Breaking Chains

When my father was born, there were knuckle marks across his tiny pink forehead. They were there because his father had punched his mother in the belly in an effort to kill the brat that was growing inside her. He was premature and injured. Amazingly, there was another son born after him!

Some things I will never understand about being Catholic. This is one of them. Birth control - bad. Giving birth to babies that you hate before they are even here and intend to destroy physically, spiritually and emotionally - good. Now before anybody gets their panties in a knot - I am personally against abortion, BUT I will fight for the right of each and every woman to make that decision for herself. That makes me, by definition - PRO-CHOICE. That's right - I said it. I chose to have my children. As I get older I realize that my choice to continue my pregnancies was in response to that same still small voice that tells me that abortion is the wrong choice for me. I also want to make very clear that I do not believe that all Catholics hate their kids, abuse their kids, neglect their kids, or anything of the sort. In point of fact, I do not believe that ALL of Anyone will be or do Anything. It's stereotyping and it's disgusting. That was simply my grandparents life. When I asked why they had 3 children they didn't want I was told it was because they were Catholic.

My father grew up alright, but he always had a violent temper. A tiny vein on the left side of his forehead was often the only warning we had that things were about to go terribly wrong. He would line us up in the living room and whip us with the buckle end of his leather belt. He never gave a reason. It wasn't his responsibility to let us know what we had done - we should already know that. I got it, as the oldest, first and last. First for not stopping it to begin with. After all, as the oldest, I should know what my younger brothers were doing. Lastly I got it again for not telling on my brothers. My mother would be sent from the room, as she objected to this type of treatment. The two times I remember her intervening on our behalf, it went very badly for her. I've seen my mother struck, stabbed with a fork and with a screwdriver. To this day I cannot stand to see a child hit.

Having said that, I have to admit to smacking my own kids. I don't think I was ever abusive. It felt like it to me every time I did it though, not because there were the bruises or blood I had grown up with, but because of the rage I felt when doing it. It is an unreasoning rage that builds up and explodes. Awareness of the abuse I had suffered probably kept me from doing any real damage to bodies. But I carry that guilt with me every single day of my life. It's like an old backpack strapped to me and filled with canned goods. It's heavy. It wears me down. I feel like I can never atone for it.

Being Christian I know that I can be forgiven for these things. I truly am sorry. But I cannot seem to forgive myself. I pray every day that my children, who are now grown, do not hit their kids. I haven't seen any signs of this ghastly behavior so far. I thank God for that Mercy. I also know that my children, now grown, are at greater risk of being in abusive relationships themselves. Other than being a kind support and an open door, there is nothing I can do about that but watch and pray.

It is my hope that the chain of familial violence ends with me. I would happily take all those beatings again if they could be the last.

Where's My Casserole?

At the ripe old age of thirty, with 4 children, an ex-husband who was totally absent and no hope in the world of getting out of the crumbling housing projects of Tonawanda, I decided to go to college. I never said I was bright, or that my timing was good, or even that I deserved to pursue a degree. I just said I went. It was a struggle unlike any I had gone through before or since. Four small kids (all under 6) and starting school. I cannot today tell you what I was thinking. Working full time at night, Food Stamps, Medicaid, Coop'ing babysitting with other single moms and now.. what? college? Really?

I majored in Political Science for 2 reasons, none more important that the other. I knew that a BA in Poli Sci could get me into Law School and I liked to argue. I seemed to have an opinion about nearly everything. So it made sense at that time in my life to head toward law school. Like eveything else in my life, my plans became dust. But I get ahead of myself here.

I took my Poli Sci classes and hated every minute of every one. I envy people who enjoy History and Economics and all the crap that goes into a degree like that. But it wasn't me. I did well enough. i had a 3.6 average. In order to fill in the gaps in my schedule, keep the financial aid rolling in, I took Sociology classes. Now those were fun! The study of the behaviors of groups of people. Not individuals, but large, sampled groups. Amazing, thrilling and fun! In my Junior year I met with my PS advisor who pointed out to me that I was way off the mark in graduating on time in my chosen field, but was 3 classes away from a degree in Sociology. What!? I switched majors with a quickness. I never regretted that decision. Many others, but never that one.

One of the classes I took was Sociology of the Family. We talked about all kinds of things in that class. My professor was a single Dad who had fought long and hard for custody of his son. He liked to talk about how happy he was to be that single parent. he talked about the joy his son brought him every day. He talked about how all his female colleagues would ooh and aah over him, heaping him with praise for raising one child all by himself. He talked about how the neighbor ladies would bring casseroles to his house so he wouldn't have to cook after a hard day at work.

Where was my praise? Where was my oohs and aahs? Where was my freaking' casserole? It occurred to me then, in the finest Sociology thinking, that there seemed to be a status difference between how single fathers and single mothers were perceived. Single fathers were heroes who were to be lauded and supported. Single mothers were whores or alcoholics - why else would their husbands leave them? I wanted to do my research on just that. I came up with a proposal, wrote it up and took it to my new Sociology advisor for approval. She said it was ridiculous and I should try to find something that wasn't so obviously crap. I tried to defend my idea and she told me, "You can't bullshit a bullshitter. Find something else."

How was I to know that she was one of the admirers of this guy, that she had actually been a casserole-bearer? Well shit. That's just how things go in Sue's World. I'm still waiting for my casserole.

Shoulda Married the Jew

My parents met. Well, of course my parents met. Otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. Start over. It was 1955. My mother was a good girl from the West Side - not the surly West Side, but the nice part between Elmwood and Delaware. Near Nardin. She had a poodle skirt, saddle shoes and and was in the choir at two churches. She had a voice like an angel and could play the piano. Her name was Kathy and she almost always had her little sister, Nancy with her. She was dating a Jewish boy whose name is not spoken. He Who Must Not Be Named was the love of her life. He took her on boat rides and treated her like a queen.

My father, Eugene, was a Fonzi-type guy from the East Side - Lovejoy area to be exact. He drove a candy apple red convertible , wore his hair in a DA and rolled his Lucky Strike cigarettes up in his sleeve. He was every mother's nightmare. Devilishly good looking, smooth talking, well traveled and broke. He was back from serving in the Marines (Korean War) and was scoping the action in the "rich" part of town. He and his brother, Bob were driving down Elmwood on a warm spring day, cruising for some hot babes.

Elmwood, to this day, is a great place to meet people. It has an artsy feel to it. It is a tree lined street with generous sidewalks and lots of places to stop for coffee, drinks, whatever the occasion calls for. On this spring day in 1955 it also had Kathy and Nancy, walking home from choir practice.

They didn't stand a chance these two girls. OK, to be fair, Kathy was 19 and technically a woman. She had a job as a copy girl at the Courier Express Daily Newspaper. But her sheltered upbringing had left her more of a girl than a woman. So when Mr Fabulous rolled up in his shiny convertible and offered the young ladies a ride to wherever they were going, they did the only thing they knew how to do. They said No. Over the next few weeks Eugene made himself a visable presence in their lives. Today it would be called stalking. Then it was persistence and good timing. It was only a matter of time before they were having coffee, going to the Erie County Fair and making out in the back of his car.

When it became clear by June that Kathy was "spending time" with Gene, her parents requested a meeting. He came over to the house with flowers for my Grandmother (who was NOT impressed) and made the hello's in record time. After his departure, my grandmother turned on her heel, looked at Kathy and asked,"No white boys left?" and walked away. Now, my grandmother was not racist. Her husband, Kathy's father, was not white either. He was Native American. They had been raised in the same orphanage and married as soon as they were both released at age 18. But in 1955 Polish people were not considered white either. They were dirty immigrant laborers who were beneath the social standings of a young, gifted Presbyterian girl.

4th of July, 1955. Candy apple red convertible, fireworks, beer. You guessed it.

A small wedding ceremony took place in the side chapel at St. Paul's Cathedral. See, pregnant girls couldn't get married in the main Sanctuary. Gene took a job repairing television sets and they got a small apartment in Lovejoy. That's where I was born.

Grandma was heard to say, many years later, and under her breath, "Shoulda married the Jew".