Celebrations

Daily writing experience - day 13

Celebrations

I absolutely love celebrations.  As a kid in Quetzaltenango, it was always a disappointment that the school year ended in October.  My birthday is in November, so I never had the experience of having all my classmates sing Happy Birthday to me during class.  I was envious when other kids had their birthdays celebrated, but once the singing started, I'd let it go, and join in at the top of my lungs.  

When my birthday came, I'd be awakened by the celebratory firecrackers outside the bedroom window. Then my parents, and siblings would sing “Las Mañanitas”, and “Happy Birthday”.   Mom would buy a “brazo Gitano” cake (Gipsy arm?).

For my eighth birthday, I took it upon myself to invite two friends over to celebrate.  I didn't consult with mom.  After I told her I was expecting company to celebrate, I proceeded to start setting the table.  

I wanted the long tablecloth to hide the chipped formica edges on the table. I struggled but managed to pull out the heavy bottom drawer of the stove, which served as storage for lids and pans.  I stood on my tippy toes on the edge of the drawer, and reached as high as I could and managed to grab the edge of the tablecloth with the tips of my fingers.  I pulled hard and got the tablecloth down, some really hard thing hit my head, and broke on the ceramic tile floor with a loud crash.

I panicked, my head was pounding, and mom started screaming from the other room.  I started to cry.  Mom came into the kitchen and lost it.  She was in a blind rage. I had broken one of the few beautiful things in her world, a large cut glass bowl given to them as a wedding gift.  

Someone was using the only bathroom in the house.  It was the only private room in which I could hide, and it was busy.   I went to the bedroom I shared with two of my sisters, and tried to lock myself in.  That was an impossible task because the latch didn't catch anymore.  It had been forced open with different tools many times before.  I sat behind the door, pressed my back against it, and kept my legs straight against the bed and tried to hold the door closed that way.  Mom gave up.

After a while the doorbell rang. It was the friends I had invited to celebrate my birthday with me.  I hadn't stopped crying, and I didn't come out despite my mother saying I wouldn't be in trouble.  “What will they say if you don't come out?”  She finally sent them away.

When we moved to Las Cruces, my birthday happened during the school year.  On my tenth birthday, I was in the fourth grade because I’d had to repeat half of third when we moved.  I had with me a disposable camera I'd begged my parents for.  I wanted photographic proof of my life being celebrated by others.  

I kept putting the camera to my face, without taking pictures.   I could see a lot more, even though everything looked smaller.  The teacher asked me to please put the camera away, as I'd been granted permission to use it, but it was becoming distracting.   I told her I wasn't taking pictures, and I was doing it because I could see more through the viewfinder.

Turned out I was very nearsighted.  I was myopic. My shortsightedness was finally detected by the school nurse at 10 years old.    It took about a month to get glasses to correct my vision. 

What a dramatic shift in perspective that was! It was a revelation.  I could see people's faces, their expressions, and the subtle changes their faces conveyed. I had gone around the world for so long bumping into things, breaking things, and falling down when I missed steps, all the while being blamed and blaming myself for something I couldn't be held accountable for because it was impossible without the eyeglasses.

I wished things had been different for so long.  I suffered many years feeling sorry for myself and the painful circumstances I grew up in.  I used to blame mom on one side for marrying dad, accepting his treatment of her and the kids, and for not leaving. And I also used to blame her for not taking better care of us, meeting our needs and celebrating my birthday.

It's taken me many years to have the opportunity to see mom's reaction to the broken glass and feel empathy for her.   It's taken me a long time to understand that she didn't get her needs met as a child.  She was doing the best she could given her very violent upbringing.

It wasn't until I understood, believed and forgave myself for breaking the many things I broke, not seeing what I couldn't have seen, and for wanting things to be different that I finally released myself from the heavy baggage I'd been carrying for so long.

I now see that both my parents improved their own lives beyond the expectations of their own upbringing. And I am grateful that I've done the same.  This is incremental progress I choose to celebrate.

Has time given you a different perspective on something you never thought would change?