS in a name?

Some people don’t like their own given name, and sometimes we don’t like someone else’s name. Sometimes we are in wonderment at how someone might have arrived at a particular name, or notice that a name has a funny ring to it, or sounds like it might be from another language than our own, etc.  I remember disliking my name when I was young. I much preferred nicknames to my own given name when I was a teenager. That changed as I grew into an adult, but not necessarily for the reasons this post is about… until now.

Our family has another grandbaby on the way — our third. So it’s an exciting time! I was teasing the kids about naming the baby after me — even if it was a boy — or combining mine and mother’s names — DeboRosa. Yeah, I know how it sounds. My former husband says it sounds too much like “ambrosia,” which I still feel qualifies it for the possibility list. (I’m seriously just kidding.)

When I was out for my walk the other day, I was chuckling to myself about that conversation. Then I started thinking about our children’s names. All three boys are named after beloved family members who are not only loved, but strong in character. The lone girl’s name was chosen because it sounded pretty (and it is — almost as pretty as her). Our first granddaughter is named the same way, and our first grandson is named after his father and has a middle name with a very special meaning in Spanish. Anyway, that’s the context for this post.

As I and my thoughts meandered around the neighborhood, it occurred to me just how much I love our kids’ names, and how much they mean to me. I started thinking about the things I mentioned above about my own name, about times when I couldn’t imagine why someone would name a child “that,” or when I heard someone making fun of a name because it sounded “foreign.” I know people who have changed their names because they didn’t like them, and others because the name they were given at birth did not match their gender identity. I know some who have changed their names because they wanted a more American-sounding name. (That makes me sad for a few reasons.) I also recalled some people whose names make me personally feel a particular way — upset, angry, sad, fearful, anxious. And there are still others when I hear them, I feel joy, love, warmth, happiness. But I couldn’t recall ever hearing a parent say that they regretted giving a particular name to their child/ren.

I worked in various positions in healthcare, primarily women’s health for many years. Names were important, and spellings of those names were extremely important. I used to keep a list in my drawer of the peculiar or unusual ones. Some seemed thoughtful, but others still have me scratching my head to this day. Nonetheless, someone cared about those names enough and whatever was behind them to dole them out to a most precious gift.

How do people respond to your name? How do they feel when they hear it? How do you feel about your own name? How will you hear names after this?

When your parent/s gave you your name, it sounded like love in their soul, like music to their ears, a song etched in their heart, or a sweet memory worthy of sharing. It meant something to the person that thoughtfully gave you your name, and they heard something in it, knew someting about it no one else could hear, see, or feel quite the same.

My name 🙂

The Thing About Suffering…

When you set out to cause suffering in another, you double your own and invite more of it. You cannot escape the suffering you put on others until you give up the practice of causing it, and give up your addiction to that savage, satiating feeling you think fixes you when you cause it.

This manufacturing of suffering is a vicious cycle for all involved. Life brings suffering at times on its own, this is a fact. But the manufacturing of it is something else. It’s abuse, for one thing, and manipulation. But more than that, it’s a whole cycle. The one inflicting the suffering circumstances (manipulator, abuser) is already suffering. What a horrid way to go through life — perpetrating hurt and pain on others. I’ve heard victims say that they don’t understand how the abuser lives such a good life, or gets away with their behavior. I can see how it appears that way, but I think this is mostly false.

Once the cycle starts, the target will find ways to avoid the circumstances and abusers will double-down on their victims, but the suffering continues to return to the manipulator and multiplies by a factor of their own and the person/s they’re hurting. One’s own suffering can’t actually be cured or satiated by inflicting more suffering. And if you’re the abuser, frankly, you give up your right to be angry at the change in people caused by your endless refusal or inability to be decent, or their willingness to go to great lengths to stay out of your line of fire. That’s part of the price you pay. So… more suffering.

Walking & Thinking #7

‘Tis the season to be… whatever YOU make it. Let your heart be the biggest, brightest thing in the room!

Happy, merry all of it.

Aunties, Uncles, Safe Harbor

It’s just the way I grew up, and I thought everybody had this, and I still think everybody should. Be good to your people. It’s just a thought for the holidays.

Growing up, my aunties and uncles were safe harbor.
Sometimes kids need a safe harbor that isn’t a parent.
Everyone benefits.

Happy all of it from my home to yours.

Walking & Thinking #6

We often stop to think, contemplate, plan about and for our child’s future. But do we do the same for the future of others from the standpoint of how our children will affect them, affect the rest of the world? If not, why not?

I remember being bullied as a kid by a jerk down the street for years — he was such a mean kid, by “mean girls” in my neighborhood, and by some in school who just didn’t like the way I looked or who my friends were. I struggle to believe that their parents didn’t know how mean and even abusive some were, and I often wonder how some of them are now as adults. In the workplace I would imagine which employees and managers had been bullied as kids or were the bullies. We see and hear about abusive relationships with spouses, with children, even with elderly parents. I can recall even a few teachers that definitely were. Can you imagine — the people responsible for educating our children? We don’t like to talk about it. We don’t like to ask about it or get involved. Sometimes we even shame the victim (another abuse). We even deny it when we’re the one with the personality problem (so it continues). We don’t want to admit when it’s an issue in our families or how we might be affected by it. So, when does it STOP? Where does it END? No type of abuse is acceptable, or so we like to say. Verbal, sexual, physical, and even schoolyard bullying — all types are VIOLENCE.

When does one finally look at it honestly and squarely and say, “THIS ENDS WITH ME RIGHT NOW?” We don’t have to be the abuser, necessarily, to change it and turn it around. You know how some of us like to pretend that there’s nothing wrong in our family dynamics. We might have responsibility because we know it’s happening. Yes, if we know, we are responsible. And if you are the abuser — how miserable you must be stuck in that way. Don’t you want more for yourself, for your kids, for others that you affect?

The saying goes, “Hurt people hurt people.” I prefer, “Miserable people make other miserable people who turn around and make other people miserable.”

Walking & Thinking #5

I was remembering a suggestion someone made, tongue-in-cheek, about how politicians should wear suits or jackets like professional auto racers wear. You know the ones that have patches and graphics all over them showing who their sponsors are? I wish we would do that. It will never happen though. They don’t really want us to easily identify, or in some cases ever identify who donates to their campaigns because then we would really see what is behind their masks and who they really serve. But then that had me thinking a little further — about all of us. What if there were specific characteristics that showed the world who we are, what we are like as soon as anyone laid eyes on us — characteristics that couldn’t be changed? We already have issues with making assumptions based on skin, national origin, sex, etc. But what if naturally blue hair meant you hit your wife? What if checkered grey and green skin meant you were a cheater? What if lavender lips meant you were chronically mean? What if hair that grew straight up front, but tight and curly in the back showed that someone was a narcissist? Or what if whatever clothes we put on for the day and our bodies just instantly became tagged with these clues? What would that be like? Would that cause us to be kinder, to be quicker to care about how our actions affected others? The possibilities are endless… but I’ll bet a lot of us are glad this is just a daydream from a walk.