sacrament & salt

There a lot of myths in my family that leave me never quite sure what may be tales of American Folklore Magic, and what is Bonofide Historical Truth. This is in very much part to my family’s Italian-American wax fantastical affectation with a vapid and superficial romanticism.

One such story, I hold particularily dear, is that of my great-great-grandmother. Supposedly, she was not only an advocate of woman’s suffrage and early women’s rights, but was a hero as well. The story weaves a picture of women- largely dominated by their husband’s (or father’s) proclivities, pursuits, preferences, and permissions. These women knew the danger in which seeking their own liberation would place them. They would thus meet, under the ruse of “we just doing the housework honey,” to their ignorant-at-best, abusive-fearful-and-controlling-at worst, husbands or fathers. My own imagination wonders, too, if there might have been a few forward thinkers in this husband lottery grab, and perhaps maybe one or two were actually encouaging and supportive. You see how the fantastical reaches into my subconscious to create delusion, as well? It’s deep in our familial psyche paradigm.

The story passed down is that it was my great-great-grand-mama that put together these clandestine rendezvous, and she not only educated her peers, but instigated and proported this silent rebellion. They met under this mock-servile submission, met in whispers when they weren’t sure who might be listening, and feverous exclamations when they were sure the man of the house had such departed. Oooh, isn’t this visage just soaking wet with American Ingenue, the fighting spirit, fire and passion, and Raw, Feminine Rage? Just delicious, am I right? I do hope it’s true, I truly, genuinely, do.

My father is drenched, dripping and completely oblivious of such inbetted romanticism, leaving both he and I in a flux, floating in muddy waters, never sure where the line juxtoposing truth and whimsy begin, or end, thus, leaving he and I in a strange quandry. I never knew where my individuality began and his ended. This strange wafting in deep waters phenomena is usually manifested in relationships between mothers and daughters, but yet, here we are.

It took me most of the entirety of my life to truly understand this situation, and how delusion has washed over ever experience I have ever had. My father’s retelling of stories are always tinged with a softness, a bright center, a purpose of goodness. This misrepresentation left me confused, off balance, and unsure of my own memory of things. Because I could also see, was indoctrinated to see, this rose colored filter placed over every pivotal event, I lost my anchor within myself, fearful of hurting the people who had so easily and carelessly hurt me, still believing in a soft, gushy, heart-centered purpose. I, obviously, was wrong. People who love you do not hurt you. Full stop.

Even writing this words, a wave of guilt and worry hits me. How will HE feel if he reads my words, my pain? (Sorry for himself, likely). But, this time, I do not fall. I will not succumb to a mean, manipulative tide. No amount of, “iT wAs HaRd fOr Me,” excuses an adult for terrorizing an innocent (quiet, introverted, and thoughtful) child and nothing, no amount of rose, or red or blue or black, filters will exonerate an adult man beating the shit out of his three small children simply because he is in a bad mood.

Perhaps the Raw, Feminine Rage does indeed pulse through my bloodline. But, this time there will be no subterfuge and sibilital shifting, words spoken low and quiet. This time we scream, a frightful, furious vindication, with no interest in your housework whatsoever. Because of my great-great-grandmother’s power, I now get to stand in plain site.