My Childhood
Today, I want to share a piece of my heart with you-a journey back to a time when the world felt both vast and intimate, a chapter etched in the secret chambers of my memory: my childhood. I was born in the Bronx, New York on January 16, 1963, we left the city when I was five years old and moved to Puerto Rico, the island where my mother was born. I went to live with my grandparents to Cayey, Puerto Rico, where, I spent a formative year. This experience, though tinged with shadows of the past, has illuminated the path toward understanding and healing.
My Grandma, a woman of unwavering faith and a heart overflowing with love, was the cornerstone of my early life in Cayey. A devout Catholic, she instilled in me the rituals and traditions that shaped her world. Every night, we would kneel together, reciting the rosary. Though my young mind often wandered, and sleep sometimes claimed me mid-prayer, her discipline and devotion left an indelible mark. I remember the gentle taps on my shoulder-a blend of firmness and tenderness-that roused me from my slumber, a testament to her unwavering commitment both to her faith and to me.
Sundays were special, filled with the magic of my Grandmother's artistry. A skilled seamstress, she crafted exquisite dresses-even wedding gowns and for me, she created true masterpieces. Imagine a six-year-old girl, twirling in a brand-new dress, her heart brimming with joy. But church was not my sanctuary. It felt stuffy and confining, and I struggled to sit still. Grandma was always loving and full of patience but grandpa was
strict. I would always look for my grandmother’s protection. Grandpa was strict but he would always buy me my favorite ice cream after church. It was so special the moments I had with my grandparents.
My relationship with my mother during that year was, sadly, distant. She
would visit on Sundays, but the connection felt cold-a void I couldn't fill.
After a year, it was time to return to Caguas, Puerto Rico, to live with my
mother and siblings. Leaving my grandparents, the anchors of my world,
was wrenching. My mother, however, offered little comfort; her words were a sharp contrast to the warmth I had known. She would reprimand
me for my tears, deepening my sadness. This period was a study in contrasts: tenderness and severity, closeness and distance, all shaping my
early years, leaving behind indelible memories of my grandparents and a
complex relationship with my mother.
My mother, burdened by the demands of her job at a restaurant, arrived
home exhausted, her patience often depleted. This limited her ability to
nurture our emotional needs. My childhood was marked by solitude and
hardship. I had to prepare myself for school, make my own breakfast, and navigate the world alone. There was a park-a bit lonely-that filled me with fear, but who could I tell? No one would listen. I was seven years old, and my middle brother caused many problems my mother always believed him. She would say, "It's my brother," and she paid no attention to his mischief, while I was the one who received the beating. Afterward, my brother would hide where she couldn't see him and laugh.
I would retreat to my room, which offered some solace and peace.
Sometimes, I would laugh, remembering the portraits of famous artists I hung on the walls, pretending to be the artist in my own concert. But the loneliness was a constant companion-a deep ache that sometimes led me to question the very purpose of my existence.
The importance of love, understanding, and attention in childhood cannot be overstated. The absence of these elements can inflict deep emotional wounds, hindering the development of healthy family relationships. Children, when they lack understanding and a listening ear, often seek attention in ways that may not be well-received by adults. It is crucial for children to feel valued, heard, and loved, and above all, for their emotions to be acknowledged in order to prevent lasting emotional
damage. Childhood should be a time of safety and affection for every
individual.
My older brother's behavior was often problematic, and he faced few consequences. He had access to drugs and brought hippies into the house everything was permitted. This created a vulnerable environment
for me and my middle brother. We lacked a refuge or emotional support.
From a young age, we were responsible for cleaning, washing our clothes,
and doing everything ourselves because we didn't have the luxury of being cared for. My brother and I knew little about fundamental things like personal development, hygiene, and physical health. We sometimes
looked a little unkept. We hurt ourselves every day, and our diet wasn't the best, even though there were no money problems. I didn't comb my
hair for school, and since I had quite curly hair, I would put on a hat and
go. I looked very unkept and skinny, and they laughed at me. The children at school made fun of me. It caused me a lot of pain; I felt so unprotected.
One memory stands out-a pivotal moment when I first sensed that something was not right. It was an experience I tried to block out for most of my life, a traumatic event that occurred in my own home. I couldn't process it. I trusted this woman; she took me by the waist, supposedly to play, and kept going down and down until she put her private part next to mine and squeezed me in a way I didn't like. She was doing things I couldn't bear, so I pretended to be dizzy. This generated an intense internal conflict. I felt fear, shame, and confusion. Pretending
to be dizzy was my way to avoid confronting reality, a response to sexual abuse at such a young age because the brain seeks mechanisms to cope with trauma.
These experiences can last a lifetime, affecting self-esteem, relationships, and emotional health. It is essential that children feel safe and report any abuse, regardless of who it is. We must teach children about respect for their bodies and personal boundaries to prevent these acts, and so children can recognize when something is not right.
We know that acknowledging and discussing these issues, though painful, is crucial for healing and prevention. Society must be vigilant and committed to protecting our children so that no one suffers in silence. Our churches must also be more attentive so that these voices are heard and respected.
A neighbor, supposedly respected in our community-I went to his house, played with his little girl, whom I later found out he had adopted. She
was swinging in the yard, and I got tired of the swings. There were several little girls, and he approached me and put his arm; I saw it going down, and he touched my breasts. I ran out of that house crying. My mother asked me what was wrong, and when I told her, she didn't believe me. She said, "You're terrible, always making things up to get people in trouble. You don't change." I couldn't believe it; I was telling the truth and she didn't believe me. I started yelling at her, saying, "I'm telling you the truth," and she started running after me because I was yelling. I locked myself in my room to cry and kept repeating, "I don't know why
I'm alive."
Reflecting on these experiences, and with the wisdom that God has granted me, I have come to understand that the events we experience as children can profoundly shape our emotional and psychological development, even if we don't understand it at the time. This can lead to behaviors and attitudes at a young age that are not appropriate.
Later, as an adult, I asked God what could have led a girl of eight-a small group of friends from school-to go to my house at lunchtime, because there was no one home, and to engage in sexual acts which I didn't understand at all at the time. I was able to understand that these behaviors were a consequence of having been touched or used sexually in childhood, even though those experiences had been repressed or forgotten due to my young age. No child is born with damaged or perverse tendencies. Rather, they are wounds inflicted by others that mar their innocence and affect their behavior. The purity with which God creates us can be tarnished by these traumatic experiences that leave a deep, sometimes inexplicable mark on those who suffer. It is very common for those of us affected as children not to be able to remember or express well what happened, and that is why we act in ways adults have acted with us. It is very difficult to be understood instead of being judged. Often, inappropriate labels are used; misunderstanding and isolation occur. In my case, I often spoke with my mother, but I never saw real communication with her, even when I was already uncomfortable with what we were doing among these girls. I went to the mothers, and they didn't believe me. They made me feel alone and problematic because I was asking for help to understand and stop what we were doing.
It is important to listen to children without judgment, without
interrogating them, and to provide a safe environment where they can express themselves. Prevention and early intervention are essential to help heal these wounds, especially with the help of God. We must recognize that no child is responsible for these wounds, and that society, our temples, and servants of God should be more empathetic and
protective.
My friends, my story is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
It is a call to action, a plea for understanding, and a reminder that every
child deserves a safe and loving environment. Let us be the voices for those who cannot speak, the protectors of the innocent, and the beacons
of hope for a brighter future.