It has been nearly a month since my last blog and I am somewhat ashamed about it. However, the past week has been difficult as my grandmother on my father's side passed away and I flew out to New Jersey with Pualani to be with the family. I had not seen many of them since I was nine.
My grandmother lived a good, long life and passed away at the ripe old age of 90. She would have been 91 on the 30th. She was charming, outspoken, a great cook and a lover of the WWE. (seriously.) I got to help out with the obituary and such, as my knowledge of language is a bit far-spread compared with most of the family -- and because I have a basic understanding of how the media works. At any rate, I was out in the pines of New Netherlands feeling both a sense of mourning and joy.
It was nice to see family and all that, but I never realized how different I am from the rest of them. I thought this might be the case, but I had no idea of the actual truth of the matter! My family would readily say yes, they are a bunch of motorcycle-riding pineys (hill billies, mostly.) As a kid, I worshipped my family and their chosen profession of truck-driving. How different I turned out, though! (Thank God for California!)
One last thing: this has been weighing heavily on me. My grandmother was a Lutheran and professed Christian for a long time. Then, at the end of her life, she decided to convert to Mormonism. I am filled with a lead-burden at her choice and have experienced a sorrow beyond words. I hate it when people say, "she is in a better place." It is unfortunate, but I do not think that is true. Her allegiance lied elsewhere. I won't speculate one way or another if I will see her in heaven, but I have never experienced God's sovereignty in such a heart-wrenching way.
6.03.2007
My Mother
This is being penned partly in response to a comment I received from Azina regarding "Running the Gauntlet," a fictional piece I wrote and posted here about a week ago. This story is true.
I was born to Roberta Maile Ann Friel Myers, wife of Keith Robert Myers (hence my name) and daughter of Roberta Hegemann Friel in Rancocas Hospital, Willingboro, NJ at 9:39 am on Wednesday, July 14, 1982. I was blue in the face and unbreathing. They tented me. I was asthmatic.
On my mom's side, I come from a prominent hapa-haole family of O`ahu, Hawai`i, considered ali`i (royalty) and had some inter-marriage with the last reigning family of the Monarchy. But based on my upbringing, you wouldn't know it. My mom, Lord bless her, has struggled with gender roles her entire life. As a child, she wanted to be a boy; she did little boy things, played little boy games and dressed in little boy clothes. When my tutu would bring home dolls and such, she would cry and beg for Tonka trucks. As a child, they had two homes on the islands -- a home on O`ahu on the back side of Diamond-Head (where my tutu still lives) and a summer home on the island of Molokai (where my great aunt also resides to this day.) Growing up, she was mentally and physically abused by my grandfather, though it is never talked about. At 16, my mom's family moved to Thailand where she went to the International School of Bangkok, eventually securing her degree. Two years later, my tutu and the children returned home, without my grandfather -- a divorce soon followed. I have heard it said that, when my family returned to the islands from Thailand, all the children (4 of them) went a little screwy in the head; it is generally blamed on my grandfather's capacity for violence. As a result, I have an anakala (uncle) that I have yet to meet, as he is a ward of the State of Hawai`i -- mentally handicapped beyond repair. He, also, is not mentioned by name. His is Earnest.
At any rate, my mother moved to the Mainland to be with her grandmother, who had a tendency to spoil my mom with whatever she wanted. As a result, she met my father, had kids and continued to live with Grandma Buddy in NJ. As a very, very young child, I can faintly remember my mom vacuuming, but always at odd hours (speed.) and never do I remember her doing laundry, cooking, or cleaning. My grandmother took care of most of that. My dad was a truck driver, so we saw him once every few days. Their marriage naturally fell apart. During the course of my family's separation and eventual divorce, we were pitted child against parent, used as a bargaining chip and forced to listen to backbiting amongst parents. As an aside, one of the worst thing a parent can do to a child is to tell them the faults of the other parent, whether present or absent, as it causes questions to rise in the child's mind as to the validity of their life, their family unit and the meaning of `ohana and Aloha. Anyway, we moved to California and lived in motels until I was 13. To read about that trip, the post is called "When I was small..." and was written in April.
Throughout this whole time, my mother began relying on alcohol, marijuana and other drugs to escape the harshness of reality. She was taken advantage of repeatedly and barely clung to the life she had chosen for herself. On more than one occasion she tried to run out on us (literally) , were it not for the fact that her beer was at home, we shed a lot of tears and clung to her legs so she couldn't leave. I can recall hiding under the windowpane, curtains drawn, while Social Services knocked and knocked on the door. We were going to be taken away, and we knew it. I paid the rent when my mom's welfare check came in, handed over the rest and she would drink it away. We went hungry from about the 3rd of the month to the 15th, and then again from about the 18th to the end of the month. I think that is why I don't eat a lot now.
At 13, I had had enough. I was the good kid though I was in a gang. I hadn't been to school in over a year and missed it tremendously. I told my mom I hated what she was doing and I didn't want to be a dad to my own siblings. (My older sister had already moved out by this time and occasionally brought food and punishment by. For more on that, read "Pualani and the Infinite Memory.") She told me if I didn't like it I could get out. I responded:
"You're a selfish bitch and I hope you burn in hell." And then I left.
I went eight years without seeing or speaking to my biological mom. In the course of that time, I came to know Christ as King, forgive her for her own stupidity, I was adopted into a family of love and caring parents and I longed to take back those brutal and hurtful words. But they could not be taken back. They were said and, ashamed as I am to admit it, they were meant. I knew the power of them and I spoke them into existence. I wept openly over it.
Then, when I finally saw my mom in college, she didn't recognize me. I had to tell her who I was, beg forgiveness and hope for the best.
Our relationship is still not great, but it is a lot better than it has ever been. We occasionally talk, but I never have words to speak; I honestly don't know her, nor she me. She is sort of from a past life, one that I never want to relive, but one I would never change.
I was born to Roberta Maile Ann Friel Myers, wife of Keith Robert Myers (hence my name) and daughter of Roberta Hegemann Friel in Rancocas Hospital, Willingboro, NJ at 9:39 am on Wednesday, July 14, 1982. I was blue in the face and unbreathing. They tented me. I was asthmatic.
On my mom's side, I come from a prominent hapa-haole family of O`ahu, Hawai`i, considered ali`i (royalty) and had some inter-marriage with the last reigning family of the Monarchy. But based on my upbringing, you wouldn't know it. My mom, Lord bless her, has struggled with gender roles her entire life. As a child, she wanted to be a boy; she did little boy things, played little boy games and dressed in little boy clothes. When my tutu would bring home dolls and such, she would cry and beg for Tonka trucks. As a child, they had two homes on the islands -- a home on O`ahu on the back side of Diamond-Head (where my tutu still lives) and a summer home on the island of Molokai (where my great aunt also resides to this day.) Growing up, she was mentally and physically abused by my grandfather, though it is never talked about. At 16, my mom's family moved to Thailand where she went to the International School of Bangkok, eventually securing her degree. Two years later, my tutu and the children returned home, without my grandfather -- a divorce soon followed. I have heard it said that, when my family returned to the islands from Thailand, all the children (4 of them) went a little screwy in the head; it is generally blamed on my grandfather's capacity for violence. As a result, I have an anakala (uncle) that I have yet to meet, as he is a ward of the State of Hawai`i -- mentally handicapped beyond repair. He, also, is not mentioned by name. His is Earnest.
At any rate, my mother moved to the Mainland to be with her grandmother, who had a tendency to spoil my mom with whatever she wanted. As a result, she met my father, had kids and continued to live with Grandma Buddy in NJ. As a very, very young child, I can faintly remember my mom vacuuming, but always at odd hours (speed.) and never do I remember her doing laundry, cooking, or cleaning. My grandmother took care of most of that. My dad was a truck driver, so we saw him once every few days. Their marriage naturally fell apart. During the course of my family's separation and eventual divorce, we were pitted child against parent, used as a bargaining chip and forced to listen to backbiting amongst parents. As an aside, one of the worst thing a parent can do to a child is to tell them the faults of the other parent, whether present or absent, as it causes questions to rise in the child's mind as to the validity of their life, their family unit and the meaning of `ohana and Aloha. Anyway, we moved to California and lived in motels until I was 13. To read about that trip, the post is called "When I was small..." and was written in April.
Throughout this whole time, my mother began relying on alcohol, marijuana and other drugs to escape the harshness of reality. She was taken advantage of repeatedly and barely clung to the life she had chosen for herself. On more than one occasion she tried to run out on us (literally) , were it not for the fact that her beer was at home, we shed a lot of tears and clung to her legs so she couldn't leave. I can recall hiding under the windowpane, curtains drawn, while Social Services knocked and knocked on the door. We were going to be taken away, and we knew it. I paid the rent when my mom's welfare check came in, handed over the rest and she would drink it away. We went hungry from about the 3rd of the month to the 15th, and then again from about the 18th to the end of the month. I think that is why I don't eat a lot now.
At 13, I had had enough. I was the good kid though I was in a gang. I hadn't been to school in over a year and missed it tremendously. I told my mom I hated what she was doing and I didn't want to be a dad to my own siblings. (My older sister had already moved out by this time and occasionally brought food and punishment by. For more on that, read "Pualani and the Infinite Memory.") She told me if I didn't like it I could get out. I responded:
"You're a selfish bitch and I hope you burn in hell." And then I left.
I went eight years without seeing or speaking to my biological mom. In the course of that time, I came to know Christ as King, forgive her for her own stupidity, I was adopted into a family of love and caring parents and I longed to take back those brutal and hurtful words. But they could not be taken back. They were said and, ashamed as I am to admit it, they were meant. I knew the power of them and I spoke them into existence. I wept openly over it.
Then, when I finally saw my mom in college, she didn't recognize me. I had to tell her who I was, beg forgiveness and hope for the best.
Our relationship is still not great, but it is a lot better than it has ever been. We occasionally talk, but I never have words to speak; I honestly don't know her, nor she me. She is sort of from a past life, one that I never want to relive, but one I would never change.
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