Page 71 of And Still Her Voice
“Grandma, where were you that time he gave me the black eye?”
She fell silent as I yanked a handful of grass, remembering, I’m only eleven and Dad has staggered home unexpectedly, drunk again, yelling for Mom, “Teresa, where are you?” She’d left me alone to attend to some school event for my sisters. Had he run out of money? Was he in trouble? My body convulsed as I hid in my room hoping he’d just go to his room and pass out. I got up to bar my door with my desk chair. Too late. He barged through as I backed away, grabbing me before throwing me onto the bed. Even still, I can smell the stinky beer on his hot breath, and now a memory, I’d stuffed down before losing consciousness, bubbles to the surface and bursts—the stench of his rough Camel-cigarette stained hand on my small, insignificant breast. As trivial as I was made to believe this had been, I knew now this “accident” was monumental.
His hand a branding iron, my chest burns. “Oh my God, Grandma! Why didn’t you do anything? Why did everyone downplay this moment? Why was I made to believe it never happened? Why did I think I’d done something wrong?” I remembered how he finally removed his hand to slap it over my mouth. I see his red-rimmed, cold steel metal grey eyes widen, the big pupils, black holes bursting through an explosion. Rolling off of me, he creeps away like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Until the day I stabbed him, I never looked into his eyes again and I crammed the memory in the back closet of my memory.
“You say you wanted to keep me safe from him and now he’s dead,” I sobbed.
Still no sign of Grandma, but I felt her hiding in the shadows of my mind.
The little boy with the dog and the Frisbee ran past and I recalled the morning after the incident. I’d heard a gunshot coming from the garage and ran in to find my father lying on the ground. I knelt by his side, choking on the smell of firecrackers and sulfur, thinking he was dead until he turned and lifted his head. “I’m so sorry, Mouse.” He begged me to forgive him, telling me he’d been out of his mind; that he’d gone out drinking after being haunted by his stepbrother who’d killed himself. What? What stepbrother? Last time he was sad because of his murdered father. I was so confused. Wasn’t I too young to hear all of this? And then he cried and I felt sad for him. He stopped talking as if he’d passed his heavy burdens onto me.
Later, when I asked Mom about it, she basically told me to mind my own business, which I did. At the time, I put the whole ordeal out of my mind only to feel sorry for Dad and the dead stepbrother. To bring anything up might send my father into either a rage or melancholy. Later, Mom said he was drunk and had mistaken me for her. Grandma said he was angry with her, not me. What was I? The human punching bag? Everyone made excuses for my father’s horrific behavior; my mother, my grandmother, society, and the church told me to forgive. Even I tried to justify his actions. But why? Why was he more important than me? Why should I go to his funeral? I’m not going!
“You’re right.” Grandma finally spoke up. “He’s long departed. There’s nothing for us back home anymore.”
I could keep running, but whether she chose silence or not, she would always be with me like a squatter who’d taken up residence, invading my soul. I knew there was only one way for me to be free. Suicide.
***
I wept, not so much for my father, but for the kid who’d suffered his abuse. After stumbling blindly out of the park onto the West End, I drifted along for several blocks, landing on the steps where a sign read,Universal Church. I wandered in to find white-gowned bodies strewn everywhere in all sorts of pretzel poses, slowly rising to dance and chant and clap their bangle-wristed hands. Finally, exhausted, they sunk to their knees, bowing their heads to the floor and the silence. At the sound of chimes, the followers sat up crossing their legs to face the front of a small stage. And then the hall went dark.
The smell of incense comforted me, wafting its way through my veins. And then on the raised platform, a heavenly light shone on a golden harp, behind which sat a regal, ebony-colored woman. Over the jingling, I heard a young women’s voice say, “Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome Alice Coltrane.” Alice’s hands and arms fluttered like dark ribbons across the glistening strings, creating a sound like raindrops to soothe my scorched soul.
“Envision yourself floating on a sea of love.” Her music was spiritual, vibrant, and jazzy. A snare drum joined in and then bells. More lights came on illuminating other musicians. I felt a magnetic pull and a momentous push from Grandma before I edged my way closer to the stage. I sat down and crossed my legs, focusing on the short-necked, pair-shaped stringed instrument called the oud and a long-necked, stringed instrument called the tamboura that sounded like the drone of insects. Someone played a soprano saxophone, and someone else, a bowed bass. The vibrations made me feel like a little bee in a field of mustard plants. As the saxophone wailed, a mind-blowing, colorful vibrancy mixed with exotic overtones created a music so divine. Reverberating throughout the hall rang a sound I’d never heard. The jazz I’dknown had been loud and bombastic, almost a protest, but this music seemed to speak even louder in a more delicate, graceful, articulate way. More than just jazzy, the music seemed to go beyond the boundaries of both Eastern and Western music. Hypnotic. Transforming.
Outside, while the noise of the streets, the protests, the shouting to be heard, seemed to be quelled; inside, I floated along a cool, peaceful river.
And then for the next piece, Alice got up to take a seat at a grand piano and turned to the audience. Grandma insisted, in her yellow voice, that we scoot up closer. And then what an orchestra of celestial music, if this was what heaven sounded like, I was ready to go. All of a sudden, my world didn’t seem so small. A foreign sense of joy washed over me. This new, eccentric music reminded me of my journey so far across the country where I’d discovered the beautiful parks, rivers, lakes, and rest areas, stopping a moment before going on. It seemed like all of my life I’d been restricted to a couple of octaves and now I discovered all the ebony and ivory keys, I could use the whole piano. I grew excited and looked forward to where my journey was going to take me next. Suddenly I wasn’t afraid of what might be around the corner.
When the music stopped, the pretty woman walked to center stage. “And now Swami Satchidananda will bless us on our way out to love and serve the world.”
Had I heard correctly? The Swami from Woodstock?What are the odds of this? My spirit wanted to leave my body.
The bearded man walked out, raised his arms, his orange sleeves swaying as he spoke. “Welcome my brothers and sisters.”
“Welcome,” we responded.
He took a seat and sat cross-legged to speak of many things, but this next part stuck. “Remember the goal of Integral Yoga,and the birthright of every individual, is to realize the spiritual unity behind all the diversities in the entire creation and to live harmoniously as members of one universal family.”
Does that mean Grandma, too? How am I to learn to live in harmony with Grandma bogarting space in my head?
“Be here now.” He seemed to be addressing me.“Mind over matter. Remember, the body is only the vehicle you are using.”
My whole body revved up, the moist hairs on the back of my sweaty neck standing at samasthiti. “Body is not the real you,” Swami said. “Death is taking the body away, not the soul.” I listened intently trying to absorb everything he said. “Yoga is a pathway to non-dual or unity consciousness. We all have unity and, at the same time, diversity. Physically, mentally, and materially we are all different. We do not think the same way. Although we sometimes say we are thinking alike, our thoughts are never one hundred percent the same. Even when we gather for a common purpose, our thoughts are still different. No mind is exactly the same as another mind. Nature never makes duplicates. Scientists say that not even two snowflakes are exactly alike. There is constant variety in creation. Mentally we are different; physically we are different. The only thing in which we are not different is our awareness, our consciousness, the light within or, as the Bible calls it, the image of God. In that, we are all one. The same light shining through many different colored lamps.”
And then, if speaking directly to me, he peered my way. “Let go of the anger. It is possible to live in harmony with your dual consciousness. Treasure your gift.”
I could have died right there.My dual consciousness?I couldn’t stop the deluge of tears.
On a natural high after meeting the Swami, I shyly approached Alice. “I’ve never heard anything quite so beautiful.”
“Are you a musician?”
“I play piano and guitar. I can also sing.”
“You are blessed, indeed.”
I nodded.
