A Random Figurine: Me and My Three Mothers

By Susannah D. McCallum

Ive written this book for two reasons; first because my story is different and I thought it would be of interest to my readers, and second, as a therapeutic tool for myself, recollecting memories of my past and the significance each event has had for me in coming to terms with my story.
The books first three chapters describes my relationship with the three women who represented a mother figure to me and my unending need to find my birth mother and my roots.
As I eventually find her, my true sentiments for her are described as well as those for my two also found brothers.
I describe one of my most intense sentiments, how Ive always had an urge for my homeland, unable ever to adjust to a different territory, as well as the memories from my early years as I visit my country again and how they impact my inner self.
I bring to light the unfairness to the adopted in not allowing them the right to know who they are, a primary need for most, which is a basic human right and how the truth, even when painful, should always prevail.
I talk about four primary feelings that have been my constant companions and try to understand them.
Later, traveling through different countries a month after finding my roots enabled me to look at my persona not as a different unique one but as just part of all humanity and allowed me to be more understanding as to my place with its respect.
In the end, more hidden feelings arise and I am able to accept them as such.
It has been therapeutic as well as more self-assuring to my nature as the dark passages in my life and the endurance I developed resolves most of my internal conflicts.
I timidly engaged into writing and without prior expertise have written each word as it flew directly from my heart and although I do accept my imperfections, I am grateful for this experience, a sanctuary for me, a tool and an inspiration for those with similar challenges and an informant for those without them.

Susannah D. McCallum

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 2, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462813889

Susannah D. McCallum

Susanna D, McCallum was born in England in 1941. At the age of 5 she was sent to Cuba to be adopted. She presently lives in the United States. Susannah is married and has three grown daughters, four grandchildren and two recently found brothers. For 40 years she worked in the Health Care system and is presently retired. She enjoys nature, classical music, swimming, gardening and yoga.

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Copyright © 2008 by Susannah D. McCallum.

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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46285

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

HER BLUE EYES—Sister Theresa

CHAPTER 2

DRESSED IN BLACK—Julia

CHAPTER 3

IT IS A SAD DAY—Desiree

CHAPTER 4

FINDING HER

Chapter 5

THE REUNION

CHAPTER 6

THE SECOND VISIT

CHAPTER 7

MY THREE MOTHERS

CHAPTER 8

FEELINGS

CHAPTER 9

ME NOW

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT

THE SILENT WOMAN

EPILOGUE

Dedication

To Maria

mi prima

For your eternal love

For your constant smile

For your strength

Never to be forgotten

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Susannah serving tea, London 1944

CHAPTER 1

HER BLUE EYES—Sister Theresa

Her eyes are defined by the contrast of the soft blue color we see on the sky that mellows our spirit, and the deep determination seen on those who possess fortitude.

She is small with a strong frame, her hands delicate, her features still reflect the beauty from her younger years, the lines of maturity present, the skin aged but healthy, the eyes the centerpiece, dominating and focused.

She wears her nun habit, covers the rest of her body except for her hands and face, walks a steady slow walk holding her cane, the image of an old woman, however, her sight inspires all who surround her; her history, her character.

She speaks profoundly and people listen, the aura that surrounds her magical, she listens and although it may appear she is not, she absorbs the subject, pauses, and her response will always be wise and truthful.

She turned 102 last year, 75 of those dedicated to serve God and humanity. Her powerful memory intact, she keeps up with the latest news; the rest of the time, she sits in church and closes her eyes, makes an intimate contact with God and uses the power of praying or when not, talks with those like me who still listen and need her.

She met me when I was brought to a Catholic Convent in London, being her Mother Superior, and I, 15 months old. My person, from birth to this age, born to a good woman but motherless by an unknown choice, had been taken care by a nurse from the hospital. Unable to continue doing so, she desperately seeks the help of the nuns at the Convent.

It was wartime, and the government had requested help caring for children who either were orphans or whose care was needed because their parents were serving the country.

The nurse who nurtured my existence, a black woman, had obviously done a good job. I was healthy, well fed and with prominent rosy cheeks, full of energy and well developed.

Her reasons for caring for me are unknown; I believe they were probably from arrangements made with my grandmother since my birth mother was not going to be able to keep me.

The Convent had allocated 7 children under their care, the smallest one being 3 years old. I was only 15 months, unable to keep up with the older children, but they were delighted with me, and I followed them, and so was Sister Theresa, the Mother Superior.

She asked the nurse, whom I’ve never been able to identify, to please spend a month with me at the Convent to make the transition easier. A week passed and my tiny body was left under the full care of Sister Theresa.

Her instinct for motherhood took over. Sister Theresa became my substitute mother, pouring her care and love into my helpless self, alone in this world, as a leaf dropped by a tree that the wind pulls farther and farther away.

My thoughts at the time I don’t remember, unable at that age to perceive my fate. Too small to understand, all I needed at the moment was for gentle hands to guide me and love me. My genetic connection stripped, powerless in me to rebel and claim my rights.

Theresa was born in Spain, the smallest of 6 children, 5 girls and a boy. Her parents were very religious and inspired their beliefs into their children.

They lived on a farm, the family unit strong. The children worked with their parents, learning to plant and collect its fruit from an early age, wondering through the open space, in contact with the marvels of nature, climbing trees, refreshing themselves in the river, the sunrise and sunset evolving on a simple but unbreakable family.

Prayer was a daily routine, church visits a weekly must, the parents centering in their minds the priority of honoring God.

As they grew, her sisters, one at a time, joined the religious life, customary at that time for many families, and especially in Theresa’s, where being religious and serving God was a priority. Their mother had cautioned them to wait until they were 21 years before committing themselves; some of Theresa’s sisters did not wait that long and joined the religious life earlier.

However, this was not the case with Theresa. Having charisma and enjoying life and people, she was unsure of her future. She wanted to feel God’s call before taking such a serious decision, a decision that would prevent her from marrying and having children.

She reached her 21st birthday, free and outgoing, her dreams of the future not clear. She liked the world, the adventures, the contact with nature and people. She liked to express herself with no boundaries, and to learn and listen from those who surrounded her.

At the age of 24, her thoughts about the future had become clearer, and still partially uncertain of its significance, Theresa was riding on a train on her way to join the religious life.

She cried on her way, as she has told me, afraid of the future, not knowing if her strong and open character would fit under the strict regulations of her new life, afraid also of betraying God, to whom she had offered her life to be lived as He wished.

It did not take long for Theresa to hear the call she had for so long yearned to hear more clearly, and as time went by, she became assured internally that becoming a nun would allow her to reach humanity in a more spiritual way, her voice did not have to be silent and blindly obedient, that God had chosen her to follow His path. Her dream was to become a missionary.

And so, with time, Theresa traded her common life for one of prayer and dedication, her wardrobe for the habit, covering her feminine body, including her hair, as if it was necessary to hide it in spite of it being God’s creation, only allowing her face and hands exposed for the rest of her life, a paradox to eliminating the distraction of one’s physical features to interfere with the intimate offering of oneself to God.

She takes her final vows and is sent to France, where she spends her first nine months as a nun, her new name, Sister Theresa.

She is then sent to London and struggles to learn the English language, which she masters after a few months.

The war starts and she is given a choice to leave, but her response is to stay, always repeating her favorite phrase I can, fortunate for me because she drilled it in my mind also.

Her major role during this period of time, other than to pray, was to accommodate young Jewish ladies who came from the east of Europe, many of them having seen their own mothers sent to the gas chamber.

Sister Theresa taught them English so they could find jobs, offering them a roof to stay, and food.

By then, she had been assigned as Mother Superior, her goal to become a missionary still present, but dedicated to her role to help those presently in need.

It was during this time that I appeared in her life. As the nuns at recess time were sitting on a semicircle, I was asked to choose whom I liked most. My toddler eyes locked on hers and hers on mine and I ran to her arms. And so, I became her follower, absorbing her gentle love, learning her strength of character, wanting to help as I started to grow.

I believe that to her, I meant a return gift from God; her chance for motherhood denied because of her choice to serve Him, was rewarded with me. She thought I was intelligent, still does, as she recounts stories of my childhood, the same as mothers who brag of their genetic children.

She brags at my ability to learn prayers, to give logical answers, to return her unconditional love by choosing the best pieces of food for her plate, to be her companion on her shopping outings, to offering my help and wanting to be useful.

She tells stories of me such as when my 2nd birthday came up and she had organized a small party only to find me fast asleep under the sofa, and the time we went shopping and I wanted a telephone toy to which she explained she had not enough money and I had to choose between eating or talking on the phone. Naturally I chose food.

She cared for me when I was sick and when I caught the measles she brought me into her room to personally watch over me and following somebody’s advice, placed red pieces of material on the windows to help the skin eruption heal.

Her and me, brought together by unusual circumstances, filling each other’s hearts with our needs, mine, for my mother, hers, for motherhood.

As such, we stayed together from me being 15 months, till I was 5, the years blending our dependence on each other. I was content, felt secured and received the motherly love each child deserves.

I have very little memories of these years. The ones I do, started between the ages of 3 and 5. All of them are just flashbacks of special moments, me in the back garden running around, me being taken on a horse ride, me in the tub splashing water and happy, me looking forward to my daily afternoon snack of strawberries and milk, me being in church and singing, the detailed tiled floor and the majestic staircase at the entrance of the building.

During the war, Sister Theresa felt responsible for the safety of the children under her care as well as for the other nuns and tenants in the London’s convent. She did not think of her own safety, her priority always placed on those who surrounded her, she being the guiding light, the one who always preoccupied herself for others and not for herself, me being the one she tenderly protected most because I was too young to understand, always reaching for her comfort and security which she blindly returned.

There were two Convents, one in London, and the other in the country. When London was attacked, she decided to transport the children, tenants and some nuns to the country site in order to protect them.

She traveled from one house to the other to keep her responsibilities going and I would cry and fuzz every time we separated.

It was my 3rd birthday, and softening at my cries, she promised I would join her on the next trip to London.

She was my pillar of strength, and although all loved me at the Convent, I could not see myself without her.

London being attacked, the strength of its people never failing. Families gathered together and hid on the underground for safety. The beauty of this old world destroyed, leaving behind just rubble, did not destroy the stoicism of the British people or their government.

Food was scarce, the loss of family members touching most, the streets unrecognizable, the sirens announcing an attack would be heard with panic, the soldiers marching creating the noise of discipline, their heavy boots rhythmically touching the floor.

None of this weakened their strength of heart, rather, it increased it. The power of defending one’s country stamped on each soul, never to concede, fight till victory.

Sister Theresa, another nun and I traveled from the country to our house in London. I was delighted, next to my hero and protector, a gift for my birthday I knew she would not forget.

It was midnight, me sleeping with my childhood dreams, Sister Theresa on watch.

One o’clock in the morning, June 25th 1944, me being 3 years old, the quietness of that particular night was interrupted by the terrifying sound of a flying bomb, the clocks stopped, the front of our house hit, the sound of destruction overpowering one’s mind, the dust in the air, blinding with its thickness, the three of us, me, Sister Theresa and another nun in one of the front rooms.

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Convent destroyed by bomb June 25th 1944, London

I woke up in a panic, we couldn’t see each other, every room around us destroyed, yet, the three of us alive, the room where we were, the only one preserved.

Sister Theresa managed to find me and carried me, holding me tight in her arms, and walked thru the rubble to safety. She had two goals in her mind, saving me and recovering the Eucharist in the chapel.

A priest nearby came to help and Sister Theresa walked thru the rubble again defiantly till she reached the altar in the chapel and was able to remove the Eucharist and place it in the hands of the priest.

I don’t have any memories of this incident but it was obviously stored in my subconscious. Later, I used to dream I was sleeping in a white iron bed, the linens crispy and white, and as I woke up, I would notice there were no walls around me, only darkness, and my bed was suspended in the air. I had no fear of this dream, just a magical one, the terrifying memory of destruction my childish eyes had seen, the intensity of the noise and the blindness of the air, erased or kept hidden permanently, maybe just temporarily to resurface in an unknown future.

I interpreted this dream as one that would tell me my life would be surrounded by a lot of darkness, however, the strength and purity of my living would remain intact and I would always have the internal comfort of being able to reach for serenity and peace.

Other memories stored did cause an effect. The sound of sirens unending and strong, to this day, arise in me a sense of uneasiness. The sound of soldiers marching, the rhythmical movement of their boots against the floor produces unsettlement, a sense of insecurity.

I do not know why our life was spared from death. The room where we slept was the only area saved. The answer is unclear but I’ve always felt there had to be a reason. My birth was incongruent, not to the pleasure for those surrounding me, however, my life had a meaning and I came into this world for a reason; the chance of dying young was close but it didn’t happen.

I’m sure there was a bigger reason for Sister Theresa to survive. She was most needed in this world, starting with me and followed by the hundreds of people she touched and helped thru her path as a nun and later as a missionary. Her life is so valuable; God keeps her around us, because as aged as she is, the constant gardener of hope is still working.

Within weeks of the destruction, Sister Theresa was active trying to find a new house. Money was scarce, but her passion to house the needed, was stronger than the negative adversities ahead of her. A few months after, a new house was found and Sister Theresa had fulfilled her dream.

My relationship with her continued to grow. I learned from her on a daily basis. She was my security, my instructor and my substitute mother, but as I started to have more knowledge of the family unit, mother and father, I started questioning her about my father, not my mother, although she was in my mind as I saw other girls who had both and I wondered where mine was.

At one point I asked the doctor if he was my father to which he kindly responded he wasn’t but would have been delighted to be.

Sister Theresa picked up on my needs, and with her unselfish love, started to realize I was in need of a complete family, the only solution, finding a pair of adopted parents.

I think of her troubled mind at that moment. My needs would mean separating from me forever. How could she? I was then, to her, the daughter that fulfilled her maternal instinct, her companion, and her shadow. How could she let me go? I imagine her interior battle, the fortitude of character she needed to reach the right decision, her prayers for enlightment, the solace and pain in her soul, as she continued to care for me, knowing one day it would be over.

There was a Cuban nun at the convent whose brother and wife, who lived in Cuba, had been married for 7 years and although they desperately wanted children, nothing had happened. On hearing my story, they became interested and wanted to adopt me.

If this happened, I would be traveling to another continent, but the primary goal was to place me in the hands of a couple that would love me and offer a steady family environment. I was then 4 years old.

Sister Theresa saw this opportunity as her last unselfish gift to me, and disregarding her personal feelings, started to investigate how she could accomplish it. She visited lawyers who immediately told her in those times a British child could only be adopted inland, never out of the country.

But she continued her search, never giving up, an attribute that characterizes her and she kept on asking. There had to be a way for her to provide me with the gift she believed will fulfill my needs. Her prayers and her faith guiding her steps.

A picture of my future parents was given to me, a couple in their late thirties early forties, he dressed in a white suit, his hair black and combed straight back closed to the scalp, the eyes big, black, an intelligent expression, the nose prominent, the lips thin with a smile. I thought he was handsome.

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Susannah with future parents photo, London Feb 1945

In the front of him her image, close to him, petite, a delicate dress on her, the hair neatly arranged, her eyes lighter than his but also dark, the expression strong, her nose defined, her lips also thin. Her image for me had no emotional impact. Sister Theresa was my substitute mother and I was satisfied with it. It was my father’s image I proudly admired and longed for.

I saw him through this photo as my protector, the same as Sister Theresa, except he would be my father, with whom I would always feel safe. At the tender age between 4 and 5, my perception of his figure in relation to me was clear; I will never have to worry again for my safety, and he will look at me with pride and protect me. I felt excited, not realizing the price I would have to pay for my dreams.

I carried their photo with me and showed it to everyone and took pictures holding it. The expression of my face was one of happiness,