When I started school I knew I was different then the other
kids. Way different. When Oma brought me into have me tested for
placement in Kindergarten, I could read, I could write a little, I could count
to ten in English and German, and I could sign my name in cursive. There was discussion about putting me in 1st
grade, but they decided to put me in Kindergarten, because I lacked social
skills.
I remember being shocked by the stupidity of the kids around
me. Sorry if I sound arrogant here. They did not know their numbers, their colors
or shapes, and could not read. Much less
they did not understand German. I
thought everyone spoke another language at home. I remember walking into the cafeteria and
watching some of them eat with their hands.
These were not kids that were from ethnicities that ate with their
hands. These were American children, who
should have known how to use a fork and spoon.
I was shocked and appalled.
My first week of school I understood I was different than the
other kids. Some of my clothes, were
what was hot that year in German fashion.
I didn’t care a back pack, I cared a satchel. Oma had gotten it from German for me. I knew I was different, and I desperately
wanted to fit in, make friends and be liked. Instead I would be singled out and called
crazy or weird for my entire schooling.
Angie was my best friend and Sean was my boyfriend. Sean had been in my life as long as I could
remember. He was this beautiful little
boy with blond hair. His mother and
grandmother cut Oma’s hair. I have this
memory of Sean and I being in the closet together and getting caught. When they found us, Oma and them had shocked looks on their
faces. Neither one of us remembers what
we were doing. But I am sure the two of
us were up to now good! LOL!
Sean and I would get married in the morning, on the play
ground and then divorced by lunch. I
remember lying in this ditch birthing his imaginary babies, while my friend I
nicknamed Doc attended. We did this
every day. Sean and I would sleep next
to each other at nap time and cuddle. I
would even throw my leg over him. Oh the
teachers did not like that and had to separate us. It really upset me. I felt like I was all alone. Sean remained my on-again-off-again boyfriend
until the 3rd grade, when I caught him holding another girl’s
hand. That was it for us. I avoided him after that. It helped we were also in separate classes.
Sean and I found each other on Facebook several years ago,
and I got to see him on a trip into town.
He is just as beautiful as ever.
I was just as attracted to him, as I was when we were little. He has a beautiful bald head, now that all
his lovely blond hair fell out. I got
the chance to apologize to him for ignoring him all those years, we were still
in school together. He told me I am
still his longest relationship to date.
I attended Logansport Rosenwald Elementary School. Now the Rosenwald here is a bit of a
misnomer. Julius Rosenwald built 5000 or
so schools across the country to help educate mainly African-American children
in the early 20th century. These
schools were 1st -12th grade. Our Rosenwald school was opened in 1952 and
used as a segregated high school until the 70’s. I remember going to school and seeing large
photos of all black graduating classes. Now
I lived in a very small town. There was
only one high school. It didn’t make
since to me as Rosenwald was then used as an elementary school up until 6th
grade, and then you went to the high school.
I just kept looking at those pictures wondering where all the white kids
were? What was Rosenwald High
School? How do you explain the past of
the segregated south and Jim Crow laws to a kindergartener?
My school was very small.
Maybe a 1000 kids from K-12. The
year I started school we had 90 in my class, by the time I graduated there
would be 47 of us. We were all a pretty
tight knit group.
In May of 1982 Mom would met the man I would call my father
for the rest of my life. I talked about
that in Novelle. They married that summer. Daddy
loved me almost instantly. He picked up
the gauntlet of being my father, long after Beau had thrown in down. I think the great thing about Daddy was that
he always considered me. I remember
going on family dates. We’d have a picnic
or go to the zoo. When Mom got to go on
a date, I got to go too. I loved
that. I was a bit confused. When Dad married Mom I thought he was
marrying me too. I used to go around and
tell people, “well you know I got married this summer.” LOL!
They married in the same church, I would marry in 20 years
later. I was Mom’s Maid of Honor. When they kissed I was so embarrassed I put
my hand over my face, and just shook my head.
There is a picture of this. I
could not believe they were embarrassing me by kissing in church!!
Daddy legally adopted me that fall. He never had any natural children of his
own. I am the closest thing he has. Now let me have you understand, Jef is my
father, Beau is my biological father.
Jef fed me. Jef clothed me. Jef disciplined me when I did wrong. I was accountable to Jef when I screwed up in
school. Jef taught me to dance, love
Motown, and read. It was Jef I confided
in and drank my first beer with. It was
my conversation with Jef and his offer to move me home, that got me to leave my
abusive relationship. It was Jef that
gave me away at my wedding. Beau did
none of that. So by everything that a
father is measured by, Jef is my father and will be heralded here as such.
Oma loved my Dad, Jef.
She found great comfort in him I think.
I remember we would have a big dinner, and after coffee they would sit
and drink peppermint schnapps. My dad is
the only man I have ever seen stand up to my Grandfather, James Parker. And the only man I ever saw my Grandfather back
down from. My dad was a godsend for all
of us, a father, a husband, a lover, a son-in-law, but most of all, an advocate
and a fighter for both my mother and I.
During my first grade year they would diagnose Oma with
Multiple Myeloma, a terrible form of cancer.
She would die before I started 2nd grade. She was 57.
By the time they found the cancer, she was already in the advance stages
of the disease. It had metastasized to
her bones. The end was not pretty and
made me an advocate of euthanasia.
Oma was shuffled back and forth between the hospital and
home. There was no hospice in those
days. My Mom and Dad did everything for
her. The rest of the family refused to
help. Perhaps they thought it was my Mom’s
place because she was the girl? Perhaps
because she didn’t have a job? During
that year period I would spend a lot of time with Novelle and the rest of my
new family.
My last memory of Oma coherent is hard to put down on
paper. I was in the kitchen standing by
the refrigerator and Oma was laid out in her brown leather recliner in the
living room, not 20 ft. from me. I
suddenly hear this very loud, ragged, sucking inhalation. I look up at her and a few moments later I
hear her utter, “It was so beautiful.” I
know now she was traveling between worlds and had just come back into her
body. The Gods and The Dead were
preparing her for her death. She turned
and she saw me standing in the kitchen.
“Oh Ilsa, when I die
I am going to be your garden angel.”
I was confused. I
told her, “Well when you die tell Elvis I said Hello then.” She and I were big Elvis fans back then.
She smiled and told me to bring her some grapefruit
juice.
The last time I saw her we were in her hospital room. They must have called all the family in,
because they were all there. I was the
only kid in the room. I am sitting on Mom’s
knee and she whispers in my ear to take a good look, because that may be the
last time I ever see Oma alive. I wish
to the Gods she had not. That image is
still stuck in my head of Oma laying there with a green oxygen mask on, moaning
in pain, and finally she started screaming and I was ushered out of the
room. The morphine had long since quite
working.
I remember the whole family standing around her bed arguing
who was going to take care of her. My Mom
begging my uncles to come and give her and Dad a break, as they were caring for
Oma all the time and were exhausted. One
uncle said flatly, “I have a daughter to raise.” I know made no since to me either. Grandpa never hired a nurse. I wonder if he thought, “why should I pay, I
have free help in my daughter and her husband.”
Grandpa did take her at night after Mom and Dad left.
When you have a family member come down with an illness that
requires round the clock care, you really start to see the families true
colors, and who you can depend on.
Usually one family member is singled out, just as my Mom was, to “handle
it.” I guess so the rest of the family
isn’t inconvenienced.
I was not allowed to attend Oma’s funeral. I was only 7, but other kids in the family
did. I know my parents were trying to
shield me. I don’t know if going would
have better or worse on me. I will never
know. I understand Oma’s funeral was so
packed that the men stood outside, to let the women and children have a place
to sit.
My mother took Oma’s death very hard. She nearly grieved herself to death, she
became depressed and suicidal, and she also became anorexic. Those were tough years for me. I had lost my Oma, in my little girl heart my
mother, and then to watch what my Mom loose her mind. I had to become my mother’s emotional
protector, both Daddy and I did. Every
word I said to her had to be measured, as to whether it would make her
breakdown in tears. For years I walked
on eggshells around her and others. I
have often felt, too much was placed on me too soon.
I did not know that I was also in a deep depression at this
time. It became like second nature to
me. For most of my life I forgot what real
true happiness felt like. I hated myself
and felt like a burden to my family. So
depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts became my norm.
The first time I remember wanting to kill myself was not
long after Oma died. I walked into Mom
and Dad’s bedroom and told them I wanted to be with Oma. Mom said, “You want to die?” I don’t remember what I said but it was in
the affirmative. My Mom lost it and I
was pushed out of the room. As far as I know no one ever discussed with my Mom
getting her any kind of mental help. She
refuses it to this day even though she is plagued with Panic Attacks and
Anxiety a well. I wish to God they had,
for both of our sakes.
Ilsa
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