Momma’s Dancing Shoes…
When looking at seemingly ‘well-balanced’ adults, I wonder how they got to be so lucky to not be haunted by childhood traumas. I used to envy them until something opened my eyes. Someone made the same erroneous assessment of my childhood when I told them about how wild and free I was as a child. For sure, there were some amazingly magical times: all the 4th of July(s) by the lake, loose change jingling in my pocket as I chased ice cream trucks, picking buckets of blackberries in the cemetery, watermelon juice sliding down my fingers as sweat dripped down my forehead, pillowcases full of candy at Halloween, ambling through the fire-colored leaves of Autumn, sliding down steep hills on first snow days. And all the magical Christmases that wiped away any concerns of poverty. But there was always a dark cloud looming, and most of the time, the storm was ushered in by the strong scent of alcohol. This got me wondering how many of us cut and paste the 'ugly’ in our childhood to make memories more emotionally palatable. After sharing my truth, I found there are many.
To this day, I curse my Momma’s dancing shoes. I have no idea why Momma did not toss them away and put on her walking shoes. On the days she needed them the most, Momma tossed those walking shoes into the closet and put on her ‘you just don’t understand dress,’ while strapping on her fragile, no-ankle-support dancing shoes. In these shoes, Momma could be easily lifted… oh, did I say easily lifted? I meant easily tossed. Tossed beneath the shadow of my stepfather’s anger. Momma’s dance partner sent her spinning, bouncing in dizzying circles. As he forced his dance on his partner he claimed to love on a good day, he seemed quite unaware of, much less even cared about the audience still watching.
Who was watching? Seven girls. One boy. We were always looking, always listening, always anticipating the dance. You see, Momma’s dancing partner, all six feet two, three hundred pounds of solid muscle and bone, did not know his own strength. For had he, he would not have danced with Momma as often. For had he, he would not have tossed her so far from her children. For had he, he would not have ignored all the cries for mercy. For had he known his own strength, he would have seen the tears in the eyes of his audience of seven and one. We wondered if he cared that his strength interrupted and corrupted a child’s dreams, replacing sugar plum fairies with blood-splattered floors. And walls, what of these walls? Walls that the children built around their feelings, impenetrable walls, immovable walls. My walls were movable walls, moving where I moved. Impassable walls, keeping me from being hurt and at the same time from being truly seen, truly loved. Loved, as a child should be loved, loved as a child has a right to be loved.
I prided myself on my walls, as they were strongly built until they weren’t. One dark winter night, this barrier came down. The holidays always ushered in his demon, causing him to visit his own toxic childhood memories. And like other times before, he looked for his first dance partner, alcohol, as it sometimes helped him to forget. When drinking ceased to have its effect, he fought to forget. Me, barely a teen, stood between him and his second dance partner, my mother. As hard as I fought to stop the music in his head, the harder he danced to the violent tempo already in progress. My scrawny ninety-five pounds were easily tossed aside by a monster I wish to forget. With each blow, hatred churned within me. With each blow, I lost my way back to me, the child. With each blow, I lost my voice. With each blow, I lost my balance in my own dance. With each blow, I lost faith in true justice.
I used to question God about why I was placed in this family, to witness events out of my control, ones which caused lasting life-altering experiences. Only later in life have I come to understand that these experiences have given me insight into what others think is hidden from the world. When pain recognizes pain, it offers me the opportunity to offer solace, kindness, and patience to others closest to me, as well as the strangers that wander onto my path. There is an old Dakota saying which states, “We will be known forever by the tracks we leave.” Even as I have learned to smile, laugh, and thank God again for all that has entered my life, I can rest knowing that my offspring will have their own burdens to carry, but sincerely pray they will be nothing like mine.
