Mean Aunt Martha

An unfulfilled life led her to drink. Her children unfortunately suffered.
acrylic on canvas/ 30” x30”/ gold frame/ $ 399

The following excerpt is from my latest manuscript. Over the Sticker Bush Fence: overcoming barriers for homeless and runaway youth will hopefully be in print in the near future. The printing business moves slowly and methodically. I do look forward to your comments.

Social Justice

“Life has a way of repeating itself, transferring experiences through time from one generation to the next,” said Kate Lore, who at the time was Social Justice Minister at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Portland, Oregon. “As an adult, I’ve worked hard to break the conditions and mindset of poverty experienced by my ancestors, but doing so has not been easy. This is due not only to the lack of resources but to a culture of shame and secrecy. It’s as if part of my destiny is being controlled by unnamed family ghosts.

“The story of my father’s side of the family dates back to Monticello, where my Irish forebears served as indentured servants of Thomas Jefferson in return for passage to America. These farmers eventually paid off their debt and slowly migrated westward, first to Minnesota and then to California. Generation after generation lived hardscrabble lives, never owning the land they farmed, never getting a good education but always working, working, working. Many of these relatives could be characterized as bad apples. Unspoken shame still permeates the family relating to the fact that my father was the product of a forced incestuous relationship between his teenaged mother and her cousin. Also, my paternal grandfather never met his son nor me because his entire life was spent locked up in prison. Though I know he eventually died of cancer, I’ve never found anyone who would tell me what he had done to land behind bars.

“Knowledge of my mother’s family dates back to the Dust Bowl. Though I tried, I never found a relative willing to talk about the past. What I do know is that my mother’s family shared many similarities with my father’s. They were poor, hardworking tenant farmers who migrated west in order to feed their family. They, too, ended up in California, seeking a better life. But like characters out a John Steinbeck novel, Mom’s side of the family migrated to Monterey’s Cannery Row to work the anchovy canneries. I still carry memories of Cannery Row. It was the era before it became a tourist destination: the smell of fish and stale booze, the site of rusted boat hulls and passed-out-winos and the sounds of seagulls screeching over the next incoming fish haul are captured in my mind. Industrial Cannery Row faded over time and eventually the cannery jobs did, too. My grandparents never escaped the poverty and alcoholism that has plagued and continues to plague, my mother’s family.

My parent’s lives came together in the mid-fifties. They met as young adults in church, both eager to break free from their families of origin and have good lives. Married in 1957, their first child came along three years later. Tragically for my sister and me, their love did not last long. By the time of my birth, Dad was having an affair with another woman.

Born in 1960, I was unaware that my parents were not doing well as a couple. At six months of age, Mom moved her children to join Dad in Tanzania where he had accepted a teaching job. She hoped by doing so that his affair would end. My sister, who was then three and I spent the next several years speaking Swahili and living among people native to that land. I found out later that during the entire three years we lived abroad, my father had continued corresponding with the woman with whom he’d been seeing before we left. But the final shock did not set in until we arrived back home to the San Francisco airport. My mother still had luggage and children in hand when my father turned to her and said; “ This is where we part ways. I’m leaving you. You are on your own.” With that announcement he took a few of his personal belongings and left the airport to live with his lover. I would not see him for many, many years to come.

We found ourselves stranded, possessing nothing. We did not know where to go, nor did Mom have any idea of how she was going to find our next meal. In this emergency situation she wound up moving back to her childhood home with alcoholic parents, not a safe place for kids of any age, and bad for little ones who had just lost their father. It was worse for my sister than me, though, because she was always Daddy’s little girl, the one who had my father’s heart. . . or so she thought. Once abandoned, my dark-haired sister started acting out. She became the “evil one” in the family, and I, a blond, reacted by becoming super sweet. My behavior was an effective survival technique. By being a loving, cuddly kid I could get what I needed. I may have been plain but I was smart. Looking back I wondered if my lifelong “good girl” behavior was largely a reaction to the way my sister acted. I’m not sure. But I have come to believe that my compulsion to be good and the compassion I have for others comes from someplace deep within.

Without a college degree, the only work my mother could find was minimum wage employment. When she worked we were left to the care of our grandparents. Two lively little girls living with inebriated adults was a dangerous situation. That became especially apparent when one one day my grandfather had had enough of the noise my sister was making. He drunkenly grabbed a fork and lunged to stab her in the hand. Thankfully she moved in time or she would have been maimed. Mom realized at that moment that she had to move on but again was lost about what to do and where to go.

She sought advice from a previous mentor, a woman who had been her second-grade teacher in elementary school. Connie Sellars had taken a liking to her as a youngster who came to school from an alcoholic family. Connie got her involved in church and encouraged her to sing in the children’s choir. She and my mother remained friends, writing to each other throughout her trials. Being a Good Samaritan, Connie offered us a place to live in a nearby house that she had recently inherited, asking only $75 a month in rent, an amount that was never raised over the years. If it were not for the kindness of this one individual, I’m not sure what we would have done. Housing is a prerequisite to so many things: security, status, and stability.

Still, I felt shame living in our house. Paint was peeling off the walls and the grass was never cut because we could not afford a mower. We never owned a car which meant that for ten hours a day my sister and I were left at home to raise ourselves while mom rode buses long distances to work as a clerk typist in a distant school district.

Neighbors felt sorry for us, two little urchins abandoned by fate, and they treated us kindly even though our presence “brought the neighborhood down.” They helped fill the house with cast off furniture, responding to our needs compassionately. I attribute their help to the fact that homeless families were a rare phenomenon back then. Neighbors were less inclined to judge us and more inclined to help out. The era was before the 1980s when America suddenly began demonizing the poor. Americans still had compassion for the destitute and had not yet been exposed to Ronald Reagan’s portrayal of single moms as being lazy, unproductive “Welfare Queens.”
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Kate survived her difficult childhood due to the camera and compassion of neighbors, church members, and educators. The adage, “it takes a village to raise a child” is a wise one that benefited her. Now, as an adult she decided to give back to the community as a minister focused on social justice. She left the church last year for employment with Volunteers of America where she oversees a large network of shelters for abused women. Childhood experiences often affect the career choices we make. Rather than be succumb to self pity or depression she saw life’s beauty and wants to share her blessedness with those who are less fortunate.

A few questions to answer below:

Did you ever have a childhood experience that influenced your career choice?

Have you been motivated to help someone outside of you immediate family?

There are thousands of children in the United States who would benefit by having a mentor. Ever think of getting involved with one or more of them? If so, please, share you experiences.

Art is always for sale. Please contact me at marilynne@eichingerfineart.com.