LITTLE GIRL ON THE STAIR

ONCE AMIDST THE RECKLESSNESS. This is today's writing prompt. I know, the prompts are kind of weird. Okay, let's think about this one......

The fighting--it had to stop. Really, she shouldn't be listening, but her parents fought constantly and she was a curious little girl, and she would sit on the stairs, unseen, and listen.

It was always the same. Her dad would rant and rave about how everything was wrong.

The house was messy, the kids were out of control, she was making his life miserable.

From time to time, her mother would make a feeble attempt to defend herself but after a few faltering attempts, he'd shut her down and start again.

There were candy wrappers in the car, he was sick of the folded laundry always atop the washing machine, his shirts were never ironed properly.

The little girl truly shouldn't be listening. It was reckless because if her Dad were to storm upstairs, he might see her. Then what? She knew and yet she sat, night after night, transfixed on the stair. As her dad continued his tirade, she felt an overwhelming sadness....she hated when he yelled at her mother like that and she wanted to march down and tell him to stop. Bile rose from her stomach up into her throat. She had to do something.

The mail was never stacked right, she spent too much time with the neighbors and not enough time at home, the kids weren't getting good grades in school because she didn't help enough with homework.

The little girl mustered up all her courage, stood up, and padded down the stairs--fuzzy socks, flannel nightgown adorned with little hearts. A firm resolve welled up in her. It was reckless, but she'd tell her Daddy to stop it. Stop being so mean and hurtful.

They both looked up at the little girl as she walked down the stairs, holding on to the railing, trying not to cry. So many things she wanted to say. Tell her Dad to stop being so mean. Tell her Mom to stand up for herself. She wanted to relay how all this fighting hurt her and kept her up nights.

"What the hell is she doing here," her father thundered. He stared at her, eyes blazing.

Oh, so many things she wanted to say but the words wouldn't come out. They never did. She was mute, frozen, unable to move.

"WELL?"

"What is it, Honey," her mother asked, moving toward her.

"She needs to be in bed for Christ's sake; tomorrow is a school day. This is precisely what I'm saying, this house and these kids are out of control," her Dad turned to her. "Now get your ass back upstairs into bed."

Her mother reached her and gently put her arm on the little girl's back and walked her up to her bedroom. Tucking her in, she kissed her and told her everything would be alright. But the little girl believed none of it. Her mother walked stiltedly out of the room.

After a brief period, the little girl rose and went back to her perch on the stairs.

The food is never healthy enough and everyone is getting fat, the kids lose everything and this morning he couldn't even find a comb for his hair, she spent too much time on the phone, she was spoiling that bratty little daughter.

The little girl knew she could never stop all this from happening. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sat, listening to her Dad berate her Mom, who sat and said nothing. The little girl also could say nothing.

HOPE EVERYONE IS HAVING A NICE WEEK

Emo Mom is in the frozen tundra of New Hampshire in the midst of a snowstorm. She and her friend are about to take six boys snowboarding! School vacation week!!!

Anyway, EM will be back in blog action next week so come revisit.

GIVE ME A BOX OF PROZAC FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Well, here we are with another holiday--just when you made it through the stress of Christmas and New Year's, along comes Valentine’s Day. Yet another day to feel insecure about either how you don’t get anything or how you didn’t do enough for someone or everyone. I mean, what a depressing holiday for emo single people. There are no diamond necklaces given in silhouette, no champagne toasts-- not even a box of chocolate from CVS, or a last minute meaningless card. Just more of a reminder that here we sit, in our solitude. AS IF!!!! You still have the fighting kids in the next room. (Should insert that even married, I never got any of the above.)

In fact, I’m sick of all holidays! First, let’s take Thanksgiving. I mean, WHO really likes Thanksgiving? First, not that I don’t like a nice turkey dinner, but to celebrate our bounty while there are poor and oppressed people around the world strikes me as self indulgent. Plus, we’re taught Thanksgiving was when the “native Americans” and white folks happily got together to feast. Then we ignited a mass genocide against them. There are indigenous people—the few left—who celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as a Day of Mourning with a ceremony at Plymouth Rock, MA, the spot where the European invasion began.

Then there’s Christmas. Nice enough with the birth of baby Jesus, Christmas carols, and all that. But it’s turned into an enormous farce and retailers have hijacked this holiday and made it miserable for all of us. It’s not enough that we just got through Thanksgiving and Halloween, (which now means $50 internet costumes and huge bags of candy) but we’re inundated by Christmas paraphernalia so early now that come early December, you want to get a Prozac prescription if you have to enter one more store and hear Silent Night.

Not to sound like the Grinch, but I'm sick of the whole Christmas season. Just ask anyone, like myself, who spent hours at the mall, wrestling people who cut in line, endless hours trolling ebay, waking up at 5 am to stand in line at Game stop, for the Nintendo Wii one year, Rock Band this year. It all began with the evil White Power Ranger and demonic Tickle Me Elmo. All of which I bit and clawed my way to getting so my little tykes wouldn’t be, God forbid, disappointed on this holiest of days. Manufacturers realized making limited quantities of items made them irresistible to children and would whip parents into a frenzy as they try to track down one unattainable item or another. In a way, I do admire that ingenuity, even as I stand bleary-eyed, dejected at 4 am in front of GameStop.

From November until the new year, there is no reprieve from the relentless onslaught of inanity. Or as my children made up in a Christmas carol.. On the First day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a 27-inch plasma tv; on the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me, an Elite Xbox 360; on the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me, the impossible to find Playstation 3; on the twelfth day of Christmas my true love got his credit card bill and killed himself…… Kids say it best…

I am waiting for a presidential candidate who has the guts to say that he or she will put forth a constitutional amendment that Christmas can only be celebrated every other year!! Give us a break!!

Easter hasn’t been completely corrupted yet but again, the concept of a simple candy basket does not go over well with many I know. Again, it’s a time for candy baskets but with gifts as well. At least gift cards and cash will do on Easter. Although I do contend that the Easter Bunny is the most disturbing of the holiday icons--at least I thought so as a young child.

But with that, Happy Valentine's Day from Emo Mom!!!!! XOXO

INTO THE RIVER

I never met my Great Uncle Joe because he drowned in a river as a young man--years before I was born. Died in the relatively calm waters of the Seneca River near Syracuse, New York. He had been a good swimmer, they said, so no one really knew what happened.

They called him Bon Ami (Good Friend) Joe which was odd considering he was Italian. But in those days being Italian was considered disreputable at best, so I guess Buon Amico Joe would have been distasteful. I wonder if they felt dubbing him Bon Ami Joe gave him some sort of class or stature they felt was lacking from his unfortunate Italian birth.

I say this with all due respect to my Italian heritage, but Italians often have issues with telling they truth. In other words, they lie--often. One story bandied about was that Bon Ami Joe did not accidentally drown in the river, but that he killed himself. Now, if you were to mention that to one of his siblings, they would fall into a fainting spell the likes of which you’ve never seen.

The Italians in my family could stir up drama like no one. I remember my Grandmother coming to visit and each we’d pick her up at the Greyhound bus station (she was afraid to fly) and bring her home, my house became drama central. Years after Bon Ami Joe’s unfortunate “accident,” another of her brothers died. I answered the phone and cringed as I relayed the message to my father, hoping he would break the news gently. Rather, after I whispered the message in my father's ear as he stood carving roast beef for dinner he said, without hesitation, “Ma, Frank died.”

My grandmother's body went totally rigid and she fell off the chair right onto the floor and started convulsing in tears. I was frozen to the spot, 13 years old. My father continued carving the roast beef as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I tried to help her up but she resisted my attempts and continued to moan, “I’m on my way to join you, Frank. I can feel my heart giving out. I’ll be there soon, Frank, FRAAAANNKKK!!!!” in her advanced state of histrionics. Her eyes were rolling back in her head and I yelled at my father to help her “She’ll get over it,” he said, stepping over his writhing mother and heading toward the refrigerator for some horseradish sauce. Sure enough she did.

Then there was my grandfather’s funeral. Of course, my grandmother talked incessantly about how horrible he was: An ingrate, a blustering, drunken, uneducated, feckless Irish fool. But no sooner was he dead, then he might as well have been fast-tracked to canonization. At the funeral my grandmother and her sisters, small women all, wore black dresses, Mary Janes, and my grandmother had to be restrained several times from throwing herself into the coffin. No one appeared overly taken aback at this behavior—just reached out from time to time to keep Grandma from hopping into the casket and continued with the business at hand. The grieving sisters kept up a wailing that I’m surprised didn’t awaken old Grandpa Al.

Bon Ami Joe, I’m told, had the soul of a poet, was pious, loving, a joy to his mother, a good friend to all, hence the nickname. Although for all I know he could have been an axe murderer or a child molester. Bon Ami Joe’s parents detested each other (although managed to have nine children) and fought constantly. My great grandfather had been in love with another woman back in Sicily and while he came to America, she married another and he was sent a replacement bride. (See post The Surprise Bride.) Although the veracity of this story remains in contention to this day.

The family was isolated because they were the only Italians in an Irish area. To my grandmother’s dying day, she spoke of how she had won a “blindly judged” essay contest. The winner’s name went on a “loving cup” that was displayed in a case in the school lobby. When it turned out her essay won, they chose another because they did not want an Italian name displayed in the school lobby. In her later 90s, after her entire life, this was the story she recounted most often.

I did not know my great uncles, but I vividly recall my great aunts. One was a lesbian who lived with her lover for 50 years and everyone insisted they were just friends (I always thought her lover was a man.) The other looked like the wicked witch of the west, ate food straight out of a can, and had creepy velvet pictures of Rudolph Valentino hung all about her apartment. I had always felt a somber sense of sorrow for poor Bon Ami Joe with his sensitive soul and his good friend name, brought up in this isolated home with his gloomy, phobic, dark, family shrouded in mystery and superstition. I saw his picture once—soulful dark eyes, olive complexion; truly a melancholic, beautiful face.

Only Bon Ami Joe and the Seneca River will ever know what happened but I have my suspicions.

THE SECRET KISS

Writing Prompt: When I Awoke the Next Morning

The millisecond she succumbed to consciousness in the morning, the guilt and shame flooded into her psyche with tsunami force. She pulled the covers over her head and decided to stay in bed all day.

How could this have happened? Had she no will to defy temptation? However, the situation had presented itself and was too intoxicating to resist. And how wonderful it had been. A tactile and sensory extravaganza. Smooth to the touch, soft on her lips, sweetness beyond compare. The heady feeling of hedonism.

She had denied herself for so long; it made it even more sweet and daring. All she had to do was reach out and grab it—and oh, she did. Once begun, her body awash in bliss—a pleasure she wished could go on for eternity. The sweetness, the smoothness, filling her both body and soul.

Control. Control. That was it. Her conscience was like a boot camp Army Sergeant. WRONG! Don’t think of such things. Good girls don’t do things like that. Good girls don’t have improper thoughts, eat bad foods, get fat, get Bs, disobey the will of a higher power. Good girls resist all temptation, step in line, perfect, always perfect.

But she slipped up again. Not perfect. Given in to the excesses of her appetite and the sin of the secular world. Beside her lay remaining evidence of her sin. She wanted to lick it up to recall the sweetness but instead she jumped out of bed and began ripping off the sheets with a crazed fervor. Had to get rid of it so no one would know.

Shredded bed sheets about the room, she gazed at herself in the small, purloined mirror. Ran it up and down the length of her body. Stopped at her stomach. Was that a roll? She pinched it—sure enough—it was a roll of fat. Nothing was going right.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“C’mon Honey, time to go.”

She didn’t want to leave. Couldn’t face anyone. Digging through her drawers she found something that would make her look invisible. Shuffling down the hall in large sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood covering her face, she slowly entered the large room.

“Good morning Kerry,” they all said in weary unison.

“Good morning,” she mumbled.

“Anything you’d like to discuss,” asked their leader, a woman who would pretend not to judge her but would.

“No,” she replied. She was thinking about later in the day. When she would recommit her sin. When desire would trump control. When, alone, she would indulge her secret pleasure, something all her own.

Her counselor led her into the weight room. She wasn’t supposed to look but she did. 88 pounds—her weight was up. BAD! Yet, hand in her pocket, she touched a Hershey Kiss like it was her lover and dreamed of their secret rendezvous to come.

THE SURPRISE BRIDE

Writing Prompt: Write about a black and white photograph.

The solemn young man pulled the shredded scarf tighter around his neck to ward off the biting cold of New York Harbor. Philip Reitano missed the glorious warmth he left behind in Messina, Sicily, but the promise of a better life had lured him to America.

Upstate New York was bitter-- working on the railroads brutal and backbreaking--interminable days spent carrying cross ties and laying track. The Italians, especially those from Sicily, detested, considered cowardly thieves from a lawless country. Philip had to work twice as vigilantly as the others, especially the Irish, the hard-drinking, fun loving yet vulgar men who tormented him mercilessly.

In Messina, he had left his betrothed--kissed her goodbye while casting off to a new land where he could prosper then send for her to begin their blessed life together. Under the shadow of Mr. Etna, on many a swarmy night, they had embraced, long, lingering kisses, pledges of eternal love. Beautiful and mysterious, a young girl, long curls, a body that promised endless pleasure. His radiant Angelica. The cross that hung between her breasts and kept him from touching her like he wanted. Glory and agony on those long, steamy nights. Dreaming of her had kept him from total despair on his long journey across the savage ocean, in the godforsaken vessel where he had spent weeks in squalor, hunger, sickness, breathing the stench of human anguish. 

After two years of plaintive missives, he finally sent for her. The devastating news that came to him blew apart his already bleak world. None of the nights spent thrashing in the unforgiving ocean, nor the blows delivered by the pernicious Irish prepared him for this. Soul sucking, gut wrenching sorrow. He had blinked back the tears--God's sake, could imagine what he would ensue should he be seen crying. Yet the tears forced their way out despite all attempts to restrain them.

Angelica had married another. Oh dio che Lei ha desolato io. (Oh God, you have forsaken me.) The suffering, saving, terror, had been for naught. His body which had shuddered in anticipation, now throbbed in sorrow. Nothing to live for. His glorious, ripe Angelica in the arms of another. He wanted to kill the man, rip off his flesh, gouge out his eyes. More than that, he envied him.

The letter informed him another bride was being sent, was already on the ship on her way over. It was a cousin he had never met: Annette Grace. Not Angelia, Annette. He didn't want Annette--hated her before even meeting her.

Yet here he stood at New York Harbor waiting to fetch her after she was processed through Ellis Island. He watched, recalling the trauma, at the wretched, woeful crowd of immigrants marching dispiritedly out the gates. He had no picture of his new intended but was told she would recognize him; all day he stood; watching, worrying, blinking back tears. No one smiled; even the children marched slowly, stiltedly, expressionless.

As he pulled his scarf tighter, a small, grim-faced woman, lank hair, face lined with suffering, approached him tentatively. She was clutching a threadbare bag, wearing a hat that was likely stylish at one time but was crushed and frayed. Sad little woman.

"Philip, è che Lei?" (Is that you?)

"Si, ìaccomodato incontrarLa." (Yes, pleased to meet you.)

Of course, he was not pleased to meet her. This woman, ugly, ordinary, not his Angelica. Taking her bag, they walked quietly toward the street, unspeaking.

Later that day, at St. Patrick's Cathedral, he married Annette--pledged himself to her in front of a God who had betrayed him. They posed for the photographer, both unhappy, miserable; she had freshened up but carried the stench of steerage. The photographer had barked at them to smile, but neither could muster up the energy; they had no money so the photographer didn't bother to waste his time. Just took the photograph.

Years later, their great granddaughter straightened the photograph on her wall. A prized possession. Looking closely into their eyes, she wondered what they were thinking on their wedding day. Wondered why they weren't smiling.