Super Retro-Sweater!

Fifty-two days remain at my current workplace. Notice has been placed and I face the world once again as a free agent. I take a moment to choose some comfort clothes to wear today instead of a stylish work outfit. Dress slacks for integrity sakes and a turtleneck stretched over my head. Even though the decision to leave was easy, I had some mad integral value for the work I was doing. Yes, decisions are tough to make but a nice warm sweater pulled over my shoulders will make day 52 all the better.

April had been a tough month for me. With the loss of an elder in my community, JoAnn, I was hit extra hard with her departure. She was a friend of my mother’s and a woman of great respect in the community. A nurse and nosey as all get up. She knew everyone’s business. She saw many of the future generations come into this world, including one of my own. She was the nurse who brought my daughter to me to feed for the first time after delivery. I remember her watching me from across the room as I fed my baby girl. Her warm smile etched itself in my memory. I could tell she loved me and I was clueless to why.

At this time, JoAnn knew more about me than I knew of myself. Perhaps I should say she knew my family's history more than I did at the time. Being my elder, she had seen more and knew of my family's news. In my mind, her being at my daughter's delivery was a good omen. Her presence was right yet odd. I accepted the attention as she admired Hannah and I. Pride, thankful smile, victory perhaps, I couldn't tell but one thing I did know is, I felt love.

Visit your elders before they leave. I did just that with JoAnne. I gave her what time I could to chisel out for a visit with her. Towards the end, I was there at a phone call. She summoned and I came. She refused to be ignored by me and I jumped on command. I was finding this a very odd response I was having to her ending. I respected her. This was well known through the years. What was occurring with each visit was interesting. Each visit, was a new lesson to help me move on once she was gone.

As with many Native American children in the United States, I was place into a foster home at the age of 4. I was taken from my family of 11 kids and placed into a home I never knew. Children who experience such life events end up impacted by trauma. I remember the first night and the extreme emotional breakdown I had through the night. Finally, late into the morning hours, I was picked up, soothed, and rocked to sleep. In the midst of my breakdown, I found comfort. There are many children placed into foster care systems and they do not have emotional support. I was lucky.

I stop and turned to face my sweater bin and thought, ‘I was four’. My frown slowly turned into a smile. This weekend I had to purchase another sweater bin because I acquired all of JoAnne’s sweaters. Oh, how I love a good sweater. Once I put on a sweater, the ‘mmm’ feeling I get is such a happy thing. I look forward to the odd moment. Carefully I eyed the translucent draws and smirked and said, “Well, my dear friend, which of the four should I wear today?” I toyed out loud with JoAnne in spirit. Her response came not a second later. The clinking of ice balls began to pelt the window and I smiled at the heavy blue one. ‘Still taking care of me.’ I thought and with a quick thank you as I pulled the sweater from the drawer.

As I closed the drawer, I shook my head at the silliness I felt. JoAnn didn’t have many sweaters but the ones I received has brought such happiness. I call these sweaters my, RETRO-SWEATERS. Yes, dear reader, read those words with a super hero voice ringing loudly in your ears. Ready? Set. Go! RETRO-SWEATERS! Seriously, sweaters from the 1970’s and 1980’s. The patterns are directly from my high school years. I feel like I have hit the reset button. I spent my whole weekend cleaning them and mending tiny holes in them. Never had I spent so much time tending to anything. Thank heavens JoAnne was a frumpy Indian lady back then like I have grown into today. The sweaters fit me perfectly. I never thought I would be so excited over some old clothes.

The other day, her daughter Chris and I were talking about that time I was in the home. JoAnne and she lived two houses down from the foster care. One of the visits, she told of all the shenanigans that us two girls would get into when we were tiny. I don’t remember much from that period so her stories spun at our visits could be real or made up. I don’t care if they are real or not, I will remember them as she told them. One thing Chris and I do remember about that time, is we didn’t get along very well.

For years I had carried the memories around about how Chris and I would always argue/mock/chastise each other about clothes. Seriously folks, JoAnn and she always assessed my clothes since then. JoAnne survived my Punk era look in high school. The heavy metal period, with full leathers included, must have made her head roll. After a small spell of those things, I mellowed back out and back into sweaters. Point here is this, I was a free soul and Chris, not so much. Even now, just at the moment of writing this, I am drawing more clarity about ‘Events, statement, looks’ being directed to me by them throughout the years. Oh yes, she did not like the biker babe look but she never stopped talking to me. I was so use to the banter that I didn’t take it to heart her opposition. That was our relationship.

Let me get back to the story. Apparently, when I was taken from the home, clothes were not abundant. I remember the lady talking to JoAnn about washing my clothes every night. JoAnn gave her some of Chris’ clothes for me to wear. I must have been a scrawny little thing because the gifted clothes were too big and Chris was much younger and they should have fit better. I remember feeling so beautiful wearing her dresses. My favorite was a floral print dress. Pretty little pink flowers stuck out against the white material. The collar was rounded with lace for decorations sticking out of the edge. Never had I have such pretty clothes. The days I wore that dress, it was guaranteed a fight would happen between Chris and I. She was and still is jealous of me.

One fine afternoon, I was at my desk working and JoAnn summoned me for a visit after work. I was to come and pick up clothes. Yep, bags of clothes were tossed into my car. My daughter, my niece, and myself had received a full spring wardrobe as our family inheritance. Interestingly all three of us needed clothing. My daughter just had a baby and needed bigger clothes. Gypsy is still feeling the impact of Covid and can’t work to buy clothes. Myself, I had rapid weight loss and she was not happy to see my pants hanging off my booty when I came for a visit. There I was still being gifted clothing from her at the age of fifty-six. She smiled as she watched me fall in love with the sweaters. Her smile was so wide when I slipped the green one over my head. She loved our visits and I love them more as I process her end days.

Many people who experience trauma have things they are attached to. My attachment is my Raggidy doll. I still keep one for those unexpected flashbacks moments. Yes, the one doll I had when I was four has long passed and Raggidy #3 stood at the ready on a shelf. JoAnn looked at me as I donned the green sweater and said, “Interesting, that’s the sweater I was wearing the night I came to you. Remember? The night you wouldn’t stop crying over at the house?” She smiled and continued, “You wouldn’t stop crying so they called ME to see if I could still you.” She looked down at the floor and back to the ceiling, “Your mother asked me to watch over you. While she was seeking treatment.” She shifted in her chair to look at me, “Don’t you remember what happened?” Childhood memories are hardly clear. My heart broke as I listened to how I told on dad when I caught him having sex with a handicapped sibling. As flash blacks began to occur, I knew it would be a night were Raggidy would be needed.

I have never been so thankful to live alone. As I entered the door, I could feel the welling explosion of emotions about to come. As I slip off my jacket and the green sweater appeared in the hallway mirror. I stopped to admire it. A tear formed in the corner of my eye and marveled at the timing of all things. Soon, tears overran their resting spot and flowed down my cheek. I allowed them to flow and soon the wave was done. Round one was done but I could feel the earthquake inside growing. I knew it was a matter of time and I would-be full-on trigger mode. No one wants to see that.

One thing I noticed at that moment was the feeling. It was the energy that had me bugged. I felt like I was pulsating. Energy of power and strength were cracking through my being. With closed eyes I felt the breakage in me crack further open and I lunged to my room for Raggidy. For the first time in years, I turned and looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. With a devilish look in my eye I said to myself, “I have my Super RETRO-SWEATER and RAGGIDY! Tonight, we battle!” Strength my friends is what it takes to heal. The suckiest job in this world is feeling the pain of healing. I assure you, feeling the pain and defeating it is the best feeling in the world.

Battle worn I continued on with visits until I got the call that she had walked on. I rushed over to say my goodbyes and give Chris hugs and prepared for her funeral. Then it hit me. I was saying good-bye to my trauma mom. I created another mother through my pain. When I saw her laying there with eyes slightly opened waiting for me, I realized that she and “Little Sheila” had a special bond. I leaned over and looked at her aged brown skinned face and said, “Thank you, for being there when I needed you. I got it from here. I will not abandon Chris and the children. I will watch over them.” Her eyes closed the rest of the way and I knew she heard me. JoAnn is at peace and Chris and I are making our peace.

“Family isn’t always blood’, was a statement Chris had said to me once. My mother wasn’t blood of their family but my dad was. Right or wrong, family or not, they stood with my mother as she went into battle for her family. My mother was amazing and a fighter. She amazed them with her girt to fight back against my father. She was the God Mother to one child. Another was gifted my mother’s name. Distant in blood Chris and I are, but we are family. Apparently, Little Sheila chose them too.