Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself:
A Possible Strategy for Reclaiming What my Childhood Trauma Made Me Forget
Last winter, I walked into Five Below, music blaring from my airpods, as I was accosted by a woman mouthing joy and rushing towards me with open arms which she subsequently scooped me into. No cause for alarm. I was a teacher…a good, community building teacher in Milwaukee for many years, so I’m kinda used to this. While in her arms, I fumbled with removing the airpods so I could catch a hint of who she might be from the delight that was still pouring from her lips. I missed it, but still in her arms, I pushed my head back a little bit so that I could look into her face, I asked her, “Are you a parent of one of my kids?” (My kids refers to any child I ever taught…I have many!)
She responded, “No, Linetta. I’m Alesia! You don’t remember me?” I didn’t. This, too, happens a lot. Usually, I will broaden my smile and my eyes until they match, and say, “Heeeyyy! How you doing?” But not this time. I watched Alesia’s eyes, smile, and arms drop towards the floor while she undoubtedly watched me standing still, but running frantically through my mind trying to find a memory that would tell me who we were before. I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was, still am, actually. I stood helpless and forgetful as she turned and walked away.
When I returned home that night, I still carried the guilt with me. So, I tapped into my trusty, living memory bank, i.e. the Golden Girls, Tanisha, Kanya, and Ka’Ron, my friends from middle and high school who have been a staple in my life. In the group chat, I recounted the incident with them and told them the woman’s name. Kanya wrote back, “You two were like best friends when we were at Morse.” Best friends? How could I forget my best friend?
More than having experienced childhood trauma, I hate even more what it did to my brain! While I talk about the hippocampus a lot, I actually have no idea how it works and I especially don’t know the extent of the damage that trauma has on it - mine included. My working theory is that only the moments that had high or intense emotion are retained, like the time me, and two other friends got caught stealing from Kohl’s, or when Mr. Winterfelt, the 8th grade ELA teacher, was crying when our principal passed away, or when Tonya and I shared stories of our trauma in the bathroom the day that I decided to run away. I also remember when I went to school with a swollen hand after my mother hit me with a shoe and sprained my thumb. There are a few other memories that float around in my mind, but there is one that is more pivotal than all the rest. The shame and anger from that moment is still palpable when I tell it.
After living with my grandmother for a couple of months, my grades improved dramatically. I remember the school counselor calling me into her office, calling a meeting to tell me that she was proud and surprised by my grades because usually when a child experiences what I had, their grades plummet and they exhibit negative and violent behaviors. I left her office and secretly researched the impact of sexual abuse on children. The report said that I would be promiscuous, a teenage parent, wouldn’t attend college, suffer from depression, and exist in a cycle of poverty for the rest of my life. I committed to defying those odds. Well, three out of five, ain’t bad.
What the report didn’t reveal was that I would forget my friends and that I would create false and limiting beliefs that would ultimately impact every aspect of my life; relationships as transactional, who and why I chose to marry, parenting a daughter, my worth being related to my work. When I sought out therapy at 48, I went through cognitive processing therapy where I had to confront and deconstruct the beliefs that I told myself as a result of my childhood trauma. Believe it or not, one of them was the belief that my victimization made me a good teacher for my students. I was determined to see them, honor them, and be a safe place for them, unlike the teachers who never looked in my eyes long enough to see what was wrong or the counselor who was surprised by what I could do when I wasn’t being raped. Whew! That’s a lot to take on. Healing is a process. Even at 49 years old, I’m still discovering and deconstructing many other harmful and limiting beliefs. My guilt over not being able to recall important people and events that my hippocampus made me forget is proof that there is more healing to be done.
Recently, I attended a champagne brunch to celebrate one of my other Golden Girls, Tanisha, turning 50 and fine. When I walked in, the place was crowded so my introvert was in full effect. I spotted Ka’Ron, and, instantly, I relaxed. Soon we were in a corner, cozy, sipping mimosas. Ka’Ron pulled out her phone to give me a closer look at a former friend from high school, Pam, who was sitting at the bar. I didn’t remember her. Ka’Ron went in, trying to tap into moments that may engage my memory. Nothing. To avoid the embarrassment and the harm from being forgotten, my plan was to avoid Pam, telling myself that she surely didn’t remember me either. Well, later I responded to Tanisha calling my name from where Pam was sitting and beckoned for me to join them. I did, and after much prodding, I regretfully and sorrowfully announced that I just didn’t remember her. This time, I walked away and sat at the end of the bar, next to my good girl friend, Patrice, and her pup, Chase. I told Patrice what happened and how bad I felt. I even told her about Alesia. At this point, tears were threatening to spill from my eyelids and on to my cheeks. Patrice, a beautiful and amazing human, consoled me by rubbing my hand, then empowered me with a strategy. She said, “Go talk to her and express your regret at not being able to remember, but then offer to share something about each of you now to rebuild a relationship, if desired.” I wiped my eyes, finished my mimosa, then stepped courageously into this new strategy.
“Hey Pam,” I began, “I’m really sorry that I don’t remember you. I was really going through some stuff back then and my brain wasn’t fully activated. But we’re here now, so, please, allow me to reintroduce myself.” Not only did Pam and I have a good kekeke, but I also got to know her friend, Cheryl, who, when all the stars align, we will get to work together on some creative projects.
Every year that I’ve worked at UBUNTU, we’ve read “Emergent Strategy” by adrienne maree brown, making it a central piece of the transformative work that we continue to do. The ideas and practices outlined in this work inform how we show up with our clients and within our learning community. Even though I recently shared with a client an excerpt from the book explaining that interdependence is iterative, I had not anticipated the need for this practice in my personal life. As I take steps to own my challenges while determining my future, I embrace these “repetitive motions…towards interdependence”:
1. Be seen.
2. Be heard.
3. Accept my inner multitudes.
4. Ask for, and receive, what I need.
Interdependence was my salve during that Sunday brunch. I hold that it will continue to be as I accept the multiplicity of being a talented writer with a traumatized brain, a researcher that thinks deeply and gets distracted easily, and a woman who seeks to develop new relationships with forgotten old friends.
“The more I accept this, the more I can share my contradictory truths with those who can support me and help me move towards my best self.”
Hey Alesia! I would love for us to get to know each other…again!