Where is the Love ...

There are very few things I remember about my Grandma growing up.  The one thing I remember most … I was never her favorite child.  It seemed she picked on me constantly, singled me out for punishment and had me do all the household chores (Why am I having flashbacks to the Cinderella story??).  I was the baby AND the only girl.  All I ever heard growing up was ‘boys don’t do housework’, ‘boys don’t cook’, ‘boys don’t do laundry’ or the best one ‘boys will be boys’, but you are not allowed to have a boy in this house.  That last one was a hoot!  My brothers would have girls in their bedrooms and I could barely have a guy on the front porch?!?!? 

I remember purposely not eating at home … thinking ‘if I don’t eat here I don’t have to wash the dishes’, those dishes were waiting for me every day.  If I didn’t wash them before bed they were waiting for me first thing in the morning.  I remember one of my older brothers sneezing because detergent had gotten in his nose.  My Grandma immediately diagnosed it as an allergy and said he could not wash his own clothes or do anything that required using detergent.  I (on the flipside) got sick one morning before school.  I actually threw up on the kitchen floor.  My Grandma made me clean it up and then told me I still had to go to school (????).  Where is the love???

I was forced to attend church, sing in the choir, usher, attend Sunday school, attend prayer meetings, help out with the church rummage sale, serve as the Sunday school secretary, fix the refreshments for the prayer meetings, and participate in EVERY church activity.  My brothers didn’t even have to attend to church.  I still remember the day I turned 21.  I wore a RED dress to church and informed my Grandma it would be the last Sunday that I would be FORCED to attend that church.  It’s so sad … I grew up in the church, yet I didn’t know what church was about until I grew up.

Most of my family tried to convince me the reason my Grandma ‘felt some kinda way’ about me was she and I were just alike.  I didn’t see it … still don’t.  I remember the day I told her what people had said … but in my own way.  It was one of those days that she was on her ‘let’s tear down my granddaughter’ soap box and she was on a roll.  I was once again reminded that I was a no good-never would be any good slut.  I stood there … allowed her to continue her little rant … and then I calmly said “Well, from what I hear, the fruit doesn’t fall too far from the tree”.  You could have bought her for less than a penny.  I watched her face freeze, eyes glazed as she reached for a crystal ashtray … with the intent to give me a new birthmark.  Now I’ve never been one to raise my hand to an elder and I had no intention of starting that day.  I grabbed her little wrists, held them tightly and called for my brother to come get her before she got hurt.  She tried to wriggle out of my grip, but (luckily) I had her locked down.  I really hate to think how that could have turned out had I not restrained myself.  Where is the love???

The irony … years later … it would be me that had to take care of her.  The even sadder thing … she carried her hatred to the grave.