I tried to write the letters small and neat like mom, but my little hands lacked the needed motor skills to form the letters precisely. The permanent maker bled through the back of my dress where I had tried so carefully to claim my belongings with my name. It was ruined. Once, when we lived in our old house, I’d written my name inside of a cupboard. At least in that cupboard one couldn’t see the misshapen slanted downward letters unless they looked inside and underneath. Would I ever get it right? Would my writing ever be nice and neat? Or would I be forever doomed to see my mark – ugly, large, and always going downhill? I practiced writing on the back of my dresser, but although the first letter started out nice, I couldn’t keep them lined up and by the time I came to the last letter it was several inches lower than the first.
Even before the advent of the internet and blogs I longed to leave my mark – to have something show that I existed even if it was just my name written on something that belonged to me. I mattered and I wanted to prove that by showing my name written nice and neat by me. I think all children like seeing their name. The severely disabled students I work with can’t read the word cat, but they can recognize their own name and that of every other student in the class. There is something about seeing our names in print that tells us we are someone.
While I practiced writing my name in big black letters that bled through my clothing, my dad built airplanes. He decided to build an airplane for each of his daughters and put our names on them. I was so excited to have him build an airplane with my name on it. These airplanes were going to have motors and remote controls. He said we would go fly them when he finished. As he finished each plane, he set in the freezer room. He had two of them done. I loved going in the freezer room just to look at them. I was careful not to touch or bump them. When my plane was finished and placed alongside those of my sisters’, I carefully ran my finger along the letters of my name on the beautiful yellow plane. My name would go up in the sky with the plane. I was so excited to go fly it.
When we went to fly the planes we didn’t take all of them at once. I was so happy that mine was chosen by Dad to go that day. Dad operated the remote control (which were not nearly as sophisticated as they are now days). My plane was up – I squealed with excitement to see it in the sky. It was fun to watch it soar through the air, and I ran around trying to follow it. Dad said, “Be careful; don’t let it crash.” But it did fall from the sky and landed with a crash of splintering balsa and torn tissue. “G** D*****, you let your plane crash.” His tirade lasted for several minutes. I felt awful. My beautiful yellow plane with my name on it was broken and torn. “S***, it’s ruined. I can’t trust you with anything.” I felt confused. He had been the one operating the remote, but he blamed me for the crash because it was my plane. I was sad but I didn’t cry. I didn’t want him to really give me something to cry about.
The day was no longer bright or exciting. It wasn’t fun to have my name on a plane. He fixed the plane, but each time we went to fly them, I hoped mine would be left at home. On the days mine was in the air, I held my breath hoping it wouldn’t crash and praying that when it did crash (because Dad always crashed them) that it wouldn’t be too damaged. The more damage the plane sustained, the meaner the words were that flew from Dad’s mouth. I didn’t like seeing my name on things anymore. Having my name on things just got me into trouble. If my name was on it, I couldn’t be invisible, and when you live with an abusive person, being invisible is important.
Several years ago, my baby sister asked me why dad had let her operate the remote control when she was a toddler. I looked at her with a confused look. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
She said, “I remember the planes crashing and him being really mad at me and yelling because I crashed the plane. I can’t understand why he would have handed the remote to a baby.”
“He didn’t let you fly the planes. He flew them and if he crashed your plane – the one with your name on it - then you were the one in trouble.”
Her baby mind had assumed that she was the one flying the plane because he made us feel so responsible for the crashes. He operated the controller – always – but his actions and harsh words made us feel shame and guilt for something we had no control over. This is one of the reasons it is hard for me to display the
Lancer that I wrote about before. The planes evoke conflicting emotions in me – not as badly as they used to, but those twinges of shame and guilt still pop up now and then.
On to brighter things.
Although these tulips come up every year, I'm always surprised by how big they get. The stems are over two feet tall and the flowers are over six inches tall. They are lovely. they grow near the bird's nest, and the momma bird was not happy to have me working so close to her eggs. She was yelling at me pretty good today. At one point she swooped down near my head - gave me visions of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
I better go get my plants into the garden. Happy Spring!
