15 Feb The Sandwich Years
Damon and I give our children what I call “sandwich hugs”, holding them in-between our bodies while our arms encircle them resting upon one another’s shoulders or elbows locked in embrace. At one time, when our kids were smaller we could squeeze them warmly and tightly, their bodies suspended in mid-air, legs dangling off the ground, as the giggles cascaded off the walls. Being sandwiched between parents – as we do – is warm and comforting. The sandwich my parents created was far from inviting or nurturing.
“The darkness concealed the stress of being an immigrant, a foreigner who barely was learning and understanding English.”
Someone’s softly crying in the dark of the night. The basement of our home was the bedroom for our family of five. There was a mattress or two on the floor, a dresser, bare walls, and the cold. As I lay between one of my brothers, maybe both of them, to ward off the chill that sets in around October in Chicago and penetrates down to the bones until April, quiet tears shattered the peace. Nighttime gave me respite from the harsh glare of the day. The darkness concealed the stress of being an immigrant, a foreigner who barely was learning and understanding English. I rolled over to see both my brothers sound asleep in the darkness, resting comfortably.
Only then did I realize that Umme was crying.
“Umme, kai ho gayai?” I asked groggily. [Umme, what happened?]
“Shhhh, bayta soi joh,” her voice trailed off. Go to sleep, she said.
Sleep? My mom is crying in the middle of the night when there is a home full of adults to talk to and console her, including Puppa, and she’s asking me to go back to my dreams; I’ve awakened to a nightmare. Was Puppa at home or on the road driving the truck? I couldn’t recall but there were grandparents, great-aunts, uncles, and an aunt so why is Umme by herself? Something must be dreadfully wrong. I caressed her tear-stained cheek, stroked her thick, long black hair and asked her how I could help. I was seven years old.
These nighttime rituals became commonplace: the whimpering, the sound of a wounded animal who has been hurt and doesn’t know where to turn or who to seek help from. I’d awaken to the pain in my mother’s heart, she would talk to me, I’d listen, and let her know that everything would be okay, making promises to an adult that a child had no business doing. Umme, a recent immigrant to the United States, a mere 23 years old, with limited English ability, no relatives of her own or support system, turned to the closest human to her – me.
“Umme, let’s leave,” I said one night. “You, me, and brothers we will get a place of our own. Just us,” I implored. I was eight years old.
I no longer fault Umme nor Puppa. They were doing the best they could. Placing a child between their failing marriage, receiving support from me, asking for advice as I grew older, demanding me to take sides, and placing me in the position of a therapist and confidante was unhealthy for sure, but that’s all they knew, therefore that’s all I knew – until recently.
Less than a year ago, the phone call came from my aunt, Puppa’s younger sister, in Atlanta or maybe it was my younger brother. It’s crazy that I recall so many details of my life, but the moment where the trajectory of everything that I’ve ever known or created shifted, and I can’t remember who was on the other line.
“Your father hit your mother,” the voice said. “You should go over and see them.”
Puppa was hanging out at home, just getting up from a nap (I swear that man has the same schedule that my newborns had: wake, eat, poop, nap, wake, eat, poop, nap, repeat.) I greeted everyone with Salaam as did Damon whom I asked to accompany me to my brother’s home where my parents rented a room. My other brother and his wife also arrived a short time later. Puppa was pleased that we all came to visit during the middle of the week.
After minimal small talk (never have I been a fan), “Puppa, was there an incident with you and Umme this past weekend?” I inquired.
“No, we had aunties over, had lunch, hung out, and had a nice Sunday,” he responded.
At some point on that “nice Sunday” he yelled and verbally attacked my mom (the norm for 36 years), screamed, grabbed her long, thick black hair, threw her against the wall, bruised her torso (it took over a month for Umme to heal – physically), slapped her so hard that her glasses flew across the room and she fell to the floor, and promised to kill her if she ever disrespected him again. Somehow his answer missed all of those details.
“I see,” I said to the room full of siblings, my parents, and Damon.
“The child that I was stood on the other side, demanding my time and attention, because she was determined to be heard – and heal.”
Most often in our family, I am the one people look to for guidance or a response, and I was numb. No, it was the opposite of numb. Every emotion, every feeling that I had repressed for the last 36 years, just so I could survive, came knocking on my soul’s door waiting to be heard. No matter how much force I placed on that door, it was not going to close. The child that I was stood on the other side, demanding my time and attention, because she was determined to be heard – and heal. She insisted on seeking the truth and I’m grateful she/I held out.
Umme decided to move out of the house a couple of weeks later, in the middle of the day, fearing her life was at stake, disappearing to one relative’s home or another until their divorce was finalized at the beginning of this year. Her plan was to leave and never return. The decision was hers – every brave moment of it – was hers.
Puppa was not remorseful, he had no empathy, and believed that it was his duty to keep loved ones in line. That was his version of love – control. He remained steadfast and true to everything he was and represents – a bygone era which should never be resurrected.
I wasn’t present when my parents got married, but almost 44 years later, I had the honor of being at their divorce. Late in November, after the Thanksgiving holiday and before the merriment of Christmas, Umme, Puppa, Damon, and I arrived at the old San Bernardino Courthouse, a grand building showcasing the rich history of a once-thriving city, now riddled with financial debt and debilitating dreams. A misunderstanding with Puppa’s attorney made him late.
As he huffed and puffed down the hallway, always one to be punctual, the apologies were sincere, “I’m sorry,” Puppa wheezed. “My attorney said I didn’t have to be here.”
“You’re here and that’s all that matters,” I said hugging him.
The courtroom, empty now of all the cases due to the efficient nature of the judge, held Umme, Puppa, Damon, and myself on its historical seats. The judge, bailiff, courtroom stenographer, and judge’s assistant were the only other people present. My parents each took a side – plaintiff and defendant – while I sat and took in the sacredness of this moment.
A long time coming.
Breathe. I am present at my parent’s divorce. Breathe. This is what I asked for when I was eight years old. Breathe. Is this what I want now? Breathe. God is here. Breathe. Tears. Breathe. God is here. Breathe.
And just like that my parent’s partnership came to an end. As fast as it was arranged by the elders, it was dissolved by the San Bernardino County judge presiding over it. Both my parents thanked the judge and everyone in attendance, and we walked out of the room.
“Would you both like to go out to lunch?” I inquired.
“Thank you, Samita,” Puppa responded, “but I am dead-tired. It’s all these damn pills I’m on.” I hugged him goodbye, “Allah-hafiz Puppa.” [God be with you.]
During lunch, as I gazed across the table, there sat Umme: child bride at 16 to a 30 year-old divorced man; “single mom” of three, one a special needs individual; warrior; hard-worker; tireless advocate for the underserved and elderly; faithful servant of Allah; respected and celebrated; ridiculed and ostracized; the reason for triumph and tragedy all rolled into one. Her life is just beginning. Recently she said, “I now know what freedom feels like.”
Earlier this week, Umme contacted Puppa to receive her spousal support for this month. There were a few calls and texts, a misunderstanding on where to meet but then a resolution. Puppa asked her to get back together and they could move into an apartment, just the two of them, like “she’s always wanted.” Umme declined and said that her decision is made and she wished him health and happiness. He responded with kindness in return. I was nowhere to be found during this interaction; no longer part of the sandwich. Nowhere but living my own life, raising my children to the best of my ability, seeking opportunities to heal, and providing healthy support for loved ones.
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