An Uncommon Strength
My mother grew up in Haiti during the 1940's and 50's and although I would like to say that the time in history has something to do with how she was treated I can't because I know that children in Haiti are still going through the same cruel punishments she endured.
An Uncommon Strength ~
By Martine Philogene
S
he wet the bed until she was eight years old. That is something I never knew about my mother until recently. To be honest when she told me this it really brought me some comfort because I wet the bed until I was about seven, and although I stopped over 20 years ago, the memories of the hurt and shame I experienced has stayed with me.
I still am not certain how I just stopped. I've always assumed it was a result of my bladder growing combined with the patience and love my mother showed me despite my embarrassing habit that had her doing laundry more frequently than she desired. Regardless of what it was, I was glad I stopped because it was a habit that was taking a toll on me. Now, the story about how my mother stopped wetting the bed is a very different one. One that envokes sadness and pain but ultimately leads to a better understanding of the human spirit.
My mother grew up in Haiti during the 1940's and 50's and although I would like to say that the time in history has something to do with how she was treated I can't because I know that children in Haiti are still going through the same cruel punishments she endured. One day, when my mother was eight and living in Port Au Prince, Haiti's capital, she was asked to step out into the yard by her mother. This was a yard that provided no privacy and it allowed the entire community to witness what was going on. In that yard my mother witnessed my grandmother taking a freshly heated brick and placing it on the ground in between my mother's legs. It was there that my mother was commanded to lift her skirt, squat down and urinate on the fiery brick. My mother was not naïve. She knew exactly why she was being asked to do this and she knew exactly what the result would be.
During that time protesting against such a request was not an option so my mother did as she was told. While she squatted she began to urinate on the hot brick and she began to feel the flesh of her inner thighs burn from the hot steam. My mother has always had an incredible threshold for pain so it doesn't surprise me that at that moment in time, and at the young age of eight, she didn't even react in a way that most would expect. She didn't yell or scream or keel over from the pain…..she didn't even run away from the crowd. She relieved herself until her bladder was empty, just as she was told, and the only sign that she was suffering was the sadness in her eyes and the tears that slowly streamed down her face. On that scorching day in Port Au Prince my mother became victim to physical wounds that required her to see a doctor, and to emotional wounds that required her to seek refuge in God's word. From that day forward, my mother never wet the bed again.
This is just a small example of what my mother endured as a child. She has shared many similar stories with me and they have often made me cringe while also breaking my heart. At times I have felt anger towards my deceased grandmother for treating my mom that way when she was alive. But what I always keep in mind is that my grandmother treated her that way because that was all she knew. She didn't know affection, or patience, or encouragement. She knew cruelty and pain because that is how she was raised. When I reflect on my mother's experiences what fills me with immense love and appreciation is that fact that although my mother didn't know love, or patience or affection based on her upbringing, yet she managed to show it to me. My mom could have scolded me for wetting the bed for so many years. She could have intensified my own feelings of humiliation and pain. She could have made me feel the way they made her feel the day that she experienced her great punishment. But she didn't.
I wonder why my mom was able to break the cycle, unlike so many. What made her turn out differently? How does someone who was never told I love you end up saying it to her own children every single day? How does someone who never received hugs end up being the best giver of hugs there is? How does someone who knew pain and discouragement her whole life end up being so supportive and encouraging throughout mine? It comes from her faith in God. My aunt grew up with my mother, and dealt with many of the same cruel punishments. Actually, she was spared in many ways because she was my grandmother's youngest and the favorite child in the family. Yet, my aunt has spent the past 23 years displaying so many negative patterns with all three of her children while watching her husband hurt them just the same, often worse than she does.
And so I wonder, what makes my mom different? Why did she turn out the way that she did? Why was I allowed to stop wetting the bed in my own time? My only conclusion is that my mother made a conscious decision to break the cycle. She decided that no child of hers would suffer the way she did. She decided not to let internalized pain dictate her parenting. She decided that God expected more from her. He expected her to break the cycle.
My mother's way of life makes me realize that people do choose. Things don't just happen. We aren't destined to be a certain way because of our life experiences. We don't practice cruelty just because it was practiced on us. We don't hurt because we were hurt. The fact is, we choose to do those things. So many people don't want to take responsibility for their actions and for how they choose to live. So many don't want to make the decision to be a better person and leave the hurt and pain behind. So many spend their lifetime being a victim when the truth is that their victimization should have ended years ago and they should have allowed themselves to start anew because they deserve that much.
My mother remembers everything that she endured growing up. If I ask her to tell me a story she tells it and she remembers every detail vividly. And for this I find her remarkable because she hasn't erased or denied her past. She embraces it and uses its memories to guide her life. She uses each experience to help her determine right from wrong; to determine love from pain. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
Bio: Martine Philogene is a freelance writer and a New York City native who is currently woking on her first book while training for her first marathon.
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