| Biographical Non-Fiction posted December 27, 2015 | Chapters: |
...6 7 -8- 9 
|
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A woman's secret is out.
A chapter in the book Poetry and Poison
Poetry and Poison: Chapter 8
by Sis Cat
| Background When both parents died eleven weeks apart, their son, Andre Wilson, embarked on a quest to discover what happened before, during, and after their marriage. |
LAST PARAGRAPHS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTER:
My thoughts returned to my present research in my father’s scrapbook, which lay open on the bed. I refocused on the “Fashion Show” article and read the next paragraph:
Great sculptors on occasion heighten their message by deforming their figures. Wilson utilizes this approach in his sculptural portrayal of the idea that the world will eventually become a woman’s world.
The world will eventually become a woman’s world? A paper published my father in 1963 as portraying and prophesying this? Now, I was really curious to discover what sculptures my father exhibited at the fashion show and why. As my mother wrote, “One little sculpture seemed to impress me more than anything else in the entire exhibit.” Who was the Woman in Pain?
“Andre, I found something.”
Over the phone, the voice of my brother, Terry, choked with tears. Did he find the Woman in Pain—the wood carving our father gave our mother when they first met? I pressed the receiver to my ear. “Is it Fred’s sculpture?”
Terry sobbed. He dribbled words one at a time. “No . . . it’s . . . Mom’s . . . writings.”
“What’s it about?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
What couldn't he tell me over the phone? Why the tears? I changed strategy to snatch the information from him. “Could you scan and email it?”
“No, I’ll just wait until you get here.”
Terry piqued my interest. I had planned a trip to Los Angeles the next day to attend the memorial jewelry show that my father’s widow, Kristen, staged at the house of his former pottery student. I cracked my knuckles. My hands ached to grip the document Terry found. A clue to our parents’ marriage?
I flew to L.A. and stepped into my mother’s apartment. Strange how I referred to it as “my mother’s apartment” as if she still lived here. My siblings, Terry and Joi, had drawn the blinds. Shadow pervaded the rooms. A mountain of brown flowers, once yellow, including those which had lain on our mother’s casket, decayed on the dining room table. The memorial service had occurred three months earlier.
As I sat on my mother’s bedroom floor, I sorted her boxes of papers on the spot where she had died—a green patch of carpet beaten down from foot traffic and from praying on her knees. I heard breathing and footsteps behind me. I turned. My brother Terry teetered in the doorway, papers in hand, tears in his eyes. “This is what I found.”
His hands trembled. I grabbed the sheets. The typed pages appeared brittle. The room darkened as I read:
The door slammed behind my husband as he left for court. Little did it appear, that January morning, that the year 1959 was always to stand out in my memory as an awakening. Since the night had a definite effect on me, my life was to reach an all-time low in a struggle for sanity. Alone we stood, my two sons, and me—pregnant.
We lived in Aliso Village, one of the many housing projects in Los Angeles. Alcoholics, dope addicts, prostitutes, and people who used Aliso as a stepping stone to a goal in life here, too. I was not a part of their worlds; my world was painfully different—the world of the mentally ill.
Struggle for sanity? The world of the mentally ill? I reread those phrases before I proceeded to read about what happened when her first husband—a philandering Korean War vet—walked out on her, two kids, and a baby on the way:
The boys and I were now receiving Public Assistance. There wasn’t a financial worry. Still, twice a week I visited the out-patient psychiatric clinic, trying to free myself of this alien personality which was my constant companion.
Feeling ashamed that he had caught me again, “Nothing,” I would say. “Nothing. Just go back to your room.” Time after time this would happen while I was quietly sniffling, trying to get out a cry after the boys went to bed. It amazed me that he always knew.
Finally, . . . (w)henever I sensed an attack of depression coming, I would go in the bathroom and lock the door. While the water was running in the bathtub, I could cry unheard. My body trembled, felt caged, and desired to be free of these bounds. There was no trust in myself around the children during an attack. I might become violent and hurt them, for deep in my being was a strange aversion to small children.
Alone in the living room, I would go from wall to wall—sometimes even hitting them. Just to have been able to cling to the walls and walk on the ceiling would have been a relief. When deeply depressed, I would scratch myself and grip my hands. There was a desire to cut my wrist and get out of this living hell.
At the word “operation,” my life started backward. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the hospital anymore. Instead, there lay a little girl who had been hit by a baseball in the pelvic region many years ago. The doctor represented a doctor my mother had taken me to and the nurse was my mother. I remembered the doctor whispering in the other room as if it were now, “She may never have children, and even if she does, there will probably be an operation later on.”
Never once in all these years had I thought of the doctor’s prediction. However, in my subconscious mind it was bothering me. I realized that was the clue to what I had tried to tell the psychiatrist many times. All I knew to say was, “It’s just something about babies that bothers me.” At night I would try to draw my fears, but to no avail. My drawings never progressed beyond a certain point—a woman wanting to go out the door and in big letters I would write the word “BABIES” in front of her.
Somehow my childish mind had conceived the idea that having a baby was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. It was quite plain to me why I had been resentful toward the children at times. I really believed childbirth could contribute to the operation the doctor had predicted.
As the night wore on, I was given more sleeping pills, but sleep continued to evade me. My mind was running away with ideas. I wanted to talk to somebody. . . . Only one person could help—my psychiatrist. . . .
As I stepped off the ward elevator, at the desk sat the psychiatrist busily studying my chart. . . . I tried to tell him about my strange reliving of an ugly childhood experience. He was wise and suggested I wait and talk at the clinic. My appointment was the next day. I knew and he knew as I tried to tell him—this experience was the door I tried to open in vain for many months.
I welcomed leaving the hospital because I could accept my children more fully. Even though I knew my marriage was over, the thought of facing life with two sons wasn’t frightening. A different Mommy would be coming home to four little waiting arms.
I finished reading with tears in my eyes. Now I knew why Terry would not share her essay over the phone or email. I turned to him in the doorway, “Mom had a miscarriage and mental illness?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
My earth quaked. A tsunami of grief engulfed me. Each wave pulled me further into the ocean. First, I grieved over the loss of a brother or sister I never knew. Second, I grieved over my mother’s statement “that having a baby was the worst thing that could happen to a woman.” Did she want me? Did my birth stop her from going out the door and achieving her dreams? I felt survivor’s guilt for being born. Third, I grieved over the depression she experienced. If she had succeeded in her “desire to cut (her) wrist and get out of this living hell,” I would not have been born four years later.
Two aftershocks: mental illness and my mother’s kept secret from her family. Before they married, did Jessie disclose to Fred her past history with mental illness? Was she mentally ill when she raised me? Since she had a mental breakdown in 1959 following her first divorce, what happened a decade later following her second? I searched my past for clues. Nothing screamed “crazy.” I thought I knew my mother because she raised me, but I realized that I did not know her deeply enough. I felt helpless, like when my brother Terry, aged two, stood in our mother’s doorway and asked, “Mommy, why are you crying? Who hurt you?”
The back of my index finger wiped tears from my eyes. I ceased trembling, straightened my back, and handed the essay back to my brother. “Make a copy for me.”
I scanned the cluttered room. Unread papers filled unsorted boxes. I resumed my tone as the lead investigator. “This is why we have to sort through Mom’s stuff carefully. We don’t know what else she has hidden.”
“I know.”
Armed with this essay, I pursued my hunch that my father’s woodcarving of the hemorrhaging, pregnant woman was the Woman in Pain carving he gave my mother. I called my stepmother to verify she still possessed the carving. I flew to Albuquerque, rented an SUV, and laughed when I drove back to Oakland. I found the Woman in Pain. I found the Woman in Pain.
But when I returned, I measured the statue. Aged and cracked like a piece of driftwood and spray painted silver in my father’s attempt to make it look half decent, the carving measured twenty-nine inches high. In her essay about her first meeting with my father, my mother had stated that the sculpture he gave her measured eighteen inches. I frowned at the measuring tape.
The red paint for blood my father had applied to the woman’s chin and below her swollen belly had long since washed away. I noticed the trophy plate fastened to the wooden base. A half century of tarnish and dust obscured the engraved words. I stuck out my tongue, licked my index finger, and rubbed spittle on the plate. Cursive words emerged:
This was not Woman in Pain. It had a different title than Fat Lady that Fred wrote in black marker on the slide frames and in the slide index. The date of 1960 placed the sculpture three years before my parents met. I wondered if he exhibited it at the 1963 fashion art show. I wondered why he changed the title from Pregnant Lady on the sculpture base to Fat Lady on the slides of the same sculpture.
My eyes brightened. I wagged a finger and nodded my head to no one but my inner voice. I bet Mom complained to Fred about the sculpture. Given her miscarriage, she forced him to change the title when the sculpture triggered “an ugly childhood experience” regarding a pelvic injury and a doctor’s prediction that she would never birth babies.
“Now, Freddie, you’ve gone too far.”
“No, Jessie, that’s not a carving of a woman having a miscarriage. That’s a carving of uh . . . um . . . a fat lady.”
Fred applied a new title to the sculpture which never appeared in newspaper photos of his wood carvings in the 1960s. The sculpture resumed its original title after their marriage. While I have not found Woman in Pain yet, Pregnant Lady told me a lot about my parents.
My search for the Woman in Pain focused too narrowly on the pain of childbirth. Given what my mother wrote in her essay “After the Sun Went Down” about 1959, the year of her “awakening,” Jessie experienced a broad range of pain before her marriage to Fred in 1963—a divorce, a miscarriage, mental illness, depression, loneliness, suicidal thoughts, her involuntary commitment to a psychiatric ward, her separation from her children, her desire to kill them, and her wish to walk out the door without the word “BABIES” written in the sky like “SURRENDER DOROTHY” that the broom-riding Wicked Witch of the West wrote in black smoke above the Emerald City in the Land of Oz.
Her essay provided me a backdoor to discover why this “little sculpture”—Woman in Pain—impressed her “more than anything else in the entire exhibit,” as she wrote in another essay. I repeat my parents’ dialogue about the sculpture here:
With a very concerned look on his face, he demanded, “Why do you like it?”
“It speaks to me,” I replied.
“If you really get the message,” he continued, “you can have it,” pushing it toward me.
Woman in Pain spoke to the many pains Jessie experienced. She got the message. He got a wife.
I called my brother to ask follow up questions. “Terry, do you remember the story you found about Mom being committed to a mental hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall a period in your childhood when Mom didn’t live with you.”
I heard silence on the other end of the phone. Terry broke it. “Come to think of it . . . there was a period when Mom did not live with us.” He referred to himself and our oldest brother Dion.
“How long was it?”
“Oh, a couple of weeks . . . maybe a month.”
Mom in a mental hospital for a month. Her essay made it sound like she stayed a couple of days. “What happened to you guys? Who took care of you?”
“We went to live with Aunt Edna up in Oakland, and then she came down to live with us in Los Angeles. Grandma Dawson came to live with us, too, and cousin Thaddeus. We were living on 57th Street then.”
I opened the kitchen drawer, grabbed a marker, and wrote notes on the refrigerator dry erase board. “When was this?”
“About 1961.”
1961? That was two years after the events chronicled in our mother’s essay but two years before her marriage to Fred. Are we talking about the same commitment to the psychiatric ward, or did she have a relapse after her essay concluded with “a different Mommy would be coming home to four little waiting arms”?
“Did anyone explain anything to you what was happening to Mom?”
“No one explained anything to me. You may want to talk to Dion. He’s older than me and may provide more information or a different perspective.”
I added “call Dion” to my mental to do list and asked a final question. “Did you notice any difference when Mom came back from the hospital?”
“I really could not tell any difference. She was her regular Mom self.”
TO BE CONTINUED
My thoughts returned to my present research in my father’s scrapbook, which lay open on the bed. I refocused on the “Fashion Show” article and read the next paragraph:
Great sculptors on occasion heighten their message by deforming their figures. Wilson utilizes this approach in his sculptural portrayal of the idea that the world will eventually become a woman’s world.
The world will eventually become a woman’s world? A paper published my father in 1963 as portraying and prophesying this? Now, I was really curious to discover what sculptures my father exhibited at the fashion show and why. As my mother wrote, “One little sculpture seemed to impress me more than anything else in the entire exhibit.” Who was the Woman in Pain?
“Andre, I found something.”
Over the phone, the voice of my brother, Terry, choked with tears. Did he find the Woman in Pain—the wood carving our father gave our mother when they first met? I pressed the receiver to my ear. “Is it Fred’s sculpture?”
Terry sobbed. He dribbled words one at a time. “No . . . it’s . . . Mom’s . . . writings.”
“What’s it about?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
What couldn't he tell me over the phone? Why the tears? I changed strategy to snatch the information from him. “Could you scan and email it?”
“No, I’ll just wait until you get here.”
Terry piqued my interest. I had planned a trip to Los Angeles the next day to attend the memorial jewelry show that my father’s widow, Kristen, staged at the house of his former pottery student. I cracked my knuckles. My hands ached to grip the document Terry found. A clue to our parents’ marriage?
I flew to L.A. and stepped into my mother’s apartment. Strange how I referred to it as “my mother’s apartment” as if she still lived here. My siblings, Terry and Joi, had drawn the blinds. Shadow pervaded the rooms. A mountain of brown flowers, once yellow, including those which had lain on our mother’s casket, decayed on the dining room table. The memorial service had occurred three months earlier.
As I sat on my mother’s bedroom floor, I sorted her boxes of papers on the spot where she had died—a green patch of carpet beaten down from foot traffic and from praying on her knees. I heard breathing and footsteps behind me. I turned. My brother Terry teetered in the doorway, papers in hand, tears in his eyes. “This is what I found.”
His hands trembled. I grabbed the sheets. The typed pages appeared brittle. The room darkened as I read:
After the Sun Went Down
The door slammed behind my husband as he left for court. Little did it appear, that January morning, that the year 1959 was always to stand out in my memory as an awakening. Since the night had a definite effect on me, my life was to reach an all-time low in a struggle for sanity. Alone we stood, my two sons, and me—pregnant.
We lived in Aliso Village, one of the many housing projects in Los Angeles. Alcoholics, dope addicts, prostitutes, and people who used Aliso as a stepping stone to a goal in life here, too. I was not a part of their worlds; my world was painfully different—the world of the mentally ill.
Struggle for sanity? The world of the mentally ill? I reread those phrases before I proceeded to read about what happened when her first husband—a philandering Korean War vet—walked out on her, two kids, and a baby on the way:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
With all my efforts, there was still no way of keeping my two-year-old from knowing the agony my mind and body were going through. Although the door to my bedroom was closed and my head covered, he would come in and ask, “Mommy, why are you crying? Who hurt you?”Feeling ashamed that he had caught me again, “Nothing,” I would say. “Nothing. Just go back to your room.” Time after time this would happen while I was quietly sniffling, trying to get out a cry after the boys went to bed. It amazed me that he always knew.
Finally, . . . (w)henever I sensed an attack of depression coming, I would go in the bathroom and lock the door. While the water was running in the bathtub, I could cry unheard. My body trembled, felt caged, and desired to be free of these bounds. There was no trust in myself around the children during an attack. I might become violent and hurt them, for deep in my being was a strange aversion to small children.
Alone in the living room, I would go from wall to wall—sometimes even hitting them. Just to have been able to cling to the walls and walk on the ceiling would have been a relief. When deeply depressed, I would scratch myself and grip my hands. There was a desire to cut my wrist and get out of this living hell.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
One of my attacks landed me in the county hospital with a miscarriage. This was to be my longest night. After an examination and many questions, a specific room was assigned to me. I felt suspended between two worlds, but I could hear the doctor telling the nurse, “She’ll probably need an operation later on.” At the word “operation,” my life started backward. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the hospital anymore. Instead, there lay a little girl who had been hit by a baseball in the pelvic region many years ago. The doctor represented a doctor my mother had taken me to and the nurse was my mother. I remembered the doctor whispering in the other room as if it were now, “She may never have children, and even if she does, there will probably be an operation later on.”
Never once in all these years had I thought of the doctor’s prediction. However, in my subconscious mind it was bothering me. I realized that was the clue to what I had tried to tell the psychiatrist many times. All I knew to say was, “It’s just something about babies that bothers me.” At night I would try to draw my fears, but to no avail. My drawings never progressed beyond a certain point—a woman wanting to go out the door and in big letters I would write the word “BABIES” in front of her.
Somehow my childish mind had conceived the idea that having a baby was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. It was quite plain to me why I had been resentful toward the children at times. I really believed childbirth could contribute to the operation the doctor had predicted.
As the night wore on, I was given more sleeping pills, but sleep continued to evade me. My mind was running away with ideas. I wanted to talk to somebody. . . . Only one person could help—my psychiatrist. . . .
As I stepped off the ward elevator, at the desk sat the psychiatrist busily studying my chart. . . . I tried to tell him about my strange reliving of an ugly childhood experience. He was wise and suggested I wait and talk at the clinic. My appointment was the next day. I knew and he knew as I tried to tell him—this experience was the door I tried to open in vain for many months.
I welcomed leaving the hospital because I could accept my children more fully. Even though I knew my marriage was over, the thought of facing life with two sons wasn’t frightening. A different Mommy would be coming home to four little waiting arms.
I finished reading with tears in my eyes. Now I knew why Terry would not share her essay over the phone or email. I turned to him in the doorway, “Mom had a miscarriage and mental illness?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
My earth quaked. A tsunami of grief engulfed me. Each wave pulled me further into the ocean. First, I grieved over the loss of a brother or sister I never knew. Second, I grieved over my mother’s statement “that having a baby was the worst thing that could happen to a woman.” Did she want me? Did my birth stop her from going out the door and achieving her dreams? I felt survivor’s guilt for being born. Third, I grieved over the depression she experienced. If she had succeeded in her “desire to cut (her) wrist and get out of this living hell,” I would not have been born four years later.
Two aftershocks: mental illness and my mother’s kept secret from her family. Before they married, did Jessie disclose to Fred her past history with mental illness? Was she mentally ill when she raised me? Since she had a mental breakdown in 1959 following her first divorce, what happened a decade later following her second? I searched my past for clues. Nothing screamed “crazy.” I thought I knew my mother because she raised me, but I realized that I did not know her deeply enough. I felt helpless, like when my brother Terry, aged two, stood in our mother’s doorway and asked, “Mommy, why are you crying? Who hurt you?”
The back of my index finger wiped tears from my eyes. I ceased trembling, straightened my back, and handed the essay back to my brother. “Make a copy for me.”
I scanned the cluttered room. Unread papers filled unsorted boxes. I resumed my tone as the lead investigator. “This is why we have to sort through Mom’s stuff carefully. We don’t know what else she has hidden.”
“I know.”
Armed with this essay, I pursued my hunch that my father’s woodcarving of the hemorrhaging, pregnant woman was the Woman in Pain carving he gave my mother. I called my stepmother to verify she still possessed the carving. I flew to Albuquerque, rented an SUV, and laughed when I drove back to Oakland. I found the Woman in Pain. I found the Woman in Pain.
But when I returned, I measured the statue. Aged and cracked like a piece of driftwood and spray painted silver in my father’s attempt to make it look half decent, the carving measured twenty-nine inches high. In her essay about her first meeting with my father, my mother had stated that the sculpture he gave her measured eighteen inches. I frowned at the measuring tape.
The red paint for blood my father had applied to the woman’s chin and below her swollen belly had long since washed away. I noticed the trophy plate fastened to the wooden base. A half century of tarnish and dust obscured the engraved words. I stuck out my tongue, licked my index finger, and rubbed spittle on the plate. Cursive words emerged:
PREGNANT LADY
1960 Fred R. Wilson
1960 Fred R. Wilson
This was not Woman in Pain. It had a different title than Fat Lady that Fred wrote in black marker on the slide frames and in the slide index. The date of 1960 placed the sculpture three years before my parents met. I wondered if he exhibited it at the 1963 fashion art show. I wondered why he changed the title from Pregnant Lady on the sculpture base to Fat Lady on the slides of the same sculpture.
My eyes brightened. I wagged a finger and nodded my head to no one but my inner voice. I bet Mom complained to Fred about the sculpture. Given her miscarriage, she forced him to change the title when the sculpture triggered “an ugly childhood experience” regarding a pelvic injury and a doctor’s prediction that she would never birth babies.
“Now, Freddie, you’ve gone too far.”
“No, Jessie, that’s not a carving of a woman having a miscarriage. That’s a carving of uh . . . um . . . a fat lady.”
Fred applied a new title to the sculpture which never appeared in newspaper photos of his wood carvings in the 1960s. The sculpture resumed its original title after their marriage. While I have not found Woman in Pain yet, Pregnant Lady told me a lot about my parents.
My search for the Woman in Pain focused too narrowly on the pain of childbirth. Given what my mother wrote in her essay “After the Sun Went Down” about 1959, the year of her “awakening,” Jessie experienced a broad range of pain before her marriage to Fred in 1963—a divorce, a miscarriage, mental illness, depression, loneliness, suicidal thoughts, her involuntary commitment to a psychiatric ward, her separation from her children, her desire to kill them, and her wish to walk out the door without the word “BABIES” written in the sky like “SURRENDER DOROTHY” that the broom-riding Wicked Witch of the West wrote in black smoke above the Emerald City in the Land of Oz.
Her essay provided me a backdoor to discover why this “little sculpture”—Woman in Pain—impressed her “more than anything else in the entire exhibit,” as she wrote in another essay. I repeat my parents’ dialogue about the sculpture here:
With a very concerned look on his face, he demanded, “Why do you like it?”
“It speaks to me,” I replied.
“If you really get the message,” he continued, “you can have it,” pushing it toward me.
Woman in Pain spoke to the many pains Jessie experienced. She got the message. He got a wife.
I called my brother to ask follow up questions. “Terry, do you remember the story you found about Mom being committed to a mental hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall a period in your childhood when Mom didn’t live with you.”
I heard silence on the other end of the phone. Terry broke it. “Come to think of it . . . there was a period when Mom did not live with us.” He referred to himself and our oldest brother Dion.
“How long was it?”
“Oh, a couple of weeks . . . maybe a month.”
Mom in a mental hospital for a month. Her essay made it sound like she stayed a couple of days. “What happened to you guys? Who took care of you?”
“We went to live with Aunt Edna up in Oakland, and then she came down to live with us in Los Angeles. Grandma Dawson came to live with us, too, and cousin Thaddeus. We were living on 57th Street then.”
I opened the kitchen drawer, grabbed a marker, and wrote notes on the refrigerator dry erase board. “When was this?”
“About 1961.”
1961? That was two years after the events chronicled in our mother’s essay but two years before her marriage to Fred. Are we talking about the same commitment to the psychiatric ward, or did she have a relapse after her essay concluded with “a different Mommy would be coming home to four little waiting arms”?
“Did anyone explain anything to you what was happening to Mom?”
“No one explained anything to me. You may want to talk to Dion. He’s older than me and may provide more information or a different perspective.”
I added “call Dion” to my mental to do list and asked a final question. “Did you notice any difference when Mom came back from the hospital?”
“I really could not tell any difference. She was her regular Mom self.”
TO BE CONTINUED
 Recognized |
"After the Sun Went Down" is an actual essay that my mother, Jessie Wilson, wrote about her bout with mental illness. I cut the story by a third to fit as a story within a story. Her essay is undated, but newspaper accounts of her marriage to Fred Wilson state that she was a free lance writer. I estimate that she wrote this between 1959 and 1963. I would deeply appreciate insight from people who have dealt with the issues she addressed in her essay.
The images are of my father's sculpture Pregnant Lady as it appeared in 1960 and today. I thank Dean Kuch for instructions on how to use Photobucket.
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and 2 member cents. The images are of my father's sculpture Pregnant Lady as it appeared in 1960 and today. I thank Dean Kuch for instructions on how to use Photobucket.
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