My Mother And My Childhood

Unlike most people, I did not get to be a carefree child for long. Even though I always said that I could not wait to grow up, now I wish that it all did not happen so fast and early in my life. From eleven to twelve years old—that would be the period I describe as the time I had to put my big-girl pants on and face the real, cruel and unwelcoming adult world. In that time period, I can specifically pinpoint two major events that ended my childhood: my move from Russia to the United States and the birth of my baby sister Toma. To some those might not seem significant enough to change someone’s life to the extent that they changed mine; however those events molded me into the person I am today.

As an eight-year-old in the fourth grade, I had yet to develop an understanding of the world. I believed every family had two parents. I believed all children lived in houses and attended school. And I believed a variety of other utopian and idealistic situations to be reality. Media, adults, and other influences lead me to believe that the only thing I had to worry about were my birthday gifts. This false pretense was clearly contradicted when I was presented with the news that my father had cancer. It was a weekend in the fall, and I was playing with various toys and games. My mother shouted down to the basement that we were having a family meeting. Although this did not inspire me, I eventually stumbled up the steps and staggered into the living room. In the room, I joined my brother, sister, and parents. As a took a seat, I readied myself for the

I was born in Pueblo, Co in the year of 1943. My father was away serving in the US Army in the Philippines during World War II, at the time of my birth. My sister Jackie was 18 months older than me, at the time of my birth. My mother's name was Doris; she worked in the afternoons at a fashion store downtown. My sister and I were taken care of by my grandmother tell my sister was seven years of age, and I was five. At that time my grandmother’s failing health, would not allow her to take care of us. It was at that time, Jackie became my surrogate mother, till my mom returned home from work around seven o'clock. My sister would prepare us a snack after school, mostly Rice Krispies cereal or bread and butter with sugar sprinkled on it, as it

And then, the day I had feared of most, finally arrived. We lost our father, the only figure I truly felt safe with. After months of mourning and painful transformations, our mother fell sick. In those terrible days, days during which I was locked in the basement most of the time, for my safety and even more: for the safety of my family, I was incapable of helping. To this, I regret even today.

That day when I returned home from school, my mom’s boyfriend called me asking to speak to my grandmother. Typically, Gus would call my grandmother himself if he wanted to speak with her, which was rare. I found out about my mom going to the hospital from my grandmother after that phone call. The doctor told my family that a stroke afflicted her in the middle of the day. My mom confused the date with her birthday, had trouble getting words out and remembering our family member’s names. The nurse had to take her for walks periodically and exercise her legs and arms because they were weak. Seeing my mother in this condition made me appreciate my mother and everything she does for me tremendously. However, I was terrified for my mother’s health.

On January 5, 2009 my father pasted away. He and I did not have the typical father-son relationship; we did not have a relationship at all. I presumed that it would have a little if any affect on me. However, as the semester continued, it seemed to get worse. Besides my father’s passing, several weeks later my grandmother was diagnosed with dementia. It was difficult for me to deal with, but it was more difficult for my mother to handle.

My grandmother taught me how to pray, my mother taught me to learn from my mistakes, and my father’s absence showed me self love is the most important love one could ever receive. My grandmother had been a caretaker to six of my mother’s eight children. I met my mother at age eight, by nine my grandmother was diagnosed with leukemia and at ten years old I would now be moving from Jacksonville, FL to Detroit, MI without notice. My mother had no job, no house, and had not been out of prison for more than three years. She had little time to get her life in order.

Looking back at my childhood, I suppose you could say it was pretty difficult. Even at my happiest, I was living with a foster family, separated from the rest of my biological relatives. However, I couldn’t complain. I loved them like they were my family that I spent my whole life with. I was a five-year-old boy living a happy life. I had grown attached to the family, feeling like I was truly a part of it. Then one cold November day it all changed. A woman dressed in black came to my home I had grown to love and told me it was time to go away. I horrified, not knowing where I could be taken. After waiting in a room full of toys for a few hours, she came back in and told me it was time to go. She put me in the back seat of a car and started driving. Driving to my mother’s house, to live with her and my two brothers. They didn’t even feel like family anymore. Time marched on, however. My sister was born, I was reintroduced to my family, and although I missed the Bernards, everything felt like it was going to be ok.

In the fall of 2012, my mother almost succumbed to her illness. I had just begun my freshman year of high school midst angry conversations between my parents and the threat of separation. It would seem as if they bickered about the most irrelevant things, almost as if they had no other reason to fight other than the fight itself. Those moments were excruciatingly lonely, my father worked until the dead of night and my mother would come home exhausted from treatment. I now know that there was no one who felt more unvalued than my mother. I wish I had the ability to iron away this blunder that destiny had fabricated, however foolish this desire is.

I remember on my first day of preschool, my mom told me, “Abby, don’t tell your teachers about your family.” Sitting in my car seat, at the age of 4, I was starting to become overwhelmed with confusion. This confusion bubbled up inside me for years. I had so many questions that I wanted to ask my moms, but I did not have the courage or the strength to ask. Then I grew up. My perspective on the world changed, and I realized that my parents were seen as a calamity to society. That was my perspective though. I wondered what my mom’s was. How did she grow up in a world that only saw her as a flaw in the system? So I asked. Beth Shaffer’s perspective on her past, the present, and the future is an astonishing story.

I do not have a lot of fantastic memories about my childhood, but I have never forgot a person who accompanied me through my early childhood--my grandfather, Shuzhen Wang. Although he died when I was seven years old, Wang is one of my family member who I really respect and thankful for. He spent his last few years to teach me how to be a person who I want to be. In my mind, he was versatile, warm-heart, adamant, and upbeat person.

Growing up, I was always considered the “ Angel child” in my family. My parents thought of me as a kid who could do no wrong, and always did the right thing. For most of my childhood and early teenage years, that was correct. It was not until I met my new group of friends when starting Middle school and entering High school that this all changed. I was introduced into the typical group of trouble makers; at least that’s what my parents would come to think. At first, it just seemed like a normal group of friends. We would hang out, play video games and sports together; all the typical activities that teenagers would do together. Things stayed like that up until 9th grade, when more people were added to the group. Their ideas of fun often

I was steadily put into the hospital daycare at three years old while Toysha would be visiting my father, but at times he would end up being too sick for me to come visit, so my mother would take me to my grandmothers and she would have to take care of me. Eventually, Christopher’s cancer started to metastasize, and together my mother and father decided to make the decision to have me go live with my grandmother for the better. Christopher did not want me to be around to see him in that condition and my mother thought I would have a better way of living if I was not with them. The love that they had for each other allowed them to make rational decisions and sacrifices for the better of my life and

My grandma has brown hair with light brown highlights, she is dark skinned, with brown eyes, she is a big people person and does everything to make everyone happy. She works for a dentist and says she would retire if I wasn't hers, she is 56 and still getting shorter. My papa on the other hand is light skinned, has reddish brown hair, blue eyes, he is a controlling but sweet person and he likes things his way, he is retired now and loves it, he is 58 years old, he can't see very well so he's always squinting or has glasses on. I don’t live with my parents or sister but they are still a part of my life. My mom is tan, with brown eyes with reddish hair. She is loving and doesn’t care about what people think. My mom stays at home most of the time to keep my niece Kinley while my sister is at school. My dad looks a lot like my papa except skinnier and has green eyes, “he is a Tosto” my grandma says by that she means he’s just as hard headed as my pa and I. Katie my sister is 17 and raising a child she has dirty blond hair. She is very protective about the people she loves and will do anything for them. I’m the youngest out of my family but I’ve kinda grown up as an only child because it’s just my grandparents and me at the house. My grandma gets her dark skin from her parents because both of them are cherokee indian, my papa on the other hand is very light skinned he gets this from his irish and scottish roots.

It was May 17th, 2011, it was a normal school day when my brother and I were told that my mom called to say that she was picking us up early. I was anxious, wondering why we were going home early and breaking our usual routine. When my mom came to get us, the first thing that I noticed was that she didn’t greet us with her usual smile. I was 9 years old, very observant, but not able to sense what was to come. We got into the car, when I asked my mom where we were going hoping