Bismillahi Rahmani Rahim
As-Salaamu-Alaikum Beloved Asiatic Black Brothers and Beloved Asiatic Black Sisters!
I am feeling rather emotional right now and felt like writing. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I just haven’t felt the need.
But last week I read a story on Facebook that brought back something from my childhood that I just couldn’t get out of me.
Something I have never told anyone in my life except my sister who was there when it happened.
This story on Facebook involved a little boy who wanted his father to buy him a very inexpensive art notebook. He put it on the conveyer belt and when his father saw it, he got very upset and reprimanded the boy for his art aspirations and told him art was gay.
The little boy was visibly hurt. So, the cashier, who related the story, offered to buy the notebook and encouraged the little boy by telling him he couldn’t wait to buy one of his pieces.
The boy’s countenance brightened and they left the store.
When the cashier got off work, he went outside and saw the notebook on the ground. It was ripped down the middle.
When I was about thirteen, I was in love with New Edition, just like most Black girls my age at that time. I had every album; every single (12″ and 45); every poster on my wall; every magazine article and every music video and live performance recorded on videotape.
One day when I got home, I took out my albums like I always did, and found that someone had taken a knife and scratched a thick line down the middle of each record.
My big Sister was there and we both deduced that it had to have been my mother. My Sister knew how evil she could be. And secretly called her “the witch.” No one on the outside looking at our family would ever have guessed how mean my mother was to us. I remember a childhood friend expressing his surprise when I told him my parents had split up. He was genuinely astonished. We were the perfect picture of happiness on the outside but behind closed doors it was a much different story.
I know many of my friends, from single parents or otherwise were envious of the happiness they thought we experienced. If only they knew! I am still suffering from the effects of my dysfunctional family.
I went to a seminar a while back on mental disorders and one of the panelist noted that mental illness is always the result of abuse of power. How could I confront my own mother about something like this???
So, I never said anything until now.
I started not to even write this. But it’s been a week since I saw that article about the little boy and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That’s usually a sign that I need to write.
So yeah, that’s the type of mother I grew up with.
It’s a good thing Allah Makes children so resilient. But we do grow up.
And we remember.