Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert
When I first arrived home from the hospital with my mother, I was met with a disheartening response from my father. He took one look at me and uttered the words, “that’s not my child.” The connection between a father and his child never formed for me. There were no playful moments shared, no fatherly embrace to cherish. My early memories are devoid of any presence from him, until he finally returned when I was nine years old.
It was at that fragile age when he reappeared in our lives, urging my mother to place us on the L train bound for Springfield, Illinois. My older sister was ten and my younger sister just eight. Filled with anticipation, we embarked on the journey, eager to see what awaited us. Upon arrival, I was introduced to a whole new side of my family: my father’s mother, LaVonne, and her husband. Walter, his father and his wife, Charlotte, was also present. Cathy, who Bill, my father had married and adopted her two kids Lisa and David.
It was during this meeting that the significance of my sisters’ names dawned on me. My older sister was named after our grandmother, and my younger sister carried the name of my father’s sister. In contrast, my own name seemed to be chosen without much thought, seemingly plucked out of thin air.
On one particular day, grandmother LaVonne set out on a shopping expedition. Upon her return, she presented two carefully chosen gifts, one for my eldest sister and another for my youngest sister. My heart swelled with anticipation, hoping a gift awaited me as well. But just as I reached out to claim my surprise, her words hurt me deeply. My breath caught in my throat. She hissed, “I didn’t get one for you because you’re not my granddaughter.”My childhood tears fell like rain, and my father, Bill, took me into the bedroom away from the other two children to punish me for misbehaving.
In that moment, the weight of my existence hit me with full force. I realized that I was the one left out, that my place in this intricate family dynamic was not as clearly defined. It was not in my head or I was not the problem. It was in that instant that I began to question my identity and yearn for a connection that seemed to elude me. When I got back home, I asked my mother about the incident. It was then that she told me he was probably right and I wasn’t his daughter.
It was a moment of undeniable clarity, a realization that reverberated through my being with a disturbing truth. Her words, simple yet piercing, echoed in my mind, playing on a loop as if to ensure their message sank deeply into my soul. The feeling of inequality, the emptiness that engulfed me in that one instance, reverberated through my memories with alarming clarity.
I couldn’t help but reminisce about the laughter shared by my parents when they cradled my sisters. The pride that radiated from their eyes as they proudly introduced them to acquaintances and friends. The contrast between the toys they received and the ones I was given. The harshness of my consequences than theirs. My bruises. My welts. It all became painfully clear, like a harsh spotlight illuminating my true place in the family. They never had those wounds. Both of my parents blamed me for their mistakes.
Whispers from extended family reached my ears, lingering like venomous hisses. I wasn’t one of them, an inherent truth that had eluded me until that very day. I had brushed off their cruelty as nothing more than malicious behavior, not realizing the concealed honesty behind their actions. The sting of rejection took hold, penetrating deep within my being, leaving an indelible mark on my soul.
I came face to face with an irrefutable reality – I was different, incomparable to them in every sense. I never quite fit their mold, nor would I ever. It was a painful revelation that shattered the illusion of belonging I had long held. In a sea of dark features and the voluptuous physiques, I was a blonde, blue eyed, tall, lanky skinny kid that stood far above even the men in the family.
In this pensive moment of introspection, I couldn’t escape the weight of this truth. It enveloped me, casting a melancholic shadow over my thoughts. The journey felt daunting, as if I had been thrust into a world that refused to accept me. I heard myself say, “they will never accept you for who you are, and why should they? You will never be one of them.”
When I was much older and life taught me lessons unwanted, I refused to be defined solely by the perception of others. I would forge my own path, embracing the uniqueness that set me apart. I began to accept that true fulfillment lies not in blending in, but in embracing who we truly are. The wounds of rejection may sting, but they also serve as a reminder of our resilience and our ability to carve out our own identity. So, I stand amidst the harsh reality of my differences, acknowledging the pain yet finding solace in the strength it has ignited within me. There is power in embracing the truth, even if it means veering off the conventional path.
Reba Nietert 