The Tribune

EDITOR, The Tribune.

I was my mother’s consequence not her daughter. I was the consequence of her intimacy with my father, but I was not her child. The words ‘daughter’ and ‘child’ denote a caring and closeness that is thought to be normal and natural between mother and child. For my mother and I this was not so. Although I came from her, I was foreign to her like an invading pathogen to the body. I was a pathogen to her life, an intruder that made her carefree life more complicated and stressful because I required care and provision. I required a mother and she was not interested in taking up this role.

The body sends out its protectors to arrest and destroy the pathogens that seek to invade it. It isolates, surrounds and destroys them. It is this constant battle that ensures that the body is protected from disease. The pathogen must be destroyed.

What made me a foreigner, an outsider, one who did not belong? My brown skin made me foreign. My mother’s skin was much lighter and this she did take note of. I think that she was disappointed that one who came from her was so ‘brown’. That was the first piece of the puzzle that did not fit. And, yes, she did try to ‘erase’ me, the pathogen, in her own way. She would often tell people that I was her niece and not her daughter. She so disliked me and my ‘brownness’ she did not want to admit that I came from her. I was also an outsider because I did not carry her last name – a truth that was no fault of mine as was the case with my skin. If she wanted a ‘light skinned’ child she should have sought a light skinned man to sire her child and if she wanted me to have the same last name as her, she should have married my father.

I did not belong because I felt no bond with my mother. I often looked at her and saw a person I did not know. But I expected no different. Can a pathogen feel at home in the body that rejects it? The pathogen is too busy trying to avoid the wrath of the t- cells and the other warriors of the body that try to eradicate it.

Queen Elizabeth, the virgin queen, often said, “I am my father’s daughter.”

Was I my mother’s daughter? Only biologically- only DNA connected us but nothing else. We went through the motions. She provided the best she could , but always in a detached and begrudging way. I was the pathogen, the inconvenience, the outsider. And so I found myself gravitating to my aunts and grandmother. Plants always grow toward the light and a child will always lean into love. They protected me from the wrath of my mother. Her wrath was a response to my intrusion into her life and to my very existence. Resented me she did, but at the same time she envied the ease with which my aunts and grandmother related. How we could talk and laugh with each other endlessly and there was no barrier or blockage between us as was the case with she and I. She hated the fact that I found ‘a place’ with them. Me-the unwanted one. She would have preferred if all of the family rejected me and kept me on the outside but they did not. They saw how she treated me and knew it was wrong and they tried to help me, to cushion me from the harshness of her words and stares and actions. They tried to make up for the lack of love and affection in my life. They covered me like large oak trees cover baby saplings from the rain and storms and roaring winds. They tried their best to invite me into their world since she had ejected me from hers. They were my surrogates. They were my secret place.

I remember one Christmas when we all went to the carnival. I can see me in my long, pink pants and my brown sweater. I see myself running to catch up to Aunt Coleen and my little hand finding hers. And I was bathed in such joy and contentment. My mother walked further back and was totally forgotten in my mind. For me, the warmth of Aunt Coleen’s hand, and the chill of the December air and the joyful sounds of the carnival rides and the flashing Christmas lights and the smell of corn dogs and cotton candy and the sight of a thousand stuffed animals were all that mattered. Yet in the midst of my joy, from the corner of my eye I could see the face of my mother contorted with anger and jealousy. She resented my happiness and I could not understand why she even cared. Could you want and reject the same thing?

An intruder I was, a foreigner I was, but I was also very smart. In primary school I was the one who got all of my sums right and won the spelling competitions. I needed no encouragement from my mother to be smart. I just was. My academic talent gave me focus and kept my mind off of the status of my existence. I worked hard and was the valedictorian of my sixth grade class. I remember how proudly I read my speech. I did not read it for my mother. I read it for my sixth grade teacher, Ms Reece.

When I entered high school, my foreign status was even more obvious. The one moment that stands out to me was the day I was sent to the office along with several others because my report card was not collected. But the office emptied quickly as children called their parents and other relatives to collect their reports. I could have called one of my aunts but they had no cars and would not be able to come but I knew not to call my mother. She was never an option for me in the time of trouble. To call her in time of trouble would have been a mistake. For she had no interest in helping or protecting me like a mother bear would her cub. I was always exposed. If I had called her she would have been angry and asked me why I had not told her earlier and told me that she could not leave her job to come all the way there just for that. And on and on she would have ranted until I began to feel foolish and bad for calling her so she was not an option. In the time of trouble she would not hide me.

I called my father’s sister and asked her to contact my father so he could come and collect my report card. But I did not expect him to come either. My father always let me down. I had become so accustomed to his broken promises I expected little if anything from him. How many times had I been at home so very hungry and called him to bring me lunch and he would say, “Yeah baby I coming now.” But “now” never came and he did not think enough of me to call and say that he could not come after all or give an explanation for his broken promise. Another time, he promised to pick me up from school. I waited from 3pm until 5pm. The schoolyard was empty except for one last girl whose mom was driving out of the gate. There I was left behind. Left to walk with silence and disappointment to the bus stop. He did not call to apologise. Perhaps he had forgotten me. Was I so insignificant?

I sat in the office and looked outside through the glass doors at the beautifully manicured grass and tall green trees that adorned the vast property on which my school sat. I focused on the beauty of the bright, blue sky and the clean white clouds that gave one a feeling of hope. I let my mind wander and escape from the silent office I was sitting in. But then Mrs Carmine, my reading teacher came and the concern and kindness in her eyes pierced my heart. They found their way to the place where I hid my emotions and I began to weep. I was weeping because I was an after thought to my mother and my father and I was sitting in such a beautiful place surrounded by such despair. Mrs Carmine consoled me and my weeping ceased and I continued waiting for my father. I watched keenly for him but I did not see him. Then I saw my friend’s mother coming toward the office. I ran outside and begged her to get my report card for me and she graciously did so. She gave it to me and went on her way. There I was. The orphan. Looking for a handout of time. Time. It is the currency of love. To take the time to bring my lunch, to come to my recital, to listen to my problem or to collect my report card says that I matter. For me, this currency was scarce. I seldom received it from either of my parents. I did not matter to them.

I left the office about to return to class when I saw my father pull into the yard in a borrowed car. I walked quickly to him and told him that my friend’s mom had gotten it for me. He began to rattle off a myriad of excuses for his lateness and even began to tell me a long story about a problem he was having with his business. I listened for a few minutes then I told him I had to go to class. This was the other thing about my father. Either he did not come at all or he was late. He was always too late. Too late for the show, the graduation, the race, the recital. Always too late. Some might say it is better to have him late than not come at all but lateness shows a disregard, an afterthought or downplaying of the significance of the event one should attend. For a daughter whose father should be her protector and rescuer, late is not good.

These experiences all helped to form me in some way. Now I hate to wait to be picked up. I feel deserted, abandoned, forgotten and a deep sense of vulnerability. Who could I count on? I already knew that the answer was no one for I learned that I had to adapt perhaps like pathogens do. I think viruses mutate and build up resistance to the drugs that should kill them and then the scientists are left to search for new drugs that can destroy them. I was like the pathogen and the virus. I had mutated long ago so that the coldness and meanness of my mother and the oversight of my father would not kill me. I had changed into a more resilient creature. One who was untouched and unmoved by many things by necessity. This mutation allowed me to survive in my world with them and not be eradicated. I had built up my resistance to the life I had been given and to the parents that had given me life. What choice did I have? Much turmoil in most cases breeds strength and so I was strong.

Indeed this was not how I wished it to be and if I had my way I would have been born to two loving, attentive parents who smothered me with affection. But we do not get to choose. We must adapt and do the best we can with what we are given. I am nobody’s daughter. I am somebody’s niece, friend, cousin and granddaughter but I am nobody’s daughter. I am a consequence.

CONSEQUENCE

Nassau,

April 26, 2021.