“The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist. The rider handed the passenger a small— folded paper. The guard opened the note that simply said, recalled to life” (A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens).
Thinking about this boy who was once me, it is very tough to approach him because he has been buried in my mind for over 70 years and now must be recalled to life. It helps me to dredge up this painful memory by thinking about how Dickens wrote about young boys who were neglected and mistreated by their parents. Dickens understood from his personal experiences how such children could be knocked around. He was sent to work in a blackening factory as a child to help support his family because his father could not resist gambling and excessive drinking. The love of literature saved Dickens. Even as a child, I took solace in reading about how such characters overcame obstacles and abuses in their youth and rose to become stronger adults. Today, I yearn to read even more about them.
Most details about my early youth are fogged in the eddying mist of my deepest hidden layers. But I was brought up in the first seven years of my life by my mother, who was nice but seemed mainly oblivious to me. I also lived with a stern stepdad and an abusive teenage stepbrother—who I would rather not try to remember.
But what I will always remember about this period is the time that this 7-year-old boy was escorted by his mother to a seedy hotel room in downtown Philadelphia, not too far from where we they were living. This mother and her son ascended the stairs, opened the door, and entered a room. She did not turn the light on, even though it was just starting to get dark. She motioned to the boy to sit on one creaky bed as she sat on the other. She said nothing but looked like she wanted to collect a long-lasting impression of her son. Suddenly, she just got up and left the room. He sat there alone for a short while, but before he had time to think about what had happened, the boy’s grandmother entered that room and said, “We must leave quickly.”
Now, I Thank God that she said that since I feel like I was recalled to life when I moved in with my grandparents. After a few months or a year, I moved in with my father and new stepmother for the rest of my youth. I didn’t have much contact with my father before that, and although he treated me okay, we were never very close. I am certain that these new arrangements were much better than the earlier ones. However, there were some enigmas about that foggy situation that I could not resolve. I spent several years dwelling about what had led up to my original living arrangements with my mother, and what brought about the ultimate change. Also, I could not stop thinking that I must have done something wrong to have caused that to happen. Although I frequently asked questions about these unresolved issues, neither my new parents nor my grandparents ever wanted to talk about them. And for several years, I could not stop thinking about my mother. Whenever I saw a woman who looked like her, I imagined she was returning to bring me home. This thought was both a relief and a dread!
In 1990, almost 40 years after the hotel incident, I traveled from Virginia, where I lived, back to Philadelphia, to accompany my father to my stepmother’s funeral. The day before this, he invited me to go to his barber shop so we could have haircuts for the ceremonies, and I agreed to let him drive me there. As we were both in a barber’s chair, a man who had been sitting quietly in a waiting chair with his head down looked up and suddenly spoke to me. He said he was my mother’s brother. “Your mother,” he clarified. He went on to say that he was my uncle and had played with me when I was a child. I looked at my dad, who just nodded and remained quiet in his chair. After the initial shock, I realized that this might be my chance to ask my uncle some questions about my mom. Before I could begin, he said, “No one knows what happened to her. She just disappeared. She left her second husband also and has never been seen or heard from again.” He paused and added, “She was an alcoholic.” My father just nodded his head affirmatively in his chair and never spoke to me about her again. And I was never able to find out if she was alive or dead at that time—or afterward. I never heard or saw that “uncle” again, either. Writing this memoir got me to question whether my father might have pre-arranged the barber shop meeting with “my uncle” to help me finally cut the ties with my mother. I will never know that either— as he passed away years ago. At least this situation informed me that he regretted what happened to me and that he was also profoundly saddened by the disappointments in his life with her.
I wish I could have talked to this boy whose mother left him at seven and was never seen or heard from again. I realize, however, that I never can. This part of his sadness about her can never go away. But don’t be concerned, as the boy has recovered enough to live a full and meaningful life. But if I could have some words with that boy today, I would urge him to hang in there and struggle as hard as he can to overcome his obstacles. I would say, “Always look for positive and inspiring examples from those positive people around you and in literature to help you see how to move forward from your earlier unfortunate circumstances.” Later you will read that it was both the best and worst of times for Dr. Manette in A Tale of Two Cities. He went to jail for 18 years, taking the blame for someone else’s crimes. And “You were not responsible for the tough times you experienced as a youth; nevertheless, you had to suffer for the actions and inactions of others.” Finally, I would say, “Lift your head up, you will be healed by your perseverance and the strong hand of God, who will remain with you throughout your life even when you do not know about him.”
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