A Heart Untethered

Growing up, my mother always asked, “did you tell them your father is dead?” It became a running joke amongst myself and my siblings. We would often end conversations by tossing in, “oh, by the way, did you know my dad is dead?” then laugh. As a child, I(we) never understood why she wanted us to include that information. I protected it as if it were a dirty little secret, something shameful, something I never wanted to think about, let alone tell strangers. As an adult, she explained that it is such a monumental life experience/trauma that impacts every aspect of your being. She just wanted people who might judge us to understand, whether it be a new teacher, a coach, or an employer, so that they would have compassion, knowing we are dealing with more than our peers and that it takes more effort for us to function as “normal”. 

Although I used to laugh at my mom, as I age, I find myself casually dropping that information into conversations. More so, I find myself looking back and wondering how his short stint in my life impacted me. His birthday was in January, so I subconsciously always think about him more this month, and around the anniversary of his death. Lately, I have thought about his compassion and his inclination to be “the good Samaritan,” especially in regard to my own sensitive nature. I was, and still am, a cry baby. I have learned to hold in my tears and developed a deep hatred for crying at some point, so I rarely cry, but I tear up at the drop of a hat. Actually crying, however, triggers debilitating migraines and makes me physically ill for an entire day after the waterworks, so I hold back until the levee breaks. 

I am told that as an infant I was perpetually on the verge of tears, with big watery puppy dog eyes. I came out of the womb crying and never stopped. A moth once flew into my cup of milk and as I poured my drink into the grass to save the poor creature, I sobbed. My family still teases me about this incident and how “soft” I was. Because of this, I was often victimized, as the world can be a cruel place for soft natured people. My father, however, assured me that being sensitive does not make you weak, it’s the opposite. It takes a strong person to be able to feel the pain of the world, and that God made me this way because the world needs more compassion. I tried to hold on to this as I was being bullied, but over the years, I began to lose it. A tender heart can only endure so much before it becomes hardened and calloused. 

So, on this particular day, while reflecting inward on my own vulnerability and visualizing where my journey will take me in 2023, I find myself drawn to a faded memory of an eight- or nine-year-old me sitting at a table next to my older brother when he struck me, which was not unusual. He despised me. I told my father that he hit me, and he responded, “well, did you turn the other cheek?” I was confused, more so when he told me to turn my face so that my brother could smack me again. My brother was afraid, knowing it was some kind of trap. I knew the scripture well, but I didn’t understand until my father stood, all 6 foot 4 inches of him, over my brother and said, “love thy neighbor and thy enemy as thy self, for Jesus tells us that whoever shall strike you on your right cheek, turn to him the other...but, also vengeance is for the father.” Then he lit my brother up, making me cry for him to stop, because despite his ongoing cruelty towards me, I had deep love for my big brother.  

No matter what they do to you, love them, even when it is difficult, especially when it is painful, because it is our duty, but know that your Father has your back. Maybe 2023 is the year I shed some of the scars that bind my heart, and allow myself the freedom to be more vulnerable and reclaim some of my compassion. The world needs more of it.

Enjoying some macaroni at 2 years old, but maintaining my perpetual look of sadness.

A November Memory

On an ordinary day in November, my father took me to the harbor. We often visited the harbor, watching the boats and searching for crabs along the embankment. On this day, however, my father wanted to walk down to the docks. My father was a rule breaker by nature, and the smartest man I have ever known, possessing a genius IQ. So, on this day, when he decided to try his luck on the gated keypad that barred entrance to the docks, I was not surprised when he got the combination right.

As an overly cautious child, I was horrified by the look of excitement in his eyes, knowing we were headed towards trouble. “Let’s go!” he shouted at me as he sprinted down the ramp towards the water. I followed slowly, filled with trepidation, as I watched him discover an abandoned kayak at the edge of a dock. “Dad, no!” I cried out, as he pushed the kayak into the water and slipped into a life vest. “Hurry up, before someone comes!” He lowered himself into the kayak and grabbed the paddle. I wanted to cry, begging him to get out, but he had that look that I knew too well. There was no stopping him. He handed me the other life vest and tapped the seat in front of him. “Come on, we got to go before someone catches us!” I slowly lowered myself into the wobbly kayak and grabbed my paddle, knowing there was no use in trying to fight him.

As we floated out from between the boats and headed towards the open sea, he warned me, “paddle faster! We don’t want the harbor master to see us!” I start paddling ferociously towards the islands that face the shoreline. When we hit the open ocean, I ask, “dad, are we going to get arrested?” He starts laughing and whispers in my ear, “happy birthday!” He rented the kayak as a surprise for my upcoming birthday, wanting to do something special without my siblings. When he saw the look of fear on my face when he opened the gate, he couldn’t resist. “Dad! I thought we stole this kayak!” He laughed again, “I know. You need to live a little.” We paddled peacefully for hours along the coast of Southern California, before returning to the harbor to return the kayak.

My father died the following year, when I was eleven, but this memory lives on forever and still makes me smile.

Living In Between

I have always hated my hair.  

Mom diligently braided it for me every day, weaving the strands like a tapestry. She created works of art that caused strangers to pause and gawk. The tightly woven styles were as necessary as they were beautiful, without them, my hair would wage war upon itself and create an eagle’s nest.   

To avoid the huge mess, I endured daily sessions of brushing and braiding. My tender scalp ached as mom’s strong hands tested its strength. I cried, begging her to stop. Her words always came at me laced with frustration. “My mother did my hair the same way that I am doing yours, and I never cried the way you do. Now, sit still.” 

She had no patience for my tears, or for my lack of respect towards the beauty that sprung from my head. I yearned to have my sister’s hair. It was nearly as long, but with blonde highlights that shined golden in the sun. It was silky smooth and thin. She could play all day with it down and not a single knot would be found.  

My wavy coarse strands were pulled straight by the weight of the length, but they rebelled against it. They punished me with tangles, unless they were tautly bound. I hated them for that, almost as much as I hated them for making me different.  

My black hair turned mahogany in the sun, and was thick enough to anchor a ship. It produced jealousy in my fair skinned peers, but I was too young to understand the many ways in which jealousy appears. So, when they laughed at my rope of a tress, I believed that it was ugly.  

When they jabbed their colorless hands into me, unraveling mom’s tapestry, I learned to smile with them. We all laughed as they took turns draping it over themselves, pretending it was a wig. They marveled at how all of their braids combined were still less than the girth of mine.  

Deep down inside, I shuddered when they touched it. I knew my hair was passed down from Grandmother. I was taught that it was a gift, one that should be guarded. It was part of my being, an extension of self, coveted by many. “Envious touch steals part of your essence,” and so I was forbidden from letting anyone handle my mane.  

I once explained this. I told my peers about my essence and that I could not let them touch my hair. I was secretly horrified that I might slowly die or lose myself if they did. I remember their shock and amusement, their pity and indifference. They accosted me, smugly giggling as they ravished my mother’s work. “See, nothing will happen!” “I thought you were Christian?”  

That was the moment I realized that although we wore the same plaid jumpers, we were not the same. I was faced with a choice, to fit in or forever be estranged. And so, as parts of myself slipped through the pious little fingers that grappled my hair, I lied. I laughed, forcing an awkward smile. While they twirled my hair in their fingers, as if it were theirs to own, I swallowed my beliefs so that I could fit in with the Debbies. 

We mocked my mother for her outrageousness. Only uneducated people could be foolish enough to believe in such things. The Debbies thought I was as lucky as I was strange to have found myself in their company. Without our Baptist school to save my soul, I surely would have been on a pathway to Hell. 

In class we learned scripture, and I accepted Christ into my heart. I did not want to spend all of eternity suffering in a fiery underworld. But... as I read the Bible and listened to its stories, I could not help but wonder why giants and angels and great floods were real...but my Native beliefs were not. Was it not the length of Samson’s hair from which he derived his supernatural strength? Yet, it was blasphemous to conjure up such comparisons, so I kept them to myself. 

Shrugging off my confusion, I continued on with my best efforts to belong, but the Debbies never accepted me. I blamed mom and my hair for making me strange. If only she would allow me to cut my hair, then I would fit in. Then, and only then, could I be one of them.  

Mom saw my pain, but was unrelenting. Refusing to allow to me to chop my hair, she attempted to provide comfort through stories. Her own hair once swept the floor as she walked. When she was younger, her braid swung between her legs like a tail. Everywhere she went, people stopped to stare at the girl with long jet-black hair.  

It was a rite of passage, growing our hair until adulthood. So, why did her drawer hide a braid that was three feet in length if our hair was our strength?  I imagined my own braid laying in the drawer next to hers. One day I would cut it off. One day I would be a black-haired Debbie, walking around with that smug smile. 

That day was far off, but it finally came. The disdain for my hair had swelled to the point that it had convinced me it was already detached. Part of me believed that cutting it off completely would liberate me from the weight of my upbringing. So, I watched with the utmost satisfaction as the clippers left behind rows of fuzzy hair. The horror in the stylist’s eyes filled me with pride.  

I stepped out of the barber’s chair with a new found sense of strength that was entirely my own. I no longer yearned to be a Debbie. I didn’t need their acceptance, or anyone’s for that matter. Chocked full of repressed rage and a desire to create a new self, I charged blindly into the world with my fuzzy buzz cut. Ungrounded, having severed my connection to Earth, I wandered like a lost bull. 

I quickly learned that the world is cruel place for someone who is completely alone. After many heartbreaks, my temper cooled and I found my way back home. I allowed my hair to regrow, but it would never be the same. As if it understood everything, it grew back changed, it grew back different. Only half reappeared, and without so much bulk it had soft waves. There was no more mahogany glistening in the sun. It came back to me without any of the allure that it once had.  

Finally, I understood why the drawer held a braid that was three feet in length. For the first time, I understood mom. It was a somber realization that had come too late, but I will not repeat the mistake. So, when someone looks at the long flowing hair on my sons and disapprovingly asks, “why aren’t you cutting their hair?” I unabashedly, unapologetically, and aggressively respond, “they like it that way, and it gives them strength.”  

My sons, Aedan and Ahbrían

An Emptiness

A Work of Fiction Rooted in Truths

by Helina Bailey

There were boxes of memories stuffed into every corner. Stacks of bills and notes lined the drawers. The cabinets and pantry were bulging with cans. For as long as I could remember, there was always clutter. It was inescapable.  

I often fantasized about living in an empty house, one bereft of memories. I imagined freedom filling up the spaces taken by the discord. It was too late for this home, and probably the next, because wherever mama went, her clutter followed.  

Aunt Rose was addicted to clutter too, although it was more easily disguised, hidden in pretty boxes and delicate trinkets that decorated shelves in every room. Her appliances were the most obvious, but that was functional hoarding. She was a cook. 

While Auntie Rose hid her condition better than Mama, they were both sick. Mama held on to pictures and letters, records and cassettes, and odd knick knacks that reminded her of the past. The bulging banana boxes in her room could scarcely contain all her memories. Aunt Rose, on the other hand, hid most of her memories in the cupboard, under the guise of being necessary for all the food she prepared. I once questioned the need for her aging Mortan tubs. She turned to me with a cold look and smugly replied, “My Dear, salt never dies.” 

I knew that when I was grown and living on my own, I would not be like them. I would enjoy the pleasure of a quiet home. I would finally find my peace, without all the memories constantly shouting their whispers at me, desperate to be remembered. 

Everyone in the family was aware, having been afflicted themselves in some way, but no one ever spoke of it directly. No one ever discussed this incessant need to hold on to everything.  

As a child I liked to throw away little things, to see if my small act of defiance would be noticed. It never was. It would be so easy to discard and dismantle the sea of memories, if only someone would permit me. 

It was nonsense, in my mind, to hold on to insignificant things like my great-grandmother's hair net, which I found in a tackle box of ancient artifacts at the back of the closet. It was tangled up with a little necklace of Poseidon, which I slipped into my pocket.  

Mama and her sisters all laughed when I showed them my discovery. They had tears in their eyes, recanting their memories and sharing their stories. For a moment, I understood holding on, but then I began to see my great-grandmother watching me. Through the fogged-up shower glass, her tiny little frame, cross legged, sat on the sink smoking. Watching me.  

I was terrified and began to cry. I apologized for having touched her things, but she would not leave. As my shower ran cold, I bolted for the door. Running down the hall, unable to breath, I told mama what I had seen.  

“Oh, she just needs to go back home.” Mama said calmly as she retrieved her bundle of sage. Auntie Rose began to hum as mama lit the bundle and walked up the hall towards the room.      

As I waited, my hatred for the clutter grew. 

On that day, I swore that I would not fall victim to this illness too. When I was grown and living on my own, my home would be free of these memories. I would let go of the ghosts of my past, only having eyes for the future.  

Grandmother says we never forget our past or our suffering, but we learn to let go. That is how our people have survived; and yet, I saw us all determined to entomb ourselves within our regrets and sorrows, burying ourselves in useless things that suffocated us and prevented us from living weightlessly. 

I wondered, could it be that I was the only one to see the disease? Were they all blind to the boxes exploding with faded and jaded memories? When the boxes could no longer contain their insidious contents, they would vanish from sight, hidden but not gone.  

“Did you change something? It feels different.” Someone would say, missing the clutter that was sure to soon re-accumulate. I would sigh, knowing that the memories were only tucked away somewhere else.  

I never understood the reasoning behind their collecting, or why they could not let go, until I lived on my own. It started inconspicuously with a shoe box of my favorite memories. When my mementos outgrew the box, I had an urge to throw them all away, fearing that I might be infected with the disease. I laughed at myself. It was only a shoe box, not a lifetime’s accumulation of memories.  

Suddenly, I found myself surrounded with memories from which I was unable to part with. Panic set in when I realized that I had filled up all my empty space. My mind was fooled into believing that my attachments were healthy because they were neatly displayed, lining my shelves and filling my drawers.  

I was struck with terror when I looked at my collection of books I had already read and clothes I no longer wore, unable to bring myself to throw them out. There were too many memories woven into their spines, too many stories intertwined with their fabric. The thought of letting them go made me feel empty. At that moment, I discovered a void within my soul, a deep wound that could not close.  

All my life I watched mama and Auntie Rose try to fill up the hollowness that was part of their souls, judging them. Now, I understood what grandmother meant. We move on, but our souls cannot forget, and though we survive, we all have a deep hole inside. That which has been taken from us can never be replaced, so we just do our best to fill up the empty space so we can carry on. 

Moving Forward

I walk around my backyard feeling out of place, overcome with a sense of grief. This is no longer my home. This place, where my children used to play, where my chickens roamed free, where I labored to create “our space"…it is no longer mine. That is the nature of divorce.

My name might still be on the mortgage and some of the bills; so, I maintain rights to the house, but it is no longer mine nor is it my home. Taking a slow stroll around the large yard, I say a silent good bye to the memories, to the good times, and the bad.

The club house, which he always hated, has been reduced to a pile of broken pallets. I am sure it was the first to go. The chickens are long gone but I few eggs remain in and around the coop, a reminder of my feathered friends. They must be months old, harboring a stench so vile, its criminal. I contemplate carefully disposing of them so they don’t break and unleash their villainous attack on the olfactory senses, but decide against it. If he accidentally cracks them, the kids and I wont be around anyway.

I miss my chickens, especially BlackBerry, who was eaten by his dog. Finding out Midnight froze to death in the winter because she couldn’t be caught and sold with the rest of my flock, breaks my heart. Discovering her blue egg under the coop is bitter sweet, but thinking of it cracking and her getting her revenge from beyond the grave brings a wicked smirk to my face. She was just the type of girl to leave behind a rotten egg! Even in death, her personality shines through.

So, I move along and leave her parting gift untouched. My son's salad garden, once full of greens and carrots, is a patch of grass covered in twigs (which I think are the remnants of his bolted mustard and parsley). The fencing has been removed and one would be hard pressed to imagine a vivacious garden existed in the spot a year ago. It is a physical representation of the circumstances, a somber reminder of how much has changed.

As I feel myself slipping into a state of deep sadness and struggling to let go, I focus on the bright red orb that has sprung up in the middle of what was once the garden. I don’t remember planting red cabbage…. It isn’t a cabbage, but something similar. Realizing it is a humungous radicchio, the biggest I have ever seen, I start to laugh. The radicchio never made it bigger than a small brussel sprout. It was the favorite of some insect and constantly suffered because of it. How did it manage to survive to this size?

This small bowling ball of a radicchio must be here for me, a loud proclamation of what can be. Our life is changing, the future will be vastly different from our past, but the kids and I are resilient. Like this crazy radicchio, when everything around us fades away, we continue to grow. Now, it is time for me to let go and to grow. I will make the next house our home and soon, the kids and I will bloom.

The giant radicchio

The Move You've Been Afraid To Do...Just Do It!

Everyone has that big move, the fantasy one where you move far away and start your new life, living happily ever after. Mine was New York. I grew up listening to my dad’s stories of New York, and I imagined myself moving far away from my little beachfront town with it’s perfect beach weather. I could see myself as a tough, cut-throat, all business New Yorker, living the fast paced life and hailing cabs in the freezing weather with my gorgeous coat on. It was going to be glorious…until I realized that I was not cut out for the big city.

My teenage heart could have burst with excitement when I visited the Big Apple at sixteen. My aunt showed me around, completely comfortable in her old stomping grounds. She held my hand, keeping me close. At first I was embarrassed, honestly mortified to be holding hands like a little girl, but after crossing a few busy streets, I was praying that she wouldn’t trust me enough to let go. I held her hand tightly, thankful I wasn’t alone.

After that trip, my fantasy life had to start over. I had to re-imagine where I would settle, because I knew that I wanted to live far away from home. I wanted to get out and see the world, while enjoying a quiet life. Naturally, I concocted Hallmark fantasies of my country living, complete with a little country twang and cowboy boots. I could see myself at the rodeo, enjoying honky tonks, and line dancing. So, I moved to Texas…but that didn’t feel like my home. (And I was terrible at the dancing.)

I visited Tennessee once and I promised myself, “one day, I will live here.” I just didn’t know when. After spending three years in Japan, living on top of a rice paddy, and three years in Northern Washington, my dream of the sweet Tennessee life manifested into something more. It became a hope and a desire. I began homesteading in Washington, and I knew deep in my soul that I wanted to live somewhere with space.

Now, as I begin to pack for my big move to Tennessee, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and terror. Every move is stressful but with them come new experiences and friendships. My crazy, wild, fearless, New Yorker aunt says, “think of it as an adventure. Let go of the fear and just go with it.”

Her words play often in the back of my mind as I struggle to hush my fears, and calm my anxiety. The kids will be fine. I will be fine. Everything will be fine. And if it isn’t…we can always move.