I hesitated in sharing this today mainly because this day, April
5, 2015 is Easter Sunday. Most celebrate this holiday as a day to be with
family and friends and enjoy the possibility of new life and new hope. In my
belief system, I celebrate according to the Magdalene teachings, but that’s an
entirely different blog post.
This morning, I wrote a poem and shared it on Twitter. There
are two meanings behind this poem. One pertains to my own belief system and the
pain behind the meaning of the religious holiday. I will not get into religious
belief semantics here, but suffice it to say that my own personal beliefs and
convictions are very strong and require no defense.
The second meaning is a very personal one to me and one that
I have not shared to very many. I chose today to share it with my readers in
the hopes that someone somewhere finds healing in my words.
A few months ago, I shared a little bit about my years
growing up and the role my father played in my life. So, today, I take a very
deep breath and forge on. I must add a caveat right now. I do not share this
for sympathy or as a testament of pity, but to let others know that we are all
strong enough to survive even the most evil of childhoods and can come out of
it with grace.
Easter Sunday, regardless of when it falls, brings memories
of pain and suffering. I guess it is apropos to the religious meaning, but I do
not even come close to comparing myself and my past to that event. Yet, in a
way, it is a testament of finding new life from death and destruction, of
sorts.
Growing up in my home was traumatic at best. Holidays,
particular Easter, brought out the worst in my parents, and my home became a
living nightmare. Easter eve always brought visitations from my father while he
did his evil deeds to my little body. Early Easter morning brought a visit from
my mother rendering punishment for something I did not understand.
There was great care taken by her to make sure no bruises or
blisters showed on my legs or arms because we were to be at church in our brand
new Easter clothes. And no one would ever know how evil a little girl I was,
and how my sins needed to be purged.
Dressed in my pretty new Easter dress, new shiny white
patent leather Mary Jane’s over little white anklet socks with lace, white
gloves, pretty new Easter bonnet on my perfectly curled hair, I gingerly
climbed out of the car to be greeted at the First Baptist Church of whatever
town in Texas we lived at the moment by the smiling church goers all in their
Easter finery.
Reminded by my mother with her cigarette and coffee breath
to smile and be polite, I smiled prettily and said my “Yes, ma’am’s” and “Yes,
sirs” playing the part of the perfect little girl so no one would know how evil
I really was.
Sitting on the hardened church pew seat, my little behind
bruised and blistered, I was reminded to sit still and behave with a pinch to
an already sore behind and a pinch to my little tender side. I dared not wiggle
to try to find a position that cause no pain because that would bring a lift in
an angry mother’s arms and another round of spankings in the church foyer. Of
course, she and my father were commended in raising a child and not sparing the
rod.
I remember sitting in church listening about how Jesus died
for our sins on the cross and wondering why he didn’t die for mine. Was I so
evil that I was not worthy? Or maybe, he knew that I was such a horrid little
girl that nothing could be done to save me.
I wondered if anyone else was as evil as I. Those children
laughing and playing as children should be able to do. Those women with their
smiles for their children even though they wiggled and squirmed in their Easter
finery. Those men proudly displaying their pride over their families and how
well they provided for them. Slaps on the back, laughs after church, children
running through the grass. But I stood smiling stalwart knowing that I was not
worthy of such behavior and did not deserve such laughter and fun.
And so now, as a woman who raised two amazing beautiful
daughters who are healthy, happy, and never knew of the pain I kept buried
inside, I remember that little girl and hold her on these days when those
memories flood in. My daughters never knew how some little girls are so dirty
and evil that they are not allowed to be children. They still do not know the
complete story. That will be shared in a memoir to be published later. No, they
only knew joy and happiness as they dressed in their Easter finery and played
and laughed and ate chocolate Easter bunnies with sticky chocolate hand prints
on their clothes and grass stains on their shoes having a joyous day.
Watching them with their own children now brings joy to my
heart. Because I survived and have found healing through their love for me,
their mother who made sure they never felt the sting of the belt on raw skin,
and who made sure they knew just how precious they are.
And that is why I do not celebrate Easter. Instead, I meet
the day with gratitude that I am strong and empowered. And that little girl
from long ago? She’s learning that she was not dirty and evil at all – in fact,
she’s learned that she is a most excellent creation worthy of all the good that
comes her way.
