1 of 3

Write now Article Tools

Page 3 of 3

in greater and greater wonder. Dawn's face first registered shock and a touch of fear. Then, Dawn's expression slowly melted into a soft smile, and then it blushed beet red. I mean it: beats come out of the can looking precisely that color. Cristina flashed me a thumbs-up, tucking the unmentionables into her backpack, and catching up with Autumn and her new posse.

Oh, how that moment brought memories and epiphanies so thick I hardly could count or make sense!

I know, I still feel exactly what Autumn endured. The shame, the crippling, gut-wrenching, heart-attacking, brain-freezing, nearly paralytic shame; the wish to die right then and there, the overwhelming wish to have the super-power of invisibility; the almost uncontrollable urge to go and kill that harpie who intrudes into your "normal" life and assaults your peace. Most of all, the unbearable shame of being stripped naked, exposed at your most vulnerable in front of the entire world.

In Autumn's place, I knew shame unutterable. The more my mother knew no shame, the more I knew it for both of us. The more my mother could not own her shame, the more I owned it for both of us. Of course, "normal" was my mask, and I wore it with style and aplomb. But the mask ultimately belied its own brittle nature; it cracked and crumbled so easily, so horribly, terrifying easily. And, then, only the wish for blissful death remained.

Psychologists will tell you how "shame is the mother of all emotions." Thermonuclear motivation comes from shame. Total paralysis comes from shame. Every shade, stripe, and type of emotion between the two extremes comes from shame. That insuperable shame and I share an intimacy so deep nothing else can touch it.

Engulfed in shame, I know it's all my fault!

If I were a better child, my mother would love me. If I were a better child, my mother would understand that I need food, water, and comfort. If were prettier, smarter, and more accomplished, my mother wouldn't have to drink. Maybe if I make the "High" Honor Roll, my mother will notice and love me. Maybe if I win the essay contest, my mother will feel proud of me.

Until I am better, though, my mother will remain a "foreigner" in my world. Not because she speaks Spanish, but because she speaks no "school," because she speaks no "softball," she speaks no "me"no se habla mi hija. Not alien or outcast; just simply and perfectly foreign, an absolute stranger. Until I am better, I must continue making myself "white girls' lunches," healthy sandwiches on whole wheat bread, no beans or tortillas or even a torta. Until I am better, I must get quietly from the front door to my room before my mother even knows I am home.

And I know the gratitude Autumn feels for Cristina's bravery. I feel even more gratitude for Cristina's bravery, because it brought me affirmation I craved for a very long time. I now have living proof I have changed, metamorphosed from "victim" to "survivor." Instead of crippling me, leaving me naked, exposed, and completely vulnerable, my shame has alloyed my character, made me a woman strong enough to raise a daughter who, instinctively, will champion the underdog's cause.

No longer a victim, I nevertheless recognize how a survivor's work goes on forever.

Learn more about this author, kieryn graham.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

• << previous page
• 1
• 2
• 3

Add your voice

Know something about Recognizing our own beauty through the love of our children?
We want to hear your view. Write now!