A Snippet of 60s Scoop Intergenerational Trauma Anger is building inside of me, I feel it in my chest; my heart is beating faster. Hateful words are spinning inside of my head, desperately wanting to escape through my mouth to confront my mother. I take a deep breath in and blow it out, I know what’s coming. My daughter is talking on the phone with her grandma, and drops the elephant in the room, “Nana, are you home yet? Can I come over for a visit?” I can’t hear what’s being said on the other end of the phone, however, rejection is clearly written across my daughter’s face. Without saying another word, my daughter hands the phone over to her brother. I approach my pouting daughter who’s sitting on the couch, her arms are wrapped around her knees as she’s pulling them towards her chest. I sit down beside her and pull her into my side. “Well baby girl, what’s the verdict?” I prompt. She’s sullen, “She said that they’re still not home. She doesn’t know when they will come home.” “I’m sorry you’re hurt,” I tell her, “if your nana truly wanted to be here with us, she would be. You’re amazing, it’s her loss that she’s missing out on time with you.” I kiss the top of my daughter’s head and focus on how my son’s conversation is going. My son is quiet while holding the phone to his ear, and after saying “uh-huh” a couple of times he hangs up. He glances towards us and says, “She said they’re at the hotel again.” I feel disappointment lingering in the air, and those hateful words start spinning once more. My mother is an addict. I grew up watching her recover, relapse, and repeat. Her battle with opiate addiction controls her life, and I know it will consume her. I have watched medics release her from death’s grip three times. My mother believes that my anger towards her stems from the trauma of her “near death” experiences, she’s wrong. My anger stems from her inability to save her own life. My anger stems from waiting in emergency rooms all my childhood so she could get her next fix. My anger stems from her inability to break the cycle of abuse. My anger stems from the lack of having a real mother! I pat the empty spot on the couch beside me, motioning for my son to come and sit with us. He plunks himself down, and I pull him into my other side and kiss the top of his head. As the three of us are cuddled together, I gather my thoughts. I need to stop the hate building inside of me. There’s nothing I can do about my mother’s choices. Instead, I need to be the change that I seek. I need to support my children’s needs. I need to break the cycle of abuse. After all, I am a real mother and change will start with me. I hope I made you feel something today.
Definitely did feel something. That story was intense and personal. I'm hoping it's not autobiographical.
It’s the reality for many indigenous families, there’s many stories, and this is just a piece of one. I felt it would ring louder coming from a first person perspective then third.
The key to being a good writer is being able to come up with original ideas in detail then the writing part is easy. Its simply telling what happened in the idea. Finding the idea is the most challenging part. Writing is just spelling, grammar and syntax and anyone can learn to do that. What you can't learn about being a writer is having a head full of ideas. It cant be taught either. It has to come from within. Ls x
Today I witnessed an almost-kiss. It happened when I was in the parking lot right outside the bar, waiting on one of my friend to extract himself from the embrace of promises that will be never be fulfilled so that I could drive him back to the comfort he is familiar with. I was sitting on a bench when a young couple ambled out instead, insouciant gait pointing to intoxication or infatuation, assuming there is even a noteworthy distinction between the two. I was a little high and tired myself and whatever I tell you is a meticulous rendition of everything I witnessed. Had I been sober, my mind would have added thousands of tiny details to it all by itself. Fortunately, my brain as well as my other senses were mere witness for once. I’m saying they were a couple but they were also individuals who needs to be recognised separately. A man and woman, of similar age, I believe in their 20s. He brown-skinned, dark of eye and hair. The white shirt he wore accentuated broad shoulders he must be sweating over everyday, it certainly wasn’t inherited. The smile on his face revealed more than the rest of him combined, about his feelings at the time, about the way his evening was going, about his affection for the woman by his side. She was exceedingly fair, shades of brown-black in her hair, brown-eyed, her lips were wide and full, leaving an impression that she was constantly amused, a smirk lingering. Her eyes glinted mischievously, attesting that she had not yet lost much of the child she once was. They were laughing at something I could not comprehend, an inside joke perhaps, bumped into one another accidentally, giggled again and stumbled towards the wall. He placed his hand against it, to stabilise himself and ended up blocking his companion’s path, pressing her back against the wall. She was quick to raise her eyes at him, questioningly. The shared surprises in their eyes was telling. Not a couple but a pair, not lovers but close friends. From where I was, I travelled to their past in a heartbeat. From the softness his eyes wore, as if he’s been waiting for a long time to don it, I learned that he’d loved for years. A hushed, quiet love, in whispers. In smiles, he toiled to extricate from her, in frequent phone calls and daily text messages. If there were warnings he was getting that screamed at him - move away, move away, he ignored them and focused his attention on this face raised at him. Her soft, pouting lips were slightly parted away, glistening in the street’s dim light. Maybe it was the lip gloss or maybe she moistened them in momentary excitement. Her hand climbed into the moment, resting on its own accord on his waist. I saw uncertainty in her eyes as she lingered in wait. She wasn’t trembling at all. She knows, I realised. She’s always known. In her mind, she has considered it many a times, weighed it from every angle, wondered how the moment would feel like if it ever one to pass. So far she has managed to slip away from its grasp by negating it with words, with friendly, affectionate smiles. Once a week, atleast, she thinks she wants him. Maybe he smiled at her and she almost approaches him but then the moment is gone, and she hardens again, refuses to listen. They are incompatible, she counters. It could spoil what they have and she is so, so very afraid of losing. But not nearly as much as she’s fearful of gaining. They have been moving like this for a long time and each of them have fantasied about this moment, in their own way. The delicate kiss, loving in its simplicity, slowly building into wild passion. In their mind’s eye, they saw hungry hands, taking hold, body crashing against body in a primordial release, years in the making. Lust flowering into a peak, then ebbing back into soft, loving tenderness. At this point, perhaps their imagination takes them on separate paths. He thinks of the words he’ll tell her, guarded and buried inside of him for so long. He thinks of her eyes returning a sentiment he’d never known from her before. To him, this is the climax. Not for her, she doesn’t know what awaits her now, doesn’t know how she’d look at him or return to his side. She knows he is in love, yet doesn’t think she could return it. Her fantasy has both a beginning and an end. Less than a second has passed, she leans her head with a calculated chuckle and the moment is shattered. He takes a deep breath and chuckle as well. He turns away from the wall and in that moment I see the pain of hope inside him, etched on his face. But by the time he’s facing her, spasm is gone. They continue on their original path, their conversation easily snapping back to the moment it was interrupted. I’m still standing where I was, I’m still watching their almost-kiss, frozen in time. In my mind, it continues to faraway places, true love, a relationship lasting for years, a story they tell their children, how it came to be, how they ended up together. Then it all starts fading, the outline dissipating into nothingness. And I, the only witness, was just standing there, when none of this happened.
On a golden evening of busy day In a city of millions We'll cross path Amongst the crowd of faceless Flushing through like rain water We'll spot a familiar soul From your packed schedules In all your hurries I believe, the time would stay still If it turns into reality And actually happen When it happens Remember With all your restlessness and disquiet You just have to keep walking. You just have to keep walking.
First timer. Stood on the corner, in my familiar place. Comforted by the long-trod routine. Pressed against the wall. Melded into the shadows in the same way a gazelle hides in the long grass. The familiar gust of icy wind caresses my neck like a long-lost lover forcing me to tighten my collar. Forced to press myself into the wall. Wanting the porous brick work to absorb me into them, becoming one with my surroundings. The ghastly light rain that only seems to frequent this corner of the street, coats my clothes in a miserable dampness that seeps into my bones. Clothes sticking to me as the weather tries to worm its way inside my coat. I shuffle from one foot to the other. Avoiding the crystallized lamp light that dances in the rain just in front of me. So many nights I have found myself perform this little ritual, waiting. Longing for that light that brought my salvation from the elements. Steering me from trouble as if it was a lighthouse warning me away from the rocks. Even now, knowing It will never come. I wait. I hope, neigh I yearn for that light at the end of my personal tunnel. To bath in its glow, inexplicable warming my body on sight alone. Its not come for a long time. I struggle to remember exactly how long as every minute seems like hours. The weeks and years have merged into a kaleidoscope of disappointment and wasted evenings. No ones lived here since I left. No ones coming back. But I still come. Living in a constant state of hope. Without hope we have nothing
If you love me the way you love her Then there will be no her And you had all that I could give you But then I know [?] no home And maybe I'm just easy And maybe she's just crazy Or maybe I'll have to save myself And maybe I'm just easy And maybe she's just crazy Or maybe I'll have to save myself You just want flowers I just want head She's just a fire I set the blaze You just want flowers I just want head She's just a fire I set the blaze And maybe I'm just easy And maybe she's just crazy Or maybe I'll have to save myself And maybe I'm just easy And maybe she's just crazy Or maybe I'll have to save myself
