Thursday - A Family Legend
Feb. 23rd, 2006 01:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about a distant cousin of mine who I have never met but who I have heard about all of my life. She was almost my foster sister, and her life would have turned out easier if my parents had been allowed to take her in when they offered to. I will call her by her middle name, Joyce. The last I heard, she was living in California. She is in her 60's now, but at one time she was a beautiful young woman who turned heads everywhere she went, with a life as colorful as it was tragic.
Back in the 1940's one of my father's cousins left behind his Swedish-American family, married a Mexican woman and went off to live with her as a migrant worker. The pair never was very settled. They had several children, and at least two of them were boys who they though might be helpful in the work they did in the fields of the Rio Grande Valley. When Joyce was born, she was perceived as more of a burden than an asset, so they left her with her father's relatives and disappeared. Somehow she wound up living with my grandparents, who were her great aunt and uncle.
My parents always talked about how beautiful Joyce was, even as a little girl. Because she had been abandoned, everyone in the extended family doted on her. My father called her spoiled. She was pretty and demanding, thinking so highly of herself that she charged other little girls a nickle for the privilege of playing with her, he said. I remember the first time I saw a picture of her that I was surprised. I expected to be stunned by her beauty, but was disappointed to see that the little girl in the black and white photos looked very much like me, only with black hair instead of blond. I never considered myself beautiful.
The story that everyone always told me about Joyce was about her reaching puberty. My mother told me the tale as an example of the worst way something like this could be handled. My parents, still young newly weds at the time, walked into my grandparent's house one day to find Joyce crying hysterically. She was bleeding and believed that she must be dying, but no one would tell her why or take her to a doctor to fix it. My grandmother and her sisters were there, but none of them explained to Joyce what was going on with her body. These things were not discussed in their world. I suppose they figured that eventually the girl would figure it out and calm down. My mother was furious at them. She took Joyce into the bathroom and explained menstruation to her, what it was, how often to expect it, that it was a natural part of being a woman, that she was only growing up and was in no way going to bleed to death from it.
Within a year or so of that day, Joyce's world would unravel. It must have been when my grandmother died in 1959 that it was decided that Joyce needed to live elsewhere, that it was not appropriate for my grandfather to take care of this 14-year-old girl on his own. My parents, then in their mid-twenties, offered to take her in. Joyce was going through a normal rebellious stage at this point in her life. My parents were young and energetic, and they were the only ones who Joyce really responded to in a positive way. They were more than happy to open their home to her. Instead, someone tracked down her parents in South Texas and told them that they needed to take care of the daughter that they had never wanted in the first place.
Joyce went from being a spoiled and doted-on child to an extra mouth to feed and an extra set of hands to work. She and these people were strangers to each other. I wonder if they even thought of her as family. I assume that the older brother who raped her must not have thought of her as a sister. He got her pregnant. After her baby was born, she left it with her "family" and ran away from home. No one heard from her for several years.
When she turned up again, she was on the back of a Harley Davidson motorcycle, married to a Hell's Angel. She and her biker husband visited the house I grew up one time in the early 70's, when I was too young to remember it. My mother said that when they rode up and Joyce dismounted the bike, that the jaw of our next-door-neighbor hit the ground. There she stood, decked out in leather, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He said that she looked like something out of Hollywood.
I only spoke to Joyce once. About a year after my mother died, I answered the phone one day after school.
"Hi, is Ruby there?" a woman's voice asked. I could tell by her tone that this was not some clueless phone solicitor asking for a name on a list that had not been updated. I knew that this was someone who knew my mom but who did not know about her death.
"May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Joyce. She'll know me. Is this Nina? I haven't seen you since you were little bitty. Go get her, she'll want to talk to me." She sounded excited at the idea of speaking to my mother, like she had some wonderful news to share. My heart sank. I didn't know what to tell her except for the truth - that she had waited a year too late to make this phone call.
"I'm sorry," I said gently, feeling like a grownup passing along some dreaded news to a child, instead of the other way around, "she had cancer. She passed away last October."
I heard a gasp on the other end of the line, and then a heartbroken sob. I had the past year behind me to get used to the idea of my mother's death, but Joyce's grief was raw and new.
"No!" she said. "No, no, no..." I wasn't sure how to comfort this woman, my almost-aunt, my almost-sister, who I did not know but who's name and who's story I knew so well.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm so sorry." It felt like I was comforting her for the death of her own mother.
She began to talk, to ramble, crying the whole time. She should have called sooner, she had been meaning to call for so long. She told me how much my mother meant to her. She told me the story of when she got her period and my mother was the only one who would explain to her what was happening. It was the first time I had heard the story from any perspective except my mother's.
After awhile, I was feeling more than a little overwhelmed. I offered to take down her number and promised to have my father call her.
When my father got home from work, I handed him the number and told him to call Joyce. He didn't want to. He knew this would be an emotionally taxing phone call, that he was about to have to re-live some of his own grief.
"You have to," I told him, "I promised her that you would."
He shook his head. "Your mother meant a lot to this girl," he said. He told me the story of Joyce's first period, and I listened to it for the second time that day. I didn't remind him that I already knew the story by heart. He picked up the phone, and I left the room while he made the call.
It's funny how one incident can define a relationship, how powerful of an impact that the act of comforting a crying child can have for that child and for another child who hears the story years later.
I've never met Joyce. I wouldn't know her if I passed her on the street. But she is more than a name to me. She is a little girl in the 1950's with my features, but darker hair. She is a teenager running away from home to leave behind unspeakable crimes that no one, besides herself as the victim, would ever be punished for. She is a beautiful black-haired woman riding on the back of a Harley Davidson. She is a 14-year-old girl on her way to becoming that woman, having the facts of life explained to her by my mother. She is a woman in her 40's on the telephone in 1985, sobbing to a teen-aged girl over the death of the mother we shared in common.
Back in the 1940's one of my father's cousins left behind his Swedish-American family, married a Mexican woman and went off to live with her as a migrant worker. The pair never was very settled. They had several children, and at least two of them were boys who they though might be helpful in the work they did in the fields of the Rio Grande Valley. When Joyce was born, she was perceived as more of a burden than an asset, so they left her with her father's relatives and disappeared. Somehow she wound up living with my grandparents, who were her great aunt and uncle.
My parents always talked about how beautiful Joyce was, even as a little girl. Because she had been abandoned, everyone in the extended family doted on her. My father called her spoiled. She was pretty and demanding, thinking so highly of herself that she charged other little girls a nickle for the privilege of playing with her, he said. I remember the first time I saw a picture of her that I was surprised. I expected to be stunned by her beauty, but was disappointed to see that the little girl in the black and white photos looked very much like me, only with black hair instead of blond. I never considered myself beautiful.
The story that everyone always told me about Joyce was about her reaching puberty. My mother told me the tale as an example of the worst way something like this could be handled. My parents, still young newly weds at the time, walked into my grandparent's house one day to find Joyce crying hysterically. She was bleeding and believed that she must be dying, but no one would tell her why or take her to a doctor to fix it. My grandmother and her sisters were there, but none of them explained to Joyce what was going on with her body. These things were not discussed in their world. I suppose they figured that eventually the girl would figure it out and calm down. My mother was furious at them. She took Joyce into the bathroom and explained menstruation to her, what it was, how often to expect it, that it was a natural part of being a woman, that she was only growing up and was in no way going to bleed to death from it.
Within a year or so of that day, Joyce's world would unravel. It must have been when my grandmother died in 1959 that it was decided that Joyce needed to live elsewhere, that it was not appropriate for my grandfather to take care of this 14-year-old girl on his own. My parents, then in their mid-twenties, offered to take her in. Joyce was going through a normal rebellious stage at this point in her life. My parents were young and energetic, and they were the only ones who Joyce really responded to in a positive way. They were more than happy to open their home to her. Instead, someone tracked down her parents in South Texas and told them that they needed to take care of the daughter that they had never wanted in the first place.
Joyce went from being a spoiled and doted-on child to an extra mouth to feed and an extra set of hands to work. She and these people were strangers to each other. I wonder if they even thought of her as family. I assume that the older brother who raped her must not have thought of her as a sister. He got her pregnant. After her baby was born, she left it with her "family" and ran away from home. No one heard from her for several years.
When she turned up again, she was on the back of a Harley Davidson motorcycle, married to a Hell's Angel. She and her biker husband visited the house I grew up one time in the early 70's, when I was too young to remember it. My mother said that when they rode up and Joyce dismounted the bike, that the jaw of our next-door-neighbor hit the ground. There she stood, decked out in leather, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He said that she looked like something out of Hollywood.
I only spoke to Joyce once. About a year after my mother died, I answered the phone one day after school.
"Hi, is Ruby there?" a woman's voice asked. I could tell by her tone that this was not some clueless phone solicitor asking for a name on a list that had not been updated. I knew that this was someone who knew my mom but who did not know about her death.
"May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Joyce. She'll know me. Is this Nina? I haven't seen you since you were little bitty. Go get her, she'll want to talk to me." She sounded excited at the idea of speaking to my mother, like she had some wonderful news to share. My heart sank. I didn't know what to tell her except for the truth - that she had waited a year too late to make this phone call.
"I'm sorry," I said gently, feeling like a grownup passing along some dreaded news to a child, instead of the other way around, "she had cancer. She passed away last October."
I heard a gasp on the other end of the line, and then a heartbroken sob. I had the past year behind me to get used to the idea of my mother's death, but Joyce's grief was raw and new.
"No!" she said. "No, no, no..." I wasn't sure how to comfort this woman, my almost-aunt, my almost-sister, who I did not know but who's name and who's story I knew so well.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm so sorry." It felt like I was comforting her for the death of her own mother.
She began to talk, to ramble, crying the whole time. She should have called sooner, she had been meaning to call for so long. She told me how much my mother meant to her. She told me the story of when she got her period and my mother was the only one who would explain to her what was happening. It was the first time I had heard the story from any perspective except my mother's.
After awhile, I was feeling more than a little overwhelmed. I offered to take down her number and promised to have my father call her.
When my father got home from work, I handed him the number and told him to call Joyce. He didn't want to. He knew this would be an emotionally taxing phone call, that he was about to have to re-live some of his own grief.
"You have to," I told him, "I promised her that you would."
He shook his head. "Your mother meant a lot to this girl," he said. He told me the story of Joyce's first period, and I listened to it for the second time that day. I didn't remind him that I already knew the story by heart. He picked up the phone, and I left the room while he made the call.
It's funny how one incident can define a relationship, how powerful of an impact that the act of comforting a crying child can have for that child and for another child who hears the story years later.
I've never met Joyce. I wouldn't know her if I passed her on the street. But she is more than a name to me. She is a little girl in the 1950's with my features, but darker hair. She is a teenager running away from home to leave behind unspeakable crimes that no one, besides herself as the victim, would ever be punished for. She is a beautiful black-haired woman riding on the back of a Harley Davidson. She is a 14-year-old girl on her way to becoming that woman, having the facts of life explained to her by my mother. She is a woman in her 40's on the telephone in 1985, sobbing to a teen-aged girl over the death of the mother we shared in common.
