The next day I lay in bed swollen, wanting comfort from Tony or a friend, anyone not in my family. My mother came to me tearfully, asked me not to tell anyone, to keep the beating, his brutality, a secret. My shame was so great I wouldn’t have said anything anyway.
I wanted to die. My body turned wooden then—stiff, asleep, scarred. I had to forget. But what do I do now, these many years later? My neck is killing me.
I call my friend Susie. She tells me how to treat my neck, asks if I can rest with the image of my father—accept it, not fight it—and understand the pain as truth, and she would be over soon. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I she is an important friend and teacher at this juncture of my life. She says the pain could be a memory from the beating or from an actual injury, but either way my body can no longer store it away.
In a few days my neck pain does get better. I feel my body has communicated something to me. I run my hands along my left shoulder, grabbing my neck where it had hurt so badly, then I slide my hands down the rest of my body.
I love the violin, an amazing possibility of sound contained in a stiff yet womanly instrument. Wooden, I begin to speak of the anger and pain. Waxing my bow, I begin to see that my father will never leave my psyche.
About ten days after the pain stopped, Susie and Jean, her lover, took me out to lunch to celebrate my birthday. My father was still on my mind. Jean also had problems with her father. Susie helped the conversation along because she knew both of our stories. I learned that Yugoslav fathers and Cuban fathers had things in common, and that Jean had fought hard against her father’s possessiveness as well.
But there was a charm about these men. Susie liked Jean’s father and got along with him. I had always felt my father was sweeter to my friends, and embarrassingly flirtatious, although he was so hard and distant with me, perhaps afraid of himself around me. I was glad for the interaction with Jean, and felt a closeness and a connection.
When we got home, I had to get ready for work—second shift at the aircraft factory near the airport. I really didn’t feel like going. Susie called me into the other room and said, “You don’t have to accept, but Jean and I would like to give you a special gift. We’d like to make love to you for your birthday.
My eyes widened. Looking away, I said, “What about work?”
She laughed. “Call in sick.” I shook my head seriously, my heart pounding within me like it was another person. “Think about it,” she said.
How could I turn down this offer from a dear trusted friend and her attractive lover? It was too good to be true, and I hadn’t had sex in a while. I went upstairs, got into my work pants and flannel shirt. Then I dialed work.
We laughed awkwardly at first, my waterbed rocking us around. Susie’s laugh is full and free, her eyes glisten. Jean is strong and dynamic. She knows women well and seems much better at giving her lovemaking than receiving. I know Susie loves sex with Jean, and I enjoy experiencing their intimacy, as well as their pleasure with me. They undress me, kiss me gently. I begin to relax into their gift.
I feel an excitement and looseness in my body that I have never felt before, as if I were swiftly coming alive after a long sleep. A fluidity grows with their focus on my body, both women caressing me, my vagina opening wider than I’ve ever felt, unabashedly wanting more than I’ve ever wanted. The tips of my breasts seem to be drawing out some very deep sound in me.
I love the complexity of our attentions. Their making love to me turns into Jean and Susie loving each other. I touch both of them with tender affection. I want time to stop. But when Jean turns to me alone with her virtuoso energy and prowess, Susie leaves the room, jealous at being excluded. I don’t want to face this conflict just now—the pitch between Jean and me is high—so the two of us go on alone.
We wrangle. She can be rough and gentle at the same time, utterly patient with my rhythm, pulling my hair, wanting to reach my mouth. I feel like thanking her at one point, but I just surrender to her capable hands and enjoy.
We take a rest and woo Susie back to bed—she loves us and even loves the chance to cry. I watch the intimacy between them as Jean coaxes Susie’s frustrations out, tears and all. I feel I shouldn’t be there, that there is something very private going on.
They begin to make love. I ask if I should leave. Of course not. I hold Susie as Jean makes love to her. Slowly, cajoling with words, Jean makes Susie come. I am witness to a powerful and sacred moment. My dear friend is glad I am there, I feel her softness and warmth. Now I cry, too, moved by the emotions and intensity of all that is happening. We are close and open with each other. My small chamber is about to burst.
For days after this symphonic night, my body trembles with a hum at my very center. A tuning fork I never knew about, its tines vibrate and send out the sounds of my surviving spirit throughout my body, newly aware. I’m so loose it seems I could easily fall apart. I remember reaching, stretching, holding, pulling, forgetting all responsibilities and obligations, hurts and memories, as I listen to some preverbal, prehistoric sound inside. I let the hands of my friends reach my deepest nook and their arms hold me so tightly I cry.
I feel the wood of my body ease into music. Can I survive like this? In this body that I set aside with the beating, this body that has held on to all the complex emotions about my father, wanting to win him and yet hating him for such cruelty?
Straining my senses, I release some of the pain, the tightness that seized me that night and took the place of young romance. Loved with such abandon by Susie and Jean, I have lost the need to touch my father’s face. My violin has its own music.
Part 2: Activist
“What is writing but translating.”
Emerging Voices
She didn’t speak. I watched her—serious, diligent. I was the substitute teacher. She was from Vietnam. She seemed to understand what people said. She did her assignments. She seemed to have friends.
I wondered how she got by in her seventh grade class, whether she spoke at home with her family; maybe she spoke in her language. Had she been traumatized? The regular teacher didn’t explain; she just warned me the girl didn’t speak and told me not to worry.
I saw something of myself in that silent student. Her lack of speech recalled my own difficulties in school. I had grown up in a working-class immigrant household myself, and now I search for ways to help myself and other teachers understand our students and their needs better.
Immigrants and their children continuously experience the quandary of being in two cultures (or maybe more). Their culture’s values may conflict with those of the U.S. For example, U.S. elderly are often institutionalized, whereas in most cultures this would be considered inhumane and immoral. There are many such conflicting values—how children are raised, regard for authority, the political process, and so on.
To be homesick for the old country and not fully embrace the U.S. can be very isolating. I remember how my parents and relatives longed for a Yugoslavia that no longer existed after World War II. My parents held onto their old ways—a Slavic peasant culture—while living in New York City. Mythicizing the old country hindered their assimilation. They did not have much support in their acculturation, and like many immigrants, they made a lot of mistakes before achieving their few successes. I am sure they felt awkward and uncomfortable in ways I could not understand as a child.