Invisible Men

Dear You-Know-Who,

This is very personal for me, and I know that as you read this, you may wonder why I have not included your specific title or name as a form of address. I have my reasons, and I think it will be clear – at least to one of us – why I have decided to send you this letter.

Autumn is here. We have had some strange, unseasonal weather, but Daylight Saving Time has returned and seemed to have settled a bet with Mother Nature. The days are now cold and short, with our mood reflecting the new season. We are all out of sorts as the year gets close to its end, and I think of you.

This is supposed to be a letter of gratitude, so it may seem odd to write to someone whom I cannot forgive or forget. You were the great bane of my life and I am still trying to tell a story about myself that does not include your fingerprints all over it. My tale feels incomplete if I stay on only one path. I was beaten up, humiliated, abused and treated with indifference by you long before I knew what to do with this sort of life. I was too young to know that this was not the norm for me or anyone else. I was too young to know that I could talk about it, or even admit that I was facing that other side of you that many of your friends and our family never knew.

Family… Yes, I am thinking of family. I am thinking of my mother, the woman who came in when you were gone. This is the woman who raised me and took care of me when I felt that there was no one else out there for me. But this is also the woman who admitted that she suspected that something was happening to me, but did…nothing. I feel some anger over this but realize now that as a single parent, and a West Indian workaholic of the silent generation, she was not able to articulate certain feelings, or even notice them in others, including her son.

I am also thinking about my brother… My adopted one. I should be specific about that, since you made sure that there were plenty of half-ones around whom I soon discovered also saw the different sides of you. They did not all admit it, but from the behaviour observed and their mannerisms, it was clear that damage infected their hearts and minds. And in my adopted brother, it was lying low and refused to expose itself. He said that our parenting experience was just typical of a typical West Indian upbringing. In other words, my sensitivity and damage was something that I should just get over with so that I could live a normal life. Maybe this letter should be addressed to him as well…

No, no. I knew what my intention was when I started this letter. And I will say that the title is very apt. You are my “Invisible Man,” but you are not the only one. If this letter is a form of gratitude, it has to be directed toward you, but also the “me” that could have been. That “normal life” I have heard so much about seems like the worst kind of dream; the carrot that we beat ourselves with so that we ignore the stick. That version of me does not exist; I do not think it ever did. And I am so glad that this was my life.

In gratitude for this, I want to thank you, and many other invisible people who treated me terribly, broke promises, abused my trust, took from me things that I never knew I had, and assumed they knew who I was by the picture they formed in their heads of my life. This is not meant to be ironic or satirical; I really am grateful that I was deprived of that particular view of life that had every peg in the right hole; every “I” dotted, every “T” crossed. I was not meant to be a participant. My role was to observe and report. And when you realize that you have discovered your role, you have to play your part.

Thank you for making sure that I would never fall for the illusions of love, life and relationships. They will never catch me and I will always note that the traps exist.

I am grateful,

Yours...

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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