I’m currently mapping a year of recovery from a traumatic injury. I now share this experience, through the eyes of my nineteen-year-old. Why? Because she has been communicating with me and needs to hear her own voice. She has a report to give. She is not a victim and has never felt a need to blame. I share on her behalf intending to give her a safe place to have her opportunity. She encouraged me to heal all through last year by reminding me of how she was given 3 gifts.
In sharing her mythic journey I hope to encourage you and others. Find the part of you that holds the golden key when you feel that your well-being is threatened. Thank you for being here.
“Relating to our personal struggles is the experience of all women. Stay with it. Connect to the depth. Locate Self. Call the deep-down part to discover where we are all connected.“
Claire Zammit
I was going somewhere. I was moving away.
After several months sharing a one-bedroom apartment with my best friend, working hard at two jobs, playing at the clubs on weekends dancing to the local bands. Friends drafted to Viet Nam, others off to college; my roommate following her goal to obtain a law degree. My dream of art school dashed. After the meeting in the break room, I give up my job at the dress shop and the ad agency where I enjoyed looking out at the great lake while drawing illustrations for machinery catalogs at my large wooden drafting table. It had been exciting waking up in my own place, dressing for work downtown, welcoming friends dropping by, hosting the ‘boys in the band’ (swooning over the drummer) from the house band, Tiffany Shade’. All good. Then … the missed period followed by my first visit to Dr. Perchan.
Now four months pregnant and in the mystery.
After the meeting with the social worker, mom decides on my fictitious transfer to Chicago. She has me locate a friend of a friend who lives in the city. She gives me instructions: every two weeks I will write a letter, stamp the envelope, place it inside a larger envelope and mail it to Chicago. The envelope contents will then be sent to my family address. Mom can then read my letter and share my news with dad and my 4 siblings at the dinner table. Authentic postmark. Proof. I’ve been given a promotion.
In truth, on the assigned day, mom takes me 45 minutes across town making a slight detour a few minutes away from our destination to show me the home where her grandparents lived and the large open yard where she played when she was young. We pass the historic signpost: established 1909; entering the affluent community. Small lakes reflect like mirrors the mature pines, holly, hardwoods, and immaculately groomed shrubbery surrounding sprawling architectural gems.
Driving down the main boulevard, lined on both sides by elegant homes, we enter the property of my ‘special arrangement’; a three-story stately glazed brick manse. I take in the beauty of the sweeping lawn, floor to ceiling windows, blue/black slate roof, massive terra cotta urns planted with vibrant pencil cedars on either side of the arched front portico. Mom stops the car to consider: front door or service entrance? Off the driveway, a small round woman in a crisp gray dress/uniform steps out into the cold January air to greet us. She smiles, quietly waiting as I gather the small case with my clothes and a few art supplies from the backseat. We are ushered through the back hall into the large light-filled kitchen.
I’m instructed to leave my bag and follow into the dining room where we stand and wait to meet the woman of the house. Minutes pass before the refined, very well dressed, impeccably groomed Mrs. enters. I’ve had time to notice the sideboard collection of engraved silver bowls and commemorative plaques each inscribed with dates and recognizing the man and woman of the house as major contributors to the Catholic Dioceses by both the Archbishop and the Monsiqueor. Mrs. gives me the once-over and informs me that I will have duties described in the kitchen. She tells me, “You will have 12 hours off, Saturday afternoon and half of Sunday, and twelve dollars pay.” She announces that I am due back here well before dark on Sunday. I must provide both an address and phone number of my whereabouts.
I hear her tell mother that I will be “well taken care of” then mom is dismissed, passing me in the kitchen, she gives me an apprehensive hug and a quick: “Be good.” leaving via the service entrance.
My training as a live-in domestic begins. Rules are laid out: I am not to use the phone. I am not to go outdoors. I report for duty Monday through Friday at 7 am.
Carrying my small suitcase I’m led up the back stairway three narrow flights to a room in the very large attic. There’s one small area made into a bedroom for the live-in. It’s pretty. I like the small flower-patterned wallpaper matching yellow bedspread and pillow shams; white painted wood bedside table matching the headboard and beside the bed a dormer window looking down on the boulevard. A tiny bright private bathroom. The closet under the eaves holds several hangers with uniforms; three changes each day depending on the duty.
Each morning I dress in the pale gray cotton with white collar and short sleeve trim service uniform.
Sitting on a tall stool near the house intercom in the main kitchen, I wait. When the signal comes through I carry the beautifully prepared silver tray with a cut-glass vase holding fresh flowers, breakfast dishes with silver domed covers and the days’ newspaper up the main staircase to the second-floor sitting room.
As Mr. & Mrs. chat over breakfast and read the news I turn down their bed, remove pillowcases, linens, and monogrammed silk bed cover, open the side window over the driveway, shake each item into the fresh cold air, assemble the bed so that a quarter can be bounced off the sheets after securing the silk cover out the window for additional airing. I remove the breakfast tray leaving the flowers, newspaper and china coffee cups. Complete the bed.
I’m given a half-hour lunch break in the main kitchen. From 4 – 4:30 I return to my room to rest. After my afternoon break, I dress in the designated charcoal gray cotton with white collar and half apron in starched white cotton edged in eyelet lace dinner uniform. All uniforms hang baggy and loose to accommodate my changing body.
Following morning duties, I change into the seersucker striped uniform: Monday I scrub the ten bathrooms. Surfaces must be bleached including toilet bowls cleaned with a rag, my hand reaches into the water and to the bottom. Tuesday I mop and polish the floors of the three full-size kitchens. Wednesday I polish the copper in the kitchen which opens out onto the semicircular ballroom with arched windows reaching high up to the domed ceiling over the parquet floor. It’s my favorite room, the view opening out onto the wooded backyard. Thursdays I polish the previously mentioned silver bowls and plaques in the dining room. Friday I help with the baking of popovers and scones. Among the staff, I am a bad and wrong girl. Temporary. To be ignored. I have assigned work to do. I am to be left alone.
I remain on call until Mrs. phones the intercom, usually around 8 pm. to tell me that they are done for the day.
Up in my room, happy to have my evenings, I write notes to myself, bits of poetry. I’ve long had the habit of waking automatically around 4 am. During high school, it’s the time I reserved for doing my homework.
Since 10th grade English, I’ve had an ongoing fascination with Emerson and Thoreau. I’ve felt a connection with the Transcendentalists and inclined to walk to the beat of a different drummer. I dream of a new kind of life. I say to the baby that will be relinquished to Catholic Charities, “When you are born I will be reborn. If we ever meet I want you to be proud of me.”
Mom comes to see me four weeks later. I’m given the afternoon off. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day; my birthday. I’m nineteen. She gifts me a handwoven poncho made in Mexico, “Please put it on.” She takes me to Dairy Queen for a butterscotch sundae. Stopping her car in the parking lot, she looks at me as she fumbles for a scarf pulling the patterned fabric out of her purse. Pushing it into my hand she says, “Cover your head. Pull it forward a bit,’ she reaches across the seat and adjusts the fabric like blinders on a horse. “In case any of your friends might see you.” I remind her that I have no friends this far away from home. I never wear anything on my head so I instinctively readjust and let the scarf slip back onto my shoulders. She insists that I pull it up and forward as we walk toward the restaurant. “You never know,” she tells me.
Taking liberty with gender:
If a woman does not keep pace with her companions,
perhaps it is because she hears a different drummer.
Let her step to the music which she hears,
however measured or far away.
Henry David Thoreau
Hello 19-year-old! I am so inspired by your bravery to move into visibility and share your journey! I honor your courage, and celebrate the resilience that allowed you to have this experience and not live in victimization! Thank you for sharing! I look forward to your next installment! Love, Kristin
Hi Kristin … your greeting gives me a smile. Thank you. Yes. The nineteen-year-old is making a creatively courageous choice stepping out of the shadows and allowing herself to be seen in spite of the danger. She is a very brave girl/woman. I look forward to hearing from her.
Donna, I was riveted by this blog. It read like the most compelling stories, but knowing it’s part of your story and the voice your 19 year old self needed to share made it even more compelling. I went back and read or reread your earlier posts leading to this one. Wow! I think this might be a novel. Thank you for sharing. Your writing is brilliant. I felt every moment that you bring us through. ❤️
Thanks so much Eloise, it means a lot to take in your comment. This child/woman got frozen in time, deep down and away from the world. She was not ever able to describe her journey save in isolated bits and pieces. This past year has thawed her. She is becoming more fluid. She is beginning to move out of her cell. She has some things to say about the places she went and the things she experienced. I hope to be a worthy scribe. I love her so dearly. She’s been so long alone.
The Light of Wisdom and Love you and your nineteen year old exude are pure qualities of Devotion to Truth and Integrity. I send you heartfelt thanks for your tenacity and graciousness. Yours in the Dharma, janice
Dear Janice … thank you. I appreciate this reflection. I’m following the lead of my younger self. She’s being given the opportunity to make her way into the light … I vow to listen.
“D” – I am just speechless reading your posts/stories, especially this one. You have come through so much!
Being of the same age I can relate to how your mother was seemingly “embarrassed” by your “condition” – afraid that it would reflect badly on *her*. It was just that generation I think, not wanting to bring “shame” to the family type thing. A different code of values back then… Thankfully you survived all that, and THRIVED! _/\_
Goosebumps! Incredible that you remember beauty amongst the strangeness, alienation and externally-imposed ‘shame’. Compelling reading! I hope you’re planning to assemble and publish this as a book.
Hello Wild C, I’m supporting my nineteen-year-old by scribing her story. I too get goosebumps seeing her journey unfold. The path she walked has been so long pushed off-limits and held at bay. Yet, like a cork being pushed underwater, the need for her to come forward and become visible made its way to the surface last year after my traumatic injury. Now, with me fully healed, she is asking to be heard and I have heard her request. I listen and she dictates the words.
I have no idea where this will go. However, I do know that I can trust her to share in this safe space. Thank you for being here, encouraging and standing for her. That means the world.
Hello MM … Yes. We were living in very different times and mom did the best she could… it all becomes more complex for her as the story unfolds. She had five kids and the fact that she navigated the many challenges that we brought is stunning.
Fortunately, we have the option to thrive as soon as we discover that we can survive. Thank you so much for witnessing the nineteen-year-old-me journey, deeply appreciated!
Just “Wow!” I was “there” with you, Donna, every step of the way. You write in a way that allows us to palpably feel we are in those same places, seeing those same things…..but wondering what YOU are feeling as your hand reaches into that toilef bowl. How you can convey the horror without expressing it in your writing,astounds me. Not only a gifted artist, but a gifted writer are you! I cannot wait to read the rest of your story!
Hi Marianne ~ I am stepping aside and allowing my nineteen-year-old part to share her story. I could not do what she is doing. I’ve made attempts to put this story into words and it is not to be told by me. This brings up a lot of nervousness, I guess it feels like making a painting while blind, I have no idea what is going to appear on the page until she dictates the scene and the script as she experienced it.
I need to let the descriptions be hers … I am her scribe. It’s unsettling, however, this past year has shown me that she can be fully trusted. She is ready to be seen.
But she doesn’t share any of her thoughts or feelings about using that rag, with her hand and lower arm immersed in the toilet water……was she repulsed, indifferent, what? It is that she can tell HER story in such a detached, dispassionate way that both captivates and puzzles me! Some else has said that this should be published…….and I wholeheartedly agree!!! Powerful stuff in its low key descriptions! I love what I am reading and what I am learning through you!
Hi Marianne
Thank you so much for your inquiry. I can’t answer what you ask.
I can feel, as she shares, the necessity of my NOT questioning. I am going to trust my nineteen-year-old to finally have the place to be heard. I will do my level best to not second-guess and cause her to become invisible again.
I’m not asking her for more … or less … or different. I don’t think she needs to be changed or fixed. I’m allowing this nineteen-year-old younger self to communicate using her voice, her words, her way.
She has made it apparent (throughout this past year) that I am not the one to tell her story. I didn’t listen and made a very concerted effort writing hundreds of pages in longhand last spring/summer. I worked diligently to write her story. I felt as though my hair was on fire! I wanted to bring her out of hiding. It was not to be. In August I literally got stopped in my tracks. Dead stop.
Now, these months later I’m clear: I am not in charge of her voice.
I feel the nerves of being her scribe. I freak out to think what this may do …this being seen … it has been so important that she be invisible.
I have so much respect for her. She has the ability to channel through me, whatever she feels the need to bring to light.
thank you for this comment, Marianne. Like you, I can IMAGINE her thoughts and feelings regarding the experiences that she reports. This very insular blog platform is her safe space. Here she can say what she needs about her year and the three gifts that came as a result. I stand with her and for her … she has never made this attempt before.
Glad to reading more and more of your story. These sound like the events of an English novel. That you lived through them is mind boggling. What a juxtaposition this woman is to the fairy god/mentor/artist you met on the farm. I’ll be rereading your posts in between new installments. Thank you for doing this work.
Hi Donna ~ “What a juxtaposition this woman is to the fairy god/mentor/artist you met on the farm.” Yes. Alice enters the story at the most crucial moment. She supplies one of the three identified gifts that will be shared…however she provided more that words can ever convey. She showed me what my life, my art-life, could look, sound, feel, smell and taste like. She gave me the blueprint when I was that nineteen-year-old girl/woman. Thank you for being a part, a voice, in this sharing.
Sometimes after I read I don’t KNOW what to write in response to the story you share. Particularly if I am preoccupied by my own story. But if you don’t hear my voice, it doesn’t mean I’m not listening. I am reading every installment. You can trust that.
Thank you, Donna. I get that. You are present whether you have something to say here or not. I’m so grateful.
In Buddhism, we’re taught that “comparisons are deadly”. I have experience. You have experience.
It’s helpful to not layer our experience one on top of another and to not compare. We can always find someone/something that is better than and someone/something that is less than, these comparisons silence us and create a sense of not measuring up.
Thank you for any comment you feel compelled to post here. We grow and evolve as we take the time to truly listen to one another.
More layers and memories that take my breath away! Your recall and retelling are astonishing!
Thank you, Lynn. I appreciate you. The biggest fear for this story being shared is that the nineteen-year-old will be shunned and ignored. Her fear of being seen is monumental. I have spoken to her often over the years. However, I have kept her just as invisible as possible, ever afraid of being the bad, wrong, burden all over again. Last year, the injury forced her up into the light where she could finally get my full attention and help me look at her tremendous courage … and the three gifts that made all the difference. She is a very fortunate part of who I am in total. I am recording her story as she tells it. She also takes my breath away.
thank you
Dear Fragitsa … I thank you for sitting beside this young girl/woman listening as she is sharing her story, letting her know that she is not alone. Makes all the difference for her. Even now.