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Below the Surface

a little glimpse

By Tamara SobolewskiPublished 3 years ago 11 min read
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“If you do not have anything nice to say, keep your mouth shut,” I remember her saying. Looking back, I see my report cards littered with nice things my teachers said about me—“She’s so quiet, shy, and such a good girl.” I was not superiorly witty, in fact, the earliest memory is of the nameless boy spitting in my face, on the sidewalk after school. The shy, nice little girl stood stunned until I cried, not even a thought to wipe my face. I ran all the way home. Fast forward looking back, the little girl in me pictures a sharp image—one of the serious objections of a boy ejecting any such aversion or contempt toward me. Little did I understand, the value of such a lasting memory, how this event shaped my inner spirit.

Born to my mother—her first, I was the first grandbaby, niece, and future sibling. I am pretty sure I was the princess, all the while parental experiment, aunt’s plaything, and grandparent’s precious legacy. The recounts from the firstborn herself, my mother, were impressive stories. My paternal aunt, an already mother and nurse, explained that spoiling a child has lasting effects. If the baby is not sick, not hungry, and not soiled, do not cater to cries.

In my mother’s defense, she was a good parent teaching valuable lessons. A little crying turned into the story of three days until I finally learned I was not going to get my way, an independent strength instilled early on. Loved, unquestionably, because I have fond memories of kisses and traditions of my earliest childhood.

The things I do not recall, standing in a winter coat crying, red in the face, “leave me alone, I’ll do it myself,” until I zipped the zipper recounted years later by a woman who clearly had her hands full with the princess and all. The developed pictures remain as evidence the sweet and innocent royalty--buried in the sand on the beach during a family vacation, wigs, and oversized sunglasses forever captured by the hippies who experienced their upbringing of the “free love” era.

My roots were planted in the 1970’s turbulent women’s movement and severe hot-topics an American experience. Looking back, I am assured and humored. My mother, on the other hand, not at all horrified that these seemingly insignificant events may eventually subject her daughter to profound future developments. But, then again, a good girl I was, unspoiled-well behaved-and responsibly polite.

If I had to interpret intentions, which I volunteer to do from time to time, I would explain that I do not think my mother wanted me to fit in with the crowd. She was rude on so many levels. She had to ruin my world with two more children, of course, I loved the first one—my sister but the second one, she was pushing it as far as I was concerned. For two years I enjoyed princess status then forced to share. Five years later, uncertain how it could be--a hungry, crying little person followed my mother home from the hospital. This little person is a boy, and everyone knows what boys do—they sputter, and I was not sure I could sputter back. After all, I am still trapped in the 1970s upheaval of women arguing for their liberation.

What did I know? I was just a little girl. I didn’t think he, my brother, ruined my life—I just didn’t like him much. And again, in retrospect: I am humored and my mother, most likely mortified if she knew how traumatizing her homecoming from that hospital was to me. The interesting thing I see is that my brother—that boy baby I sure didn’t invite to the tea party, I didn’t understand how or why he arrived—is, ironically, much similar to me. He was an unexpected pride and joy to my father, like a gift from my mother, and ‘I am what now? Wait just a spankin’ minute…. what happened to my royal status, the pretty picture…. what about me?’

That little bundle of joy—that boy—could chase me around, get away with well, only half-murder because I’m still alive to call shenanigans. Though much like myself, I certainly did not appreciate him very much. For this, this monumental event, my mother toted a diamond ring. Well, ta-da, don’t you know it, for me, she got herself a gold band signifying vows, for better or worse, she married the boy, the man, who is my father. Congratulations: see what happens when you go away and the stork gives you little people. Oh, brother.

The next several years I saw that a good wife is at home, tending her family and her husband off, a toiling provider. And so, all I really conveniently recall is the first day of school, year after year, my mother dressed me and said really dumb things like, “I do not want you to fit in, I insist you stand out,” and I remember thinking, ‘what does she know about me, the aim is fitting in and she made me this ugly dress I have to wear this and I am the princess and how dare she do this to me, isn’t she on my side’?

I humored her, on account my other options very limited—I was a little girl, after all. As time passed, a teenager I became. The angel—royalty really. There was this burning spirit inside. I knew everything but had to keep all those secrets to myself. I often think, now, that when I come to a place I have everything figured out, that’s the end of my road. If I am honest, it is my mother who reminds me how little I know, which is why I keep her around. I was confident I knew everything as a teenager and therefore, no need to progress further.

Quite the curious one, “but why,” I remember asking but I never forget mama always said, “because, I said so.” Why on earth did she say that and why wouldn’t she tell me is just beyond me. Didn’t she want me to know and what secrets did she keep that she refused to share with me, that’s what I wondered?

Looking back, I am sure she didn’t have time to explain everything otherwise she’d be very busy explaining and I’d never have clean clothes, a kemp home, and last but not least—breakfast lunch or dinner. The best I remember is those Sunday Spaghetti traditions but that was so long ago, I wonder if it is a figment of my imagination now.

Excellent examples, role models, aspiring individuals I had in my parents as successful people. I am a girl. I am independent. I will do it. I will. I work hard. I babysat, delivered newspapers telephone books attended school learned work ethic two jobs at once achieved. I am an achiever. I need to achieve to be good. Oh, and I was bad. I became this good girl gone awry and only if I was caught, I suffer discipline.

I think she had eyes in the back of her head, that mother of mine, hardly a fair advantage. You can’t stop me. I want to know why. I want to understand and stop telling me it’s because you said because I need to learn and learn I do, sometimes. She said to watch others and do not repeat their missed learnings. Where is the fun in that I demanded quietly, where is the adventure? This one and only time I recall, I laughed while she scolded, and for that, a slap across my face with only a sense of inner humor looking back at the irony. My mother endured.

She sat across the table as a crying adult asked her why she ruined my life. In the response only she could give, my strong mother said calmly with great regard, “if I could reach across this table, I’d slap you.” Oh brother. And what seems like eons ago, it dawns and bells ring and what in my world is happening now.

I can’t go back. I would not go back if it meant I could change everything. I don’t want to, you can’t make me, stop pushing. Oh, good times. A kid in third grade stole my shoes, like a thief. A boy stapled his finger like a dummy. And a girl peed her pants like a girl who had to go pee, I guess. That is all I remember from third grade when I moved out of my parent’s home—no wait, I think we moved, and they brought me along—to a cave.

We moved into the basement of my mother’s mother and father for a short period of time while the two adult people worked on building their family home on five acres of woods down the street. It was mostly trees and when we went there, the little people we were had to pee outside and use leaves like aborigines. If you insist, but I’m telling you, I’m royalty and this doesn’t line up with me one bit. Can you please tell him to stop being hungry and crying like a baby—oh, wait—that is what they do, eat, and cry. He’s no fun. Come on sister, let’s go play while mom and dad cut down trees, move and stack cinder blocks, bang on wood and stuff. Come on, sister.

Fourth, fifth and sixth grades were very unmemorable. I remember I was the one who couldn’t climb the rope in gym class. I was one girl with all the boys in the shop class. My teacher once told me not to push my weight around, that I remember. The usual, metal dustpan and family initials carved into Styrofoam packed in sand, formed a paperweight, that were all the craze. I seemed not to be much into the home economics group of girls and if I had to recall, I’d be hard-pressed to say I might remember making a vest or something very unpleasant and ugly.

In the meantime, between then and junior high, we began attending church. We’d go regularly like most families, Sunday Morning Sunday Evening Wednesday and Friday, most families. I was a Missionette. It was a girl’s group studying the Bible and learning to be girls, I think. Make-up sessions, though I didn’t have any. Badges of all sorts with weekly lessons and looking back, I really just remember graduating on stage at church with other girls in a formal dress that I probably only remember because I have a photograph of the occasion. I don’t recall ever feeling like I belonged. I was quiet mostly and my friends were few.

What’s wrong with her, my mother said others asked her about me as if I were invisible and she could speak on my behalf. I guess she told them ‘nothing, she’s alright’. I don’t know, apparently my face was stuck in a ‘leave me alone’ look that few bothered to approach. I didn’t understand it. I thought there was something wrong with me. Little to my later relief—much later, after therapy, after a gazillion self-help remedies, after-hours crying, wondering what is wrong with me I am very pleased to learn and embrace me, an introvert.

Well, how could I know any better? Especially when all I primarily do is listen and observe as if I was consuming and not expelling in the metaphorical sense. I did. I kept my mouth shut and listened and observed stories and actions, problems and reactions of everyone. Mom told me way back when, “if you haven’t anything nice to say, keep it shut.” So I did but to my horrifying results—no wonder I had such a challenge differentiating my thoughts amidst all the thoughts and actions of, well everybody else.

I had no voice—no outlet of self-expression. A poignant moment that I didn’t give much attention to until much later was when my mother attempted to let me know she knew my problem. Indeed, she had spent some time trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I did, after all, have problems—always listening, never speaking—too much minding what others thought more than minding my strong sense of self that boiled beneath the surface. She nailed it—I am ‘too nice’, mother said. And clearly the mother I knew for almost 18 years of my formative formation gave me much, too much credit. But I love her all the same.

I was not as good a girl as my mother thought. Nope. The things I remember were hiding in her closet when she and my father away to who knows where. The cousins babysat and there, in the closet were cigarettes. No way did I inhale. However, I know cousins took the blame. Then there was that night I started the car, a stick shift before I got my driver’s license. I was maybe 15 years old, clearly old enough. I headed up the drive when reaching the top I met headlights that reverse me down the drive. It was my parents. I was in trouble that night. Who knew God talked to my mom and told her to turn around and come back home.

Then that one time when I told my friend to sit back in the car and she did but sat on her brother’s head. She got hit with the spatula of all things. Good times, kind of. Then that time I stole some cigarettes and smoked one hanging out my window up in my parent’s bedroom which I resided at the time. Taking a nap while the evidence still in plain view was a very bad idea.

I hardly think that was as bad as my mother calling my father to tell him to buy a pack of cigarettes and making me inhale until my head lay on the table from the nicotine high. That, not the best parenting move. Turns out all the grandkids tobacco users, at one time or another, with one exception—oh brother! You know, back then those products were available by putting coins in a machine and pull the lever and voila’—a pack of smokes to look impressive to other cool peers. Hmpf! Real cool as I regret tobacco use to this day.

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