The void and struggle
Although trauma pock-marked my earliest years and memories, the world came stirring silently into broader awareness for me in mid-childhood from ages of around seven to fourteen. During those formative years my brothers and I lived in the home of a Native American auntie and her husband, my mom's brother, who played a nearly inconsequential role and their daughter. Outside from their daughter, we were kept roughly and cruelly, expected to abide in perpetual isolation and contemplation. Once in a blue moon my aunt and I connected within the largely untread lands of tenderness beyond the fearful and monolithic barriers of aversion that stood between us. In those moments, I came to understand that she was not loved in the ways a child would want a mother to love and she did not know the way to having this with others. Resentment of children and the responsibilities of opening up a rawness of heart were the only harvest she knew. Sadly, I could not bring her the name 'mother' from my heart when she asked because my heart was tied to a birth mom who perhaps she felt in abandoning me had no right to lay claim.
Nor was she any more capable of granting me access to her culture, as the way was only made through those maternal bonds that could not be falsely tied. I resided for years as a fearful outsider or a ghost, seemingly constructed of different essential qualities as others in my vicinity. So, to cope, I drifted through the ethereal spaces of the mind, imagination and universal divine versus the physical spaces of shared reality. It took a lot to tie off again years and years later when I came back to the ground. In the meantime, I always regret that I had not been granted a Indigenous name, the type of name that one could look to for deeper meaning and draw from one's own sense of purpose and mythology.
Although I do not lay any claim to being a Native American person, nor do I have the birthright or the adequate experience to speak on the behalf of a culture that is only partly within my grasp or understanding, I feel strongly about my connections intuitively to some of the Native ways. Some of the things that I was taught or came to understand during later reflection had great bearing on my path. One of the things that I learned about yet regretted was that in some Indigenous cultures people are imparted with an Indigenous name, that defines their role in the tribe. For many years I pined over having missed out on that opportunity, but then somehow without realization, I came upon knowing my name.
To add to this desire, a Native American friend who held sacred their own tribal name. He told of the greater imagination space within which his name resonated and what it represented to him and how he felt it contributed to his tribe. He found both strength and challenges in it as he abided his broader journey. I felt somehow that I had missed out in not having been granted the same.
The upside of the darkness
Amidst the grievous silence and isolation, there were some who created a place where I felt I belonged, and among two of these people were my maternal Grandparents. They urged earnest authenticity in me and my siblings and their other grandchildren. They permitted tears and laughter, shared in songs, encouraged warming cozy silences, taught the blessing of sacred routines whether gardening, sewing, playing solitaire, cooking, cleaning, and enjoying the laziness of the setting of the sun. They bought toys and encouraged us to play, they setup a kiddie pool where we could swim and bikes to ride on and candy, we could hand pick from the store. Through their seemingly selfless and caring acts they filled the empty pantries of our hearts with much well needed and sustaining joy. Yet, they also let us know that they too were blessed with our time together and it was hard to be apart from the care.
Later reflections
Those days are long gone although both the darker sorrows and the cherished memories remain. Among them are a whole new collection of Grandma and Grandpa and a great host of kindred souls with whom life has passed. Time has a way of nudging us forward right off the precipice of each new adventure even before we can wholly catch our breath, yet some of the longings still remain.
I long felt a subtle but aching void over the absence of a meaningful name to guide my path. As I recently began to edge into what I perceive may be my last few decades of life there was still a sense of regret longing around inside of me. Yet, funny how the things that we have long wished for, suddenly come into our lives unexpectedly.
The epiphany
I was pondering how much easier it had been if only someone had granted me that passage. Then in one sudden epiphany it all seemed to whirlingly resolve. I remembered all of a sudden that a long time ago, when I was quite small, my Grandparents used to call me 'poopsie'. Being that they were only a generation removed from having been direct German immigrants, their grandparents having come from abroad, their language sometimes sounded funny to me. I laughed at the time childishly because to me the word was quite similar to the word 'poo' which was a naughty word in a sense for a child, but my grandma reassured me that it meant I was 'their doll'.
I was warmed by the memory and even went further to look up what the word in traditional (not urban) dictionaries to see if there was a documented official meaning and the results said things like endearing term for a 'preferred one'. It also said things like independent, versatile, creative, talented and capable. Funny how all along, without the awareness of the guidebook, I had lived into many of these traits unknowingly.
Of course, although I feel that they certainly set the stage by creating the path for me to feel I held an endearing place in their hearts...I have also come to feel that perhaps we all come into our own names, whether intentionally given or found, in our own ways...
