Nathaniel D ‘Kyle’ Walker
February 19, 2009
Aloof
Clad in plastic armor, the gold and black Batman action figure was carefully placed in a light-up Batmobile. Strewn across the floor of my bedroom was a number of action figures from the Batman series; Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, Catwoman, and Bane were my favorite villains while the diverse collection of different Batman and Robin figures always triumphed even in my playtime. With a push of a button, the Batmobile launched a plastic projectile from its front and toppled the Poison Ivy figure.
Even though my Mom and Grandparents were constantly telling me to do my chores and practice the piano more and play less exclusively, I had little intention of doing so just because. Playing the piano was boring and tedious and cleaning was just not fun. During the day I spent my time alone with my ‘Meme’ (the name I called my Grandmother), reading and filling out the ‘PACE’s (one grade in each subject consists of twelve booklets, or PACEs, in the A.C.E. curriculum) of the home school curriculum she taught me. By the time my mom finally brought me home after her long day at work, I did not want to do chores. Playing with my toys was much more fun than anything I was expected to do. Besides, during breaks at home school the only way I could really entertain myself was to go explore the woods, watch a movie for the umpteenth time, or read the interesting encyclopedia filled with strange information on foreign topics. After such a long day, I felt justified scorning my chores to play with my favorite toys.
Usually Mom would have come in to encourage me to practice on the piano or fold laundry before I could play long. But this particular night the quiet and lack of interruption from my play caught my attention, and powerful curiosity urged me to my feet. It was probably my extremely powerful curiosity that made so many people tell me that I had ‘so much potential’, that is what I thought. For whatever reason, that curiosity dictated much of my action.
I don’t understand…
My body froze at the open doorway of my mother’s room. A scene of my mom’s shaking body curled upon her waterbed seared into my memory. Through all that had happened through my short lifetime (the divorce of my parents, moving several times until we had our own house, and all those trips to court ending in my mother gaining full custody) I had never seen my enduring mother shed a tear, yet her shivering and sobbing form was undeniable proof of her trials.
Suddenly, and for the first time, I felt ashamed! There I was, a boy no further than the first few grades of school; yet, since the divorce I had done nothing significant to ease my mother’s burdens. While I had been so preoccupied playing and avoiding the things I found distasteful, I had ignored the feelings of those around me. Words that sounded like annoying lecturing at face value did hold further meaning if I had cared to look. I was more than capable of understanding, as the mere expression on my mother’s face when I went to the toy section of stores told me that she did not have enough money to spend on things that did not clothe or feed us. When it was cold in the house I had enough understanding and responsibility not to change the thermostat to a warmer temperature because I knew that she was already struggling just to make the utility payment as it was. Mom had told me kindly, and it was not hard to recognize and understand the words beneath her words and story behind her eyes when I chose to.
Together we had shared the experience of the divorce. We braved the aftermath of court and living adjustment. The struggle of a new vocation for her and new school for me was also shared betwixt us. Yet while I retreated into a world of childhood fancies free from worry and trouble, I had abandoned my protecting mother to shoulder the load of our new beginning and all the stress that came with it, alone. I could not deny that truth to myself any more.
The shocked expression that crept upon my face still makes the muscles of my mouth feel strange, even in memory, and my legs carried me to the side of the bed. Carefully, as not to disturb her further, my child-like hands and knees crawled across the rippling surface of the waterbed mattress to crouch against her back. Fingers that were delicate at that time reached out to gently touch her back between the shoulder blades and rub it in imitation of how she comforted me when I was upset.
I tried to comfort her, to make her stop crying somehow. Crouched beside her sobbing form, my hand gently patted her shaking shoulder as I assured her it was alright, that she shouldn’t cry. Her sobs did not cease however, but instead continued in steady intensity. Never before had I seen weakness like this in my ‘superwoman’ mom. It actually frightened me. As I continued to pat her arm and back in an attempt to comfort her, she hesitantly admitted that she was not as immune to her troubles as she had been leading me and others to believe. For the first time she opened herself and allowed me to see that she put on a strong front for my benefit but really all the emotional times and hardships were so hard on her that it made her chest hurt. Over and over she apologized for me seeing her crying. Again and again she pleaded my forgiveness for troubling me with her turmoil.
While my mother related the harsh truth of reality to my innocent ears, I sat there listening, actually taking her words in and hearing their value. Looking back, I realize that I was still young. But even in my youth I was capable of either helping or hurting those around me with my attitudes and actions. When I could have been encouraging my mother, cheering her on, my foolishness and disobedience only increased her suffering. Even my attitude was poor, and my grandfather was constantly called to discipline me. I was being a child when I was capable of much more.
Days later, Mom and I arrived home after another long day of home school for me and work for her. While she disappeared into her office for paperwork, as usual, I took a different route this time. Instead of going straight to my room to play, I quietly sat down in the living room floor and began folding the towels out of the clean clothes basket. It was not really fun, but it was the chore I disliked the least. It was not long after I had begun folding when the lack of the sounds in the house made by my playing aroused Mom’s curiosity. Minutes later warm arms wrapped around my chest and gently embraced me.
“Thank you Kyle. You don’t know what this means to me.”
Releasing the towel I was folding, my hands reached around to hug my mother’s arms to return the embrace.
“I love you mom.”
Grades later, inches grown since, and years past, now I am a young adult trying to learn how to “grow up” and apply the skills I have learned though my experiences. Lessons learned and hardships braved have left more than scars and painful memories; each scar is testament to a story and each painful memory a road mark of growth. But even though my thoughts look to the future, a part of me still listens to the whisperings of the past… The childish voice is still asking a crying mother how she can keep on under such hardship.
