Resilience Matters

I was just six years old, red headed, with a runny nose and dirty face always anxious. I walked in fear that something bad was going to happen and it usually did. I try to make sure I always know what is going on around me. A nervous little kid with no voice!

We kids slept on the cool brown and grey linoleum floor in the front room on blankets. We each had our designated spot. My sister Gerry’s was closest to the wall and mine was to the right of hers. Ron and John’s spots were under the front windows, so they could get up in the night and watch the action on the street below. Since our apartment was above the bar there was always some sort of commotion going on: an occasional street fight or a shouting match between a couple who had had too much to drink. If there was something really interesting, they would let us take a look otherwise it was out of bounds for us girls. Ron would, however, recount any arguments he witnessed, relishing the opportunity to use bad language! Here we were, four kids preparing to bed down for the night. What an unlikely group, four little kids all born to the same mother within six years of each other and each from a different father. Of course, we did not know that at the time. When we asked mom about our father, she would usually ignore us or change the subject. When pressed, she would give us a long cold stare and take a drag on her ever-present cigarette.

“He died in the war,” she said once.

“Which war?” Ron would ask.

“The last one.”

Somehow I never remember my mother being there, but when she was she was usually in the kitchen, standing by the sink with an apron on. She was a tall, thin woman with dark hair and was always very busy doing stuff what I don’t know but she was busy, busy, and busy. She spent a lot of time telling us to be quiet and not to wake Herman, her boyfriend, who lived with us.

“After all, he pays the rent,” she would say. I didn’t know why that was so important but we were told that a lot. It was as if she were trying to sell us something.

“You know, Herman is very good to you kids,” she said.

“He puts food on the table, pays the rent and puts up with all of you.”

I never quite understood her definition of good. Was it good to tolerate us so he could have mom around? Was it good to beat the crap out of John and Ron every chance he had? Or maybe it was good of him to give us any food that was left over when he finished eating. I am not sure but she seemed to want us to like and respect him, even though he was anything but likeable or respectable.

Herman was a huge man, six foot plus barrel-chested with freckles all over his face. He had a thick crop of dark red hair and he wore black thick horn rimmed glasses. One day Ron was playing in the street when Herman was on his way home.

“Get upstairs,” he ordered and Ron didn’t move fast enough so I watched Herman kick and slap my brother all the way up the stairs. When they arrived in the apartment, mom said nothing. She just gave Herman a kiss hello and served dinner for the two of them. When they were done eating, we kids got to eat what was left. There was very little left but we made due we were use to that. I never remember mom smiling or laughing until Herman came home. Then she was a different person. That’s when she became cheery and full of laughter. Herman loved her laugh. When he was not home, I remember her crying. I never really knew why but she was always sad and as I think back I don’t think she was ever happy but she needed him.

Herman was the super which meant he cleaned, painted and fixed things around the building. Mom told us he was an architect by trade. I was pretty sure this was just another one of her stories. Even then I knew this was not the job an architect would have.

When she wasn’t home, I guess my mother was working, trying her best to help support us kids. At least that’s what we thought. I was always afraid when Mom was not there. There were men hanging around playing cards and drinking with Herman and that made me nervous. They would laugh and poke us when we would run past. Whenever we could we’d play in the street until mom came home or until the men left. I didn’t know what they were drinking, but the stench would make my sister and me gag.

As the oldest girl, I felt compelled to care for my siblings. It was expected of me, a silent order I was given from my mother. I must have been about five when I first made lettuce and mayo sandwiches for my brothers and sister. But many times there was no bread, no lettuce, no mayo or anything for that matter. When that was the case I went to the store and went shopping. I would waltz into O’Reilly’s Groceries, stroll down the dried goods aisle, shifting my gaze to the man at the register, while nonchalantly stuffing a can of peas under my coat. Next I might walk to another aisle for a box of pasta again slipping it under my coat and waltzing back towards the door. Since I had no money, I just took what I needed, hid the food under my clothes and rushed out of the store. One day the man at the register stopped me.