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Earth and Sky

TRIGGER WARNING: DEALS WITH SEVERE TRAUMA

By SynecdochePublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 8 min read
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My Mandala LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) copyright 2011

Remember the trauma contained in your body on your very worst day?

Like the day your dog died when you went home from college for Christmas and your dad broke the news on the way home from the airport.

Or the day the biggest bully in the 5th grade broke your nose when he slammed your face into a boy’s room wall, but you were only in third grade and your 5th grade brother was bigger than he was, but he hated your 5th grade brother because he was so well liked by all the girls.

Or maybe the time your uncle crept into your bedroom late one night after drinking one too many with your dad, and you pretended you were asleep but he didn’t care.

Could have been the day you found out you were going to die a whole lot sooner than you thought, and it was much too late to do anything about it. Your doctor’s office had suffered a fire. Set by an arsonist, because your doctor had once performed abortions in a part of the state where abortions were unheard of, only whispered about behind hands at church/mosque/temple/ashram, take your pick, the place where people gather to worship together

Vortex Copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

And so your files were lost and the office was closed for a long time and patients were having to find a new doctor because the arsonist got the time wrong, he said, the guy told him everyone left by 7, he said, and nobody was supposed to be there, except your doctor was caught in a difficult phone call, breaking some bad news to a family on speaker phone on a conference call in three countries, a big family whose patriarch had recently passed, distant relatives of his, all. He was trying to explain in his mother tongue, which he rarely spoke, complicated medical terminology. He was still in his office by the time the smoke got under the door, as the wall to wall carpeting had recently been removed and he’d meant to replace it with something but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Thank god he was dead by the time the fire hit.

Remember those days, the trauma contained in your body on those days?

Then think about what happens when you mix in the trauma you’ve inherited and probably don’t even know is there, or whence it came.

Think about the Ghosts in your childhood home that only you and your sister knew were there. Those, you later realized, were actually the family’s not so carefully closeted skeletons. You heard a rattle at night you couldn’t explain, coming from the old linen closet nobody ever goes near, because it’s locked. Three generations now, same family in the home, nobody has opened it.

Mother of… Copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

Now think about the roof under which you grew up and maybe you had a brother, sister, two or more of each. Maybe your older sister had to wear a metal brace on her back because her spine didn’t grow straight. And you adored your older sister. She was so beautiful and strong, and you looked up to her because she never let the mean girls who made fun of her get her down, not in front of them. But until last year you two shared a room,

French Doors copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

And you could hear her crying herself to sleep every night, so you’d get out of your bed and go over to hers and sit on the edge and hum and tickle her arm until she calmed down and could breathe without any hitches anymore.

And maybe your dad worked long hours and came home angry and tired every day. And maybe your mom was working when he got home and got in a little late. And there was no dinner.

Maybe, just maybe, he took it out on you, your mom, one or more of your siblings, all of you, himself, the poor guy next door who lost most of his hearing overseas in a war and has to listen to the tv too loud because headphones hurt what’s left of his ears.

Now put together the trauma in all the bodies under the roof under which you grew up.

Now the poor guy next door, too, who came home not quite right. A sad and mournful man, never has a visitor except once in a while your mom brings him some fresh baked cupcakes or a tropical fruit salad, because she was friendly with his mom before she died, and feels badly for him even though he scares her just a little bit. He only goes out when he absolutely must, because there’s nobody else to do it, except once in a while when your mom feels badly for being scared of him. And then on those nights, your mom might sit at the kitchen table reading, shutting out the world for a while, a cigarette slowly burning in an old ceramic ashtray in front of her.

Seizure copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

Think about this guy who went to war just because his father’s family was all military. This guy who wanted to teach, English lit, a quiet friendly guy until his father forced him to enlist. And who slowly watched his once vivacious mother, who turned every single head in every single room, fade into her own oblivion, who should have been, in his nine year old opinion, a famous movie star or a famous singer or a famous nurse, something great like that. He cried anytime she did, but inside, because he had to be strong for her when he hugged her when his dad wasn’t around.

Peacock Eggs copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

Your father who was a commander in Vietnam. A big guy with a big ego and no patience for his quiet son. He saw too much too young and it hardened him. He forgot that he had once liked to paint what he saw from his second story bedroom window, when he was a sickly young boy. It was beaten from him. In the park, across the street, he would look at the tops of trees through his binoculars, at birds and squirrels, and paint them. But his father took away the binoculars as a punishment for… being sick? He never knew. His father said he didn’t have to justify his actions to his faggot son. As soon as he turned 18, the army would turn his perverted ass around. Well, maybe he knew. And maybe later on in the army he and a buddy were trapped together, surrounded, an uneasy silence around them but they couldn’t see anything but each other because they had found an open casket and both jumped in and closed the lid hoping nobody knew they were there. And there was a tiny crack in the top and enough light came through for what might be their last exchange ever, and maybe, as he allowed his gaze to linger for a minute on his friend’s face, he remembered he once also watched an older boy undress in front of an open window across the street, through his binoculars, at his own request, for the 25 bucks he’d made mowing the lawn. And it happened every weekend now, late, and his parents bedroom was in the back of the house where it was quieter, so he never thought his dad would find out. But he did.

But maybe after all of it, there was at least one person, your mom, maybe, or your favorite Aunt, the kooky one, the artist who also digs the ladies, but that’s cool, maybe somebody like that, to say,

Thank You, or

I’m Sorry, I Was So Wrong, or How Can I Help to Make It Better? or, I Love You, or I’m Here For You, What Do You Need?

Huichol Vision copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

Now, multiply the trauma in all of the bodies of a People Who Have Been Oppressed, No End In Clear Sight Without Their Own Great Struggles, Pain, Effort, Mourning, Constant and Consistent Trauma Being Inflicted On Their Bodies, a Proud People, a Strong People, a Connected to the Earth-and-Sky People.

Prismatic Lightning copyright LB Alexander 2011

A People whose mere complexions inspire hatred because of some words in a book. A book that was forced down their throats, a book that was used to justify unholy atrocities against their Human Bodies and their Human Minds and their Human Hearts and their Human Spirits, and a book they’ve found the depth of soul to be able to celebrate! Wow! Would you look at that?

Depths copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

A People Who Weren’t Ever Given a Choice. About Anything.

A People upon Whose Breaking Backs nations were built and then…

There is no Thank You.

no, I’m Sorry, I Was so Wrong.

no How can I Make it Better?

Take that trauma and look at it. Get inside of it. The trauma was GIVEN, to a People Who Never Asked For It.

A Proud People. A Strong People. A Connected to the Earth and Sky People.

You are My Sister, and You are My Brother

I See You

I Love You

and

Thank You

I’m Sorry, I Was So Wrong

How Can I Help to Make It Better?

I’m Here For You, What Do You Need?

On Responsibility, It Begins and Ends with Me copyright LB Alexander (aka L8Bluemer) 2011

humanity
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About the Creator

Synecdoche

I’m an artist... retired professional singer and stage actor, a writer, a bead artist, a sculptor, collage-er, I make accessories, am an activist and organizer, amateur chef (key word here is, “amateur,”) and Auntie extraordinaire.

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