The Pain of Remembering!

by Vicky Nabors

I was really excited when an old friend found me on Facebook this week. She has a unique connection to my life and my “herstory.” I first met Carol when I moved into an apartment over her in Evanston. She and I both attended the church that owned our building. And then, we quickly discovered that we attended the same Catholic school in Oak Lawn, IL during the 1960′s; she was in my older brother’s class, and her younger sister was in my class. My family was one of only three black families attending that school; we weren’t really welcome in that community during that time.

I’d lost contact with Carol in 2000 after I fled from that church community with a broken heart. You know the story: “no gays or lesbians affirmed here.” For eight years, all of my gifts and skills were constantly called upon at that church. I gave of myself gladly to the glory of God. Then everything changed when a lay minister friend became pastor, and she betrayed my trust. My value plummeted. Carol had no idea why I vanished, but I learned that she and other members also left that church shortly thereafter for the same reasons. (Bravo!)

The irony of my friend’s reappearance during this first week of Lent is nothing short of amazing. I was chugging through the first few days of my journey, and had given great thought to the “why’s” of my colorful language. (Of course, beyond what is already known; we curse when we’re frustrated, angry, or excited.) After my friend and I shared an in-depth conversation to catch up, I immediately understood God’s purpose for bringing her back into my life. She was the key that connected me to my past pains. Carol had ironically been present when two major events occurred in my life: racial violence and injustice during the 1960′s in Chicago, and my heart-breaking split with the church in 2000. For some strange reason, Carol revisited those painful moments during our conversation on Friday, and I’ve been an emotional mess ever since.

I sense my Lenten blogging project must now shift its focus from giving up profanity, to giving up all my pain – conscious and unconscious – to God. This means my blog participation has taken a very sensitive turn. I’ve tried to write this entry several times and trashed each one. It’s very personal and very painful; I don’t honestly want to share. But after talking to Pastor Kate on Sunday, I decided to step out on faith.

I realize that I have all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, which fuels my colorful language. I had no idea I was still harboring the pain, fear, confusion, and anger from something that occurred over 40 years ago. You see, I was 8-years-old when I watched while my father and uncle were brutally beaten with billy clubs, and spit on by those who were sworn to protect them. Afterwards, they had black eyes and huge lumps all over their heads. I can still hear my mother and aunt’s screams and my sibling cries for help as we watched in horror. This scene was repeated two additional times with my father and uncles. It was a horrible scene to watch. My eight year old mind couldn’t under why the police kept beating my daddy and my uncles. We were concluding family outings, and my young father and uncle were laughing and rough housing in good humor when the police situation occurred. But then, it was an era of racial violence and police brutality.

A year later, my brothers, sister, and I were also beaten by our principal/nun, locked in dark closets by a teacher/nun, and had our lunch spit on by white classmates, all at a Catholic school in Oak Lawn. My parents were seeking a better life for us. They were “Chasers of the Great White Flight” in Chicago. I clearly remember the terror of the day MLK was murdered because all the black kids in my upper middle-class neighborhood were kept home from school. Our parents feared for our safety. I remember hiding with my brother in the stairway as we listened to the elders of my family discuss the potential dangers of being in public and traveling on the bus. I remember feeling confused and afraid for my grandmother when it was agreed that she could have safe passage because she was very fair in complexion with red hair (her father white Irish, her mother biracial Irish). But my other family members were advised to only travel by car in groups. I just couldn’t understand why white people hated me and my family because of our skin color. It was a lot for a little kid to digest.

Today, I understand this to be the core of my pain. And, this is also where feelings of unworthiness were first given birth. These feelings were later reinforced by a multitude of rejections over the course of my adult life such as having an eccentric personality (high IQ) and a homosexual orientation, among other things. As a result, my anger and pain is deeper than I could have ever imagined. I’ve always loved all people, but I have not always been loved. I must now give this pain to my Creator. Therefore, I will seek my Father’s guidance and comfort as I try to figure out how to achieve this end. It’s extremely difficult to “go there” as I’m reduced to tears each time.

This will be my re-focused Lenten journey.

“As I look across the rivers of my life,
where ever they may go, where ever they have been.
Lord I give them all to you, I place them at your feet.
I give them all to you;
I give them all to you.”

Amen

Tags: Vicky

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 25th, 2010 at 6:00 am and is filed under Lent Devotional. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.