The Pain of History Part. 2

“If you really want the honest answer, Jason, my mother was dumped in a box on the side of the road as an infant. My biological grandmother wants nothing to do with me or my mother and claims, “the pain is too much.” Not only that, but my grandmother went to prison for murdering a man in front of my biological aunt. So, there’s that. And my father? Well, he looks at me like a failure. Like, it’s my fault for being born. Imagine your father slut-shaming you in Public and humiliating you because you didn’t assign yourself to his ideals. Now you know. And now you know why I keep my arm out because people are not to be trusted…and neither are YOU.”

And those were my words. As quickly as they were spoken, as quickly there were gone. He continued writing on the card and passed it back towards me, cutting the tension with a half-hearted joke. Walking away, I stared blankly at the wall and a sea of memories flooded my brain.

I turned in my chair and tried to focus on my invoice, but all I could remember was the blue and purple crayon I carried to art everyday. There was a point we were so poor that I couldn’t afford crayons. I carried those two crayons with me with pride, because they were mine, and I appreciated having just those two. I could feel my eyes welling up and I knew it was a matter of seconds before a tear rolled down my cheek.

I thought of Jason’s children, and I thought of how I wish I did know that life sometimes. To never know the pain of a broken Christmas ornament shattered in your hand, the sadness of watching your mother cry in the darkness, and the isolation of not having a father during class on Father’s Day…what a world it must be. My tears fell and I immediately felt that rage I had felt when I was three. Three years old and I already knew such a heavy emotion.

My heart hurt, and I hung my head toward my keyboard in shame. I knew in those moments that I had to be strong, not because I was given a choice, but because I didn’t have one. It didn’t make the burden any less heavy, and it certainly didn’t make me feel good.

Being strong is sometimes such a hard thing to do. I’m not ashamed of where I came from, my background, my history…but sometimes the reminder that I’ll never know my family tree and simple things like that…it hurts. I suppose, I’ve come to terms with knowing that my family on both sides is a mystery, and maybe that’s how it should be. Maybe not knowing is fate’s way of protecting me. Albeit, knowing that this stoic hardass you all know today is nothing more than a soft shell crab that builds walls sky high. A soft shell crab that wishes things were different, but knows that deep down things were as they should have been.

Jason saw me crying in the distance and asked me if I was okay, concerned he made me cry. I wiped my last tear away, looked at him and calmly said,

“I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

…I never have a choice.