The Damage Is Done

Fill Our Wounds by In-Flight Safety

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3NWtUsZ2gs

I don't know about you but every now and then a story with come on the news and affect me in a way that I never expected. I'm not talking about the "feel good" stories that warm your heart or even the "crimes against humanity" stories that make your blood boil. I get those feels too but this is different. Sometimes a news story will bring up all the pain and sorrow of my past and my life and breaks me so hard I have to stop and fix myself...again. 

Right now, I am feeling damaged beyond my ability to repair. And the culprit is the current policy of the government of the United States to rip the children of refugees from their parents arms as they attempt to cross into the country from the Mexican border. The reporters talk to experts who say that the children are traumatized and likely to suffer from P.T.S.D. (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), nightmares, anxiety and emotional stability even later in life. It never goes away. And every time I hear a snippet of this news item (I shut it off quickly) I feel pain. I feel like I am being ripped apart one more time from the last people who really loved me. My mother, my sisters, my brother and yes even my father (who I barely knew). 

This is an intense feeling of detachment. Feeling like I am not like others, like I don't quite fit in the world around me. That I don't belong. Like the bruised apple in the bag that isn't good enough to be taken out, given a little shine against the chest and then looked at admiringly and enjoyed. I spent the majority of my teenage and young adult life believing that I was not worthy in any way of love or to be loved...as a child is loved by their parents. 

Overall, I know I've done pretty well for myself (despite the hardships) and there are a few people who helped me to get as far as I did. Shout out to the Laws who stepped in to fill a void because their hearts were so big they had room to love 2 more. There have been others too (friends, extended family) but always you know that they have their own family priorities. It's just not the same. 

I had a mother, father, brother and sisters - past tense. I may love people and consider them like family but they will never have the blood bond or the ability to take the place of my loved ones. My ex-mother-in-law once said to me that I could call her "Mom" because I didn't have one of my own. I was deeply offended and from that day forward she was always referred to as "ex's mom", I never called her by name. That happened 14 years after my Mom died and 30 years ago and it still bothers me. I don't believe that she had any intent to hurt me as she did. Others hurt me, with and without intent. 

World We Know - Crash Parallel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WWi6ZL2JnE

After my Mom and sisters died in 1974 when I was 12 years old, I spent several months in the hospital and when I finally returned home, I was a different person (inside and out). I returned to live in the family home but it wasn't the same, for me it was a house of pain where I struggled for the next 5 years. Those were formative years, teenage years. Years, that for many spawn pleasant memories of friendship, young love, personal growth to look back on in later years. I left that home with resentment, anger, bitterness and a deep craving for love. I bought friends, spent money to be with others. I fell into relationships that weren't only fundamentally wrong for me but were un-healthly emotionally and psychologically. People telling me I was unworthy was all I knew. And when some of those people weren't verbally cruel they did take advantage of my vulnerabilities and kindness of heart. And no I am not saying I am in the running for sainthood. 

I do believe that I had a right to be angry but it didn't have to manifest itself the way it did. There needed to be some counselling to help work through the myriad of emotions and feelings of abandonment, and the anger. There needed to be some way to learn to love my self and know that I was okay. There needs to be someone to listen to the cries of the children. 

I'm not alone in my loss. There are many others who have lost loved ones. Others who have been scarred. Others with crappy teenage experiences. Others who have been bullied at school and at work. Why do I continue to feel the way I do? 

Life after Mom, I was constantly subjected to interactions that told me there was something wrong with me, that I didn't fit in, that I made people uncomfortable. That I wasn't okay. I was judged so they could put me in a place where I could be controlled. It took a tremendous and life-altering toll on my existence. I wasn't successful in school, I was told I was stupid. What career could I possibly have that would keep me hidden. Yes, I was told that my very appearance frightens people and I should do what I can to cover and hide my scars. The Unknown Comic could have been me without the laughs.

The difference then between me and others who suffer but still thrive is support. Primarily unconditional family support and love. If our families can be behind us we will be okay. Someone will be there to help us stand learn to walk and maybe even run again. 

That's what I hope for these children who have been ripped from the arms of their loved ones. That they will be re-united with that unconditional love that will help them understand they weren't left because they weren't good enough. 

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Final thoughts: I struggle to understand if all of this makes sense to the average person reading it. I can't do more to fix it. Let this graphic speak for me....

credits

Globe and Mail:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/world/us-politics/article-babies-young-children-separated-from-parents-at-border-sent-to/

https://globalnews.ca/news/4286160/health-impact-family-separation/

The Memories are Forever, If the Breaths of Life are Not

Bookends - Simon and Garfunkel

Music choices for me is not about popularity but how it touches my soul at that moment. Hearing the above track just recently I was swept away in a flood of memories and knew immediately that it had to be the song for this post. 

Memories. Sometimes it is all that is left. I consider myself lucky that music can trigger those memories for me, because then I can feel peace at any moment in the day. For besides my vast collection of Pink Panthers I am known for my love of music. 

I come by it honestly. The more I research my family history the more I find relatives that have the same passion and often talent for music. Be it writing or playing or listening. It's in the genes. My mother taught me that passion by example. 

My earliest and fondest memories involve music. Back in the day choices were limited. With enough homemade wine passed around the adults would break into song, belting out all the traditional songs from the old country. The children sang along - for we were all familiar with the language and the lyrics. If there happened to be an accordion around, well that was the accompaniment. 
In the past quarter century, I have had limited occasions to recall those beautiful words in public but rest assured the lyrics come flooding back with the first strains of the melody. It feels like I am surrounded by my family when I hear those songs. "Sul Cappello, Evviva, Evviva il reggimento."  

With Sandra and Ron in the foreground you can see
the stereo that Dad built in the background.

My mother had a fair collection of albums but the majority were songs from Italy. In fact that was the title of one of the LP's. I still own those records, but unfortunately have no equipment on which to play them. But I have many fond memories of adjusting the pennies on the toner arm of the stereo that my dad built. It was a beautiful piece of furniture that had space to hold LP's and 45's on one side and a turntable on the other. I'm told that the inner workings of the unit were created with the help of my Uncle that passed with my Dad. It was a collection of tubes and wires but had such fancy details as a light that not only illuminated the controls but alerted you when it was left on. Reception for the radio was astounding considering it's basic simplicity. For nostalgic reasons only, I hung onto that stereo well into my 40's and I kept one of the knobs from it, still in the top drawer of my desk to this day. 

Not mine but a reasonable facsimile :)

Mom was not beyond using the tactic of bribery to get her four children to do what she wanted. Case in point, when she got tired of employing all the tried and true methods for getting me to stop chewing my fingernails, she took to the darkness and bribed me. And for a 33 cent 45 I quit - at least temporarily lol! That 45 is still in my collection with it's original price tag entact. Day After Day by Badfinger was released in 1971, and it was the start of a collection that blossomed to more than 550 at last count.  

To appease the tastes of so many different musical minds in the early days, we often gravitated to K-Tel purchases of compilation hit music. The first one that I got to pick out and call my own was another bribe of sorts. I desperately wanted a chocker and my mom didn't like them. She slyly suggested that I would want music instead - a whole album. A chocker would have been soon forgotten. To this day I scour old bins of records to find that precious collection again. I would also like to know how it disappeared from the house in the first place - curses on the culprit whoever you are. I remember the cover artwork in my mind but can't seem to reproduce it on paper, the only song that I remember is Obla-di Obla-da by the Beatles. The album meant a lot to me. 

Sandra and I in our music-themed bedroom

We didn't just listen to music, we used it as a source of entertainment. In the evening the local radio station CKPR would hold a contest called The Top Ten. You had to listen to all 10 popular songs and recite them back in descending order to win a prize. The trick was to have a quick finger on that old rotary dial phone to key in the last number upon hearing the first few notes of the number one song. Of course you had to have entered in the previous 6 numbers prior or you would never be the first caller in. It was competitive and I don't think we ever won but we sure loved playing. It was a real family event. 

Linda at the piano. She learned by listening to
her older sisters practice.

Linda (youngest sister) and I took music appreciation to a whole new level. We spent hours upon hours listening to songs over and over again and we painstakingly tried to decipher and then immortalize the words in our own hand. You don't know how good you have it now that a simple google search or simple click on the Shazaam app will get you all that information without the toil. And between those two extremes of lyrical searches was the magazines that included lyrics of the popular songs of the day. I had such a collection of those lol! 
When we actually got to the point where we bought an album by a single artist, it was a real treat to find the lyrics printed within. But with compilations and "best of's" it wasn't likely to happen. So with either her or I at the control of the arm of the turntable and with a steady hand we would move the song back one or two grooves in the vinyl over and over until we came to a consensus. With an ear right next to the speaker, eyes closed and face scrunched in concentration it was like the worlds best game. In the end, having those lyrics so we could confidently sing along meant the world to us. And that folks, is probably why to this day I can listen to the same song over and over again ad infinitum and not tire of it ever.  

A gorgeous lady, A wonderful Mom. A beautiful soul. <3

Rod Stewart and his Every Picture Tells a Story release in 1971 heralded my departure from an egocentric child to awareness beyond self. I thought of my mothers musical taste more along the traditional, country or pop genres. This was a u-turn from the norm. And as I sat at a safe distance, hidden from view, I watched as my mother sat on the floor shoulder to shoulder with a man. To my burgeoning hormones, it was love. The man was a university student who was boarding with us. Chris might have been in his early or even mid-20's, Mom 10 years his senior. Today, I think "Way to go Mom!" Back then my jaw hit the floor and my diary got a page full of shock. And every time I hear a song from that album I still think of love and compassion and of the look of happiness on my Mom's face. Bliss!  

We didn't remain passive listeners for long. Starting with a paper keyboard on the kitchen table, Sandra (my oldest sister) and I began piano lessons 6-8 years old. Maybe younger. It wasn't too long before the need for a real piano became a necessity as we continued to pursue lessons with the nuns of the Avila Centre in Royal Conservatory format. Ron wanted to learn guitar - a few lessons in piano would be helpful. His health and Mom's death sidelined the aspirations of guitar, and he did continue with his piano. Although alternative music on the radio station became more his style and not the classical repertoire or the nuns. My youngest sister Linda picked up piano playing of her own volition. She would try and get in on the action after we had practiced and very quickly was picking out tunes she had heard. A talent not to be wasted she soon found herself tickling the ivories as well. Moms original intention was that the ability to play an instrument made you a more well rounded person. Personally, in hindsight, I think that she had the desire to play instruments but was never offered the opportunity. Hearing music in my sleep may have been her trying to teach herself to play in secret. 

And then there was dance. For what is music without the dance. Sandra, myself and Linda all took dance lessons. Ballet, tap and jazz. To be honest I sucked! Well at least compared to my sisters I did. Let's just say choreographed dance wasn't my thing, but really, I dislike lessons. I felt bad because I was only in the back rows of the dance numbers while Linda and Sandra shone in the front and lead positions. Oh well, we can't excel at everything we try. 

Just Breath - Pearl Jam

"Meet you on the other side"

After they were gone there was a considerable time were Ron and I were estranged emotionally if not physically. He tolerated me and I didn't know what to do with him. We didn't know how to rebuild our family from 5 to just the two of us. 

But with a physical separation when I moved out, we found our connection. We were just two kids trying to make our way through the world on our own and hanging on to each other with spiritual threads. Music gave us that stepping stone into the world together. I called on him to help me build and compile my audio system and he shared the music that he had gravitated towards. To this day still my favourite genre of music, the alternative format and the Canadian musician. Bands like The Deserters, the Villians and Audience. Gone was Top 40 radio and I searched out the CFNY of Toronto for my fix of new music. 

It didn't pigeon-hole the music I gravitated to, it expanded it and the vinyl collection. And although I may get a little teary-eyed when I hear Slade I will never stop listening to it because the memories are all I have. Even if some of those memories are sad not all of them are.  

**On this day, March 21st I have endeavoured to remember my family in the written word in many different ways. This is one of them. For I never feel alone like I do on this day because 41 years later it still hurts. 

For other stories please see:
Website
http://www.pinkpantherfan.caFamily Here and Gone Blog Listing
http://www.pinkpantherfan.ca/Family_Here_and_Gone.php

I am eternally grateful to have found this forum to share and release some of the intense feeling that I have kept to myself for so many years. 

R.I.P.