Serenity Quest

Initially I would have said that being different never really bothered me but of course that would be a downright lie because on occasion it has made me feel awkward around other people.

As a teenager I was certainly a "square peg", remember "Sex in the City" Sarah Jessica's Parker show in the 80s, shy, quiet, almost nonexistent. Oh a real fashion misfit! In my late teens I realized that deep down inside that wasn't me and everything changed. I guess I had to get to know myself better.

Strange isn't it that you can spend the majority of your childhood hiding behind a facade, which in fact you are unaware of because growing up is such a confusing time?


How do your find your life's purpose? Have you found yours? If so how?

I weep. I weep for many reasons. I weep when we are cruel to each other. I also weep tears of joy!

Someone I know put it in plain words:

Sure I cry when I am sad, upset, so on but I cry the most during intense laughter! Fantastic isn't it? How wonderful is it to have uproarious moments with the ones you love?! My insides explode and the tears flow freely! Healthy indeed!! Helium Knowledge

"Weeping often occurs at precisely those times when we are least able to fully verbalize complex, overwhelming emotions and least able to fully articulate our feelings." (Tom Lutz author of Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears)

"Crying is natural, healthy and curative," according to Barry M. Bernfeld, Ph.D., director of the Primal Institute in Los Angeles. "[But] crying which should be the most natural, accepted way of coping with pain, stress, and sorrow is hardly mentioned in psychiatric literature. Now we seem finally to recognize that crying is good for people."

Have you ever felt completely lost, in a daze, wondering what next? That’s the way I feel right now.

There are plenty reasons why but they seem to lack any significance as I try to comprehend the negligent mood I have been stuck in for the last few weeks. I suppose that many of you out there have felt this way from time to time and understand where I am coming from.

Thus I procrastinate by writing down these here thoughts hoping to cast out this “demon”.

Why do we procrastinate and what's the best way to stop?

I entered the moonlit room and inside coffins were lined up. One popped open, up sat my Daddy and talked to me.

That was the first in a series of dreams and nightmares after his brutal murder.

When I woke from that first nightmare I was very upset.

Some 18 years have gone by and he is still with me, possessing my mind.

Somehow he has come to represent extreme goodness and extreme evil all wrapped up into one.

The conflict that such extreme emotions creates is difficult enough for an adult to handle, imagine a child having to reconcile them.

I cannot recall the first time he beat my Mommy; I can only say that the many times he maimed her are forever carved in my mind. Then why do I miss him so much?

I dreamt of him last night for the first time in two years. You would think that at 29 I would be over it by now. The fact is I am not and I may never be. You my dear reader, if I ever have the courage to share these very intimate details of my life, are my solace.

Since his death up until two years ago I dreamt of a kind and remorseful Daddy returning to rectify the damage he had done. In my last two dreams this weekend he was harsh and uncompromising. I woke up this morning disturbed by his reappearance.

In the shower, as the water dripped down my face, the dreams flashed before my eyes and a well of emotions surged in me. “What do you want from me?”, “What are you trying to tell me?”, “Leave me alone!” my inner self screamed out. I was overcome by the agony of being pursued by his memory.

"I have to speak to Mommy", I thought; she will understand what I am going through. Mommy was upset to hear that I was clearly bothered by this last apparition and proceeded to calm me down.

Mommy I asked, “Why didn't you seek psychological help for us children back then? Imagine the impact of seeing your mommy's head in a pool of blood?”
“You remember that?” she asked. “Of course,” I answered. “I tried to keep you kids from seeing that. Even your little sister who was around two, three years old at the time reminded me that she saw me then hiding my bloody clothes from you four.”

On one of those horrid occasions I had decided that I would take things into my own hands. I intervened during a previous incident when Daddy was hitting Mommy with a tennis racket and received a good strong slap across the face. I had stolen a dollar from Daddy's wallet the night he tore all of Mommy's underwear to pieces to pay for new ones. That night I decided, "that’s it". I raised the ceramic statue over his head and was about to end the nightmare once and for all when Mommy pleaded with me not to do it knowing that I would only wound him and enrage him further. Daddy warned us not to tell a soul what went on at home.

Daddy's body was discovered on the streets of the Bronx a few days after his death 3 November 1983. I was 11 years old, my sisters 8 and 4 and my brother 2. Mommy was an extremely young widow at 30.

I will never forget that last night. Mommy begged Daddy on her hands and knees, holding on to his ankles, “Don't leave!”

The morning his body was discovered my God-fearing mother was in church praying where police detectives found and announced the sad news to her. She was taken to identify his body. He was dead.

We came home from school and some of our relatives were sitting in the living room, one consoling my mother. The scene was confusing. "What happened?", I thought. I honestly cannot say I remember who told me or how. Although distraught I was also relieved. He would never hurt my Mommy again.

The next thing I remember we are walking to church in our Sunday's best. The order of events is a bit jumbled in my mind as for some reason that scene comes before the wake and the funeral. His name appeared in the Sunday morning newspaper. He had been killed in a gangland shooting.

Daddy was no saint everyone knew it. I knew it too. On many occasions I covered up for him when he took me with him to meet his lady friends. He thought Mommy would not suspect him if he took one of us with him. He quickly discovered that to take my snot-nosed and blabbering younger sister would get him into trouble. So he took me, his good little girl. I would never dare mention what I saw. I knew that if I did Mommy would get upset, confront him and that would "make" Daddy hit her. So I stood shut and Daddy and I became closer. Little did he know I was not defending him but protecting the woman I could not live without, my Mommy.

There we were at the funeral parlor, the dim lights, the weeping people and a dead body in a casket. Mommy was a mess. Her childhood love was gone. It was time to say our last goodbyes, the burial would be held that afternoon. I approached; my baby sister and brother ran up to the casket. I could see where he had been shot, a bullet to the temple and one to the jaw. I remember touching him but I really don't know if I kissed him or not. My baby sister and brother, beats me why no one kept them from seeing this, were trying to climb into the casket asking to sleep with Daddy.

I barely remember the funeral; all I know is that Daddy was not present at my sixth grade graduation the following summer. I wished he had been.

We got along swell. I helped Daddy build and repair things at home. I volunteered to iron his shirts. I stood up late with him to watch TV; he knew I loved staying up, having a midnight snack and hanging out together. Mommy didn't like the idea that I stayed up to all hours of the night especially on school nights.

Daddy was the proudest of men the day my brother was born, someone to carry on his name. Daddy adored his girls but junior's birth brought him so much pleasure. Junior, the spitting image of his father, has never been able to forgive Daddy.

Daddy, actually my stepfather, raised me as one of his own. I knew no other father besides him. Surely, I was different, the only one with African blood and a different last name in the family, but to Daddy I was his little girl. He'd come to pick me up at school and I'd always be asked by my wary teachers, “Is this your father?” I couldn't understand then what they meant, “Yeah, that's my Daddy”, I proudly answered.

I had already been abandoned by my biological father and the resurgence of pain I felt he was gone was unbearable. Before he left us I met my biological father for the first time. Daddy was furious Grandma took me to see him. “I raised her, I love her and that bastard never did a damn thing for her.” Daddy was right. I was curious though, "where did I get my exotic look from?"

No one could foresee the events to come.

A bit over a year after Daddy died my biological father passed away. “Oh no” I thought “can I bury Daddy again?” The former Vietnam soldier was laid in his uniform in a glass coffin. The closer I got the less I could breathe. I burst out in tears and no one understood exactly why. I saw Daddy in there.

Mommy was initially the prime suspect. She was questioned over and over again. Whether or not they knew the hell Daddy put her through they decided she was not the murderer. They put a wire on Mommy to help them sniff out the real perpetrator. It remains a mystery. Daddy had apparently crossed a few tough guys.

Mommy didn't remarry until we were grown and away from home. My sisters treated Mommy just as Daddy had. I pleaded with her to seek help. I couldn't stand seeing her being abused again.

First chance I got I left home and moved to the university campus. Far enough away to have the quiet I needed yet close enough to see Mommy whenever we needed each other. Considering what we had been through together it is no wonder we are so close. Sometimes she played the role of the mother but most times I did. Mommy relied on me for emotional support.

Being the parent all those years exhausted me. I finally escaped that world and looking for peace ironically moved to the Middle East. I thought if I put enough distance between us I would find the serenity I was looking for.

I turned my back on my family, my country and my religion. I assumed a new life.

It was agonizing being away from my Mommy the first few years; I wept many a night. Still I helped her any way I could through the rough times. My anger turned towards her. How can you help someone who allows herself to be a serial victim? I gave up trying. I laid down the burden I felt all those years to protect my Mommy from harm and began living for me. I cut the apron strings.

I vowed that would never happen to me. I fail to comprehend why she stayed all those years. Allowed herself to be repeatedly victimized. The great admiration I feel for her is clouded by the terrible anger that consumes me when I think how she "let" that happen to her. The common belief is that daughters of battered women will become battered women themselves. On the contrary, at least in our case, my sisters and I, to varying degrees have become strong women. Yet I wonder, having not been raised in a dysfunctional home how we might have turned out. Our brother has nothing but disdain for our father and is a warm, sensitive and loving fellow.

Why did Daddy reappear? Only the heavens know the real answer to that. Could be that the daily terror and continual violence in my area of the world raises memories of that traumatic period of my life? The fear of losing more loved ones paralyzes me? Tears roll down my face when I see children burying their parents and parents burying their infants and children. Entire families being buried one next to the other.

I deplore any form of violence. Naive? Perhaps. The irreparable damage done to our children is inexcusable and unforgivable. I weep for them, for their innocence and childish gaiety.

I arrived to the region a stranger to both sides and although some may say I have chosen sides, I am that child whatever color, nationality, race or religion, longing to see the rainbow shine on all mankind after these rainy days. Salaam and Shalom.