Right now, I have little green bugs crawling on my neck. It�s skeeving me however, I can�t see the back of my neck and my co-workers are AWOL. No use slapping myself in the back of my head. To take my mind off this, I�d like to write about something that is always on my mind. Get your mind out of the gutter! Perverts. Jeez.
I have a huge capacity to love. And like many I�d like to think my love has had a profound effect on those lucky enough to receive it. It is a gift from the most sacred place, my heart. It�s not easy for me to love, as demonstrated to those closest to me have known the abrupt cessation of affection when we are too close, but I am afraid that if I don�t keep my heart open enough, I will give in. I am afraid I�ll become a monster too and be no better than HIM. The killer. I have talked about him before, but not now. Later.
Most, I guess are quick to hand their love out in small doses like the nurses at the infirmary who are handing you aspirin/sugar pill. Quick with it, a small mercy. A small smile. Sad knowing. They give you a reprieve from your life for just a moment.
Then others are a quivering, heaving, filled to the seams with it and bursting for the object of that affection. They are quick to give it. They are quick to receive. They do not fear that emotion.
I am somewhere between small kindness at it�s barest; where it still could be called a mere tolerance on my bad days and some days I barrel recklessly toward overwhelming that someone with feeling. Ask Mr. Sweatpants. And somedays, I'm not kidding, I feel like I'm the fifth element. Don't die laughing.
Except,for example, I really hated my Grandpa. And before anyone says, �Don�t speak ill of the dead,� I�d say, you don�t know how mean, irritable, crabby, and predatorial he was. Calculating, but played the part of a jolly old man. He had a lot of people fooled.
Gramps was like many men; prone to tell a dirty joke or two to the older males. Always made fun of my Grandmother, made her out to be a bossy old hag. But he always came out smelling like a rose.
We tried to bond with him, but he never wanted us children around. We were an unnecessary nuisance.
My Grandpa never called me by my name. He never gave me the dignity of being an individual. It was too much effort to recognize me. He always called me, �Menee� pronounced like Renee but with an M. I�d say �Grandpa, you know my name.� He confused me with my sister, but he's just flip his wrist, like, "don't bother me with such trivials."
Grandpa never used my name, even though I am nothing like my little sister. No one else would ever confuse us. We couldn't even pass for fraternal twins. I have dark brown hair,olive skin and hazel/brown eyes. Renee has blond hair, pale skin and hazel eyes. No resemblance.
I remember that to get a break from us, family members sent us to stay with Grandparents. It was a nightmare.
I must also mention that to my incredulation, Grandpa�s antics were a source of uncomfortable giggling among the family. I would stare at them and think, �Could we be of the same blood�?
I mean, who thinks that a man flashing his family members is funny?
Once I said, �He should be in jail.� And the aunt or uncle said, �He�s just an old man.� I think I was 15 at the time and I said, �He hasn�t been an old man for the last 40 years.� Meaning, everyone�s made excuses from the get go. Way to enable him!
My Grandma was brought up in a churchy, puritan environment and didn�t see what was happening, probably because she didn�t want to.
But by the time she did, it was too late. I knew he�d molested at least a few women in my family.
I knew no one believed them when they came forward.
I know my Grandmother kept me away from him, not believing he�d try something in her presence, but he did, when she stepped out of the room. Utterly disgusting.
I hated him. I remember asking her, �When you�re going down the stairs behind him, do you ever just want to you know, kick him?�
And she looked at me, mouth half open, eyes wide, astonished. I mean, it was a half joke, but I�m sure she was astonished to find that I despised him that much. She was the only one who knew how much I couldn�t stand my own grandfather.
The family always fawned over the Grandparents. Grandma, yeah, they should. She was the pillar of the family and without trying was and to this day is approaching martyrdom in our own family. People revere her. I was ticked that they treated Grandpa like he was world�s greatest Dad, and brother, and uncle, etc. I would struggle much to hide my disdain. I was sick to see �World�s Best Dad� and �Super-Grandpa� pins. I always wanted to ask, "why do you lie to yourselves and him"? Not sure if they would've listened anyway.
When he died, I was relieved to know I wouldn�t have to feel compelled to visit him in the nursing home because his kids rarely did and the Grandkids really didn�t either. I only did on rare occasion because I felt someone should. It was surreal.
When Grandpa died, I was very worried about my Grandmother, so during the preparation proceedings, I stayed with her as much as possible. People thought she was being stoic because she never, in the course of the wake, burial, after burial dinner (gross), shed one tear. She said things like,"he's better off than we are" but I could tell she was also jealous because she was stuck on earth alone now. Old folks stick together.
Instinctively, I knew Grandma felt she could relax because she wouldn�t have to watch out for him messing with anyone anymore.
She has cried, I know, since then. He was her life mate from the age of 14 and before he turned into the bastard that he became, he was a working, successful man and a loving husband and father. She played by all the rules but nothing worked out.
I mean, ever met a mother who lost her no-count son to drugs, bikes, and a woman? It was still her son, you see.
Grandpa was still Grandma�s husband.
I didn�t cry at the funeral until I heard my mother�s name mentioned. People who were there, related by blood, but not close probably thought, oh, she must've loved her Gramps.
�W. was preceded in death by two of his children.� I was sad because it was my mom who went first and now Grandma will have outlived her husband and two kids. I can't think what that would be like.
My family members alternated between the stupid humorous way they deal with things by making off-color jokes, and bawling. I mean, I myself miss my dead banana tree more. Long ago I stopped mourning for the relationship with my Grandad that I never had, so I couldn�t drum up a tear for him. He was an unapologetic jerk.
I was surpised at my own coldness; I couldn�t summon a moment of kind reflection for him, my own blood.
Stranely, I feel deeply for POW�s, victims of terrorism (anywhere), and mere strangers.
My co-workers, if they only knew how I care for them, they�d commit me.
I see each and every one for the splendid person they are, weaknesses and all, and appreciate the unique person they are. I care about them. I try to remember their anniversaries and birthdays. I know about their kids and grandkids. I care about them.
When I see an accident, my heart races, telling me: Get over there, help them. Heal them. I break my neck to do so.
However, if I saw Saddam Hussein, Osama Bin Laden or Fidel Castro, I couldn�t say that I�d extend them a moment of brotherhood. Of humanity. I wouldn�t hold their hand while they died. I might spit on them. Seems, I only have mercy for the just.
The man who murdered my mom and tried to kill my sister and I, well he is a bastard. I have forgiven but not forgotten. I look at him the way I do disease. It has to be rubbed out for the greater good. He will never apologize, or be rehabilitated. He is like a dog that has tasted blood. He�s at the edge and isn�t coming back. But if he does, he will take someone with him. I don�t want it to be another person, or worse a small child.
I cry for people who experienced the Holocaust in any way. Not one in his party successfully murdered him, or stopped him. Anyone who thought he�d stand trial for murdering Jews, Gypsies, politika, gays and others were wrong. A true coward. He killed himself. Absolute evil.
You can say what you want about George Bush but he�s not going to try to exterminate every Arab. So shut your pie hole.
Bore pie and snooze sauce..ya know.. weak accusations�
I am inspired though, by the underground resistance movement during the Holocaust. In the face of unspeakable horrors, that even after all this time we struggle to define, describe, make peace with; you had those Germans, who knew that the �Enemy� was not really an enemy. So, they shielded them, fed them, employed them, hid them. True saints those rescuers became, for in the face of a dark time, the light of humanity shone through and gave hope for the listless and the rightfully-so impatient. Good would prevail. It always does.
I still believe today that though there are many I will never touch, I hope that my kindnesses have a ripple affect. Maybe my smile will carry on. Maybe a story I have told someone will give hope to one in despair.
I cannot love everyone directly, but this is my way of loving people. Giving them hope. My writing, I hope, let�s people know they are not alone in their battle.
And those I cannot love, I choose instead to let them sit in the shadow of my indifference so maybe someday they will know that I left them alone for a reason. Those who never accepted my love may not choose to live and prosper spiritually, but really, it only takes one. All it really takes, really, is one person. One person to change the world, one human at a time.
5:10 p.m. - 2003-05-19
Recent entries:
What you missed - January 16, 2012
%%older_entries%%From hell - October 19, 2010
%%older_entries%%a rant from a few weeks ago - August 17, 2010
%%older_entries%%Tired - June 20, 2010
%%older_entries%%A beautiful lie - March 11, 2010
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