Rose Colored Glasses: A Memoir

By Lisa Mae

A riveting account of a girl who was destined to become a leader and blaze a trail to make a global impact. When 10 year old Lisa Mae stumbles upon a scene that will forever change the way she views her world, she is forced to grow up and take on the battles that plague her and her four siblings. A book about finding your identity amidst chaos, poverty and abuse, Rose Colored Glasses weaves a myriad of life events into a compelling story that will have you cheering for the girl who never gave up on herself or her family. As poignant as it is poetic, Lisa Mae manages to sprinkle humor and heartbreak into beautiful prose. A must read!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257213283

Book preview

you...

Prologue:

Sweat drips across bodies as breathing ascends. Chest hurts. Heart threatens to leap out as palms grow clammy and then wet. Soaking the sheets—a mixture of sweat, fear and possibly urine. Thumping against the wall as glass breaks. A woman screams as hand connects with flesh. Generations of anger mix with decades of fear in the air. A blanket of remorse hangs in the bedroom where children lay. This is only the beginning of a long evening.

As Time escapes from the home, an eerie luminance casts a dream-like glow in every room. Movement accelerates in rapid motion and then slows with exaggeration—like a record player that has gone haywire. Children whimper, and then weep with caution, afraid the man with the loud voice might hear them and come in. Leg muscles clench involuntarily as cells remember the sting of a belt. Another glass breaks.

The man with the booming voice rattles walls. They vibrate with a vengeance that rivals earthquakes. Woman’s voice is muffled as a fist plants firmly into her jaw, followed by a kick to the stomach. Ribs break. Woman howls into the night air. The children have seen it all before and can imagine what is happening in the next room despite hiding under drenched bed sheets and being surrounded by rattling walls.

Man drags woman by hair, digging his thick fingers into her short mane. Bits of scalp lodge in fingernails. Pain. The man shouts angry curse words causing the children to burrow deeper in the bed. They know what is coming next. One, two, three, four, five seconds... Woman is thrown against the wall as wind rushes out of her. Whoosh...

No air at all in the household.

Gasping for breath. Gasping for understanding. Struggling to stand up. Aching to live. Seconds melt into each other and create a long period of quiet—a deep dark quiet just before the blood rushes. Then it comes. Nose gushes, followed by mouth. Tiny rivers of red flow from the corners. Cuts on the forehead release as pain crescendos. Inside the tomb—a broken spirit. Bones weep. Heart wallows. Organs forget how to function.

Exhaustion and fatigue creep in to nestle in fingertips. Man backs away from crime scene and stumbles into oblivion. Children feel anger slither outside the door when man moves past. Stomachs drop. Shudder. As woman slips into unconsciousness, Time re-enters the front door. Hazy glow begins to fade. Clear. Hands still wet with anticipation, air still thick with sadness. Breathing difficult—but lungs adapt. A plume of smoky black descends upon the eyes. A cursed silence. Lights out.

All in the Family

My family was an island. We existed in our own little world and did not venture outside very often. Oh, we left the house on many occasions; Dad worked, we children went to school, and Mom did whatever it was she did when she was not at home—but we never took ourselves with us. We kept that part behind closed doors. This was top-secret information and no one was allowed to reveal it. Not that we would have at the time. My siblings and I had taken our scripts and read them thoroughly, so cue cards were not needed. We knew what was expected of us. We were to remain silent.

We were to remain silent.

In my family there was my father who ruled the house with an iron fist. He was raised by his mother and stepfather who had also ruled the house with an iron fist. When Dad was a child, he endured an unimaginable world where he was molested and beaten along with his seven siblings. He was shuffled between the houses of family members and friends, while grandmother hopped from bed to another. His stepfather spent his afternoons choosing which child to engage in inappropriate sexual behavior. The fallout from this abuse spawned a group of children that would later destroy other lives.

As Dad grew older, he did not receive emotional or financial support, so he was forced to rely on his own intuition. He learned how to survive with his older brother and put himself through college working various odd jobs and saving money. He played basketball for New Mexico State University and had a promising basketball career. He obtained a degree in social work and had dreams of becoming a professional basketball player. Dad had had a bright future ahead of him.

My mother stood in the shadows. She was an awkward piece of furniture, not quite fitting in with the rest of the ensemble. Though she made weak attempts at integration, she remained detached from the family. That was also her place as a child. She was adopted at the age of six by an older European couple after spending several years being shuffled from one foster home to another. Mom describes my British grandmother as being slightly neurotic and controlling. Grandmother often denied my mother necessities unless she asked for them in English. Spanish was her first language and it was difficult to break the communication barrier. Within a year, Grandmother succeeded in eliminating Mother’s native tongue forever.

Because she wanted to please her new parents, Mom strived to become the model child. She stayed out of trouble, received excellent marks in school, participated in the drama club, taught modern dance and graduated high school at the top of her class. When girls her age were making out in the backseat of cars with boys, Mother was at home, textbook cracked open and adolescence creeping out the window. She went to New Mexico State University where she met my father and dropped out of college a few credits shy of graduating. Mom had had a bright future ahead of her.

I don’t know the events which took place in between their childhood and their bright futures. Mom suddenly decided to drop out of college and Dad remained. She left behind modern dance. He abandoned his NBA dreams and settled into small-town married life. The two of them gave up their dreams, making the ultimate sacrifice. I often wondered what had drawn the two of them together. Was it the reflection of scars they saw within each other that attracted them like a magnet?

Any attempts to reminisce about the past are always thwarted by Dad—unless he wants to talk about illicit affairs on mother’s behalf. Mom has a hard time remembering facts, often painting the truth with her own colors, so I am left to muse and assume. But whatever had happened in between made no difference to what was happening to us now. Our bright futures seemed unattainable. Did we have bright futures ahead of ourselves?

I was born in the summer of 1979 when Mother was twenty-one. At that time, my parents were living in a one-room apartment struggling to make ends meet. They each worked at a fast food restaurant part-time, while Dad finished school on a basketball scholarship. His dreams of going pro disappeared soon after my arrival, leaving resentment to take its place where his dreams had once been. Money was scarce and Dad kept his disappointment embedded in his fists.

My sister Clarissa came about a year and a half later, making us a family of four. We lived in a tiny apartment across the street from my father’s mother and we settled into a meager life, living off of the small income Dad provided working in restaurant management. The signs of severe dysfunction were already there, but no one paid attention. Mom and Dad continued to pro-create.

When I was four years old Laurel came on board. From the day they brought her home I had a special connection with her. Mother would recount how I was very possessive and would slap at Clarissa’s hands whenever she drew close to the cradle. You can’t touch my baby. You’ll hurt her. I had the overwhelming sense to keep guard over Laurel. Anyone who got close to her was likely to have their hand slapped or be interrogated. I was even suspicious of Mother’s intentions to hold her.

Mom was pregnant with twins shortly after Laurel was born, but along with Jonathan’s birth came an empty placenta, and so she only had one child. Mom had complications with the pregnancy and was advised not to have any more children. By this time, my parents were struggling to put food in our mouths, so any more children would have been inconceivable to imagine. But Mom and Dad were not ready to follow sound advice, so shortly after the doctor’s warning; Mom got pregnant with Andy. I was almost eight years old.

This would prove to be Mom’s hardest pregnancy and she was bedridden most of the term. When she was in her seventh month, she began bleeding heavily and was whisked off to the hospital. The rest of us were bundled up and sent to stay with a family friend for several days while Dad stayed with Mom in the hospital. Those several days stretched into a long period of fear and uncertainty.

I was scared she was going to die. Mommy’s not going to come back! She was in the hospital for so long, I was sure we would never see her again. Each day seemed like a year and I could feel electric anticipation coursing through the lot of us. It did not help that Dad was a nervous wreck each time he came to visit us. He would pace back and forth running his dark fingers through his short tight curls. His brown eyes darted back and forth as if he couldn’t decide what to rest his eyes on first. I had never seen him look so distraught before. I had to stop myself from asking questions. What is happening to Mom?

When Dad came to see us he never said a word about her. It was frustrating not to be given answers. It was not easy being stowed away in a stranger’s house, while Dad disappeared for long years at a time. Late at night was the worst because we were locked inside of a dark room and could not get out--not even to use the bathroom. I was afraid of the dark and we were made to lie there until morning. I could hear my two little sisters and baby brother whimpering, unsure of what was going on, but knowing things were not okay.

We each had an innate understanding about the things we did not speak of out loud. We knew it was taboo to talk about what was going on. We knew our parents were not going to tell us what was going on. We knew chances were that something bad was happening or about to happen. Words were not needed; we had our instinct. So we lay in the pitch black, waiting for Dad to not tell us what was happening to Mom.

Years later we were finally told the truth. Mom had not been expected to survive the delivery. The doctors doubted they would be able to save both my mother and brother, so Dad was asked to sign papers allowing the doctors to attempt a rescue mission. This would mean risking my brother’s life, but Dad opted to take a chance. Thankfully, the doctors were able to save them both.

We were now a family of seven.

During the next several years our parents would teach us how to wear our masks, hiding everything that was genuine. We learned how to evade questions by answering them with questions of our own. We discovered people were eager to talk about themselves, thus taking the spotlight off of us and placing it somewhere else. We became intimate with shame, disappointment and anger. Wearing it daily with the worn-out and mismatched clothing we were provided.

None of us were allowed to talk about feelings or express emotions. These were taboo subjects—the Original Sin. We were born to obey. If one had an opinion, it was better to keep it to oneself. You never knew if it would piss off Mom or Dad. You must always be on your best behavior when out of doors, boys and girls. Remember to wear your masks, children.

How could we forget? That was rule number one.

Dad was fond of teaching us rule number two, which was the theory of mind over matter. He declared himself professor and we all lined up to be given our lessons for the day. Never succumb to weaknesses. Never give in to fears. If we had the flu or suffered any ailment, medication was not necessary to feel better; it was simply a mind over matter situation. If later we suffered from a mental disorder or addiction, a simple process called—you guessed it—‘Mind Over Matter’ would cure it.

As the years progressed, this popular notion would be his favorite retort for any affliction or complication suffered. It’s all about mind over matter. You need to control your damn self! Usually, we were left feeling dumb and inadequate because none of us could grasp the concept very well. I was always flunking the course. Dad was quick to remind me of my failure. You’re so damn stupid! You need to use your mind over matter. But my mind never wanted to cooperate.

The kids and I learned to remain concealed when Dad was hitting Mom. Most of the beatings took place in the evening, so it was easy to stay in our rooms and hide under the blankets to drown out the sounds. But if one of them took place in the afternoon, we knew to run directly to our rooms and wait for silence to signal it was okay to step out of them again. Five sets of eyeballs in various shades of brown met with each other in states of panic as we played with our broken toys and prayed to the heavens above. Please God, don ’t let this one last too long...

We were experienced in talking to Mother with a straight face while her black and bruised cheeks puffed out angrily in front of us. Mom, is it okay if we play outside? No, I don’t see anything on your face; did you try a new shade of lipstick? Only during extreme cases could emotions be revealed. And then, we were only permitted to show—not tell. We were allowed our tears from time to time, but our voices always remained silent. There were not cases extreme enough to call for that.

The five of us devised clever tricks to ease our pain. A favorite game we liked to play was: Hide the Torture Device. On many occasions we hid Dad’s favorite leather belt, a three-inch thick brown strap that left the most welts on our body. If any one of us was able to locate and hide it, it was a minor triumph. Guess what! I hid the belt inside of the trashcan! He will never find it there! We never laughed at our ingeniousness for long...

Eventually, Dad caught on to our little scheme and we paid dearly. There was a willow tree in the front yard and he forced us to pick a switch off of the tree to be whipped with. There wasn’t a way to choose a smaller branch as each were the same length and produced the same results. These welts took several days to heal. Dad would beat us until we peed ourselves, sometimes swinging while we sat on the toilet. The sting of each blow would sear the skin causing legs to shake involuntarily. Suddenly the leather belt sounded like heaven.

My siblings and I did not have many friends outside of home. It proved too much of a risk. Suppose one of them asked us a question and we accidentally slipped and said something? Suppose one of them wanted to come inside the house and we are forced to explain the mess, to explain the disorder and chaos? How could we explain a thing we did not understand? I was not going to make the mistake of revealing the family secret.

What was the family secret anyway? It was never clear what it was we were hiding. I only understood we were hiding and it was better to keep things that way. Mom and Dad say so... But had they really said anything? There were the implied and direct threats, but did they ever literally say: Do not tell anyone we are dysfunctional. Do not tell anyone we are poor. Do not make any references about being abused.

Or had I come up with that idea all on my own?

My family was an island. We did not venture outside very often. We stayed inside of ourselves, hiding behind the indirect and direct assaults which kept us subservient. We had been born on this island and we were destined to stay here. We were destined to hand our masks down to the next generation, continuing to build soundless individuals. We are expected to behave like good little children and avert our eyes. We must stay faithful to our religion—bibles always open to the book of silence. We like to keep it all in the family—the quiet which smothers us.

And I am the black sheep.

The Secret

I remember the day the veil of delusion was lifted from my eyes. The year was 1989 and I was ten years old. On this day I stumbled upon a scene that would change the way I looked at life forever. It was the moment when walls came crashing down and innocence no longer existed. It was the fateful day I died a first death. From these ashes resurrected the birth of a new being—a child warrior.

Being the oldest of five children, I possessed a maturity that only birthright and experience suggests. We children were lulled into a state of uneasy comfort aided by our parent’s ignorance. My family lived in a world filled with the beauty and wonder of deception. It was a place where self-denial was practiced as if it were a religion and masks were donned in lieu of human faces. Besides being born into an interracial family, I had no idea the world in which I lived was anything other than a normal household.

Dad was a man to be feared as well as to be loved. I thought of him as a tower of strength and a force to behold. The fierce spark within his dark brown eyes could command the attention of a whole room, forcing the occupants to cower in fear. There was not a wish that was not granted when he took center stage. By the time I was three years old, I knew how to read, but I also knew not to speak. Father taught me well.

There are two things in Dad’s life as important as the impulse to breathe: work and basketball. He rarely had time for anything else. We children used to spend our afternoons devising clever tricks to gain his attention. I would sit in my small room; caramel brown legs crossed underneath me Indian Style, with mind churning out ideas. Perhaps I will clean my room today. Maybe I should ask the kids to wash the dishes. A childish hope lingered within each plan generated. This will be the day Dad notices me.

Mother was the exact opposite of our father. While we children slunk in corners when Dad strutted past, we were likely to create a ruckus with Mom in the room. Despite moments of unruliness, I worshipped my mother. As much as Dad’s wishes were taken into consideration, Mother’s word was golden. I hung on every syrupy syllable she uttered and craved her love. The rumor that my untimely birth somehow forced the ill-fated union between my parents haunted me. One way or another I was going to make up for my oversight.

Mom never held on to a job for long. She seemed happiest sitting on the couch watching television or reading a book. I delighted in her smile. They came so few and far between, but when the corners of her cheeks turned up into a wide grin, it sent an electrical current of calm through my body. Even though her smile never quite kissed the whites of her eyes, it was magical. It felt as if we were safe to feel happy even when we knew we weren’t safe.

The five of us tried to ignore what was happening so we painted our parents in happy colors and imagined them endless. Endless love; endless happiness; endless peace. But in reality, our lives were anything but an endless joyride. Although we craved attention, our parents were oblivious to our needs. Yet, we remained hopeful. They will love us one day. They will pay attention next time. It was difficult to understand Mom and Dad were too caught up in their pain to be the parents we children needed them to be.

Pain was what we were born into. We grew up without eyes and with our mouths shut. Dad abused all of us. Mom let it happen. These stone-cold truths were imbedded in our core but it was easy to forget. We cautiously trotted around our tattered living room in an oblivious stupor and learned how to survive at all costs—even if that meant not dealing with reality. We learned to become acclimated to devastation and destruction in all its forms, and learned to accept the inheritance as our own.

Being a child was not an option. There were more important things to concentrate on other than playing with toys and indulging in hopscotch. As the eldest it was my responsibility to monitor the beatings from Dad. Although we struggled to remain on our best behavior, nursing angry welts on our legs was common. Remember to stay out of his way boys and girls. Always stay out of Daddy’s way. One of us always got caught in his warpath. It wasn’t easy being perfect.

Mom was the one who suffered on a regular basis. At a meager height of five-foot two compared to Dad’s height of five-foot eleven, Mother seemed to disappear in the wake of our Father. Dad commanded and consumed us, which made it difficult to remember she existed. What? You say we have a mother? No kidding! It was easy to forget things like that. Though he was not a huge man, Dad overpowered a room, making others seem nonexistent.

Dad desired attention; Mother hid from the world. With her jet-black hair and dark eyes, her pale skin appeared translucent next to Dad’s ebony skin. The only color Mom wore was angry bright blue blotches. Quite often her frail body would display the latest black and blue bruise. Her face swollen with the evidence of domestic violence forced us all to look away in embarrassment. How could we confront something that was supposed to be a secret?

Years later while mumbling over a beer or cocktail, Dad would explain his reasons for using his fists. His popular excuse: You’re mother was cheating on me! My body shut down when Dad angrily reminisced about the injustice of being cuckolded. Your mother deserved it because she was having an affair! That woman cheated on me! With years of silence tucked far into the back of my throat, it was difficult to announce what I wanted to say: You lying bastard! You almost killed us! Instead I only stared at him with a quiet that spanned decades, unable to comprehend why any reason would be good enough to hit someone.

Was there a valid excuse to beat a person black and blue?

Dad interrupted our childhood with accusations and what I assumed were lies about our mother. Mommy couldn’t possibly do any wrong! Daddy’s a liar! There was a sense a certain side should be taken on the issue and the rest of us were the nominated jury. Reluctantly, we took our places behind the jury box and watched each of our parents plead their case and obtain a ‘not guilty’ verdict. Both parties were acquitted due to misrepresentation of facts and Mother’s habit to dismiss her own case.

From birth to the age of ten I never questioned the reasons for Dad’s wrath or Mom’s servility. It was simply a part of our lives. We found it just as normal as having a third arm or a sixth toe. None of us needed to be aware of our folly. We were puppets dangling from the strings of our parent’s whims and each of us became acclimated to our cocoon of madness. We didn’t dream there could be any other way to live.

Perhaps there was an instinct within us that things were awry, but to admit this would have gone against the very religion we faithfully constructed. None of us was in a hurry to cast the first stone, and I was not eager to see the walls that were painstakingly put up for generations come tumbling down. But as with any unstable foundation, it was inevitable they would come crashing down with a vengeance.

Dad made no secret his suspicions of Mom’s infidelity. Children, I just know your momma is up to no good! However, his suspicions carried no merit. Mom was what I imagined a ‘kool-aid’ mom. I thought of her as someone who tended the house; who baked cookies and let my friends come over to play. I imagined her present at each of my choir solo rehearsals and helping me with homework. I pictured her sitting with the five of us, watching Mary Poppins and eating popcorn, and inserted that vision into memory every time I needed proof she was a good mother. Time would prove destructive to my illusions, but I was an impressionable child, eager to retain affection. I wanted Mom to be perfect.

The distance between my parents and me gave birth to an overwhelming desire to please them. What can I do to make Mom smile? What can I say to make Dad laugh? Maybe if I clean my room, I can get a pat on the back. I remained blissfully ignorant waiting on the smile that rarely came. In short, my parents were figments of my childish imagination, built up by an ever-increasing need to protect myself. There was no desire to be thrust into the chaotic and unpredictable world of realization—but ready or not, I was headed for a nice big surprise.

It was not unusual for me to make a late night appearance in the living room. I often checked in on Mom while Dad was gone. She usually slept on the couch to await his return. Until my parent’s heads rested against the side of their pillow, I could not fall asleep. After midnight, I would pad softly down the hallway in stocking feet pajamas. Normally, I expected to be greeted by a dimly lit room and the muted sound of the television. Mom would either be fast asleep on the couch or tuned in to some late show on Nick at Nite.

Depending on her mood, she might invite me to sit and watch reruns of Mork & Mindy. Her black eyes dancing with relief, bony arms outstretched, encouraging me forward. Excited to be close, I would snuggle up to her, resting my head on her shoulder. I would burrow so close I could smell the salt on her skin. Mother’s eyelashes would flutter as she fell into a broken sleep. On these evenings I was ‘The Protector.’ My sole purpose in life was for this moment. In some strange way I depended on them. I craved feeling needed.

But one day the living room scene would differ from the familiar.

My first introduction to The Realities of Life 101 was provided at the tender age of ten during one of these habitual excursions. The afternoon had started out with a puzzling telephone conversation and ended shrouded in mysterious betrayal. Later that same evening I awoke from a disturbing dream that left me hot and trembling. I could feel little beads of sweat trickle down my neck, soaking the front of my nightgown.

I slowly rose from the bed, shaking off the damp sheets interlaced between my legs and conducted the first part of my nightly ritual: Make sure the rest of the children are still asleep. The house we occupied at the