Arizona Misfits

I never noticed the word dysfunctional ascribed to people until the early 1980s. Before the 1980's, the most derogative word I remember hearing to define people and their families was the word misfits. The expression misfits described people who did not fit into society's neat little wrapper. Societal misfits, like my family, paraded around uncaring of the family being populated with oddballs, eccentrics, weirdos, lost souls, and losers. I was a misfit for certain and a wild one at that! In retrospect I clearly see I exemplified the word misfit blindly as I tried desperately to be invisible. I feel, no, I know, we Hughes'  helped the field of psychology define what a dysfunctional family was for we certainly did not live the life of  Ward and June Cleaver. As a small person, my view of life was, well,  life was just life. Everyone did what was needed to get by day to day, at least I think they did. Some people sustained themselves by having big houses and big cars and wearing clean clothes - color coordinated clothes. Some people simply existed in tiny apartments decorated in filth, scarcely eating, running gauntlets of mockery, and barely breathing out of fear of being noticed - that was me. I simply existed sans any accouterments other than a few pieces of clothing, my body, and my wild imagination that helped me prevail against my environment.

(Image of The Cleaver's enjoy family time at breakfast ~ the perfect family)

My decaying family life fit nicely into a rut christened as poverty and abandonment, two words that hold more meaning than their letters can convey and we Hughes' surfed the bottom of poverty's barrel. I can still hear and still feel judging words voiced by self-righteous souls around me at school, and in town. The spoken knives of people hit hard and penetrated my heart leaving critical emotional wounds, wounds I would not fully recognize nor begin to heal until much later in my adult life. As a child, I learned quickly how to deflect the appearance of emotional emptiness by pretending to not care about what people said. When I felt scared inside by what was happening in my surroundings I could seemingly disappear in an instant knowing it was safer to be undetected - the danger came when I was the center of attention. I had my own special brand of misfit existence and I was motivated by curiosity and hunger.  I was motivated by life into developing my creativity into ways of getting what I felt I needed or wanted. I became a great problem solver quickly, and the fact that I was under the age of ten meant I was a good study of life and of people. I was adept in figuring things out - like how to deal with the lecherous gropings of certain Florence AZ males and how to get invited to dinner and how to ride that forbidden horse and how to get dance lessons and learn to play the piano. All the things I wanted to do were offered for free, or I just invited myself to places where I could experience what I wanted. No money? No problem. No parent? No problem. By the age of 8 I was a very successful manipulator. 

Even with all the entertainment and challenges life provided me with during the day, most of my nights were spent face down in a mattress trying to muffle my deep, heart felt sobs of inconsolable emotional pain. I can still smell the age of the mattress I slept upon as it always was exposed because the sheets never stayed in place. I recall the feel of my finger tip outlining a button holding the mattress ticking down. I would trace the button's surface over and over feeling the button's metal body with thread piercing it and that repetitive act would often put me into a trance of numbed contemplation. I remember my thoughts back then as if they were my thoughts today. I do. I can recall how in the dark of night, imagery zipping across the panoramic screen in my mind. My mental theater reviewed memories of my mom and a life I no longer had. The memories of my mom taunted me with nurturing, motherly hugs cemented into place with bright red lips kissing my cheeks. My intangible ghost of my mother's memory left me feeling empty and emotionally pale as I recalled her leaving me behind in the care of my father - again. Eventually my salty silent heartaches would lubricate my mind enough to allow my heart to slip from a fretful state of scary wakefulness into deep sleep. Slumber gave me peace and I could escape the monsters that populated my little girl life. Sleep was a safe haven. Then, the sun would rise once again brining with it a new day for me up to face, for me to manipulate, and for me to survive. 

( The eyes of Maryanne Hughes Mesple as a child in AZ) 

Each morning I opened my eyes I rediscovered my dysfunctional world was real and sleep would reluctantly dissolve, taking with it dreams of places I could not remember. Eyes open, I'd get out of bed with feet falling uncomfortably into my predictable grooves of life. My routine of surviving my harsh, loveless, exciting, fun filled, hunger pained life, would find me prancing my way into the bathroom like a wild black stallion.  I admired my human horsy form in a foggy mirror while attempting to drag a comb through my unruly feral mane. I announced my wildness to the world with snorts and flips of my hair forward and back, side to side followed by whinnying long neighing sounds! My bathroom antics included hovering over a toilet instead of fully sitting down out of fear that a cockroach would jump on me. Cockroaches were always at the ready to terrorize me when I was alone. My horse entity would often turn into a plane coming in for a landing, a sound I was all too familiar with and a sound I would mimic as I worked hard, grunting red faced, at dismissing my body of used up food stuff. Seems I always was trying to relieve myself and seems everything I ate was was reluctant to leave my frame. The fact that I rarely drank plain water did not help my body's plight. Pretending I was a humongous black stallion or an airplane overshadowed the truth - I was a skinny malnourished ugly duckling girl. I had no clue as to who or what I truly was other than being a scrap of flesh.  Those who may have been outside the bathroom door way back then, would hear the sounds of airplanes and wild horses competing for space and all the while it was my spirit playing in a safe place preparing to take on a new day. I would leave the bathroom imagining I was atop a wild black stallion and I would literally run into my day.

(image from the move The Black Stallion)

While living in Florence Arizona, getting dressed in the mornings for school or play was the same as it had been in Texas. My clothing options were limited. I had an old Brownie dress from the time I believed I could be a Brownie and someone believed in me enough to buy me the uniform. I loved that Brownie dress so much I know I wore it almost everyday. I also had a few other little dresses that were very plain, a pair of shorts, a little blouse and some hand me down socks and a few panties. My socks never stayed up around my ankles, all my socks eventually slipped down off my heels and became crumpled inside my shoes so I chose to go sock free most days. The rubber sole of my shoes was a yellowish colored rubber with bumps for traction and I would often lay on my stomach on the ground, with a sneaker in hand picking out stickers and small pebbles that penetrated the rubber making my shoes not very pleasant to wear. I was laughed at and teased on more than one occasion and eventually I learned to ignore the teasing in the moment and take that pain with me someplace private later in the day. Then, once alone I would announce at the top of my lungs what I was going to do one day when I was bigger and then cry really hard to make sure I did not forget. 

My school classroom was populated with the typical elementary school tables with little chairs that were fun to scoot forward making scraping sounds on the tile flooring. Construction paper cut into shapes of trees and clouds and animals decorated the rooms horizontal space while ABC's trimmed the top of the room's walls. A large chalk board demanded attention as did the maps of the world. The teacher's desk was a beautiful majestic icon of rulership and I felt small and insignificant when called to the teacher's desk for a one on one conversation. During my school days in the small elementary school in Florence, I often lost my attention for what the teacher was teaching and instead would be listening to the outside world filled with birds and clouds and the whispers of desert breezes. The world was always having a conversation right outside the windows where I sat and my  intentional eavesdropping would be abruptly ended by the teacher asking me to repeat what she had just said. I don't remember ever being successful in recounting what the teacher talked about, but I could describe the texture of the clouds and the sounds of birds gossiping about each other. I felt safe at school. I felt useful and needed and protected. I loved school.

Most days, I did not have money to buy a lunch ticket, so I would sit with other kids of my class waiting to be offered the remains of their uneaten lunches, and I was not the only child that would show up without lunch. At least I had fellow peers who knew hunger as I did.  I am positive the school staff noticed, but if anyone did anything about my situation or the situation of other hungry, unkempt children I don't recall anything being done about our plight. I was always thrilled on the days I was successful in discovering change my father had forgotten in his bedroom on his rare visits home. Those days, when I was rich with a quarter or two I would buy school lunch and savor every little bite! After lunch, there was always recess and I would find my special friend as quickly as possible. My one and only friend and I played beneath Pepper and Evergreen trees that were living in dirt so fine it felt like silk to the touch. My friend and I would make pine needle rooms in our houses and pretend life was good and life was good at school and while with my friend. I cherish those memories and I can still feel the fullness of my heart during those moments, those special moments when life was mine to create as I wanted. After school my friend and I attended catechism just like all the other kids who were of the Catholic faith. I was born into Catholicism and Catholicism was my assurance that somewhere up in the big sky above me I was loved.  On the way to catechism we literally would run all the way to a little store that was on the roadway to where our catechism classes were. We would run into the store and speedily buy a Sugar Daddy candy bar or Sugar Babies only to save them for the walk home. My friend would always buy me a candy bar and for that I will always be so grateful. On the way home, after catechism I would always stop at my God Parent's home and visit their old dapple gray mare and share my candy with her, but that is another story for a different time. 

I loved catechism because I learned about God. I learned God did indeed love me and He had rules. School had rules. Home did not have rules. I liked rules. Rules gave me something to think about, something to achieve, rules gave me a certainty that one day all would be okay and rules made me aware that the other parts of my life were missing something. I was absolutely sure all I needed to do was follow the rules, get an A in catechism and in my regular school, and get A's in the school of earth. I had to get A's so I could go to Heaven. Only in Heaven could I have a chance to be saved. I was deathly afraid of the alternative to Heaven!  While in the catechism classroom I felt protected and loved while at the same time I felt wicked and guilty for sins I was born with. I became aware that even my thoughts were sins! My sinful heart plagued me as I tried my best to be the perfect child for God. I loved God. I feared God. At the age of 8 I already knew I had failed God in so many ways. I failed God and therefore must suffer God's punishment -  so said the nuns, so said the priest. I learned I could pray to Jesus's mom, Mother Mary, and that I could ask her to intervene for me by talking to her son and God. With Mary's assistance, maybe I would receive forgiveness for my sins?  I was not sure what all my sins were but apparently God knew and the priest knew. I convinced myself I was living a life solely for the purpose of repenting my sins. I was petrified of wicked black mortal sins and worried about venial sins. If I slipped up and inadvertently committed a mortal sin then there was no saving my soul, it would mean I would go directly to Hell, and not even get a chance to rectify what I had done wrong. If I committed venial sins, as least I could be remorseful and try to be better, try to not be a semi-bad person. I hoped and prayed my prayers would save my sinful soul. Every night I would read my catechism book over and over in an effort to memorize all my prayers. There was always the certainty that I would be called upon in catechism and if I did not know The Act of Contrition or the Hail Mary or the Apostle's Creed, I would suffer the wrath of the nuns and and eventually God! I recited all my prayers over and over burning them into my forever memory. To this day, I can close my eyes and feel the texture of my red catechism book, silky soft from constant use. I can visualize the words telling me about prayer and the importance of confession and penance. I can see the priest, the church, the nuns, my little rosary, my scapula, and I can feel how my heart beat like that of a frightened bird when I thought of God's anger with me. I was taught the meaning of the cross which was a strong visual statement of God's son dying for my sins. I could not understand why Jesus had to be nailed to a cross forever because of people being bad. I constantly dissected my every thought, believing that I was the one person keeping Jesus nailed on that horrid cross and even believed that I somehow was the cause of my mom dying. Seeing Jesus nailed to a cross with blood dripping from wounds creeped me out and scared me so much that I avoided looking at him. I could not stand to see Jesus hanging there, center stage, above the altar - and I swear Jesus was always looking at me instead of looking up toward his father in heaven!

When I could not distract myself with games and school work and memorizing prayers, my misfit, dysfunctional, underdeveloped mind would chew on thoughts of my mom. I would gaze off inside myself trying to imagine my mom in a coffin - dead. There had been no funeral or weeping by my dad or brothers as proof of her demise. The only proof of her passing was my father’s words to me telling me so, and the undeniably painful fact that she had never returned to rescue me as she promised. My father's insistency that my mom was dead convinced me God was a mean loving God, very similar to the people in my life, and I needed to dodge his wrath by being perfect.  I will never forget the last day I saw my mom. Mom and I were standing on the sidewalk in Lubbock Texas at a bus stop waiting for a bus to take us away. My mother was dressed in a gray suit with her black and white heels on. Her finger nails were painted red and white, her trademark, and her lips were fire engine red. My mom always wore her hair up in a french twist and she smelled of fresh hairspray. I was dressed in something obviously but I have no recall of whether I was in a dress or shorts, my only memory of how I looked that day was my hair was cut in a very short pixie and I was missing a front tooth. My father walked toward us, slowly, with a cockiness to his strut. My dad was dressed in his Air Force blues and his shoes were so shiny they were like black mirrors. Upon my dad's reaching the sidewalk where my mom and I stood, he pried my little hand from her hand, and took me away from my mother - again. I cried. My mom stood silent, boarded the bus and I watched her leave through tears of confusion. After that day, I had a hard time remembering my mom's eyes, all I could conjure up was her red lips and her big loving arms. I sobbed to myself a lot but never in front of people because I had no words to express the pain I held inside my little body.  I missed my mother immensely and never spoke of her to anyone. Eventually, my thoughts lessened and my mother's memory only visited me on the edge of time between being awake and falling sleep, as I traced my finger around metal buttons on an old dirty mattress. I would entertain those moments briefly and then I would quickly and reluctantly kill my mom's fading memory again and again so I could sleep and awaken to a new day of survival and play the misfit way.

(Eleanor, my mother)

to be continued ....

(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé)