Surviving Me: An Outsider’S Story

Copyright 2014 Tina Calabria.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7838-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7840-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7839-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918278

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Fertility Flower was painted by Tina Calabria

Trafford rev. 08/07/2015

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Part 1

My Primary Years

Part 2

Moving On

Conclusion

I’d like to say a

special thank-you to all of you who have understood why I had to write this book and supported me throughout this process; it is greatly appreciated!

Thank you to Fancy and my parents for reviewing my first edit and giving me their thumbs-up.

Thank you to all four of my children and three grandchildren for being there for me throughout the entire process; I wrote this book for all of you.

Thank you to my husband Geo for supporting me through the long process of writing and editing this book because without you I’d be lost.

Thank you to my father, his wife Magzie, and my beloved mother Stella, who agreed to my writings and trusted me in writing a compassionate story.

Thanks Joe, for the awesome job on the cover!

A huge thank you to my dear friend Jo-Jo, for your gargantuan efforts in assisting me to beautify my book.

INTRODUCTION

I am one of those lucky people blessed with an unlimited supply of energy and enthusiasm, both in mind and body. This has not always worked for me, and I have thought of it as a curse at times. To grow into who I am today has taken tons of self-determination and life lessons on how to learn to let go of the past and tame the beast within. I can be annoying at times, but more importantly, I inspire and am always accountable to my fellow man, every single day.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I have quite the passion for life; I can also be very animated and intimidating at times. Most people enjoy this trait in me but not always, and I’ve heard, She’s so bubbly I could slap her! on more than one occasion. I tend to talk very fast and not breathe, and I often have to stop midsentence to catch my breath. I could probably win a contest for being able to talk nonstop for an extended period of time. I enjoy joking around with others but never at their expense. It takes me a long time to learn to just shut my mouth, and (more often than not) I have to literally clamp it closed and sit on my hands. Learning the skill of listening has made me a better wife, mother, and an all-around nicer person. Still, having a lot to say and after gaining years of life experience, I chose to write my story. I began to write in 2006 and I didn’t look back until the last sentence was written in 2011. After spending six years writing and two years editing, ‘Surviving Me: An Outsider’s Story’ came to be. You will yawn only a few times while reading my story, as I have had quite an interesting and often challenging life.

Tag along with me while I recount how I try to stay on the high road while going through a variety of hellish experiences. Learn how I’ve become more and more aware of the brutal realities in life and how these periods helped me be answerable for my actions. Watch as fate keeps tracking me upward and forward; you won’t catch me becoming what I call a poo-poo. And so I say, Life is long. Live it well! You are in charge of what road you will take. No platitude here, only the facts. If you choose to follow my lead, your life will surely improve. A great man I know says, You know how when people say, ‘He doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body’ and it’s meant as a compliment? Well! Everyone needs selfish bones in their body. Some people call this self-preservation; I call it survival. This is a story of how I got mine.

Adversity rears its ugly head over and over again, challenging my very life and keeping me in a perpetual phase of forward momentum. Follow as I walk you through the crosses I’ve had to bear and the corrosion that it caused. See how I pull up my socks and take the bull by the horns, all in an effort to have a good life. Like me, overcome or learn to live with any adversity thrown your way. It will take time for your mind to adjust to new mantras and strategies. Be patient, keep thinking positive thoughts, and within weeks you will feel the changes others already see.

This book is not meant to judge, hurt, or lay blame. However, we must be careful with what we say out loud as it just may end up in a book! No names are real, and some stories may be out of sequence. Still, writing it was like reliving my life and then rewriting it as if I were someone else. Enter into your own metamorphosis by staying positive and by putting one foot in front of another. What do you have to lose, bad habits? Nothing is impossible. You just have to want it.

PART 1

MY PRIMARY YEARS

My parents met at a wedding, each at twenty years old. They dated, fell in love, and got married. Together they brought four daughters into the world. I am one of those daughters.

I’ve always been tenacious and determined, and I don’t have a mean bone in my body. That very body continues to provide me with a never-ending supply of energy and optimism. Needless to say, I am known for my oomph and for my unquenchable appetite for adventure. This combination gets me into precarious and sometimes dangerous (but not too dangerous) situations. Luck, good health, and pure tenacity keep me from grave injury and carry me through a life full of challenge and adventure.

I live in a small town, still do, and probably always will. I’m okay with that, as I adore living a simple but comfortable life with my family, pets, and friends close by. This was not always so, and for a long time I yearned for something bigger than a simple life.

One thing led to another, and here you are, reading my book. My dream developed itself through a desire to help others get through what life will, without a doubt, throw at them, without having to sacrifice other people’s dignity. Through trial and failure, turbulence and triumph, I somehow beat the odds set against me. My desire to leave a substantial footprint on this earth, not including my children and grandchildren, is this book. The children will carry on my genes, and this book will convey my message. Through it, I hope to touch the lives of those who have been misunderstood. For me, it’s been all about positive thinking, accountability, and stress management.

My memories go back to when I am four years old. I’ve got as much potential as any child on my street. I’m constantly exploring my surroundings and always hit the road running. I am good-humored, and I love to play and laugh. I’m somewhat neurotic and a tad eccentric, which for me seems to have been translated into my being labeled as slow to learn. I’ve lived with this tag for many years now, and I only overcame its stigma shortly after turning forty. You can always find me fiddling happily with something or other somewhere in the yard. I’m often found constructing something out of Dad’s scrap wood. I love nature and all its curiosities. I’m optimistic, charismatic, and full of mischief. This combination proves to be quite challenging for my parents, and I’m often caught in peculiar situations.

One of my first memories of thinking outside the box is when I’m about four years old. While visiting my grandparents, I sneak across the street to see what is happening in the basement. I want to see why people are constantly coming in and out of its door. This tiny community is comprised mostly of immigrants from Italy, and most know each other or are related. There is a scent of wet iron in the air; it’s a smell I wouldn’t recognize as freshly spilled blood. I walk down a creaky set of stairs into the dimly lit room; as my little eyes adjust, they’re assaulted with death and dismemberment. I try looking away, but my eyes still land on dozens of blood-filled buckets with headless goats suspended above them. Unphased and without a peep, I tiptoe deeper into the dimly lit room. I toddle past several clucking burlap bags, which are soaking up the blood of the headless sheep nearby. Neighboring the sheep is a well-used and bloodstained butcher’s block. Smallish Italians work feverishly at the slaughter. They speak in a symphony of Italian dialects, which I am accustomed to hearing but do not understand. As I wander about the room, no one seems to notice my wide-eyed stare. My parents cross the road looking for me and descend into the bloody abyss themselves. There they find me soaking it all in. Am I apathetic or just tough enough to take it? They concern themselves with how this will affect me. They keep an eye on me for unusual behaviors, which none occur, or so I think!

I’ve always had unusual behaviors, not twisted or mean ones, only experimental and curiosity-driven ones. This book is meant to inspire people, and in order for you to get the entire picture, you must read the entire story. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I did living it and then writing about it. I tried to keep my writings simple and easy to read, not much room for embellishment here, as the book would have been way too long.

My father’s family immigrated to Canada during the 1920s. Two brothers came across the ocean to land in Halifax at pier 21. Expecting to settle in California, but because of prohibition, they quickly changed their minds and ended up here. They got jobs with a local mining company, then went back to Italy to pick their brides out from a line of sisters. They both got married and then brought their new wives back to Canada.

We nickname Grandpa Nanou, which comes from a show from the seventies called Mork and Mindy starring the famous Robin Williams. He and Nana bring six children into the world, most of them born at home. Nanou loves his family and he adores his wife and his wine. He is the ruler of the house and caretaker of a huge and bountiful backyard garden. He and his sons build a rabbit house where they raise and then slaughter them for all our consumption. Nana does most of the cooking and puts rabbit meat in her spaghetti sauce regularly. Every couple of months, her tables and countertops fill up with her homemade gnocchi, and the house is always delightfully cloaked with the scent of garlic and zucchini.

Nanou spends most afternoons weeding his garden and pruning his many fruit trees. Because we girls can easily munch ourselves into oblivion, he keeps a close eye on how many apples and carrots we eat. He does this with a swing of his arm and a burst of not-so-sweet Italian words.

I pass quality alone time up in his apple trees, munching and crunching on the unripe apples that sour my belly. Fresh ingredients make everything Nana cooks taste fabulous. We’re always forced to eat more than our stomachs can handle; and if we stop eating, we get the banging of a fork on our plate with a Monjia, monjia from Nana! The neighborhood is safe, and we kids are free to visit family members at any time. Nanou and Nana’s basement especially intrigues me; the squeaky old staircase leads into a faintly lit hallway. Little doorways lead into small spaces where I am dared not to go. Unafraid of much, I’m often found rummaging between its damp walls. Once a year, these walls fill up with rows and rows of crates filled with delicious wine grapes. I can easily climb up to where the most succulent ones are and eat until I am full or sick, whichever comes first. Nanou puts us girls to work by having us stomp around barelegged in a vat of his grapes until we work the fruit to a pulp. We trudge around the vat until they are a soupy mess and get out with some seriously blue legs.

Always curious about strange things, I become enchanted with the slag hills that glow above this little Italian community. People park nearby regularly to watch the hot slag being poured out of large metal vats attached to a train. The molten rock which comes from nickel mines, illuminates the sky above the city with a familiar red and orange glow. To keep us girls away from danger, Dad tells us that if we stick as much as one finger in the slag, our entire body will melt. How can this be? The glowing hills illuminate the walls in my bedroom, as if taunting me to go and explore them.

Under the fence, I go, and up the slag hill I ascend. I ramble up and around the smooth and crusty rocks in hopes of witnessing a fresh pour. Who knows why my young mind takes this dangerous chance? Lucky for me, today no slag is poured; and instead of being burned alive, I return home with more rocks for my collection.

My parents haven’t noticed my collection of slag rocks yet; otherwise, they’d be onto where I’ve been. Dad finally spots me at the top of the hill and goes into a panic. He hoofs it up and snaps me up into his arms; I’m now limited to the yard and banned from the slag hills.

My fondness of adventure and lack of fear provide me with the endorphin rush I seek. While visiting relatives, I slip away and climb an interior support beam. I gaze down at my family, who in turn look up at me in shock and dismay. I’m firmly told to get down from my perch and my fun is ruined.

I enjoy sleeping over at Nana and Nanou’s. I eat up the one-on-one attention I get, and I feel totally relaxed whenever I am there. Nana’s as sweet as any Italian grandma can be. She pinches my cheeks, tells me that I am too skinny, and then gives me food. Dinner is always a big event at their house. The kitchen table is always draped in a red-and-white checkered tablecloth and in the middle sits a decanter of homemade wine, a loaf of bread, and a dish of onions and tomatoes. The bread is never cut; it is torn apart and used to soak up Nana’s delicious sauce.

While roaming around my grandparents’ house with a pencil in my mouth, I trip, and it gets lodged in my upper gums. Too embarrassed to tell anyone, I yank it out myself and suffer the pain in silence. Then the next day, while I am trying to free up the nozzle on a paint can, the nozzle breaks free, and paint shoots directly into my face and eyes. Dad hears me scream and finds me with my face covered in paint. He hauls me over to the sink, and with a familiar grunt, he begins to flush them out. It’s no surprise that my parents concern themselves with my mischievousness because I’m always into something!

Mom dresses us up for mass in pretty baby-doll outfits with frilly panties, and she tops us off with a beautiful Sunday bonnet. She’s slim, has long legs, and wears her hair in a fashionable bee’s nest. She glows with pride as she walks hand in hand with her tall and handsome husband and her three well-dressed girls. Always impeccably dressed, she radiates with a natural glow of motherhood. Because I am rambunctious, I’m seated in between them, but that doesn’t stop me from checking out everything and everybody out around me. I twist their brains by eating the gum I’ve removed from under the pews. They try to impress upon me to stop; I just sneak it into my mouth and chew when they are not looking.

Sensory memories are created from the rows of candy and typical corner-store items in a local basement corner store. The sweet scent of licorice from Black Cat Gum taunts me from the entranceway, making my mouth drool, eyes widen, and pocket jingle. Dad tells me that he and his brothers chewed black tar instead of the gum they couldn’t afford. Because he claims that it clacks like the real thing, I have to try it. He’s right; it does clack like real gum! It’s only in adulthood where I become aware of its toxic nature and possible latent effects.

Across the road and through a grassy field is a spring-fed pond. Only, even though the striking blue-green water it holds is from beneath the earth, the tarn is only one thousand feet from a tailings pond, which my father refers to as the black pond.

Back in the day when the earth was not yet spoiled by the mining industry, he and his brothers took cool summer dips. Thus, with curiosity as my guide and my sisters in tow, we cross the field to try to take our own swim. I like the adventure, and the fear of being caught only enhances my enjoyment. When we arrive, the pond is devoid of people, and the water dares me to jump right in. Not thinking, I skip right into the blue-green water, and my mind automatically goes to what may be beneath me; I swim to the surface and hastily jump out. It is fear of the unknown that sometimes keeps me safe. A highway is eventually put through the field, and a fence is erected on both sides, preventing anyone from having access to two of the ponds.

As it goes, Mom has grown tired of living under her in-laws’ thumbs, and she wants to move to the other end of town. Dad agrees and purchases a recently built house for us in a newer part of town. We girls are lucky to have a Catholic primary school down the street, which we can wait at our front door for the bell to ring and then run to school. We even have time to scoot back home during recess if we so desire.

Shortly after moving in to our new house, I begin to explore my new surroundings. I meander up to the top of our street to disappear into the bush and get lost. In order to find my way back, I have to climb higher up the mountain. I scramble to the tallest part of the black rocks, and alas, I can see my father working in the yard. Relieved at the sight of him, I tromp my way through everybody’s yard back to mine, and no one is the wiser.

I’m older now, and my boundaries have been extended. We nickname the mountain range behind our school Mount Baldie. Those of us who are more adventurous make our way through the forest and then up the mountainside. Most of the rock in Surrey is blackened and bare, but the forest is regaining control, and it extends as far as our eyes can see. We spend most weekends playing there: chasing rabbits, looking for frogs, and, when we are a bit older, lighting fires. We stop at our favorite spot at the highest point of the mountain, and with flip-flops packed into our sacks we make our way through swamps and gullies and ruin our running shoes in the process. We once came across an old mine shaft at the base of a crevice; but when I get to the bottom of the cave, the water is up to my chest, and I’m forced to abandon my explorations. I’ve been back there many times since trying to find that small mine shaft.

Today, while I am walking out of the school yard, I’m horrified to see a guy tied to a tree! I’m too young and way too small to intervene, but from what I can see, one twin boy has tied the other up and has left him there to rot. I choose to walk away, hoping that someone will find him before nightfall.

Back at home, I’m my father’s little helper. Competing with my sisters’ beauty and intelligence is impossible; but I am stronger, less girly, and I have more endurance than they do. The fact is that I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, am not afraid of heights or doing hard work. I’m full of dynamite and can easily work all day. I’m essentially the son that Dad’s been wishing for.

The basement’s not finished yet, and along its walls are boxes waiting to be explored by me and then unpacked by Mom. Dad installs swings on the beam for us girls on which I swing back and forth, back and forth, driving my mother bonkers upstairs by kicking the ceiling.

When we inherit our grandmother’s wheelchair, we take turns whipping each other around the basement in it, screaming like a bunch of wacky monkeys. Dad’s more of a free spirit than Mom is, and he allows me to blanket the basement walls with my art. As I get older and more creative, I’m permitted to paint the basement toilet into a Canadian flag. We girls are allowed to draw all over any room he is about to paint. I guess the paint in those days must have covered better than today’s because I have not been permitted to do graffiti on any prepped wall since.

My mother grew up in a tiny house in a very small community across town. She had a sickly mother, a hardworking father, and two older brothers. Many years ago, France released prisoners of petty crimes and then shipped them across the sea to Canada. My great-grandfather found his way to Surrey and settled down in a small community just outside of town. This area had been ravaged by the forestry industry in the late eighteen hundreds, in order to rebuild Chicago after the great fire of 1871. And then again destroyed by the mining industry in the early twentieth century by cutting down the rest of the trees and anything else they could salvage to fuel giant ore beds. Ore beds were gargantuan fires used to burn sulfur out of the ore. The ore was then (and still is) fragmented, processed, smelted, refined, and sold. Sulfur released into the air killed off plant life, terra firma, and many of the area lakes. Not only did it devastate the vicinity, it also blackened the rock and eroded most surfaces. The mountains and surrounding land have since been neutralized with lime, saving them from further harm.

My father is a man of many facial expressions, and we girls can read him by watching the muscles move around his face. He doesn’t get mad at me like he does at my mother! Why only her? He is the nurturer out of the two, and it is he who ever so lovingly rubs my forehead when I am sick or upset. He’s the one who listens to my weird questions and tries to answer them as best as he can without question. At one point, he surprises me by telling me that he thinks I have what it takes to be the Prime Minister; he sees something in me that I do not. He gives me the affirmations that every girl needs from her father, and I cling to his hope in me.

Dad wears his well-pressed firefighter uniform proudly, and my heart melts every time I see him in it. I perch myself onto the front window ledge by the teeth waiting for him to come home and then run and jump right up into his arms when he arrives home. Years later, when Dad changed the front window, I see two different lines of teeth marks. One set is from my perfect baby teeth, and the second set is from my not-so-perfect adult teeth.

He and Mom run a small contracting business on the side, which we girls are eventually employed by. Dad is great company, and he always provides us with a restaurant lunch, all the pop-shop pop we can drink, and any change we find.

Now in kindergarten, I get a little crush on a boy that lives several streets away. One Saturday, I make my way to his house, where we end up kissing in the backseat of his mom’s Austin Mini. You know that perfectly normal experimental kind of kiss where your lips touch and you make a smacking sound? Dad eventually finds me in the backseat with my little boyfriend and takes me directly home where I’m scolded and my boundaries firmly reduced.

I happen across a neatly stacked pile of red bricks in the neighbor’s backyard. They look almost as if someone has piled them on purpose to look like a cabin. I crawl in through a small opening, and as I hit the center of the pile, it folds onto me. I’m trapped inside the pile. My lanky limbs are badly scraped and entangled in the heap, making it impossible for me to escape. The owner of the house hears my high-pitched scream and comes running out. There he finds me, knotted and bleeding in his pile of bricks. Unhappily, he picks me up roughly and takes me home to my father. There, he shoves me into my dad’s arms and tells him to keep his brat out of his yard. Dad is angry at how rough he treated me and yells at him to never manhandle any of his kids again or else. I’m washed up, bandaged, and then scolded. My boundaries get reduced (again) by restricting me to one house away.

When I finally lose my front teeth and my adult teeth grow in, my life takes a downward spiral, and I’m introduced to what I think is hell. My teeth have grown outward to the tune of three quarters of an inch outside my mouth. I’m unable to close it comfortably, and if I do, my bottom lip stretches out of proportion. I’m devastated at what my deformity has turned me into. I’ve gone from the cutie of the street to a bucktoothed freak. The fact that I have difficulty learning and am usually a nervous wreck makes matters much worse for me. Apart from two exceptional teachers, who take me under their wing, and my father, who sees something good in me, I feel completely alone.

The growth of my front teeth devastates any chance of my having a normal life. Because I feel so ugly, I decide to cut my curly brown locks down to a pixie cut. Too ashamed to go to a beauty salon, I get my father to drive me to a barbershop downtown where no one will recognize me. I tell him to cut it short enough for me to not feel any hair blowing in the wind. I hate myself so much that one time I got back on the bus to have it cropped down even more because I felt some hair blowing in the wind. My new haircut is indicative of how shamefully ugly I feel and how stupid I believe I am.

I’m selected at Halloween to receive the dreaded bag of rocks. My heart sinks when I feel it pass my hand and land heavily into my bag of treats. I’d heard about people getting rocks instead of candy but never expected to be the recipient of one. This kind of bullying perpetuates how poorly I think of myself, and I’m way too young for self-loathing. This weighs heavily on me, and I begin to feel like I am a waste of skin. I think that I was actually meant to have been born into a poverty-stricken family in Biafra. Too proud to admit how unnecessary and hopeless I feel, I learn to fake it through my day and suffer in silence.

Report card time causes me severe anxiety and sleepless nights. I’m afraid to disappoint my parents yet again with failing marks. Even though I am prepared to see my marks, my heart still sinks when I see it in writing. I hear them talking at night about how good my sisters do in school and how poorly I do. When we get our report card, I want to go home to eat; but I can’t face my parents, so I hide under Dad’s utility trailer until I’m called in for dinner. Compared to my sisters I am a complete failure. I can’t help but wonder what had happened to me and why I am so different.

I develop a severe case of self-hatred, and am now sad most of the time. A summer doesn’t go by without my having to do extra homework while on holidays. I try to complete the assigned work, but my mind is way too busy coping with my horrible existence to really take anything in, and most is lost. Hell, I feel real sorry for myself; but since I am mocked so badly by others, I’ve had to learn to be tough and not complain. The stronger, more tenacious side of me is what keeps me going. I have pride, and I don’t want to be seen as weak, so I fake it and act like I don’t care. Anyone who has ever been bullied will know that the exact opposite is happening inside my head.

Without realizing it, I’ve become the family instigator. I’m known for my relentless attempts at tricking my family. Not mean ones, only funny and annoying ones. The school system insists that I am slow and that I have poor social skills. If they’d only dig a little deeper, they’d realize that I have good reason to be this way. I’m constantly bullied, I live in a hostile environment, and I’ve been wrongfully labeled by the very system that is supposed to protect me. The school system has failed me; they have no clue as to how bright I actually am, and neither do I.

Between height and obstinacy, I learn to defend myself aggressively from being physically and emotionally attacked by others. Inside, I’m a wreck. Who’s got my back? I am an outsider in my own house and school, and my father is the only one I trust with my well-being.

Anxiety about school begins in late July, and adrenalin shoots up and down my back whenever I think about my first day and my last. For me, another year of failure and rejection is about to begin. I’m shipwrecked at the idea of having to once again look failure in the face. I have a very real language barrier. I now realize that I would have been better off in an English school rather than all French. Nanou tells me to push my teeth in with my fist anytime I am sitting idle, and just like braces would do, they may push them back a little. I am ridiculed with every turn, and my life is a constant battle. If it weren’t for my father’s belief in me, I’d shrivel up and surely die. He validates my existence and guides me into finding meaning to my life. He is the beacon I follow.

My days are spent in shame, and I escape often into my bedroom to do arts and crafts. I cannot hide these teeth. They’re always with me, out of proportion and eliciting cruel jokes. It’s just safer to be alone. I try to hide them by placing my fist in front of my mouth, and for a moment I feel normal, but this