#glitter&dirt greenstarmotivation shineon letgoletgod chasingyes tammymblack dontjudgeme

[greenstarmotivation]

“Glitter & Dirt” by Tammy Black  ©2018 All Rights Reserved.

silhouettes of a childhood

drift into the sunset

a little girl sits by the riverside

harsh tears stream down her pale skin

dear sweet one, please stop your tears,

for when you weep, your nightmares grow

your deepest fears thrive on your sorrow

yet the world is filled with enchantment

once the monsters have gone away

“Glitter & Dirt” by Tammy Black  ©2018 All Rights Reserved. 

I’ve longed for people to be truthful. I hated the lies when I was growing up. Eventually, I would learn to be just as manipulative as the rest of my family. It’s a frightening thought; a group of fifty to sixty people all lying to themselves and each other. I often wonder if they, too, feel like it was all a dream, or rather a nightmare.

My father’s family consisted of twelve brothers and sisters, including him; their spouses and children, great aunts and uncles; second cousins; and then there was grandma and grandpa.

I loved going to their house no matter where that was. The only house I remember especially one is the one with the white picket fence. There were large patches of grass in the front yard, along with smaller patches of dirt holes that had been dug up by dogs or grandchildren. It doesn’t matter which, both were treated the same.

It’s strange, considering the horrifying events that occurred there, I really enjoyed going to see my grandparents. Grandma was an extremely large woman for her height. She was about 5’4” and weighed (I think) well over 300 lbs. In her younger years, she had dark-dirty blonde hair with streaks of grey. She often wore her hair short with a perm; a very tight perm. Tucked up in the back of her hair were several large bobby pins. Although they weren’t necessary, she often used them to clean earwax from her, or anyone else’s ears. Grandma would just whip one out, clean out her ear, wipe it off on her dress, and place it back in her hair. Because grandma was so large, she opted to wear dresses all the time. Nothing fancy. No, grandma wore simple homemade dresses. The print was typically flowery; small flowers, dark color, nothing too loud. The material was anything she could recycle from other clothes or get at the salvation army.

Grandpa was the exact opposite. He was almost a foot taller than she was, and he was skinny as a post. I’m not sure he weighed much more than 135 lbs. He looked like a holocaust survivor. His face was hollow, his eyes were sunken in, and he always had stubble on his face. He wore loose baggy slacks and light-weight, cotton plaid shirts. Not many of us younger kids remember grandpa. He died when I was very young. I remember him. Grandpa made me laugh.

At one point in my childhood, my mother pulled me aside from the other kids and asked me if grandpa had ever touched me in a bad way or made me feel uncomfortable. I said no, and she never asked me again. As I said before, grandpa putting his hands down my pants was just what grandpa did. I didn’t know it was supposed to be bad or make me feel uncomfortable. When grandpa touched me, well it was simply grandpa’s touch.

I mostly remember grandpa with they lived in the house with the white picket fence. We went over to see them most weekends, I think. Grandpa was sickly, and often stayed in his own room except to use the bathroom. Other than family reunions, I rarely remember grandpa coming out of his room.

I loved my grandma. I wanted her all the time. If I got hurt, I wanted grandma. If someone yelled at me, I wanted grandma. If I was too tired to fall asleep on my own, I wanted grandma to rock and sing me to sleep. Only grandma knew the words to MY song, “Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love.” I missed her so much when I wasn’t near her. She was my friend, teacher, and favorite person.

No one ever understood the security I felt around her. Why would anyone feel such closeness and desire to be around such a disgusting woman?

Grandma was a repulsive woman.

She rarely bathed, and for as large as she was, her odor was less than unpleasant. She was most always picking at something; scratching scabs off her skin, blowing her nose on a cloth hankie, or scratching her head. One time while in the process of pealing potatoes, I watcher her stop, clean her nails with the knife, wipe the knife off under her armpit, and continue to peal the potatoes we ate for dinner that night. When she’d find a cockroach in a coffee cup, she’d just dump it out and proceed to pour the coffee into the cup without rinsing it out first. I can’t remember how many weevils I’ve eaten in my youth. Grandma said it was extra protein in our macaroni and cheese. But for all the unsanitary habits she had, nothing ever compared to her tying children to trees to keep them from running into the road.

Grandma could be fun. She loved to sew and, despite my father’s objections, taught me to do so when I was just 8 yrs old. She made most of my clothes through middle school until I was in the ninth grade. She taught me how to make my own patterns. Soon, I’d be given scraps of material and fashioned all the clothes for everyone else’s baby dolls. Grandma also let us play dress up in the garage. Most of my aunts had been in ballet or dance at one time, so the garage was filled with all their old costumes my grandma had made. She loved music and cooking, and most of all she loved her family.

I loved her deeply. I hated myself for many years for loving my family, but I couldn’t seem to break the bond. That desire to have a connection with where I came from and who I was; it was enough to keep me within harms way. When I was 22 years old, my family started to have reunions again after many years of not. Many of us were now married with children of our own by this time. I was there with my own family; husband and two young children at the time. We were sitting around singing, laughing, pretending we were all healthy and normal, when my grandma blurted out a sentence I wish I’d never heard;

“Tammy, I remember when I used to breastfed you.”

It echoes in my mind over and over again; six million times I’ve relived this moment. My whole childhood began swirling into focus. I now know why I longed for her to hold me, rock me, sing to me, and love me; why I ached for her. I felt sick. I could no longer stop the memories from flooding my mind.

She stole away my mother’s bond.