*BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 5 DENIAL WEAVES FANTASIES

DENIAL WEAVES FANTASIES—SOME GOOD, SOME ‘KNOT’

Common knowledge suggests that no one leaves childhood unscathed by ‘evil spells’.  However here’s where fairy tales and memoirs part ways:  Whereas fairy tales ‘guarantee’ princes and princesses happily-ever-after endings, reality charges live-action guys and gals with holding fast to each other’s hands while seeking out paths where an ever heightening level of self-awareness holds each one accountable for becoming ever more mutually supportive as both work toward identifying and freeing oneself from self-imposed evil spells, over time.  I mean, opposites aren’t supposed to attract to repel.  Opposites attract to double our strengths by sensitively pointing out each other’s vulnerabilities so as to kindly assist each other when strengthening weaknesses proves necessary to co-exist peaceably, and that degree of open communications takes courage and diplomacy on the part of the speaker as well as courage and humility on the part of the listener—all inner strengths, which take time, patience and practice to develop.  As each person’s character traits prove to be a mixed bag of strengths and weaknesses, we all have need to know when it’s in our own best interest to speak up and express what we feel as well as when to open our minds so as to truly hear that which another person feels need to say, and with mutual respect flowing freely, back and forth, our spirits converse in such a calm manner that an intimate sense of peaceful communion, which deepens love, over time, clears inner tension from our processors, and once tension evaporates naturally into thin air, words of wisdom, passed down through the ages, are freed to speak ‘through’ us so compassionately as to benefit everyone within earshot whose good natured side (we all have two sides) feels readied to place defensiveness in time out so as to wholly welcome each next opportunity to identify and expand another one of our own narrow-minded attitudes, knowing that mind expansion leads toward change for the better for everyone concerned.

Unfortunately, many of us, no matter our intelligence, have not yet absorbed the string of insights penned above concerning Mother Nature’s long term plan to deepen human understanding of how best to minimize the sting of feeling deserted when opposing opinions fill the air in favor of maximizing our loving interactions so as to cheer each other on when the going gets tough rather than allowing our defense systems, which are programmed to play monkey in the middle by tossing insults back and forth while our intelligence, feeling too frustrated to keep our eyes trained on the ball with patience intact, jumps up and down and all around until neither side feels grounded, which is necessary to making sound use of both processors' potential to choose to place our defense systems in time out to cool down before emotional reactive ness grows too hot to speak kindly and listen openly after regaining (and maintaining) heightened levels of self control, thus freeing intelligence on both sides to feel so well grounded as to think smart on the spot by calming each other’s frustrations before one short fuse ignites the other’s, resulting in insults escalating, back and forth, until both processors are tied into tension-filled knots of pain so explosive in nature that insults are not forgot.

Two one-tracked heads are ‘knot’ better than one if both, acting like run away trains facing each other, free emotional reactions to crash, repeatedly, into each other, based in the fact that both are flinging so much baggage around as to blind intelligence from gaining insight into calming subconscious fears of feeling ‘wronged’ before need to be 'right' overwhelms smarts on both sides. (Whew!  The depth of that insight was not easy to put into words?)

          
I mean what might have happened had Hansel and Gretel abandoned each other when night life in the forrest lurked so close as to feel so scary as to ignite anxiety spike so high as to allow an evil witch to bewitch one or the other or both to grow so angry as to fling blame upon each other for getting lost in the first place until both processors feel too dizzied to realize that his/her smarts have been flung into a steaming hot oven where whatever is left of intelligence is burnt to a crisp?  Though main characters in storybooks depend wisely upon each other's courageous support during life's darkest hours that's when live people, acting like pressure cookers sans release valves, prove so impatient with human imperfection as to become ever more likely to advance, one angry step after another toward divorce.  So sad but true too often.

         
With thoughts of pulling together vs. pulling apart, let’s welcome this next string of insights to lift our spirits and brighten our minds:  Harrowing experiences create confusion.  During confusing times, contradicting traits, creating inner conflict, compete for brain space inside each one’s mind.  Then making matters worse, anxiety arises, signaling defensive denial to blind our processors from seeing our own vulnerabilities with clarity intact, and once red hot anger bursts through cool, collected self control, pots call kettles black.  As the blame-game heightens, painful confusion rules supreme, and explosive battles for dominance blow everyone’s smarts to kingdom come.

Each time I watched that happen (mainly between my grandma and daddy or my grandma and mommy) too early in my childhood to understand that anger and love could co-exist, my defense system commanded my fear of explosive anger to duck for cover as if in fear for my life, and thus do we see how passive tendencies develop, over time.  
         
In my opinion, this is NOT how loving for better or worse makes the world go round.  This is how fear and fury spin clarity into Denialand, where both sides refuse to hold themselves partially accountable for no fault divorce (see what I mean about mounting frustration making little sense when myopic viewpoints turn molehills into volcanic eruptions of uncontrolled emotional reactiveness that pours hot lava over love signals, which stiffen into solid rock and die an unnecessary death in courtrooms where former lovers are buried under mountains of personal debt owed to lawyers, who, as mediation drags out, year after year, often act as confused as the client as to the best course of action to follow each time crowded court dates push resolution so far out on the calendar that yesteryear’s frustration seems nothing compared to today’s until your exhausted level of patience yells—HeLp—stop this merry-go-round from spining round and round getting nowhere fast until my sanity spins off into outer space never to be seen anywhere near to regaining a clear sense of down to earth reality concerning the true meaning of loving each other well rather than defensively so that happily-ever-after may, one day, actually be my just reward for mustering the humility to see both sides of myself as I am.  OMG!  Eventually, loving defensively does little more than drive everyone who cares just plain crazy!
        
Though embarking upon a quest for self discovery may seem an unsettling thought, insights, such as these, pouring freely out of my mind, today, prove so true to life that I’ve come to envision my life story as an on-going Create-My-Own-Adventure.  And here's the vision that came clearly into focus for me, just now:  While my mother had consciously nurtured each of her daughters to grow into socially adaptable individuals, my dad's sense of individuality injected both of his offspring with the strength of his independent spirit.  And speaking solely for myself, today's reflections suggest that I’d absorbed my dad’s decisive sense of personal challenge, which saw him choosing to walk the road less taken, more often than not.  In short, Lauren and I had unwittingly absorbed the best (and worst) of both parents' traits.  Now, figuring out which traits I'd denied as my own is reason enough to set my course toward self discovery if I hope to be instrumental in creating change for the better—ne c'est pas? 
         
If people are people where ever we go—then all people are vulnerable to denial to some extent—most especially during life’s darkly trying times—just saying ...
        
Each time you witness my strength of spirit, nearing exhaustive collapse, my defense system will be seen sweeping my processor up into its self protective arms, and once my vulnerabilities have been placed safely in the wings, my persona will step smoothly into Denialand on center stage where I’ll produce, direct, star in and believe in my own productions for decades to come.  And since most of those productions will meet with success, denial will serve me well until I weave a fantasy, which, over the first 25 years of my marriage, cloaks fear of rejection in a state of repression (where prying eyes, inclusive of my own, are not welcome to spy a storehouse of unshed tears pushing against my defensive dam) until denial, being my brain’s primary defense mechanism of choice, cannot continue to sustain the test of time, and once that mad rush of tears gushes over the top of my flood gates, latent pain, repressed for decades, is so blatantly exposed as to stab the conscious portion of my brain with shards of reality as sharply as a serrated knife tears into tender flesh.  (How else can I express the depths of emotional pain blocked from my conscious awareness for decades unless my word choices squeeze your heart as unmercifully as unhappiness squeezed all of my positive focus to dry up during that first overwhelming crises, which left my adult processor feeling totally confounded.)

         
Eventually, you'll see my pattern of denying subconscious pain plague my marriage every bit as much as my husband’s subconscious patterns compromise our happiness, and since he couldn't figure out how I could go from happy to despairing, seemingly in one fell swoop, my intelligence began to question whether denial creates mental blocks that deny each of us access to knowing ourselves as deeply as we think, because I’d clearly verbalized (though not often) my loneliness for his attention, throughout the years.  However I’m getting way ahead of myself, so let’s consider one last insight before closing up shop for today:  If you agree that balance in all things is a rule of thumb to follow then visiting Denialand enables a person's spirit to make its way through a fearsome time; however any attempt to move one’s entire awareness into Denialand, overlong, weaves a fantasy that's bound to crumble or explode over everyone who cares.  And …

Once Fantasyland bombs, a dark cloud of depression is likely to descend heavily upon a high-flying spirit—BIGTIME!

At eleven years old, I'm still decades away from my Fantasyland’s sudden collapse.  And since seeing is believing, when next we meet I plan to show you how The Furies of Inner Conflict devil my preteen persona, night after night, after which I'll introduce the person whose love tries to save eleven year old me from seriously injuring myself  … 

BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 4 NIGHT TERRORS

Upon locking my personal sense of safety into our house after my ride home from hell, I don’t recall rushing upstairs to peer anxiously into the full-length mirror, hanging on the back of my bedroom door.  I don’t remember wondering if those insults slamming my body are true.  I don’t remember locking traumatic memories out of the conscious portion of my mind and throwing away the key.  I just remember shutting the front door behind me and calling out:  Hi Mom!  I’m home!  What’s for dinner?  I’m starved!  As per my habit.  And if you ask why I'd do such a thing, I'd reply:  My defense system is well practiced at channeling my processor to switch off reactions based in fear, frustration or resentment in favor of turning on my persona, which a-c-t-s as if I am fine no matter how traumatically mind blowing an experience may have been, and in this way do I move forward, one step at a time, sporting a smile—just like always.

 
You see, denial did not gain control over my mind at the age of eleven, because I'd had sound reason to develop the defensive persona of an academy-award-winning actress way before construction on Dad’s dream house had ever begun.  So let's picture me sitting down on a bench in that van having no clue that my processor has switched off, freeing my persona of invisibility to click in, enabling me to 'act' as if I don't have a care in the world each time I'm squished between the sweaty bodies of two smirking guys who toss snide remarks back and forth about how much space I take up while their hips shove rudely into mine from both sides.  And if, from time to time, the red hot poker of humiliation does hit a nerve that’s not 100% numbed, well—all my trusty defense system has to do to put me out of my misery is to press the reset button in my brain, marked ‘repression’, which stuffs every cognitive awareness of distressed disgrace ever more deeply into that black hole, where self conscious awareness—seething with fearsomely anguished, deeply frustrated resentment—is mercifully knocked out cold, and since this well-practiced defense mechanism has been emptying my conscious mind of any reality too painful to bare (to myself) since the age of three, Mother Nature has patterned my brain to safeguard my strength of spirit from feeling as insignificant as a sardine trapped inside a tightly packed can, terrified of being eaten alive!
 
Whenever I step into the bowel of Hell, which conveys me to and from the house of God, we’ll watch the high-spirited child, lovingly nurtured by both of my parents, disappear into denial as soon as any menacing presence feels too close for comfort.  However—rideafterrideafterride—my social self-confidence will do what my body cannot—namely, shrink up and play dead until, with the passage of time, here's what develops in its stead:

Subconscious insecurities, layering up behind my ‘I don’t care’ facade ...

Once my persona walls off all sense of conscious awareness concerning my physicality, my self image will remain stuck in such a ‘bad’ place that my deeply repressed negatively focused attitude will barely discern prepubescent changes, which will soon reshape my body from just plain round (though not rotund) toward—actually—naturally shapely.

 
The fact that denial has layered up so deeply within me as to have empowered the subconscious portion of my mind to wall off and lock up all awareness of despair, I seem to cope well with any situation that proves beyond my control to change for the better in short order.  However in order to keep my eyes closed to realities, which prove too painful for an eleven year old think tank to process with clarity intact, my defense system must dig its heels ever more deeply into Denialand, suggesting why each time I hear the van honking its horn, denial casts a hypnotic spell over my brain that draws me mechanically out of the safety net of my home.  And thus will we see my socially disgraced spirit reduced to a zombie-like state of being whenever the driver‘s hand, sitting on the horn of the van, announces the bullies readiness to pounce on a maiden whose distress signal is utterly numb.
 

As to the fact that unprocessed (and therefore unidentified) distress awakened, night after night—well that’s a whole other nightmare.  And once that portion of this story unfolds, you’ll see what my psyche endures when subconscious terrors, buried alive, scratch their way to the surface in the dark of night, empowering repressed furies to tear my cheerful persona into shreds ... and as this is a true story, there's no way in hell that I can authorize my retired persona to arise and whitewash intuitive truths which have emerged from behind my wall of denial so as to end this portion of my story on an up note and a smile—sorry—no can do ... 

BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 3 A DEFINING MOMENT

So here I stand with Hebrew books in hand, about to leave the safety of the stoop in front of our brand new, two story, Georgian-styled, red brick house (no piles of straw, wood or Big Bad wolves to be seen licking their chops, chasing little piggies all the way home).  And since my social self-image has suffered no flagrant fouls, as of yet, I feel eager to befriend all of the children who, along with me, are on their way to the compassionate house of God.

         
With no clue of need to arm myself with a host of inner strengths in readiness to engage in battle with the mean minded BULLY ON THE BUS, I step up into the van feeling utterly unprepared for the bully’s sneak attack, suggesting why my vulnerability is fully exposed.

         
As to THE BULLY, all he needs is one glance in my direction to set his beady sights on an easy target, so while I’m making my way toward an empty seat, he seizes the moment by landing a solid sucker punch to my gut without so much as lifting a hand.
         
You see, with one God-awful, hair-raising command, this brutish Ring Master grabs the attention of every kid sitting in the van by reaching into my head, grasping my brain and squeezing it as hard as he can before flinging my senses right out of the open door onto the pavement where my hold onto intelligence goes—Splat! If you wonder how that bully shatters my social self-confidence quick as one lash of the lion tamer's whip cows the cat in the cage, well, here’s what spews out of that bruiser’s mean-minded mouth as his eyes lock into mine:

WELL!—Looky what we have here!
(Then turning toward another kid, the bully barks)—

Move over!  Waaaaay over!

No way am I sitting next to THAT!

HEY-YOU—can’t you hear?  I said

Make room for—FATTY—over THERE!!!

And from that moment on I am the butt (literally) of countless

Fat jokes, which entertain an entire busload of kids, every time

I climb into that van, which carries God’s innocent (?) children toward their parents' house of worship

So there it is—one 'defining moment' that determines my lack of self confidence with guys for decades to come.  As you shall see, each time I absorb another series of solid whacks to the head in that van, my brain's inner compass flies further off course.  In lieu of a well balanced compass, my perspective, concerning my budding relationship with guys will continue to veer off center for many a year.
         
If, at this point in my story, you'd like to ask:  Annie, can an evil spirit really knock out a person’s self-confident brain power in one fell swoop?  I'd reply:  Well, in truth, the strength of the human spirit does not deflate as fast as a blown-up balloon, left untied, goes Ffffffttttt!  You see,  character traits like—

Resilience and perseverance exhaust, little by little, if
One tortuous blow up continues to follow another, nonstop

As one insight tends to follow another, as well, let’s ready our processors to string these next few, together:  The more resilient the spirit, the more likely a person’s perseverance is to endure repeated onslaughts of negative energy, which aim one direct hit after another toward waning self esteem until the day dawns when a torpedo, which proves way too HUGE for resilience to withstand, flies in from out of the blue, targeting what little is left of my social compass, which, upon shattering to smithereens, sees my flattened spirit descend into a hellish humiliation so sharply as to cut my heart to the quick, severing denial’s ability to wall off the depths of my severely injured ego’s despair, and once my defensive wall of denial crumbles, WE will see why the secreted side of my self image limps along in utter disrepair for many a year.  Geez Louise!

When—a little later in this story—you play witness to ‘that something HUGE’ flying in from out of the blue, peppering my self esteem with humiliation too painful for shell shock to deny, you’ll also witness wild roars of foot stomping laughter grinding the last shards of my spirit’s courage into dust.  At that point, what little is left of my self confidence with guys will feel like crumbs of toast ground underfoot.

AND THAT WILL BE THAT FOR DECADES TO COME!

As I’ve not yet revealed details describing my subconscious reactions to being bullied, play by play, please keep this next insight in the forefront of your mind:  The little that you know of my childhood, thus far, is not all there is to know—meaning that many missing puzzle pieces, necessary to assemble the bigger picture of my complex personality, have yet to be retrieved and set into place.  Once every essential fact has been plugged into all of my stories' holes, a detailed vision of personal experiences, which had formulated my acquired character traits, many of which contradict each other, will complete the circuit necessary to light up the composite picture of Me-Myself-and I.  And not until my intelligence  recreates the emergence of the bigger picture in technicolored 3D will the puzzle come together, revealing the answer to this question:  Why will the voice of an eleven year old child remain self-empowered to take a courageous stand in defense of the vulnerabilities of others but not in-behalf of her own?

Can you tell what's missing in this picture?

The natural sparkle of my spirit's smile

        
As you shall see (in a story yet to unfold), defining moments, which influence the development of a person’s acquired character traits, commonly occur younger than eleven years of age.  In fact, most of our enduring personality traits shape up (and solidify) between infancy and five.  However rather than pedaling backward, right now, to review an earlier stage of life that will have detoured my personality development away from the beaten path, let’s turn this page and examine that which my spirit’s inner strength of resilient perseverance chooses to endure every time I agree to climb into that van, knowing that I'm about to descend, silently, into the bowels of Hell, repeatedly—until the fated day dawns when my shell shocked spirit leaps to its feet, shouting—

EnOUgH! 

BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 2 EXTRAORDINARY EXPECTATIONS ARE NATURAL DURING CHILDHOOD

March, 1953

Having never changed schools, I’d no clue that new kids rarely break into well-established clicks, right away.  However, that unrealistic expectation pales in comparison to the experience that's about to bring the social self confidence of my self-image to its knees.

With no clue that change is a mixed bag of tricks, I open the back door to our new home after the first day at our new school and follow Lauren into Mom's brand new kitchen.  Having planted a quick kiss on my mother’s cheek, I slide onto one of two naugahyde melon-colored, high backed benches, which flank the rectangular attached table top that matches our olive green Formica counters, and I think this booth (which makes up our cheerful breakfast nook) is really cool.

Once my little sister slides onto the high-backed bench facing mine, we can be seen downing our after school snack while I jabber away about my classroom experiences until Mom, who's been eager to listen, points to the wall clock, cautioning me to watch the time.  So, after gulping down what's left of my milk, I grab my school things off the counter and moving swiftly through kitchen, dining room and living room, head for the full flight of stairs leading to the second floor landing that separates a pair of large, sunny bedrooms, one being my parents’, the other shared by Lauren and me.  And as I reach the top of that flight of stairs, we catch a glimpse of a full bathroom situated on the landing between the bedrooms, as well.  

Today, while sitting here staring at my computer screen, I’m aware of words streaming past my eyes as the intuitive portion of my processor releases one insight-driven memory after after another, suggesting that hindsight offers me the clarity to recall detailed changes for the better, which improved our family's quality of life resultant of my dad’s work ethics, which made our move possible—for example, I remember how good it felt to know that two bathrooms were at our disposal rather than re-enacting those times when two or three of us had simultaneously converged outside the locked door of our apartment’s sole bathroom, expressing need of hurrying whoever had scurried inside while the rest of us, feeling need of relief from physical restraint, saw our patience levels waning as stress heightened, making seconds seem to pass in slow-mo until each one’s constrained sense of impatience stretched so far beyond self control as to snap, releasing frustration to spew angrily out of our mouths as seconds, tick-tocking ever more s l o w l y, makes each of us feel that we’ll surely go crazy if that door doesn’t unlock, right now!

Having two bathrooms is just one of many luxuries which none of us had experienced before moving into our new home—I mean, we even have a dishwasher, and a full sized freezer, standing next to our state of the art fridge, and once our washer and dryer (replacing a wash tub, ringer and clothes line) are delivered and installed in our basement, which is only one flight down instead of three (our apartment had been on the third floor), you can see why our family of five left city life behind without even one backward glance so eager were each of us to follow the moving van across town until Dad parallel-parked our bright yellow/burnished gold, brand new Chevy sedan curbside where we’ll waste no time dashing into our spanking new suburban home ready to enjoy ‘the good life’, which is certain be ours and so—

As I enter my bedroom, we see me setting my zippered notebook and fifth grade texts neatly atop my desk followed by sweeping a short stack of Hebrew books into my arms.  Then, right before running back down the stairs, I stop in place just long enough to glance around this picture perfect room.  And everything I see inspires my smile to sparkle with delight, because each piece of blond French provincial furniture has been purchased especially for Lauren and me. (And even if our furniture isn't really French, it is brand new!)  I mean, in addition to eyeing matching desks and chairs (arranged side by side, facing twin windows that offer us the clarity to oversee several blocks of landscape until our little red school house (I kid you not!) can be seen just beyond the major intersection, which will, one day, be completely obscured from our second story view as tender young saplings, just starting to reach for the sky, grow toward encompassing the wide berth of a multi-branched, matured state of greenery as one vacant lot after another is sold, turning expansive areas of unoccupied land into a neighborhood populated by families, very much like our own, and while one season follows another, Lauren and I walk to and home from school, watching non-stop construction with great interest as home after home is erected resulting in every classroom within our little red school house bursting at the seams as newly enrolled girls and boys continue to pour in.

Upon turning away from the window where my desk looks out onto the street, you and I spy a three tiered, double drawer dresser (above which my reflection smiles back at us from within the French inspired scrollwork framing the large, rectangular mirror hanging above the dresser on The wall).  Next, let’s imagine my sister and I switching off the light before settling ourselves comfortably, night after night, in our very own twin beds, which will be perfectly made up, every day before breakfast, with brand new, matching, floor length, pink satin bedspreads, trimmed in gingham, our pillows carefully stuffed into matching ruffled shams, which rest gracefully against twin headboards (sporting the same scrollwork as seen on the framed mirror and dresser, as well).

One thing that we’ll not see is even one wrinkle from morning till night when Lauren and I (who don't dare to even think about sitting on our beds) will fold our spreads down followed by withdrawing pillows in white cases from their shams so as to meticulously layer these decorative coverings upon the bed-stand awaiting to receive both ensembles, being that my sister and I will have been taught to unmake our beds every bit as meticulously as had been true of making up our beds upon arising with hopes of the sun smiling over us throughout the day, and as with every life lesson that my seven year old sister and I continue to absorb from all three of our role models, the concept of—there's a place for everything and everything in its place—is accepted by Lauren and ingrained within me as responsibly as the postman holds himself accountable for delivering our daily mail regardless of rain, snow, sleet or hail suggestive of the fact that our beautiful new home—being the first one built on our block as well as the first one owned by anyone on both sides of our extended family—is run in such a shipshape manner (year in and year out) by Mom and Gram (and Dad, when he is here) that every inch of living space always looks as clean, tidy and pristine as is true of a brand new model home as yet unoccupied by human beings.

To this very day, if my mind’s eye spies anything out of place or in need of shining or straightening, I feel unable to relax peaceably no matter how tired I may be unless I consciously remind myself that life is not meant to be perfect and neither is a lived-in home, and that insight will be especially poignant when I grow up to raise three highly imaginative, rambunctious boys, who, along with their stable of best buds, are happiest while noisily horsing around our house.  Though perfectionistic thinking patterns, acquired early on, imprint deeply into our brains, unrealistic expectations can be changed—not easily but I believe you'll agree that countless attitudes, worthy of expansion, prove challenging to achieve.

Back on the ranch, if you ask eleven year old Annie who captains our ship vs who serves as first mate—well—the fact Lauren and I answer to three live-in role models, makes that difference difficult to determine, because I do not recall questioning Mom’s supremacy vs Grandma’s authority over Lauren and me until I reach my teens; however, at the age of eleven, I can tell you this—ONCE Dad’s key unlocks the front door at sunset, each day, the king of our castle will hang his jacket on a hanger, and—lo and behold—an invisible admiral’s hat will land on his head as my father, clearly feeling deeply enriched at this point in our lives, whistles his way into the kitchen where his bigger-than-life personality envelops his Queen of hearts and each daughter (all three of us having been patterned by society to refrain from giving male authority any lip about following through with our designated responsibilities, which, reflection suggests, are not many for Dad's pair of princesses).  And as we three, feeling safe, secure and deeply loved within the natural warmth of Dad's bear hug, sit down at our formal dining room table eager to enjoy a delicious, home cooked dinner served on a fresh tablecloth, nightly, my father can be seen beaming with happiness at his bevy of well groomed females, whose emotional reactions have been so well groomed by societal customs as to see each of us sporting sweet, compliant smiles while meeting Dad's every need, knowing that this man, who loves us unconditionally, works hard, every day, to earn the financial security that pays for this lifestyle, which is truly my parents' dream come true.

If at this point, eleven year old Annie exits into the wings while I appear on center stage and if you feel inclined to ask me to explain how this paint-by-number-picture-perfect image of family life during the 1950's could possibly be for real, I'll honestly reply that that's the way the conscious portion of my memory remembered our family interactions for the most part, over many decades—and in case you’re thinking that a barrage of details has already been revealed, please think again, because I've just begun to clue you into my current need to identify 'defining moments' arising between my birth and the eleventh year of my life, which will offer both of us sound reason to understand why socially self confident, eleven year old Annie, upon returning to center stage, is about to feel so completely cowed by a gang of bullies as to choke on the self assertive portion of her voice—BTW—detailed descriptions of earlier ‘defining moments’ will be revealed in chapters, coming up.  As for now, let's take a quick glimpse at my Dad's relationship with Grandma, who, in his estimation, is in no way entitled to crown herself queen of his dream house ...

Memory suggests that my father and his mother-in-law will have developed little reason to exchange more than a cordial nod accompanied by brief smiles and very few words as though acknowledging a hard won truce made long ago, which had decreed that both had chosen to accept each other’s presence (as well as Dad's dominance), and speaking of Grandma (whose white flag is raised only when Dad is at home), I believe it's important to note that with our move, she has regained her own room (as had been true in our two bedroom apartment before I was born), which is seen on the first floor of our new home adjacent to the den, suggesting that our family’s autocratic matriarch does not have to sleep on an enclosed sunporch just beyond the living room where her privacy proved utterly nonexistent when my sister Lauren was moved from crib to share a bed with me, displacing Grandma from her own bed, for years, and thus can we clearly understand why my mother's mother feels as eager to reclaim her double bed in a room of her own as I feel delighted to share this spacious, second floor bedroom (situated directly above Grandma’s private domaine) with Lauren.

As memory revisits this particular moment in time (moments before my rosy expectations will be seen tumbling down an imaginary rabbit's hole, leaving my self esteem feeling all alone and deeply bruised 'neath a dark cloud that just won’t quit pelting golf ball sized hail at my head), it’s easy to see why I assume that all of my pipe dreams will fall into line with the extraordinary life that fate has blessed our family with (for the most part), thus far.  So when a honking horn signals the arrival of my ride, my high spirited smile and I run back down the stairs, stopping just long enough to kiss Mom good bye at our front door before dashing outside with nary a care, because all I can sense is my eagerness to enjoy yet another positively focused adventure in the air.  And though my Hebrew books are pressed like a shield against my chest, I’ve no reason to suspect that my self-confident, high flying spirit is about to be shot down—BIG TIME—leaving my processor floundering about, feeling utterly confounded to find myself feeling like an outcast for—the first time in my life—or so I'll think, based upon this fact:  More than five decades will pass before my power of intuition readies the conscious portion of my mind to muster the courage to recall an earlier 'defining moment' when I'd been as lonely as any outlier would have felt in the aftermath of my baby sister’s heart-stopping ‘disappearance’, which had frightened three year old me to no end during the interminable weeks which saw me moping around our apartment, looking up (feeling confounded, forlorn and emotionally abandoned) at everyone who'd kept crying until their swollen eyelids could release no more tears for that day, while periodically I'd hear my loved ones taking turns wailing aloud—Oh my God!  Janet! What happened?  Where are you?—and so enveloped in shock were my care-givers as to have missed the fact that the on-going depths of their grief, week after week, is cause for highly vulnerable, deeply imaginative me to feel completely unnerved and utterly forgotten at the tender age of—three ... suggesting that it's not uncommon for the intensity of a defining moment of this magnitude to shred the self confidence of a small, observant child—and thus is a traumatized outlier born.)

Three year old processors do not recognize ‘defining moments’ in their lives any more than is true of adults, whose think tanks have not yet felt intuitively stimulated to question the on-going development of certain character traits, which will, one day, prove to have been experientially (environmentally) rather than hereditarily acquired. 

Dictionary definition:

“An outlier is an observation that lies outside the overall pattern of a distribution (Moore and McCabe 1999). Usually, the presence of an outlier indicates (the formation of) some sort of problem.”

Here I am at three, seriously contemplating or imagining 'Who knows what?'

HISTORICALLY, BULLYING MENTALITY ATTEMPTS TO COW BOTH GENDERS, ALL RACES AND RELIGIONS

A WORD ABOUT EDUCATING YOUTH TO
ARISE, UNITE and DISEMPOWER THE BULLY (as well as
A NOVELIST WORTHY OF READING—)

WIKIPEDIA
Jesmyn Ward (born April 1, 1977)^[1] is an American novelist and an associate professor of English at Tulane University. She won the 2011 National Book Award for Fiction for her second novel Salvage the Bones.^[2][3][4] She also received a 2012 Alex Award^[5] for the story about familial love and community covering the 10 days preceding Hurricane Katrina, the day of the cyclone, and the day after.^[6] Prior to her appointment at Tulane, Ward was an assistant professor of Creative Writing at the University of South Alabama.^[7] From 2008 to 2010, Ward had a Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University.^[8] She was the John and Renée Grisham Writer in Residence at the University of Mississippi for the 2010–2011 academic year.^[9] Ward joined the faculty at Tulane in the fall of 2014. In 2013, she released her memoir Men We Reaped.^[7] In 2017, she was the recipient of a MacArthur "genius grant" from the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation.^[10]

Jesmyn Ward was born in 1977 in Berkeley, California^[13]. She moved to DeLisle, Mississippi with her family at age 3. She developed a love-hate relationship with her hometown after having been bullied at public school by black classmates and subsequently by white students while attending a private school paid for by her mother's employer.^[14]

In 2005, Ward received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan.^[19] Shortly afterwards, she and her family became victims of Hurricane Katrina.^[14] With their house in DeLisle flooding rapidly, the Ward family set out in their car to get to a local church, but ended up stranded in a field full of tractors.^[7] When the white owners of the land eventually checked on their possessions, they refused to invite the Wards into their home, claiming they were overcrowded.^[7] Tired and traumatized, the family was eventually given shelter by another white family down the road.^[20]

Empathizing with the struggle of the survivors and coming to terms with her own experience during the storm, Ward was unable to write creatively for three years – the time it took her to find a publisher for her first novel, Where the Line Bleeds.^[21]

In 2008, just as Ward had decided to give up writing and enroll in a nursing program, Where the Line Bleeds was accepted by Doug Seibold at Agate Publishing.^[20] The novel was picked as a Book Club Selection by Essence magazine^[7] and received a Black Caucus of the American Library Association (BCALA) Honor Award in 2009.^[22] It was shortlisted for the Virginia Commonwealth University Cabell First Novelist Award^[23] and the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award.^[24] Starting on the day twin protagonists Joshua and Christophe DeLisle graduate from high school,^[25] Where the Line Bleeds follows the brothers as their choices pull them in opposite directions.^[26] Unwilling to leave the small rural town on the Gulf Coastwhere they were raised by their loving grandmother, the twins struggle to find work, with Joshua eventually becoming a dock hand and Christophe joining his drug-dealing cousin.^[26]In a starred review, Publishers Weekly called Ward "a fresh new voice in American literature" who "unflinchingly describes a world full of despair but not devoid of hope."^[26]

Ward told Elizabeth Hoover of The Paris Review: "It infuriates me that the work of white American writers can be universal and lay claim to classic texts, while black and female authors are ghetto-ized as 'other.' I wanted to align Esch with that classic text, with the universal figure of Medea, the antihero, to claim that tradition as part of my Western literary heritage. The stories I write are particular to my community and my people, which means the details are particular to our circumstances, but the larger story of the survivor, the savage, is essentially a universal, human one."^[29]

When I hear people talking about the fact that they think we live in a post-racial America, … it blows my mind, because I don't know that place. I've never lived there. … If one day, … they're able to pick up my work and read it and see … the characters in my books as human beings and feel for them, then I think that that is a political act", Ward stated in a television interview with Anna Bressanin of BBC News on December 22, 2011.^[30]

In July 2011, Ward wrote that she had finished the first draft of her third book, calling it the hardest thing she had ever written.^[32] It was a memoir titled Men We Reaped and was published in 2013. The book explores the lives of her brother and four other young black men who lost their lives in her hometown.^[14]


Harriet Tubman, a liberation thinker and political activist born into slavery, was one of the first African American women to earn a college degree.

Ward's third novel, Sing, Unburied, Sing, was released in 2017 ^[33] and met with several effusive reviews. It won the 2017 National Book Award for fiction.^[34][35]


Ward is the first woman to win the Natuonal Book Award for fiction, twice.

(I am in the process of absorbing Ward's page-turner—SING, UNBURIED, SING—right now.)