"C'est Mkhabez"

 Lyon, June 1984. This morning, my third day here, my "aunt" has run out of patience with my moodiness. Not being especially Catholic, "Cris" does not have Corpus Cristi on her mind when she planned the days events, and we will not be going to Rocheraillée sur Saône, today. Day three, that this 12 year old has been in France without seeing a castle. I'd also, in these three days, witnessed my "aunt" curse out a cabbie, a woman in the market, and her German neighbor - so I feared any disappointment she was having in me. I sat in her kitchen, quiet, petting "Robespierre" - a name that made me chuckle to myself, years later, sitting in World History and learning about The Terrors. 

Please understand, I am paraphrasing when I share Cris' words; it was often a mix of French and English - and only their context has remained. 

"Do you wonder why there are no cousins here to play with?"

Me: "No"

"Babies are little narcissists. Do you know that word?"

Me: "No"

"One day you will, when you are smart enough to understand why we can't go to the castle today. I don't really feel like having my day ruined by either of you - so get in the car."

Cris' disdain for American education was pretty clear to me after day one, when she opted to sit on a bench outside the airport when I arrived. I walked around tiny Satolas Airport for probably half an hour before I exited and found her. The only instruction my mom instilled in me as I left Vegas was "wait for Cris". When I found her, she was seated next to someone I didn't know, reading a book, and smoking a cigarette that was very different than what my dad smoked.

"Rooonnald, did no one teach you how to travel?"

Me: "No"

"I told your mom you could take a taxi, and she said, I should meet you here. I told her she was ridiculous, you are a young man, he can figure it out. But, I'm here, waiting for you - nearly out of cigarettes, and pretending to read this book so this foul man will stop talking to me. Happy? Make sure you tell your mom, we are all happy here."

Me: "Ok"

To be fair, I realize, thus far, I have painted my "aunt" as some opinionated, cynical, French woman; and that really only surfaced when she was annoyed in the moment. The bulk of my visit was the antithesis of these types of encounters - but it provided me clear boundaries under which I was allowed to have her time and space. I've honestly always admired it.

We drove the short distance into Lyon. I stayed quiet the entire drive, staring at a an enormous cathedral that towered over the city. She took notice.

"Would you....." a very long pause while she calculated her wording. "... like to eat some salty biscuits and drink baby blood, or get a pastry?"

I looked at her... my brain, absolutely disabled.

"Neither is a problem, really - you seem to be in a mood that maybe you'd like to be reminded that what you really want is wrong, and as compensation - they'll give you a little snack. Or - we could just get a snack in silence, and it might taste a little better."

I'd be lying if I told you, my brain wanted nothing more than to see the inside of the largest church I'd ever seen in my life. But Cris' sarcasm was a much more daunting threshold, so I said, "Better snack."

Lyon was mostly void of people - it was the middle of the week, middle of the day; but it looked like a Sunday morning. Her car sounded like it was tearing itself apart as she navigated narrowing cobbled streets... it was a plausible excuse for the lack of communication. We entered a part of Lyon where people were out, a handful of fruit/bread vendors; business doors open to the sidewalks, noticeably a different demographic than I had seen in my previous 2 days. The car slowed as we smacked into the curb, followed by the most distinctive sound of her emergency brake I had heard before or since; my brain recorded it for posterity. The curb is too high to allow me to open my door, and the smack of it against stone resulted in a glance I'd not yet seen from Cris. She only motioned at her side of the car, suggesting that I'd crossed that bridge between disappointment where words failed her.

I barely had a moment to consume the edifice of the three-story building in front of me. On the floors above, balconies wore evocative greenery, nurtured by freshly washed garments. Of particular note to my gaze was a silky, black negligee. A sense of arousal washed over me as I traced the outline of collecting water drops illuminated in brilliant light as they released their grasp from lace edges and crashed in echoing din upon pottery and concrete. As Cris opened the door - a flood of sweet and unfamiliar odors spun about me; and sounds from within the patisserie muffled the soundtrack of the wet dream happening above me. I have a distinct recollection of being hit on the shoulder by a water drop, and spending that evening getting lost in the ecstasy of that waterdrops' journey. The floor was composed of one-inch black and white tiles; cracked, bleached, their pattern incomprehensible. One wall was adorned with faded portraits of pastries unfamiliar; seemingly sticky concoctions of dough and fillings that had transformed into muted tans and blacks. There was not enough space between this wall and the display cases for anything more than a handful of mismatched chairs of both wood and metal. No one inhabited this small space but Cris and I - inescapable however, was the clamor of something heavy and metallic rhythmically striking a wall that concealed a space existing behind an exquisitely brilliant, crimson curtain. Beneath this din, a male voice, speaking French but with a much different inflection than I had encountered on this French adventure thus far. I turned to look at Cris, and just as I was about to speak, she motioned for me to be quiet, and she took a seat. Again, just as I ushered words from my diaphragm, she positioned her index finger in front of her lips. Cris sat quietly, watching me carefully; informing the restrictions of my impulses with nothing more than her gaze. She occupied the only chair that set alienated from the others, closest to the door. I wrapped my hand around the chair closest to me, much too heavy to lift, but the kinetic energy had already been spent - and this metal monster of comfort squealed across shattered tiles as I positioned it next to Cris. All existing noise from within the tiny space evaporated into stark silence; followed only by the sounds of boot to floor and then bells sown into the crimson curtain as it was forcibly pulled to one side. Standing there, frozen for a moment was an older man (older than any of the adults in my life anyway) - dressed in black slacks, and a white button down shirt, mirroring one I had seen hanging next to the black fever dream on the balcony. He was not, in the narrowest way that I was able to ascertain, not white, not black. The closest analog my life had presented up to this moment were Greeks I had seen in Tarpon Springs as a child. Tanned, but with a shade that suggested more olive hues... wild, black hair that covered his arms and head. He smiled and moved behind the display case. Cris said something to him in French, and he waved his hand dismissively. 

"What do you want?" - Cris asked with an annoyed glare. 

I reviewed every option, scanning for familiarity, there was none. Cris tolerated this confusion for only seconds before she stated to the man, "Mkhabez, quatre, s'il vous plait." As I watched him collect these smallish yellow pastries, placing them carefully into a bag, I became aware that someone else was standing behind me, quietly, imposingly. Turning my head, a woman about my height, stood about a foot behind me. Same complexion as the man, long black hair, a very ornate and completely black dress to just below her knees, and black nylons - no shoes. She put her hand upon the top of my head, and I noticed the dozen or so silver bracelets that she wore on each wrist. 

"Ça va?" 

I was paralyzed by the depth of black in her eyes. The moment snapped back into reality as the male folded our bag of pastries and handed them to Cris. We exited back to the car, followed by the woman. She had collected the chair that Cris had occupied just moments ago, and sat just outside the shop, watching me climb across the console of Cris' car. As I collapsed into my seat, I looked out the window to see this woman was observing, taking long drags from a cigarette. I wanted to connect her in some way to every moment of this experience, but I was too frightened to look up at that balcony. I cannot explain why, but I believed she was challenging me to do so. Her awareness of the black negligee that beckoned me to imagine something else entirely. Maybe it was the hormones manufacturing these scenarios as I lie in bed later that night. I did not muster even the courage to return her gaze, not even to validate that she was indeed still watching me. The internal explosion of misfiring neurons snuffed seconds later by Cris.

"Do you know what bitterness is?"

Me: "Yes"

"Explain it."

Me: "Sour"

"Oui, quoi d'autre?"

I shrugged. She started the car and drove, without any additional questions or words, back into the part of Lyon devoid of life. Again she parked, striking the curb, pulling back on the emergency brake, again, filling the car with sounds of gnashing metal. We exited the car and sat on a bench bathed in warm sunlight in the Les Cordeliers. She handed me the bag of Mkhabez... still, to me, just a lemon-colored disc with some decoration.

"When you do something you like, maybe you can make yourself feel happy. Maybe that thing makes other things easier. Like maybe a job, or a chore. Maybe you'll live with your happy family in some happy place. Maybe you'll start to dislike it, because this thing becomes mundane, repetitive, or expected of you. This 'thing' becomes the only skill you own to manufacture this 'happy place'. This is also bitterness. 'Sour' like a lemon, but it does not fade. It gets stronger, and more bitter, until you no longer like it's taste."   

"Do you know this?" "Does it make sense?"

Me: "I think so?"

"Did anyone teach you this?"

Me: "No"

"I was upset at you this morning, you embarrassed me at the patisserie. Do you know this treat, mkhabez?"

Me: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you mad. No, I don't know what this is."

"Do you think it's 'bitter' or sweet?"

Realizing that this was a "teaching moment", honestly, the only one I had experienced outside of school, I replied, "bitter".

"That's interesting, Roooonnald. Eat your pastry and tell me again."

 I placed the entire mkhabez onto my tongue, flavor flooded my mouth and I instantly could not control my salivation. It slowly dissolved and I experienced nutty flavors and spices I didn't know. I quickly ate a second one, and restrained myself from the third. It was a glorious sensation of flavor that immediately inscribed itself into my synapses until I'm dead and gone. I rolled the bag closed and put it on the bench between Cris and I.

She asked, "Bitter?"

Me: "No"

"Do you think the boulonger likes or loves his choices?"

Me: "Loves".

"I wonder what the people on that hill you stared at all the way here think about their salty biscuits and baby blood?"

Me: "I don't know?"

"Exactement. What you choose to love is yours alone. It won't look like anyone else's love. But it should never look like you looked at me this morning. I gave you a choice, but you tried to manipulate me into only one, that is not love. What should we do now?"

Elsewhere in Europe during this time, ironically enough:

When the Bough Breaks

 In the coming weeks, I will be looking for an opening, upon which I will reach for a conscience that I'm not sure exists. My only confidence that it may even be worth the endeavor, is that a parent-child relationship must (should) supersede anything else. Stories I've read, suggests, that it's not a certainty, but I am prepared for that outcome... I think. Maybe, trying to articulate this while I have the flu and my brain soaks in a pool of fever, withdrawals, and emotion, isn't my best effort. I spent an hour telling someone what they mean to me last night while awash in tears. I'm not a crier - but I was last night.

The bones of this relationship, at least from my perspective, have been incapable of supporting the weight of a normalcy. The foot on my throat emerged before I was even in school. The first indication that I was not my parent's child arrived in racist overtones... a disparaging of strangers that made absolutely no sense in a world of so much diversity. I may have been three, but I understood being hated because of how you looked didn't align with anything I understood about morality, decency, or "being a good neighbor". The backseat, back-handed slaps ensured I understood that respect is fostered under an alignment of ideals. If any parental guilt existed as a result of the physical abuse my father inflicted upon me; it was never uttered. Ever. 

Then the sexual abuse began at the whims of a "family friend" entrusted with my safety. A fact that wasn't shared with my parents until much later in life. In fact, it was something that I had buried so deep within my brain, I wouldn't come to face it until I was a young adult. Truly, I couldn't tell you how I said it, or more importantly, what the reaction was. My ex-wife is likely the only person who could tell that story with any clarity (and truth) - because I had fully left my body. One fact I did walk away with, was that my mom had also been abused as a child. 

I'm sitting here writing these words, and I am reflecting on people that have fully cut parents out of their lives; and it does not feel so alien. It feels like strength... I don't have.

So, I, a young child, physically abused for lashing out at words like "nigger", sexually abused for being available to someone with predilections for young boys - somehow I developed into an empathetic nihilist, and coward. Unwilling to end my path, only accepting the machinations of fate to do it for me. How was I as a kid? To use my dad's succinct phrasing, "cautious". I lived inside myself, unattached to anyone that I believed only wanted me conditionally. I often wonder, how did adults perceive me as a kid - you know, the ones that maybe taught me, maybe met me - did they see me as fractured as I perceived myself? If they did, they did not intervene. Some, in fact, took it upon themselves to "toughen me up" - once fracturing my ribs, another time, dislocating both of my thumbs. That guy, he gave me one of those pressure bars that you hold straight out in front of your body and attempt to push the ends towards one another. One Sunday, that left my hands at terminal velocity through my bedroom window, and I was grounded for a month, no TV, no comics, no friends.

I tended to navigate around "nerds" - because being smart was maybe something I could do well? It was always a small group of probably equally insecure kids. I found a photo the other day of one of my rare birthday parties, and sitting on the floor was a collection of gangly children - my few friends - a Russian, a kid from Oman (Omanian?), Asian, black, and one other white kid. I hope somehow, I managed to make the adults in my house terribly uncomfortable that day. I doubt I had any sense of rebellion at that age, but I clearly felt free enough outside of my parent's confines to be who I wanted to be among people I wanted to be around.

Another odd fact about me, though I am a little embarrassed to admit - is that I was a very sexual child. I guess I know why. I was masturbating, probably by 5 - I didn't know why, or how it began, but it felt good. Maybe it was the only control I felt over my body without fully understanding the dynamics of sexuality. I was caught, often - and it went as one might think it went. It all came to a head (no pun intended) when my dad invited his friends over, and they brought their daughter along to play with me. I was likely 7-ish, and she was maybe 10? She didn't have much interest in comic books, or Hot Wheels - so all I had left to share was this thing I figured out - masturbation. Neither of us were naked, we did not touch one another, but the sensations were the same. And yes, my mom caught us. I never saw her again. I was also notoriously kissing classmates in the bushes outside our kitchen window - another thing I was terrible at hiding.

Life found a unique way to combat the notions of having friends, or someone to kiss, or stability. We'd move every couple of years. If not to a new state, at least to a new neighborhood. New school, new people, new stresses. It wasn't until I was older that I understood the circumstances precipitating these relocations - and it's not for reasons that everyone assumes whenever they ask me, "where are you from?" In a pre-internet world, it was one of the steps you take to evade law enforcement. Predicated on the assuming the identity of someone who died at birth. A masterclass in criminality for the so-inclined. Again, I was a child, all I understood was that the challenges of even making friends in the first place was increasingly, not worth the energy. A self-starter isolationist before I was 10.

None of us are so naïve or media-illiterate to understand what happens to an abused, isolated, fragile person upon granting of self-exploration. You can fabricate a tiny human to fear everything, to hate what your principles - but if you are unwilling to exert some sort of control over them as a teenager out of whatever misguided definition of love you cling to; you are likely to foster the type of person that has zero comprehension of manipulation, unconditional love, or measures of excess. You arrive at a broken human with an understanding of life pulled from media and books. A rinse and repeat of experiences both good and bad to shape and more importantly, mimic, "normalcy". You fuck all the wrong people; you ingest all the taboos, you become selfish, narcissistic, validated, incarcerated, dead then awake, married with the emotional awareness of a teenager, unmarried, poor as a result of all your "adult" life decisions, radicalized with beliefs, and then someone who writes all this on a blog that no one reads. Not as a cautionary tale, as someone that needs to package this to their parents in such a way to simply lead them to empathy towards hundreds of children that were victimized by adults via my own reality growing up as their child. To maybe understand why, their child doesn't understand why they would choose the abuser over the abused.

Why now? Simply because they are at the end of their lives. I will never get an apology or gain understanding of their choices... and I'm only starting to come to terms with that. They know the truth, or at least did at the time. They've been playing the game of revisionist history for the past decade like I wasn't there experiencing the same moments. All I have left to encapsulate this relationship of parent/child is the desire to approach their death with empathy. And unfortunately for them, they chose and support one of the cruelest humans that has ever existed; and has done things I will never forgive or forget. I am not asking them to change their beliefs, or have a come to Jesus moment with the religion they like to wear now - but I do need them to understand why I am the way I am and that my experience is nothing compared to what hundreds/thousands of children endured in the control of monsters. If I cannot connect to their empathy for these children by using my own abuse as their child to facilitate it - I cannot bury my parents with empathy. It's simply that. Period.