"No Shit There I Was": A Fairy-tale for Reality
“Ancient societies had anthropomorphic
gods: a huge pantheon expanding into centuries of dynastic drama; fathers and
sons, martyred heroes, star-crossed lovers, the deaths of kings - stories that
taught us of the danger of hubris and the primacy of humility.” – Tom Hiddleston
Once upon a time, in a land not so
far away, there lived a young girl. Now,
in most stories in which “Once upon a time” begins the tale you might suppose
this story would pertain a princess, or that this girl would be extra special
in some extraordinary way; but, truthfully, she was just an ordinary young girl
attempting to survive anything but ordinary circumstances. One day the young girl, having finished her
choirs of which there were many, heard the phone ring. Looking both left and right, but seeing
neither her mother nor her grandmother she approached the phone with
hesitation, for trepidation filled the girl should her mother discover that she
had answered the phone without her consent.
With a shaking hand the girl lifted
the receiver and answered with a cautious greeting, only to discover, much to
her surprise, the voice on the other end was none other than her father. The young girl had not spoken to her father
in many years, in fact, she could barely recall his face within her memory, but
due to the violent circumstances of her life she now lived in, the young girl
had placed him upon a pedestal of almost hero worship. To her, the man she could barely remember as
her father, had to be better than the man who lived with her mother presently,
causing the girl to feel as if this story was a never ending nightmare.
The wicked witch of this
fairy-tale, otherwise known as the girl’s mother, heard the girl upon the
phone. Rushing forward, she snatched the
phone from her hands, while backhanding the girl into the nearby wall. The young girl slowly lifted herself up off
the floor in order to face her mother, whom she only wanted to love, and yet
she could not seem to get her to love her.
The wicked witched dragged the young girl forward, across the floor by
her hair, making her already painful scalp more tender, before pushing her
downwards in front of her grandmother on the living room floor. The woman dropped a pen and paper at the
girl’s feet, demanding she write “I hate my father and wish he was dead” on
ever line of both sides of the college ruled paper. The girl, afraid of both of these women, did
as she was commanded.
Finishing with her assignment she
looked up with hope that this was all they would require of her, but this was
not to be. The two women looked down at
this young girl, who was only about eleven years of age, whose eyes were old
even though her body was young. “Now say
Rob is your father,” her mother demanded of the young girl. Something rose up in the young girl. Anger and a courage she hadn’t known she
possessed flared within her very soul as she said as single word “No.” Her head snapped back as the first strike
across her face came along with the demand a second time and still she simply
stood there, looking towards the woman who gave her life. “No.” she said with quite conviction. She didn’t shout this word, nor did she say
it with anger. There was strength in the
simple word that seemed to scare the women in front of her. “Go to your room! Your father will deal with you when he comes
home!”
For the next several hours the
young girl sat huddled on her bed, with no lights, no food, and no company to
make her feel safe. She had no way to
tell how long she sat there, and yet she knew it was hours, for eventually her
brothers had long been sent to bed.
Eventually she heard the dreaded thumps up the stairs that herald the
monster as he made his way towards her bedroom.
Her punishment for defiance was at hand.
Walking into her room, the man looked to the young girl and in his eyes
she could see enjoyment for what he was about to do. “Stand and strip.” He commanded as he took
off his belt. The next hour was one that
would be branded into her memory, and also the flesh of her back with
scars. Yet the young did not give in and
call this monster “Father.”
The next morning upon waking up for
school, the young girl was filled with the same strength and courage that gave
her the need to defy her mother. Leaving
with her youngest brother for school, she came to a decision, one she informed
her brother of. They would not be returning
home that day. The young girl and her
brother spent the afternoon at the public library, reading and enjoying the
precious freedom from the nightmare they had been living, until closing. Once the Library closed, the young girl, with
her brother’s hand firmly gripped in hers, walked the many blocks, to a
neighbor’s house, three doors down from where she lived with the wicked witch
and the monster. There was one thing
that plagued the young girl as she looked up the street. This would be a guilt that would live with
her for the rest of her life. She had
another brother, one her mother never sent to school, whom she had to leave
behind in the nightmare. Him, she could
not rescue. Turning back to the
neighbor’s house, the young girl went inside and called the Police and Social
Services. The young girl was rescued,
never having to return to the wicked witch, but the nightmare lives on in her
memory.
To return to the question at hand,
“Am I a Hero/Heroine?” I do not
know. I survived. I cared for my brothers and protected them
the best I knew. The best any child up
to 11 years of age could. I lived for
years with the guilt of leaving my middle brother, Shaun behind. It was only recently, in the past 5 years,
when I was finally ready to enter therapy in order to deal with all that
happened to me as a child, that I have come to accept, in the end, it was never
my responsibility. I was a child made to
behave as an adult. To care for adults
because the adults could not, and would not, care for themselves. There is a story my one foster mother tells
of how she woke up to hear my infant brother crying in the middle of the
night. Minutes later my brother had
stopped crying. Worried she left her bed
to check on Shane to make sure all was o.k.
Entering the nursery she was shocked to discover me in a rocking chair,
at age 6, rocking Shane and feeding him a bottle. His diaper had been changed and he was
content. She said this was one of the
scariest things in her life to have seen, as my bedroom had been downstairs and
the nursery was upstairs, and yet I reacted as a mother to my child needing
me. He was my responsibility; this was
how I saw things.
Looking at the challenge of what
“hero” I find myself more aptly to associate with, I believe I would have to
choose the war hero. This is through
life experience, not through choice. If
it was my choice, I would wish to choose the Aiyaiyesh Girl and have the
opportunity to be a part of a community, instead of feeling separated and
disassociated from the commonwealth.
With the True War Stories there is a truth: “A true war story is never moral.
It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper
human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always
done. If a story seems moral, do not
believe it. If at the end of a war story
you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been
salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very
old and terrible lie. There is no
rectitude whatsoever. There is no
virtue. As a first rule of thumb,
therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising
allegiance to obscenity and evil.” (True War para 7) Life can be a bitch. It can
be a living nightmare. An eleven year
old girl can survive hell in ways that only a man who is out there in the
trenches of Iraq would understand. Both
come away with eyes ancient and weary.
Joe Campbell showed in his story of
the two sons of the Sun, within Navaho mythology, strength and courage. The two sons sought to protect their mother
from the monsters, only they did not have the weapons or power in order to
accomplish such a feat. In order to
obtain what was needed to defeat the monsters.
This legend was depicted in pollen paintings by an elder. This series of Navajo creation songs depict
the journey of these two brothers, their trials and tribulations, showing their
strengths and courage. Eventually, they
acquire the weapons and power from their father, only to have to defeat the
monster of all monsters, who happened to also be a son of the Sun. In a way they must defeat that which they fear
the most, in order to become what they are destined to be. (Mythos 1)
This is typical of a heroic myth or quest as Joe explains. “This is standard stuff. They have gone past the known world. Magical help comes in the form of the fairy
god-mother. Ways of the journey are
predicted and overcome.” (Mythos 1, video 2)
Unfortunately, life does not play out as typical hero quest or a fairy-tale. If it did everyone would have a happily ever
after, and the trickster would need not seep into our thoughts.
So in the end what does make a
hero? I do not know. The patterns of my life have shown that since
that event, I have been running from my nightmare, attempting to escape the horrors
behind my eyes. There is no happily ever
after to this fairy-tale, nor a prince charming to come rescue the
princess. The lesson learned was
monsters are everywhere, but the strength and courage has to come from within
and yet in the end, even when there seems like there is no hope, life does go
on, because you will survive. Am I a
hero? Yes, because I lived. This is my True War Story. Perhaps next time I will start it with “No
shit there I was…”
Cite:
Campbell, Joseph “Mythos 1” http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001MXHU2U/ref=avod_yvl_watch_now
O'Brien,
Tim. ""How to Tell a True War Story" The Things They
Carried." Mythology
and Modern Life - Selected Readings. SUNY Empire State College, 2015. 1-8.
Print.
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