Hola, Brave Girl

I see my life as a tapestry that has been composed of many threads and cords. Sometimes the threads became tangled, many of them frayed and disappeared, and some of them transformed or grew stronger as the fabric of my being was tested and strengthened over time and through experience. I was born in 1972; my parents were from different cultures but the same religion- Catholic. One was Irish, and the other was Mexican. I joined a family with an older sister and brother. I grew up in a small town, and my little world was filled with climbing trees, running through corn fields and catching bugs with my neighborhood friends. You might say I was a tomboy, but I would simply say I was a girl with spirit and a love for adventure. It would take over 40 years for me to truly understand that part of myself and fully embrace it. That small town defined me in so many ways. I felt like I was just another kid who had siblings, knew my neighbors and life was normal. For several years, I believed I looked and acted like all my friends. And that simple innocence instilled in me internal beliefs that people are kind, community is essential, and life is sweet. Yet, I noticed when we’d walk into the local grocery store there was something different. My mom looked like the other people in the store, but my dad always stood out. The simple innocence I felt was my safety and it was threatened by this realization that somehow if my dad was different so was I. As I got a little older and started school, things began to shift. I noticed in moments with my friends, at church, and at school, where I felt uncomfortable, embarrassed, and confused. I couldn't place why, but at that young age, the threads of who I understood myself to be started to fray. The feelings started to pull at my fabric. I became a little girl who was overly sensitive to the people and experiences around her. I became a keen observer of what people wanted and learned to anticipate other people's needs. My mom was a child of alcoholics, and my father was a child of poor, hardworking farmers. Each had their own wounds that contributed to my desperate desire to belong, so I could feel safe and accepted. I believe that all generations strive to do better than the one before them. My parents craved to be seen as successful leaders in the community with well-behaved children. Some version of the 'normal' American family. Yet we were not! I grew up with teasing from my siblings that I wasn't their real sister. They would tell me that my dad was the milkman. We didn't even have a milkman, but at five, six, and seven years old, I only felt like I didn't belong. I never really understood why they said that, but I felt sad, picked on, and wondered why they were mean to me. My mom would try to comfort me by saying they were jealous. That only made me feel worse. My siblings were more like twins, as they were 11 months apart. In Irish culture, they are often called "Irish Twins." They would team up against my mom or devise plans to skip school for the day. They were spunky and adventurous. Of course, being the little sister, I wanted to play with them, but they didn't like that and saw me as the bratty little sister who always bothered them. One of my favorite memories was when they included me in skipping school. It was rare for me to be invited. I believe they worried I would tell on them since my mom and I were close. They thought I was her favorite – that was difficult on our sibling relationship. We left the house as usual to catch the school bus, but this time we went down to the goat's pen and hid out until she left. Then we returned to the house, where we made brownies (and ate the whole pan) and watched TV all day. We made sure to leave before she returned and left no trace; we had been there all day. It was awesome! My mom kept me close to her as I grew up. I felt special when I was with her. She'd take me on coffee dates with her friends, or we'd go on garage sale hunts. I would typically get a new toy or something I really wanted, which only made me feel even more special. She was easy to 'read' and anticipate her needs or potential moods. If she was happy, things were good. But when she was emotional or feeling frustrated, her mood would change. She had rules and beliefs about how she should be and how her children should act. No matter where we were going – church, school, to the grocery store – we had to be on time. If any of us, including my dad, wasn't ready to go and there was a risk of arriving late, my mom would scream and yell at us and then berate us in the car until we got where we were going. It was scary. There was one time I remember when we were late, and I'm not sure what snapped in her head, but she decided we were no longer going. We all had to lose out on whatever we were going to do. I would often go to my room and cry. I thought this was normal, so I tried hard to always be ready moving forward. To remind my siblings and even help them get ready.