My life story was growing up throughout that life of hardship.
To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people and
the affection of children;
To earn the approbation of honest critics and endure
the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To give of one’s self;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition;
To have played and laughed with enthusiasm and
sung with exultation;
To know even one life has breathed easier because you
have lived –
This is to have succeeded.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Resilience is learned. It usually stems from experiences that are not so happy. One’s mettle is tested, a choice is usually presented, and one hopes the right choice is made. Other times, one’s sheer tenacity to live and move on, with a bit of luck and good guidance, can turn the tides for the better. My story is of the latter.
My earliest memory of how things went down is of me playing with my sticky bow and arrow, picking up the arrow, and as I looked inside the house, I saw my mother trying to stab my father with a knife. My dad deflected the knife and pushed a chair toward my mom to create space. He ran outside the house, and mom stayed inside. I went back and forth between the two; my dad reassuring me that he was okay and my mother not saying anything as I cleaned the blood on her knees from hitting the chair.
Things were not always like that. We lived poorly in the slums. My mom and my dad with my younger sister. I remember the smell of propane and coffee and my mom and I sitting at the dining table in this small concrete house. She brushes my hair as I eat because I am a messy eater. My sister is playing on the floor. Good memories. I still love the smell of propane and coffee up to this day. After that incident, my mom and dad separated, and my mother left me under the care of her sister. My mom left shortly after, overseas, to find a better life. There were no goodbyes that I remembered. I did not remember even my dad saying goodbye. Both just kind of left. My Aunt was a great woman. She was very strong and respected. An engineer by profession, she gave people jobs in her community. She worked closely with people in the slums and put children to school, which was her passion. She was very charitable, and she was loved by everyone.
My Aunt came from a hard upbringing as well. The oldest of many siblings, left orphaned when both parents died, she ensured every one of her siblings finished school before she decided to pursue her profession. I wish I knew the particulars of how she did it. But her life was marred by poverty, hardship, and sheer tenacity to bring everyone out of that life that unfortunately befell them. Her mettle was tested, and she made the right choices.
My Aunt made sure that we were looked after, materially, anyway. She had so much on the go, and we were under a proper roof with food and clothing. We sought love, and she gave some of what she could spare. We were also looked after by her brother-in-law, who was not very kind and gave beatings. I remember the 2×4 he used to hit. I would get hit in the shins and on the back of my leg, if I cried, then I would get hit more. If I buckled, it would be the same. I learned to be tough early on and hold the tears back. I don’t think my Aunt ever knew of the abuse, and the man was very gentle while she was around.
My dad reappeared in my life secretly shortly afterward. I used to go for bread runs for tea time, and he must have observed me for a while as he knew my routine and waited for me one day. I wasn’t happy or sad to see him. Life without parents was my point of reference. I just accepted that as a life fact. We visited for a bit, and we walked out in separate ways. He did this regularly. He also appeared at my school to visit, and he would leave before I got picked up. He asked to keep these visits a secret, which I, of course, did.
One day, he asked if I wanted to come with him. He asked me to talk to my sister, too. I was 7 at the time, and my sister was 5. I secretly packed up a suitcase with my sister, and we met him at the bakery. Then we went to his place a few hours away in another slum. That night, my dad and I picked up some food. It might have been my mom or my aunt who took her away, and I was left behind. That’s where my slum life began.
It was a hard life there. We barely ate, and what remaining food was present was given to me by my dad, and he went without. This was one of his lessons to me, the value of self-sacrifice. I went to school and worked for a food cart run by his mother. I also worked on the side of other stores, running ice from the factory to each store, earning pennies a day. After a few days, I could afford butter and bread, which was a treat. If I worked harder, I could buy a slice of cheese, which was like Christmas. I learned to be content with very little.
One core memory that I had was a beating that I received from my dad. My dad never really had a plan when he brought us over to the slums. He could barely make it himself, let alone feed me. He was also very proud and would not ask for help. I coveted an action figure from a neighbor’s kid, and I stole it, was caught, and my dad was informed. He was so upset that he was beating me with the buckle of his belt. Every hit left a mark, blood blisters, and whip marks, and I had to nurse them myself afterward. I’d like to believe my dad wasn’t angry at me for stealing. I’d like to think that he was ashamed of his inability to provide for me that I resorted to stealing. I fell asleep nursing my wounds. I woke up with him crying and hugging and profusely apologizing to me for what he had done… I remember apologizing, too.
One day, my grandmother and he argued, and it was severe enough that he left without me. I was left in the slums with my grandmother, who could barely provide. It got harder after that, and there was barely any food. I had resorted to stealing. I would steal from the market close by. I stole turnips, and they were my go-to food. I would sit under a tarp and eat the turnips I procured when it rains. I went to school in the daytime, worked afterward, and would try to have some normalcy at night with my friends in the form of playtime. Health care is non-existent. I had rotten teeth, which I pulled out with a pair of pliers. I had lice and wounds, and the wounds were tended to by stray dogs as they licked the wounds clean. I had to survive illnesses without any medical help. I remember being so sick that I was coughing up blood and was probably delirious from the fever. I had also become violent, constant fights every day, which I started to enjoy. It became such a normal part of my life that I craved the hardship…. maybe because it reminded me that I am still alive.
It was another normal day in the slums, and I was doing errands. I arrived at the store and saw my mother waiting for me. I didn’t feel sad or happy. I didn’t have any emotions. My heart hardened already at that point. She was crying, and she saw a sick boy, full of headlice and rotten teeth and wounds. She took me away, back to my aunt’s home, where I would spend my formative years.
My sister and I eventually lived there, and I also had a younger brother from my mother’s subsequent relationship. We didn’t know what happened to each other in between. We just knew that we were together again. We were sent to school, had a roof, food, and some form of parenting. My Aunt was still the same charitable woman I remembered. My slum life ended, but my involvement with it didn’t. She worked through vaccination drives and other charitable acts, and I followed along and learned. I valued school and used to burn the midnight oil, finishing school commitments. She would also do the same in her bedroom, which is doubled as an office. She would come down and see me at the dining table with all the books and papers and me deep into my studies. She would make coffee and sit beside me, and I would listen to all her wisdom, teaching, and love. I looked forward to those nights, as I looked forward to spending time with her and had a semblance of what it’s like to have a parent.
My mother eventually ended up in Canada, and when the time came for us to live with her, we vehemently opposed it. Our Aunt was our mother, she raised us, and we were emotionally connected to her. My Aunt explained that our mother would need us someday and we should go with her. We reluctantly left for Canada with the promise that we would make something of our lives someday. Over the years, we have been living, growing, and making something of our lives. I became a Registered Nurse, my sister went to the United States after school, and my brother went into trades. We were still connected with our Aunt, who had always told us of her pride in what we had done. She asked us to stay in touch when we have the time.
My sister called me one evening, explaining that our Aunt died. She went into cardiac arrest after a pulmonary hemorrhage. Weeks prior, she wasn’t feeling well but was burning the midnight oil to finish a few projects so that her workers would get paid. She eventually had a heart attack and was admitted to the hospital. One day, she asked everyone to go home as she needed to rest, and they also needed their rest. That night, she suffered another cardiac arrest, and they were unable to resuscitate her.
The travel home was long, 20 hours. We were able to get visas out of compassionate reasons. Straight from the airport, we went home, where she lay in state. Looking at the coffin, I saw years of what she had endured. A life of hardship but full of love for other people. She was in her wedding dress, I believe. She looked peaceful. It was her time to rest, and she had done all she could for others. She will be passing her torch to anyone who would carry it.
The funeral procession was a few blocks long, and there were hundreds upon hundreds of people who paid their respects. I met a few of the children she was looking after. We reunited with our peers, and we are all grown up now, each with their own children. Each is a living testament to the love my Aunt shared for everyone. The crematorium was a more private venue with family. She lay in the pine box, still wearing the same clothing. I remembered touching her hand, and it was cold. I apologized quietly for not making time to see her when she was alive. The funeral personnel rolled her into the crematorium oven and closed the door. Everyone looked at me and nodded, and I was given the honor of sending her off by pressing the button to start the oven. It lit up, I cried. It was heavy.
We stayed for a few days at the house afterward and celebrated Christmas and New Year’s there. A day before we were to return to Canada, I was upstairs in my Aunt’s personal library and reading all the books I grew up with. I even had my notes in some of them. My Uncle, her husband, was sitting in their bedroom when he called me to come in. He was legally blind at that time already. I started crying, and I apologised for not being there. I also explained that I was at a loss as to what to do now. He explained that she was always proud of what I had become, and it was a constant source of joy for her that we made something of our lives. He explained that she had given me all the tools I needed to navigate through life. He was confident I could figure it out if something was lacking.
My Aunt is an exemplary story of resilience. She sought the best in others, looked after children, and changed a small fragment of society through acts of kindness. Money or recognition didn’t matter to her. She was full of love for everyone. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. The torch was passed on to us, those who she looked after. This is a story of resilience, not mine but hers. This is my way of honoring her, and I will do my best to carry her legacy.
I practiced resilience when faced with challenges by drawing on the teachings of a wonderful woman, remembering her essence, and being grateful every day for the second chance I had been given in life.
Value those who showed you love and took a chance with you–those who showed you value.
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with Elementor