Sometime around five years old, I came to live with my grandmother and her new husband, my step-grandfather. I came to know him as my grandfather until his death. In becoming an adult I have emphasized that he was my step-grandfather.
A timeless period later my mother came to live with us. This moment of landing was confusing with very vague memories. I did not really know I had landed, that I now had a 'home', parents.
There were rules and they were my grandfather's, he seemed like a bear, silent, distant. Always to be placated.
I don't really remember 'moving in' nor my mother moving in. But like being born full-blown from the forehead of Zeus - I remember my mother and I were sleeping in the same small room.
I don't remember how long I lived in the house before I was playing outside. The regime was that my mother and I spent our time pretty much in our room and we mostly ate on a separate rhythm. I remember watching TV - Hockey Night in Canada with my grandfather - funny I don't remember his favourite team - but eventually I imprinted on the Montreal Canadiens and of course Rocket Richard.
I remember my grandfather would go off on a walk to a local wooded area. One day he had just left and my grandmother - probably thinking that it would be some sort of nice bonding experience told me to join him - to catch up to him and go for a walk. I was probably timid and still shy, but off I went. As I turn the corner I could see him in the distance and called, but he never turned around or slowed down.
I never did catch up to him but was able to keep him in sight until he disappeared into the wood. I kept following him hoping I could catch up. I never did, but I did get lost. This is a woods that is now one of the local 'off-leash' areas for dogs and one that I've so frequently brought Patches too with G and C and their friends. It seems so domesticated, with a clear path that is simply a circle. But I did get lost and wandered for what seemed like quite a long time, but I eventually found my way back. I never knew whether he really had not heard me or had purposely left me behind. But this was to be the prototypical frame of our relationship.
When I was allowed to watch TV with him it was always like a visit into his domain.
A key threshold, something I only remembered again in the last decade was an occasion where for some reason we were alone - my grandmother and mother were out (this was very rare I think) and we were watching hockey. Sometimes, during watching TV a very normal sort of adult-child play happened - the type of wrestling where that child gets that adult to grab a hand, then both hands and for the child to struggle against the strength. I've played this with my kids and other people's kids and it fun, for everyone.
But on this night, my grandfather threw a blanket over me and what I remember is feeling his hand over me. I don't really remember if he fondled me, or if I became distraught because I was covered in a blanket. Somehow, I pulled away or got him to stop. I don't remember if I went to my room after or sat farther away. I'm not even sure if I later told my mother, or hinted or simply indicated being scared by being covered by the blanket - I seem to have an image of a later fight between my mother and my grandfather. Maybe this was not a 'fondling' maybe it was a moment where he let down his defences and let himself go in an act of play. Maybe, my reaction made him retreat even harder into his own coldness.
In any case the distance, fear, coldness between us never changed. And maybe, he consolidated my fear of men, of authority, of father figures.
While he was alive, I always felt an immigrant in what was the only real home I ever had.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Episode 4 - remembered frames
I seem to be impatient to finish with the very early parts of my life. I don't want to feel like I dwelling in a maudlin pit. But, then while I already know the end of this blog - me as I am as a man, I don't really know where this written journey will take me or how I will get there.
Tonight, speaking with Gabriel about the 'temporal experience' of life. How sometime life seems to be like a series of bubbles. I recounted the insight I had just before he was born as Zoe was living with his mother and I in our house on Louisa St. I was still a new public servant, still excited about being paid to be 'smart'. I was walking home from work and realized that while we seemed to feel like we experienced life as a continuous flow, we are so rarely present in that flow, so overwhelmingly remembering a past, re-imagining endless possible permutations of what could have been. Or equally projecting imagined future permutations. All sparked/sparking in non-sequiturial strings. Objectively, life is a long movie (especially as we begin to be able to record every second). In experience life is more like the frames of a movie - only we don't remember all the frame - only some key strings. And more, each frame is a different experience of time. I think our memories are actually more like dream sequences that seem seamless but are really time-dimensional jumps. I wonder what the 'recorded life' that is soon to arrive will do to the remembered self?
And this detour, is less a detour than a pre-amble. What I want to relate are the 'dream-like' moments of my first five years that I can remember. They are 'video images' that have been with me my whole life - like the archaeological findings of the years of unconscious childhood.
I remember being alone in a crib. The only thing I have is a coin - a nickel or a quarter. It is my only toy. Of course I'm also continually putting it in my mouth. At some point I swallow it. I begin crying and who ever is taking care of me comes in. In this memory I understand language (must have been French) and my care-taker in asking what is wrong figures out that I've swallowed my coin. I seem to remember being told to wait. What I remember is eventually my care-taker coming back (she must have come to change my diaper) and shortly after - giving me my coin back. Maybe, this a foundation of my positive attitude toward bodily products - my sense that movements of elimination are peristaltic orgasms. But maybe I'm just an earthy sensualist. Milan Kundera would say that this was my personal core experience for the myth of the eternal return.
The rest of my primal frames of memory as more related to masculinity.
One home I remember was with a family who had a boy just a bit older than me. In the early 50s until the seventies many many people had nicotine stained fingers. They were a sign of adulthood - positive for males/masculinity more negative implications for females/femininity. As well, iodine was used frequently to sterilize cuts, burns, etc. Iodine when it was used would leave a stain the same colour as a nicotine stain.
I remember the boy (I forget everyone's names) had cut his finger and his mother wanted to put iodine on the cut. He cried and didn't want the iodine. She tried to convince him that it would make him look like an adult - like his father (I have absolutely no memory of him as a physical presence). He did not want this. So next she said that she would put the iodine on my finger too. I started to cry because I did not want this on two counts - the iodine and the appearance of a nicotine stain. I was told I had no choice and the iodine was applied to my finger. This memory combines that sense of linkage to a 'distant adult male quasi-father' and fraternal competition. The competition I lost and the unwanted linkage to the adult was enforced. As a result there was a helplessness and anger - there was one that I felt was willing to connect to me - no one to protect/save me. I was not 'man' enough to save myself - to assert my self and my feelings as they became subsumed to those of the other boy.
On another occasion, in the time frame with the same family. It may have been in same house - I don't remember. For some reason both myself and the other boy were given an opportunity to choose a toy. One of the toys was a doll and for some reason that was the toy I wanted. I pointed and asked for it. I don't remember shock, but the clear unequivocal response was no and a suggestion that I take a toy like the other boy chose. In the end I was given a toy - I think it was a truck. I think I remember crying and being upset - I'm not sure. But was disappointed and confused about why I couldn't get my choice. I don't think I was aware that a doll is not a 'masculine' toy or that I was 'transgressing' in making such a choice. But it was another occasion where I could assert my choice as valid, as worthy. Where another male's choice was right, right enough to over-ride mine. That sense of not having worthy 'wants/needs'. I don't know if I internalized this experience as one of masculinity or something deeper of simple unworthiness. But it reflects a sense of not measuring up to a standard expectation related to being a male.
In the same house/family with the same boy. It is a moment where the boy's father is (although I have no sense of what he looks like - just a presence). The occasion is having us learn about boxing. I am asked to wear boxing gloves and both of us are asked/expected to box with each other. I remember not wanting to do this and saying so. But somehow I end up with the gloves on and having to box. I remember getting hit on the nose and it hurt and I cried and then refusing to box any more. A pattern seems consistent. I find it interesting as I write this that have not even a vague sense of what the other boy's father looked like. This event seems like a classic moment of masculine formation, the stuff of movies, the overcoming of fear and standing up for oneself. But I did not do this. Could I have beaten the other boy and remained safe, continued to 'belong' somewhere? I certainly did not do this type of calculus consciously but maybe these where imbued in my situation.
One last memory remains from these years and is again from the same house and family.
There is a neighbour to this family - what I remember is an old man. There was me, the other boy (maybe he had a sister as well) and some other kids. I think we had some story of him, some grudge, some prejudice that came from the neighbourhood or the boys parents. We decided to knock his garbage can over, and we did. I think I played a leadership or bolder role in this. We laughed about it and felt strong and brave. Later at home, the boys mother is angry because the old man has called her and told her of what we did. All that I can remember is that I am the focus of the mother's anger. I remember that I am in a high chair, and she is angry and grabs my hair and knocks my head back against the back of the chair. I'm pretty sure I had tried to lie about my involvement. I don't remember what the others have said. But I seem to remember that I'm the only one she vents against. This is another occasion where I am in an experience of less worth. I can't remember if my role - the eagerness of my participation came because of a desire to belong or of a natural desire to take charge. I certainly have that desire and it comes out in the next stage of my life - after I move into Lindenlea. It is the consequence of my action as a masculine force that seems to suggest a pattern of fear toward my own nature.
These core memories seem to be all that I can remember consciously of those years as an abandoned child. They have lived with me my whole life and I'm sure they form a substantial part of my sense of self and maleness.
Tonight, speaking with Gabriel about the 'temporal experience' of life. How sometime life seems to be like a series of bubbles. I recounted the insight I had just before he was born as Zoe was living with his mother and I in our house on Louisa St. I was still a new public servant, still excited about being paid to be 'smart'. I was walking home from work and realized that while we seemed to feel like we experienced life as a continuous flow, we are so rarely present in that flow, so overwhelmingly remembering a past, re-imagining endless possible permutations of what could have been. Or equally projecting imagined future permutations. All sparked/sparking in non-sequiturial strings. Objectively, life is a long movie (especially as we begin to be able to record every second). In experience life is more like the frames of a movie - only we don't remember all the frame - only some key strings. And more, each frame is a different experience of time. I think our memories are actually more like dream sequences that seem seamless but are really time-dimensional jumps. I wonder what the 'recorded life' that is soon to arrive will do to the remembered self?
And this detour, is less a detour than a pre-amble. What I want to relate are the 'dream-like' moments of my first five years that I can remember. They are 'video images' that have been with me my whole life - like the archaeological findings of the years of unconscious childhood.
I remember being alone in a crib. The only thing I have is a coin - a nickel or a quarter. It is my only toy. Of course I'm also continually putting it in my mouth. At some point I swallow it. I begin crying and who ever is taking care of me comes in. In this memory I understand language (must have been French) and my care-taker in asking what is wrong figures out that I've swallowed my coin. I seem to remember being told to wait. What I remember is eventually my care-taker coming back (she must have come to change my diaper) and shortly after - giving me my coin back. Maybe, this a foundation of my positive attitude toward bodily products - my sense that movements of elimination are peristaltic orgasms. But maybe I'm just an earthy sensualist. Milan Kundera would say that this was my personal core experience for the myth of the eternal return.
The rest of my primal frames of memory as more related to masculinity.
One home I remember was with a family who had a boy just a bit older than me. In the early 50s until the seventies many many people had nicotine stained fingers. They were a sign of adulthood - positive for males/masculinity more negative implications for females/femininity. As well, iodine was used frequently to sterilize cuts, burns, etc. Iodine when it was used would leave a stain the same colour as a nicotine stain.
I remember the boy (I forget everyone's names) had cut his finger and his mother wanted to put iodine on the cut. He cried and didn't want the iodine. She tried to convince him that it would make him look like an adult - like his father (I have absolutely no memory of him as a physical presence). He did not want this. So next she said that she would put the iodine on my finger too. I started to cry because I did not want this on two counts - the iodine and the appearance of a nicotine stain. I was told I had no choice and the iodine was applied to my finger. This memory combines that sense of linkage to a 'distant adult male quasi-father' and fraternal competition. The competition I lost and the unwanted linkage to the adult was enforced. As a result there was a helplessness and anger - there was one that I felt was willing to connect to me - no one to protect/save me. I was not 'man' enough to save myself - to assert my self and my feelings as they became subsumed to those of the other boy.
On another occasion, in the time frame with the same family. It may have been in same house - I don't remember. For some reason both myself and the other boy were given an opportunity to choose a toy. One of the toys was a doll and for some reason that was the toy I wanted. I pointed and asked for it. I don't remember shock, but the clear unequivocal response was no and a suggestion that I take a toy like the other boy chose. In the end I was given a toy - I think it was a truck. I think I remember crying and being upset - I'm not sure. But was disappointed and confused about why I couldn't get my choice. I don't think I was aware that a doll is not a 'masculine' toy or that I was 'transgressing' in making such a choice. But it was another occasion where I could assert my choice as valid, as worthy. Where another male's choice was right, right enough to over-ride mine. That sense of not having worthy 'wants/needs'. I don't know if I internalized this experience as one of masculinity or something deeper of simple unworthiness. But it reflects a sense of not measuring up to a standard expectation related to being a male.
In the same house/family with the same boy. It is a moment where the boy's father is (although I have no sense of what he looks like - just a presence). The occasion is having us learn about boxing. I am asked to wear boxing gloves and both of us are asked/expected to box with each other. I remember not wanting to do this and saying so. But somehow I end up with the gloves on and having to box. I remember getting hit on the nose and it hurt and I cried and then refusing to box any more. A pattern seems consistent. I find it interesting as I write this that have not even a vague sense of what the other boy's father looked like. This event seems like a classic moment of masculine formation, the stuff of movies, the overcoming of fear and standing up for oneself. But I did not do this. Could I have beaten the other boy and remained safe, continued to 'belong' somewhere? I certainly did not do this type of calculus consciously but maybe these where imbued in my situation.
One last memory remains from these years and is again from the same house and family.
There is a neighbour to this family - what I remember is an old man. There was me, the other boy (maybe he had a sister as well) and some other kids. I think we had some story of him, some grudge, some prejudice that came from the neighbourhood or the boys parents. We decided to knock his garbage can over, and we did. I think I played a leadership or bolder role in this. We laughed about it and felt strong and brave. Later at home, the boys mother is angry because the old man has called her and told her of what we did. All that I can remember is that I am the focus of the mother's anger. I remember that I am in a high chair, and she is angry and grabs my hair and knocks my head back against the back of the chair. I'm pretty sure I had tried to lie about my involvement. I don't remember what the others have said. But I seem to remember that I'm the only one she vents against. This is another occasion where I am in an experience of less worth. I can't remember if my role - the eagerness of my participation came because of a desire to belong or of a natural desire to take charge. I certainly have that desire and it comes out in the next stage of my life - after I move into Lindenlea. It is the consequence of my action as a masculine force that seems to suggest a pattern of fear toward my own nature.
These core memories seem to be all that I can remember consciously of those years as an abandoned child. They have lived with me my whole life and I'm sure they form a substantial part of my sense of self and maleness.
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