Generational Forgiveness

My mother pulled me out of May Day 1963 games in elementary school that early afternoon because she was packed and leaving my father. We were headed for a long ride on the Greyhound Bus from Shreveport, Louisiana. It was the first I heard of this change to our lives. I did not have time to think or to feel. I just had time to get on the bus and go. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. I had seen her crying. I had heard the fights between them. But I hadn't seen this coming.

We (mom, my brother, and I) wound up at my unmarried aunt's place in Texas where she, along with my grandmother lived. I don't even know if my mother knew then that she was in her first trimester of pregnancy with my sister, who was born in early January of the new year. If she knew, then I can only imagine the resolve and strength it had taken to actually leave. But I think the pregnancy must have caught her off guard and came to her as a surprise after making that fateful decision to leave my father.

I don't remember my father trying to get her back or bring us back, or even visiting. But I do remember the many hurtful words and fights between them over the phone. And the spiteful, unfounded accusations of her unfaithfulness. And the truth. He had been the one having an affair. The guilty dog had barked.

That time must have been rough on her. Pregnancy, delivery, and divorce. And the burden of living with relatives with three children. Those times were rough on me, too. I had lost my father. And, I had basically lost my mother to her grief and depression. My grandmother and aunt (who had no children of her own,) doted on my younger brother and sister. I was encouraged to go out and play so as the babies could take naps.

I remember being sent home that school year of 1965 with a note to my parents in regard to my poor hygiene. By this time, I was pubescent and in need of deodorant and a reminder for good shampoo and a bath. I had rings of dirt around my neck and under my nails, too. Can you imagine?

My family has a history of always being supportive of one another, but stress is a precursor to bringing out the worst in the world and in each other. Just like the Vietnam War that was ensuing during those times, my mother and aunt often butted heads and created their own war, even getting physical at times.

And the alcohol they drank together always inflamed those battles. I hated alcohol. I hated my mother when she drank. I was beginning to hate my mother when she didn't drink. Because she always drank. Alcohol had consumed my mother.

By 1966, we had set out in a place of our own. The move itself, wasn't bad. I was glad to get away from the fights. And the apartment complex had a swimming pool. The daycare was down the road within walking distance. Sometimes I was allowed or asked to pick my brother and sister up and walk home with them until my mother got off work. I started a new school for my sixth grade year and was beginning to make new friends. I hurried home after school to watch the popular, "Dark Shadows" soap opera. I learned how to cook. Looking back, it was probably out of necessity.

My mother still drank (her favorite was Schlitz beer) and when she did, she listened to music like the Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire." I often wished she would, for real, fall into that burning ring of fire. When she drank she became a different person, mean and hard, like the Bull on the Schlitz can she loved more than she loved me.

And that is when things got much worse. That is when my mother met a neighbor man named Richard. Richard was married and had a bunch of kids. He was someone I had an instant dislike for. He was dark skinned from working outside and his hair was slicked back and greased. He smelled like alcohol and his choice was Rum. We lived upstairs from him and his family.

Pretty soon my mother started leaving me at home with my siblings to care for while she went out at night. And then, she and Richard would stumble in and wake us in the wee hours. It is horrible sound for a twelve year old to hear an alcoholic man vomit and smell that stench. By that time, I think his family must have moved out. I can't recall. I just wanted him to go away, too.

I wrote a letter to my mom's oldest sister, Aunt Sis. I told her what was happening to my mother. Although she lived in another state, she and her husband surprised me a few days later when they knocked on the door. My mother was placed in a sanitarium to get "better," and we were packed up and rescued. I will be forever grateful to them.

I finished my sixth grade year in that small Louisiana town under the watchful eyes of my aunt and uncle whom I adored and trusted. I no longer had to be an adult. I had the privilege of being a child again. I had the same teacher that my mother had when she, herself, had been in sixth grade. And when our class lined up and walked the hall down to the cafeteria for lunch, I saw the old school black and white pictures hung on the walls...my uncle in his football jersey when they went to state and won in their division, my single aunt's Valedictorian photo, my Aunt Sis in her basketball uniform, and one of my mother. Was that my mother? I hardly recognized her. The cheerleader photo of her where she was so young and innocent, pretty, and soft. I idolized that version of her.

It took me years to understand my mother's struggles and to forgive her for things she wasn't even aware of. Her hurts forced me to grow up and learn to make a better life for myself, or at least try. Now I have children who feel the same way about me for the hurts I caused them. And so on...

In a family, it's very important to understand the whole picture, the picture of particular times and circumstances, the science behind the addictions, the generational curses. It's important to forgive.