Miss V's Blog

Silk Ties and Dragonflies (updated)

24 Jun 2010 4 Comments

by Writer B in KMWP Writings

Sixteen. This age seems to follow me wherever I go. No matter how far I run, it trails after me. It’s not a chase, per say. The tumultuous emotions don’t  hunt me down like a guile wolf stalking its prey, waiting for the right moment of weakness to lunge for the kill. Rather, it grasps to me like a ghostly shadow in the noon-day sun. It’s not supposed to be there, but it remains all the same.

I’m sure you’re thinking that I was the typical teenager. You know, the type of teen who floundered through life with careless disregard for authority or standard limitations. On the contrary, I lead a seemingly normal life. Outwardly, I was a sixteen year old, freshly printed driver’s license in hand  with a new-found sense of freedom and independence. I was a good student, friend and daughter.  Inwardly, I felt as if I was butting against glass windows like a frightened bird trapped inside an abandoned house. Smack! Smack! Why can’t you save me! Smack! Smack! Why can’t you release me! I did not struggle against the opaque glass with rebellion or sarcastic attitudes towards my elders, but rather bellowed in silence, hoping a passerby would stop to notice my struggles. If only I knew what would be coming my way that tumultuous year.

The day finally came when my greatest fear was upon me, and devastation was thrust into the threads  that were my family like rusted shears  into a precious wool tapestry.

My parents divorced.

 It wasn’t the screaming, shrieking separation that is portrayed by Hollywood actors. They depict climactic scenes that last for 45 seconds then disappear into new melancholy ones that are as far from reality as you can imagine. I always thought their separation was sudden and heartbreaking when it happened, but it took me many years to  realize that it wasn’t as sudden or quick  as I had once believed; instead, it was the slow erosion of a love I thought would last forever, a simple crack in the vase that was never fixed, a fissure that spread so deep and far, that it could never be repaired. I  responded to life-like  a misguided ghost, traveling instinctively through my day-to-day tasks, only responding to questions directly asked to me.  The only silver lining in my somber clouds were my weekend trips to see my grandparents. They provided me an escape, an outlet from the relentless rouse I cocooned myself in, pretending to be unscathed by my circumstances. They had empathy for me, and didn’t try to “fix it”. They simply let me be, and I loved them ever more for that. I would stumble my way through classes and work, never really seeing anything or speaking with anyone, then find myself packing a few clothes and necessities, hopping in my 96 Mustang and hitting the 316 highway, more often than not with my Mother in tow. When she came along with me, we often remained silent, not in a stressed or awkward fashion, but simply letting things be at rest. If there was one thing we maintained during the divorce, it was our communication. It would have been easier to keep things to ourselves, but we knew that in order to keep any remaining sliver of sanity, we had to talk, and talk often. We would remain in this tranquility until we reached our much sought-after destination. My grandparents house was designed to be a sprawling ranch style home, surrounded by oak trees, pear trees, and blooming roses of all colors. But the best thing about it was the silence. No ringing phone calls, no letters, no chirping cell phones, no one “dropping by” and staying for hours, prodding around in conversations, trying to find out answers. Many times, I would excuse myself, and venture elsewhere, anywhere, because I couldn’t answer these meddlesome people’s questions. They wouldn’t understand that I was still trying to figure out the riddle myself.

 No, our escape lied in Athens, for in that house, we could simply…be.

We would arrive shortly before sunset on Fridays, grab our bags from the trunk, and trek into the garage, through the door leading into the kitchen. Their house had a smell, it was very particular, like lilacs, pine-sol and fresh-cut roses, which often adorned the small kitchen table. They always waited for us in Papa Dan’s study, he in his navy blue reclining chair, and my grandmother reading a thick novel on the ivory chaise lounge. They would greet us with happy hello’s and demand that we “sit and rest awhile,” which we did, without question. They would ask us questions, some vague, some deeper, and we would answer honestly, but they wouldn’t press us if we weren’t ready to say. No pressure, no disappointed faces, just simple empathetic responses that they understood. Mama Marge and my Mother would excuse themselves and head to the kitchen to prepare dinner, while I stayed in the study with my grandfather. Often, I would bring in written pieces that I had composed for my Advanced Placement Language class, per Papa Dan’s request. As I pulled out my manila folder that contained all the papers from that particular week, he would settle into his chair, set aside his beloved newspaper, shift the thick frames of his glasses, and fold his hands across his lap, as if he were preparing himself to hear the finest symphony, not my meager attempts at writing. I would begin to read, occasionally stealing glances at his face, wondering whether he seemed pleased or perplexed. His expression was always the same; focused, drinking in every word that escaped my mouth, with a brief look of disgruntled disappointment when the last lines of the piece drifted off, before composing himself into a statuesque regality he was often known for during his years as a principal for the local schools. He would then ask for the papers, casually glance over my scribbled words, and say “Well, look out now…” with a mischievous grin plastering his face. He liked my stories; in fact, I think he loved them. But, it was more than Papa Dan approving and encouraging me to write; it was the fact that he was proud of me. His confidence in my infantile abilities  gave me the hope and attention that I secretly craved for from my own father. As time went on, I realized that my Dad didn’t have the ability to validate anyone but himself. He loved me, yes, I had to believe that that piece of him was true. But, narcissism does not bode well with someone’s empathy skills. My father wanted to smooth the surface of my pain with money and false promises, but all I wanted, all I have ever wanted, all that I will always want is my father’s recognition of his actions, and his candid concession that what he did was wrong. It has taken me years to understand that this is something I will simply never get from him. Because of this selfishness,  my grandfather  rightfully took the place of that positive male role model  in my life that I needed so badly.

When he passed away shortly after my parent’s divorce, I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me, leaving me gasping for air, only no air would come. It didn’t feel real. I was just beginning to gather the pieces of my life and suddenly had them stripped away from me. Again. I blindly went through the motions of preparation for the coming day when we would have to put his body into the cold ground. I felt no warmth or cold, I tasted nothing, any sleep evading my long nights. After the funeral, my parents (they were on better terms by this point; they had moved past the hurt, remaining friends, while I clung to my own pain fervently) were distracting my grandmother from her grief, leaving me to my own devices. The sprawling ranch house, once so warm and inviting, felt empty and hollow, as if it too felt the loss of such an important figure in its life. I wandered aimlessly through the picture-lined hallways, looking for the distraction I longed for. As I opened the cedar door to my grandparents room, I was enveloped by the faint, lingering scent of Papa Dan’s cologne. I suddenly remembered myself being six years old, playing dress-up in my grandmothers old dresses and pearls. Only, instead of grabbing the nearest lipstick canister or perfume bottle to complete my grown-up look, I grabbed Papa Dan’s old “Teachin’ Ties” and adorned my grandmother’s pearls with the thin red and blue striped silk. It didn’t seem strange or different to me; I thought the color of the luminescent pearls and the vibrancy of the ties complemented each other.

In that instant, I transformed back into the naive six-year-old, missing the simplicity life held back then, before complications and bereavements dominated discussions.  I stepped over to my grandmother’s jewelry box, and open its carved, ivory top. Inside held the symbols of decades of love and devotion on the part of my grandfather in the form of brooches, pins and necklaces with jewels. I lovingly caressed the glossy, jeweled surface of one of her favorite pieces, her blue and green dragonfly. I held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window for a better inspection, and was dazzled by the gleam and shimmer dancing off its intricately placed stones.

I gingerly pinned the brooch onto my black sweater, and began searching for my next conquest. I opened the sliding door of the closet, and rummaged around, trying to find what I looking for. At last, behind his worn, wool sweater, I found it; his red and blue striped silk tie, still as vivid as I remembered. I delicately removed it from the hook it rested upon next to his other ties, and laced it into the knot he had taught me to form many years before. As I slipped it over my head, I felt my eyes pricking with unshed tears. Feeling the icy wall around my heart begin to melt,  I finally released the pain and anger that I had been feeling for months. With the tie nestled safely next to the glittering brooch, tears cascaded down my face, cleansing me of the past resentment and aggravation I was holding on to. In that moment, I felt the weight of every bad memory and sorrowful feeling lift off of me, giving my lungs the freedom they desired. I felt my self breathe, fully, and I knew that from that point on, life could have a new meaning.

 With my grandmother’s brooch and grandfather’s tie resting near my heart, I knew I could begin again, with hope and love guiding the way.

Divide (just a snippet of what I am working on) ;)

18 Jun 2010 Leave a Comment

by Writer B in KMWP Writings

The Great Divide

The earth beneath my feet shook and crumbled, exposed the raw heated dirt below me, clawing its way out of its hiding place. No matter how far I ran, the earth shivered and ripped apart, exposing its secrets. My lungs ached, protesting to the blinding speed at which my feet touched the ground, but I could not stop. I would not stop. If I stopped, everything became real, every wound felt new, ever fear released.
 

Divorce. There is no easy way to say that word without negative feelings. Anger. Blind Rage. Anxiety. Those were just a few feelings raging through my veins like poisonous venom from the deadliest snake the day of the Great Divide, as I refer to it. It started out as a wonderfully normal August day at my home in Georgia. Thick, muggy air greeted me the morning of the 23^rd, a day that I felt would live forever as the day I would finally obtain my driver’s license. Little did I know how painfully engraved this day would be.

We started out on our excursion to the DMV, which is an adventure in and of its self if you’ve ever dared to experience it. My mother and I approached the building with trepidation; or rather it was me who was shaking in my boots. Mother remained calm and collected, as always. I had attempted this ordeal once before, only with my father in tow. That day ended in complete disaster, as I was devastated by being told that I wasn’t fit to be a driver. I still blame the instructor, she was terribly rude and vicious, and had a personality as appealing as a rabid weasel. Looked like one as well, but I digress.

As we waited in the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs after registering for our spot in line, I took to people watching, a secret guilty pleasure of mine. Being an observer by nature, this was a fascinating task. I noticed how many mothers were here with their children to obtain their driver’s license. Odd, I thought, that no fathers seemed to be present. Mothers with daughters, mothers with sons, but no fathers. The only males in the establishment were older grandfatherly gentlemen reading newspapers, painstakingly peeling oranges with their arthritis-riddled hands while flipping though newspaper articles from the Atlanta Journal Constitution. Ya know, they do sell oranges that are already sliced, I thought to myself, why don’t they just go buy those and save themselves the trouble? Older people, particularly men, are the most stubborn creatures I have encounter so far in my life. They know that there is an easier way to do things, yet they won’t deviate from the repetitive practices.

Leaving “Mr. Arthritis” to his musings, I turned my attention to the frayed edge of my jeans covering the scuffed toes of my Converse sneakers, picking apart the threads that seemed to disintegrate with enough friction from between my thumb and forefinger. Still waiting to be called, I thought how odd to see something so characteristically male oriented in nature as getting a driver’s license or driving a car, and not a single father in sight. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence that they were all busy on this day. Perhaps they had other things to attend to.

Finally, I was called back to the counter by an exhausted-looking woman with over-processed hair, smudged lens covering her unnaturally surprised looking eyes, and long red fingernails. She instructed me in her nasally Long Island accent to start filling out numerous papers demanding information about my social security number, addresses, and signatures. As I scribbled in the information, she loudly asked her coworker when they were going to grab some “cawfee”, shamelessly batting her mascara encrusted eyelashes in his direction. He was a younger man, in his mid the late twenties I would say, shaggy brown hair and a slight scruffy appearance, as if he rolled out of bed and put of his work clothes and ran for the door. He glanced up from his computer, seemed disinterested in her advances, and told her he was busy. I recognized his passive rejection to her request and surmised that the real reason was that he didn’t feel like being the latest victim of the DMV cougar. I smiled to myself at the absurdity of the situation and took my paperwork out to the car to wait. As I started the engine and listened to its silent purring, I filled out the rest of the information. I glanced over to my right and saw an older man, weathered from years of teenage driving expeditions, emerging from the side door of the DMV. In his right hand, he held a cigarette up to his lined lips, and in his left, he held a clipboard. My heart did a nervous flip-flop in my chest. Any person obtaining a driver’s license recognizes this clipboard, where they check off or write down blurbs about what monstrous things you could do wrong . His expression seemed uninterested, annoyed even. Before he reached my car, he took the last drag on his cigarette, tossed it haphazardly into the nearest bush, and proceeded to hack up a lung before entering the passenger side. Even through the thick glass and steel frame, I could hear every gurgle and wheeze as he tried to force air into his clouded lungs. One would think that if a person was already having trouble obtaining air into their lungs to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide, said person would not want to exacerbate the problem by adding smoking to the equation. But, much like Mr. Arthritis hands, testosterone-laden stubbornness seemed to permeate the males in this vicinity. He haphazerdly hiked up his tan trousers, tucked his clipboard under his arm, and sauntered forward towards my gray vechicle. The reality that this would be the final attempt at obtaining my ticket to freedom for at least 6 months began to creep up into my mind and sent chills down my arms, legs, and spine. I wanted this. Beyond the fact that I could occupy a vehicle on my own, without parental involement, I wanted the feeling of being able to pick up my car keys, slip them into my pocket, and descend the stairs without explanation or permission. I watched my siblings spring into freedom with grace and agility, and I wanted that for myself more than anything. I had choked the first time, froze in the limelight and had the proverbial cane yank me back towards the shadows. But not again. I was determined to shine and step forward into the light of young adulthood.  He meet my gaze through the glass and noded, acknowledging my presence, and swiftly opened the car door, heaved himself down into the leather seat, and shut the door. “Greetings, I’m Buster Marrond. You ready for this?” I shook the nervous feeling from my head with a quick nod, and responded “Yea, I think so.” he quickly wrote a blurb on the top of his checklist, buckled himself in, and mumbled “Well, let’s head out Missy!” I quickly slapped my seatbelt on, adjusted the mirrors, mostly for his benefit, and proceeded to back out of the spot. I had bborrowed my sisters old gray Acura Legend to take the test in this go round. It long, low frame with bulbous headlights and wide, open windows helped me gain sight in the several blind spots I had before in the sleek 1996 Mustang that was soon to be my very own. While stylish and sporty (at least to the 16 year old me), it was difficult to see out of, so I felt safer in a more boring, bland sedan to take the test in. As I spproached the exit of the DMV parking lot, Mr. Marrond instructed me to take a right onto the main highway. As swiftly as the test began, it ended, and I found myself back in the original parking lot. I was in utter shock, and disbelief that somthing so important could be completed in such a short amount of time. Some of the most important things in life are not as grandoise and prolonged as we think they are. Some move in swift movements, like flashes of light, or a venemous strike. I had passed. A few right turns, a handful of lefts, and couple of stop signs, and I had earned the right to call myself a driver. Mr. Marrond seemed either so impressed that he didn’t need to see any of the other mundane tasks, or utterly bored at his laxidasical job description, that he yearned to be back in his little cubicle, tapping away at the ancient computer, awaiting his next smoke break. Either way, I didn’t care. I was a licensed driver, and had finally earned it. My mother was waiting in the same plastic chairs I had departed from earlier, and could tell I was successful based on the elation that showed on my face