Unfinished Life

By Dalumasa

A woman who tells us her story as a young immigrant girl, who witnessed a form of child abuse and neglect from her mother, and was exposed to incidents in her family which border sexual molestation by her neighbor, keeping it a secret and trying to not let it shape her. As we are invited to read her first of many stories and events and the trials that brought her where she is in her life today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781982259723

Dalumasa

Dalumasa came to the USA in her preteen years and attended schools until graduating from high school wanted to go to college, was not given the opportunity to do so. struggled through her life with abuse and sexual inadequacies, speech issues, self esteem.

Book preview

Chapter 1

G rowing up as the oldest daughter of eight children was not what I thought my childhood was supposed to be. I realize that as I look back now as an adult with children of my own.

We lived in a two-bedroom second-floor apartment in a family-owned house, where we moved after coming to the United States in the summer of 1973. I can barely bring back the memories of those early days, when our lives seemed simple in that small town.

In southern Italy, in a quaint mountain town, my life was shaped into who I am today. God only knows what else happened that my brain won’t process. I often try to bring back bits and pieces of what went on there. This is my story, and I dedicate it to the loves of my life. They know who they are.

I sit quietly alone and try to bring back all the details. They won’t come to me. I can only recall the good memories. They are so sweet. I will hold on to them until my eyes close.

I was the oldest but only because my mother had given birth to a set of twin girls who, sadly, passed from complications. I always hoped I would have a little girl who resembled me. I was adorable, with chubby cheeks; big, round dark eyes; and curly dark hair—a bella. Although I went through a lot of years of being goofy and feeling ugly, when I look now at myself in the mirror, I like what I see. I feel content with myself.

Our home in Italy was even smaller than our later home in America: we had one bedroom, a small kitchen, a dining room, and a tiny bathroom that had our washing machine in it too.

I was the designated one to work the washing machine, which had to be manually wound to wash and spin the clothes, which Mom would then hang out on our balcony to dry.

I loved our little home; it felt like our private, safe place. Sadly, my safe place wasn’t spared terror and violence. The abuse that went on there was horrific, yet the day we left, I felt so sad that tears came down. Both happiness and an empty feeling overcame me because I was leaving the only life I had known. Was it wrong? You tell me.

My father was perhaps one of the most handsome men in our town. I would look up at him and admire his good looks: the dark wave of his full head of hair, deep-set brown eyes, and full red lips. To me, he was tall and muscular, although he was only a little taller than five feet, seven inches. As I grew up, I realized he wasn’t as tall as I’d made him out to be. He was a hardworking laborer; I don’t recall a day when he was at home instead of at work. Thank God I have that trait from him—thank you, Papa. I admire that trait in any person, and I see it in my own children.

Mother was a stay-at-home mom, having babies every two years or so. My parents wanted a big family, but times were tough. In the 1960s in Europe, the government didn’t assist large families, as they do today, and politics were corrupt, though it is not hard to imagine that as an adult today, as we still face obstacles.

My father never stopped; he worked weekends and took any side job he could get his hands on. He loved Mother dearly; I saw that whenever he glanced her way. She was a tough woman to deal with, and I’m sure Father tried as hard as he could. Mother was also a beautiful woman with a gorgeous figure. I see why he loved her so much, and I also know firsthand why she drove him crazy and at times pushed him to the brink of violence, leading to the love-hate relationship that was born between them as the years went on.

Mother woke me up in the middle of the night one night. Get up! We have to leave for America. Wash your face, and get dressed.

I didn’t process what she was saying, but I got up and did what she told me. Then I heard her yell from the dining room, Wake up your sisters and your brother, and get them ready! As that was my job every single fucking day of my existence, I did that too.

She had the youngest baby in her room and was getting her ready. I knew how to change diapers and feed and take care of babies by the age of six. I had no choice: Mother needed help. I went into the kitchen and saw Mother had cut up all the old bread, so I put it in bowls and added milk and sugar and made my sisters and brother quickly eat. I watched my parents bring a lot of suitcases down the stairs.

My nonna and nonno were there to say goodbye to us. All of us were crying. I was trying to comfort the younger ones, but I needed to be comforted. I felt I was being ripped away from the only place we called home. I still remember the feeling of having my heart torn out and saying, Forget all this. We all rushed around. I got all my siblings ready, helping them into their coats and hats, and then off we went, running downstairs, where all the grown-ups said goodbye to each other. Mother kissed her mom and dad. I felt her sorrow.

My nonna grabbed me and held me tightly, kissing me all over. She whispered, Don’t forget me, please.

That crushed me to the core. I told her I would never forget her. I would write her letters, and maybe we could call her sometime. I loved my grandparents; I spent all my time near them. I made great memories with them, but time and distance either can make the heart grow fonder or can bring a mindset of Out of sight, out of mind, and when we moved to the other side of the world, the distance was too great.

I had to leave all that part of my young life there, the good and the bad. I only knew the bad. No one knew I saw the bad too, for I was only ten years old the day we left. I relived in that moment all the dirty secrets, the abuse and violence between my parents, and the feeling of not being loved by Mother, of being alone in the world. The only one who loved me unconditionally was my father. He hugged and kissed me with sincerity. You know what I’m saying! You can feel when you are loved.

When we landed at Kennedy Airport, I had no clue where we were or why