23 Sep Unlike the Nursery Rhyme, Words Will Hurt Me…Until I Heal
One of the most joyous days of my life, our daughter’s bat mitzvah, concluded with family and friends helping us to our home from the reception hall: carrying in presents and trays of leftovers, making room for the centerpieces that were still to be gifted to Sissy’s friends, and a relative calling me fat.
For upwards of 18 months, plans were underway. Honestly, right after our boys’ b’nai mitzvah, three years earlier, the preparations had begun. Mom and Dad, my in-laws, were gracious enough to store the boys’ centerpieces: a glitter-fest, feather-filled, Cirque du Soleil romp of color and splash. Our family, grandma, and grandpa had perused the Downtown L.A. flower and decorating section complimenting each Cirque show’s poster with the accessories that looked best.
The bases were glittery, multi-colored top hats, turned upside down with a foam piece glued in place, that held a number of accouterments, finished off with a laminated poster of said Cirque show (except for the risqué one – after all it was a b’nai mitzvah and not a bachelor/bachelorette party). An assembly line of Needelpeople filled Mom and Dad’s dining room as we put together the centerpieces that were used on the occasion of all three of our children’s special day. Mom swore she found glitter weeks after the process. And I believe her!
“Why don’t you go buy yourself a pretty, Pakistani or Umrican dress for Leia’s bat you-know-what?” Umme implored. She pronounced “bat” like the American “bat and ball” so she wasn’t even going to attempt “mitzvah”. Even after 40 years in this country and being a badass in the Tina Turner sense of leaving an abusive relationship, keeping her name, and making a life for herself, Umme was still self-conscious of her accent. “You can afford things like that now.”
I’ve always thought it humorous, and I have been part and parcel to such thinking, how we look at someone’s life, assume we know every detail of it, and then begin to mentally spend their money (or don’t if that applies) as if it’s any of our business: Why is she getting her nails done every month but can’t afford books this semester? Why do they have season passes to Disneyland but applied for free lunch? Why don’t they put nicer clothes on their babies than themselves? I have heard and said some of those same things. Now, I try to keep my mouth shut, focus on my own pocketbook, trust my husband and I will do right by our children, and move on down the road. As Mother Teresa once said, “When you judge people, you have no time to love them.”
Umme was correct: I could afford to purchase an outfit for the event, but I didn’t want to. I did not want to spend money on a dress that I would wear a few times – at most. A gorgeously detailed, Pakistani outfit – the kind I wore that day – would cost over $500 minimum. Thanks to Napo: my youngest aunt, 10 years my senior, more like a sister than aunty, her wardrobes filled with fancy clothes, shoes, and jewelry, accompanied by her gracious and giving heart, I had access to everything in her home. She opened doors to walk-in closets the size of bedrooms; showed me brand new outfits; plucked heels out of thin air; and was a whirlwind of generosity. That’s Napo.
The day I found my wedding dress, Umme wasn’t there because my parents had disowned me for a time (another day, another blog). Over 20 years ago, I was trying on bridal dresses for my future Grandmama-in-law, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law; they were kind and supported me but…they weren’t Umme. When I tried on the cream-colored, bejeweled, floor length, Arabic-style maxi-dress, Umme, Napo, and Hina Chuchee, my other aunty, beamed. The Universe was gifting me a moment in time, a reason to connect, and an opportunity to heal.
“The Universe was gifting me a moment in time, a reason to connect, and an opportunity to heal.”
“MashAllah! This is it…you’re glowing…we’ve found the one!” They were all chatting at once, Urdu flowing, blessings being heaped upon me: adoration, love, and connection. I realize now, I never had that. Not once – ever, do I recall praise, kindness, support, love, nurturing and validation from either one of my parents. They didn’t have the ability. They didn’t know better.
Puppa and Umme raised me with scarcity – a lack of love and attachment. My role, my primary objective, was to make sure they were okay so they could provide a roof for my brothers and I, food, and basic needs. Beyond that was a barren wasteland of abuse, trauma, and never enoughs. One year I received my report card and dreaded handing it to Puppa; I had five A+ and one A-. By now I knew intrinsically that I was not the daughter he wanted nor the person he liked. After reviewing it at the kitchen table, while he ate breakfast before heading off to work at Federal Express, he neatly wiped the toast crumbs off his moustache and said, “Why the A-?”
“I did my best,” I sheepishly answered. This is where on the afterschool special the parent says, Of course you did. Sorry that I’ve been a grouch and neglected you. I’m ready to be a parent!
“Next time I expect straight A plusses,” Puppa said emphasizing the ‘s in plus, and left without a goodbye, pat on the head, or hug. That was my life. My parents never hugged me. My parents never tucked me into bed or kissed me goodnight. My parents rarely showed up for awards shows or supported extracurricular activities, and that was their best. It is a huge task to become a parent – a nurturer to a young being who comes into this world completely vulnerable and 100% dependent on you to provide sanctuary. I would say that it might be the highest honor and role that one can choose. But, as in my case, I’m parenting myself as an adult, and if you haven’t tried it – it’s a doozy!
On the morning of our daughter’s bat mitzvah, Terri, my hair goddess of 20 years and a dear friend, styled my hair, assembling my waves into an enchanting updo. Later that day, Napo’s dress – mine for another few hours (just like Cinderella!) – twinkled under the lights of the dance floor, music blared, I danced like it was 1999, my magenta lipstick – my go-to for a this-is-me-all-dolled-up-look – already faded, but the love that emanated throughout the day was palpable. It filled every being’s breath, was carried away as people departed, gifting itself in encounters, never ceasing in its presence. That is the power of love.
“Dancing Queen” who is not 17. And that is okay!
Months before the planning, I prayed, meditated and visualized the service and reception – not in my mind, but in my heart. There would be love: glory to the heavens, feel good, all are welcome, kind of love, and… it happened. People from all walks of life, most non-Jews, shared the beauty of the day weeks afterwards as if we were all coasting on the same great magical carpet ride. That night, as dear friends and family unloaded the items from our vehicles and my feet ached from dancing, I came across a relative in our garage.
“Thanks for being with us today!” I squealed. “I hope you had a good time.”
“Thanks for inviting us,” she said. “You look (she gestured towards her cheeks, making them fuller and fuller; the pantomime equivalent of fat). Are you still doing yoga and working out? You’ve gained weight.”
What came out of me was a muttering of, “Yeah, I still do yoga…ya know, life…” and some blurb about being middle-aged with hormones.
I was devastated. Not because someone called me fat, but because I did not have the emotional tools to handle it. My parents never taught them to me! How could parents teach me my worth if they didn’t know their own? They can’t and they didn’t. You can’t honor, respect or love anyone more than you honor, respect, or love yourself. It’s the law of the Universe. A law I just made up, but it works so I use it.
“You can’t honor, respect or love anyone more than you honor, respect, or love yourself.”
The insults at my expense, unkind comments, or the disregard to my feelings are aplenty. And I’m not alone. It’s happened to many of you. We have all experienced some form of bullying or harassment and sometimes from those we call friends and family. What made me freeze was my lack of response; my primal fear-based reptilian brain saw danger and I had one of three options: fight (OG thug, I am not), flight (my feet hurt too bad) or freeze, so I froze.
The wound – so fresh, so raw, so real burst open a chasm in me that I am still healing. In that moment I wasn’t a full-grown, emotionally healthy, powerful 45 year-old woman who knew her worth. I was a six year-old little girl – brown, bruised and broken, not knowing how to move forward.
Pain, like a horrible adult version of hot potato, is passed around over and over again. People, if not shown or provided the tools, hold onto their misery and will – unconsciously and inadvertently, throw it to those nearest them: family (especially children), friends, co-workers, strangers, and to anyone within proximity. Adults, under the pretense of protection, cause much of our world’s hurt. It is only from healing, the hard work needed to feel emotions and hold them gingerly, gifting them grace and mercy, that we allow the suffering to leave the ether, not allowing harm to anyone or anything in its path. We can heal trauma or fuel it. The choice is ours.
I’ve wrestled with that instant, which lasted a minute at most, for months now. Why on one of the happiest days of my life would the Universe provide hurt so painful that it caused an entire shift in my beliefs: Do I really believe I am worthy of love and acceptance if I’m only young or thin? Do I have other things to offer the world, as I get older, like wisdom and experience? Do I need external validation to be fulfilled? Where does my worth come from? What defines beauty and who the hell is defining beauty cause it ain’t me! Or can it be me?
As Damon and I go through the hundreds of pictures that Jenna, Alda and Ash – our team of friends and photographers extraordinaire took, to choose the ones that will go in our daughter’s album, I’m focused less on how I looked and more on what that day felt like. It felt like love and joy and magic and humanity all bound up in a day of celebration! As I get older, my looks are fleeting (thanks, gravity!), but my spirit, my perspective, my experience, my wisdom, my sense of humor, and my worth is expanding. Here’s to aging well. L’Chaim!
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