My Heritage – ToersBijns
Culture Shifts – Racism, Shame, Secrets
Part II
Since my mother
and father had a special influence on me in my growing years, it is logical and
very reasonable to accept the fact that their guidance on my morality and
outlook in life was shaped by their values and expectations. Already developing
an inner stubborn spirit and being a rebel at heart, this was some deep provoking
labor instilled with a sincere dedication to shape me into a man.
My father wouldn’t
accept anything less than manhood and responsible behaviors mirroring his own
integrity and character he formed during his thirty some years in the military.
Theoretically, this also changed our
religious viewpoints and belief factors as we were being converted into a
Methodist manner of faith that was significantly different from the Catholic
faith my mother practiced.
To make it even
more complicated, since my father was born in a Muslim faith family with ties
to Islam and so forth, I thought he would retain his beliefs but with sudden
and unexplained reasons, he seemed to have voluntarily submitted to a Christian
faith and became involved in the church business intimately and very actively.
Moving from
Holland to the United States was a grave undertaking with serious cultural consequences
for a twelve year old youth and his brother and sister. Crossing the ocean in
an airplane didn’t just take a few thousand miles of flying and hours of
patiently waiting for the landing gear to touch ground in New York City. It took
a heavy burden off my mother and father’s shoulder as they worried about our
future and how we would be educated and raised under the perceived limited
resources made available to us in Holland.
Other than enduring
the weary efforts of long distance traveling for almost a day and a half, we
instantaneously saw and felt the difference between the manner the Dutch people
interacted and how the American culture behaved. At first, we looked at each other
and then the reality hit us really hard – we had landed in the middle of a
racist jungle where people were judged by color unlike the environment we left
behind in Holland where color, skin tone, eyes round or slanted, blonde hair or
kinky hair made no difference to us who came from there.
It appeared that
in the USA, it did matter. It mattered a lot and people behaved according to an
approach and response stimuli that triggered racism at its worst. If the person
you were talking to was white, the response appeared to be respectful and mild
toned. On the other hand, if the person you were talking to was colored, the
response was condescending, insulting, demeaning and sometimes very vulgar. It appeared
to be a natural act without any acting attached to it. I didn’t like it.
Some of the greatest
men alive tried to change this discriminatory behavior and died doing so. Early
1965 I knew and heard of a man called Martin Luther King who defied racism with
peace and civil disobedience. A tactic that worked some of the time, but not
all of the time. Ohio was where we settled and Columbus was a hub of hate for
colored people moving into the city.
History would
cover this time period with poem, short stories and parables of wisdom on
racism and discrimination. It would cover the equality of a man regardless of
their skin color and finally they would pass a law making all men created
equal. One has to wonder why it took a law to make people realize that every
human being is entitled to respect, dignity and compassion regardless of their
color or ethnicity.
As a boy who
lived and came from another part of the world, this was most shocking and eye
opening for me. Since I was dark skinned, and appeared to be a non-white
person, I immediately felt the eyes glazing over my presence when a white
person stared at me with a ‘what are you doing here’ look that degraded my
value and existence. One can further relate that many public or community
swimming pools and other recreational halls were off limits to those of color
that included playgrounds and public places.
There was an
immediate sense of difficulty within me. I had to walk softly on egg shells and
be careful where I went, who I talked to and what I did or said to be accepted
socially or anything else. It was like living in a different region of the world
and you were not welcome here. In other words, white, brown, black, red or
yellow, there was a distinct odor of biases floating in the air.
This created a
homesickness for Holland to me and my siblings. Although we didn’t talk about
it, we could sense the hate when we were around white people who looked at us
odd and skeptic as we were hoodlums or thieves. This mixed culture was harsh
and toxic and difficult to manage without tripping or pissing someone off
regardless how much you tried to tolerate the dislike or detestation addressed
at you for no reasons other than your color.
Seldom did you
hear the words, ‘let’s play’ or ‘let’s talk’ as conversations and interactions
were regulated by peer pressure and social standings. Dealing with growing
pains, sexuality changes and now racism, made the adjustment most difficult for
me and I wanted to hide somewhere to avoid social contact. In so many words,
this made my childhood different and special as I learned tolerances I never
had to experience before.
Between the years
of fourteen and sixteen, I grew up with a small circle of friends. Some were
white, some were black and some we called ‘rednecks.’ We all got along fine
until an outsider would probe or poke the whites for hanging with the colored
or blacks and then the tension would rise to another level making it
uncomfortable and usually ending up in a fight between agitators and us.
My friends lived
within a six block area; this was how we were able to socialize and keep the
relationships in order as it was a mutually shared burden to put up with
outsiders. Our friendship bonds were strong. The circle was hard to be broken
and our houses were open to all who shared the time and space with each other
under duress and demanding conditions.
Within our
neighborhood, where poverty was common and the local stores were owned by
Italians of Spanish speaking people, there washed up all sorts of uninvited guests
in our locality. Designated a high crime zone by the police, they rarely
patrolled in our area and left the justice up to those who could handle the
adversities of violence, theft and assaults on their own. It was a way of life
that took a hard time getting used to after being exposed to this toxic
cultural awakening.
Most of my
friends had moved there about the same time we did. Some went to the same
church and some didn’t go to church at all.
The most popular
spot was a small diminutive liquor store that drew the social misfits to their
tiny bar at nights and if you stayed around long enough to see them stagger out
and head for home, you would be entertained by drunks walking and staggering on
sidewalks too narrow for them to stay on or so it seemed.
We never knew
that rats could grow the size of cats and getting rid of them was near
impossible. Whenever you killed three or four, you were visited the next day by
five more. It was perpetual in body counts as well as the growth of the rat
packs that chose our house and many more as their nests and hiding spaces.
Living in Holland
made us frequent visitors of the beaches and the North Sea shoreline; making us
proficient swimmers and salt water freaks. Trying to find a place to swim in
the south end of Columbus Ohio usually ended up in the dirty Scioto River or
Alum Creek – both waste water outlets that didn’t bother us too much except
when the sewage was thick and muddied the water.
In the house we
lived in, a converted ice house, I grew up with my parents, my brother and
sister and a newly born baby sister making us a growing and expanding family. The
house was cold as ice in the winter and hot as hell in the summer. Poor heating
and no air condition made the house shrink and swell with the humidity and heat
accordingly making it miserable for us in the Ohio humid weather.
I loved the
rainfall – the street were often flooded and the bucket in the kitchen caught
all the rainwater dripping through the ceiling. Some of the windows were broken
by vandals throwing rocks and as soon as you replaced one, another window was
broken. This was at least, a different experience to get used to but we were
adapting and growing into the culture more so every day of our lives.
Making new
friends in school expanded our circle of friends but we never abandoned each
other just because we knew we had persevered the prejudice and hate together
for the past few years bonding us as brothers in the poor side of town.
I wanted to be great
in sports like Jesse Owens and his likes. There were a lot of good athletes
where I lived and competing for a spot on the football team took some hard work
and training. These kind of experiences were the good ones I remember and never
forgotten. Here, on the team, there were no different colors, no different attitudes
and all were focused on winning.
Oh sure, there
were sarcastic remarks, mocking gestures or comments by a few but they were put
in place quickly by the coach or other teammates who took their role as
captains serious enough to become peacemakers.
Growing up in
Ohio was a complicated story. In so many ways, we experienced adversity daily
and challenged often to overcome biases and hate of colored people. For some
white people, there appeared to be a gross or frequent fascination and
embarrassment for color. A lot of hypocrisy as well. Color in my family was not
a complicated story. There was nothing to lie about as we were all the same and
accepted fate of who we were and where we lived.
So my heritage
tells me I am of mixed blood – some say I am Dutch, Portuguese and mixed with
blood of my Chinese grandmother and native Java islander grandfather. On my
mother’s side there was more European blood or as my mother would call it ‘blue
blood’ but that is disputable.
I never believed there
was any royalty in our family and I still don’t today. I believe my mother
fantasized that t justify her moment of grandeur and pretend she was related to
a queen from way back when her fairy tale began.
All said, I was
an enthusiastic kid and had so much energy I often got into mischief with the
law or school officials but nothing serious. Most violations were trespassing
or climbing the fence at the high school and cutting classes or being out of
dress code for gym or other activities. I never joined any gangs – I despised
cowards who had to group up and beat someone else up with uneven numbers.
I know my family
had half-blood running rampant – the war was hard on families and the recovery
of losing a man, woman or child was replaced with another man, woman or child. Some
were married and some weren’t it didn’t seem to matter to me but it certainly
meant a lot to my mother who abhorred out of wedlock relationships and was very
critical of such relationships. I suspected a hidden personal motive for such abomination
but she gave no clues why she felt that way and the truth be told, she rarely
divulged anything personal to us.
Regardless, if
you mentioned the word ‘bastard’ in front of her, she went livid and began a
tirade that wouldn’t end for days. There were many clues during my childhood
that revealed secrets. Secrets that were never to be talked about or discussed
amongst us or others in our families. We knew that nothing much was revealed of
what happened before the war began and how relationships impacted fidelity or
sexuality between family member spouses and other relatives. There was
something missing to connect the dots and reveal the truth.
My mother’s first
husband was my father’s older brother. We didn’t know this at the time of our
childhood but was revealed in later years when my brother went back to Holland
to visit an aunt and uncle who invited my mother and Carlos, into their home
and asked them to stay there during their vacation in Holland. As my brother
explained to me, he saw a wedding photograph of our mother in her wedding dress
but the man standing next to her was not our father. It was his brother.
Shocked, dismayed
and curious all at the same time, he began to ask relevant questions about the
photograph. What he learned was to remain a secret and kept from us until the
later years after my father passed away and no harm could be done to his sanity
or temperament.
The story told
was complicated and intimately revealed facts of our family that makes an
interesting soap opera drama on reality television. We knew my mother married
our father but they never revealed the date or year they were married. It was
one of the many secrets they kept from us through the years.
Other secrets
involved our mother’s family’s business dealings and the sudden disappearance
of significant funds and wealth due to theft between brothers and relatives who
promised to carry the wealth out of Indonesia under the watchful eye of the Indonesian
police and smuggle out money to be returned to the family and re-create the
wealth in Holland. I suspected slavery, illegal trading and extortion of the native
to be the main source of their wealth and income.
My father’s side
was never wealthy – they were common folks who were native to the land and
lived accordingly. Their occupations were police and military – between my
grandfather, my father and his brothers and sisters, all were honorable people
and the men, they served honorable and with distinction. His father was a good
native born man who married a Chinese woman.
All this did not
matter whether they were full blooded native or mixed with European or Chinese
blood. The fact that much of this was rarely revealed and concealed purposely,
made the relationships appear shameful and because my grandfather had numerous illegitimately
born children out of wedlock [since the story was he was actually still married
to another woman], he too became a target of social injustice and felt much humiliation
and embarrassment thus they chose to keep many of the facts hidden.
It was not like
he had a harem of women around him; he was likely more of a womanizer than most
of us knew and paid a dear price for such promiscuous or as some called it ‘unrestrained’
behaviors, his morality was in doubt and often hidden from the public opinion
or family oriented conversations. One thing was certain, looking at my father’s
charisma and solid magnetic charm, I could see where my mother was always so
jealous if he even looked or talked to another woman.
The fact that
there was a lack of domestic governance among the various family member became
even more critical to create a hush hush situation of the past. We wanted to
know why my father’s brother left our mother and what circumstances were
driving those decisions to divorce him and allow my father to marry her.
It was a complicated matter that would take
some time to explain and rather than explaining this, my parents chose to
remain silent and never talked about this until it was brought up later in when
I was in my fifties.
So while my
mother was bragging being born in a prominent family, it was my father’s side
of the family she was ashamed of or so it seemed. One has to guess on this s
she never really talked about it as the matter would raise her blood pressure
instantly if even a mention of this was brought up in a casual conversation. So
now, we found out my mother’s family was into illicit dealings that made them
rich and on my father’s side there was adultery and messy divorces that drove
families apart or mixed blood lines to no end.
All in all, these
secrets or the fact that both sides engaged in concealment and then deny it
through pre-arranged silence or forgotten memoirs, turned out to be a tremendous
significance. It has been told that both sides of the family has beautiful
daughters and handsome men. There must be some truth in this as my father was a
very handsome man and my mother was a natural beauty and it is easy to
understand how my father fell in love with his brother’s wife.
The truth
however, was more complicated that a three ring circus. The personal commitment
to hide the truth was based on several promises made by my uncle, my mother and
my father to never bring this matter up again as long as they lived. This created
an enormous amount of tension in our families and often the cause that drifted
them apart and stop associating with each other for decades to come.
Not pointing
fingers of blame, they all engaged in this concealment of the facts and all
bear the shame they imposed on each other as they judged but failed to allow
themselves to be judged as well. These dynamics and social projections were insufferable
to defeat. There was no solution in merging bad feelings and starting over.
To forgive and
forget was impossible. This family bearing the ToersBijns name could never
reconcile their difference and chose to not speak to each other ever again with
the exception of the younger generations who wanted to know the truth of all
family matters told or disclosed.
You might say
this was the dark side of the family and the black sheep in the families from the
past. Nobody was worried or distressed about this matter or strong enough to
reveal the truth. It was easier to remain silent and keep it buried as all
decided to bury their heads into the ground and pretend nothing was wrong with
these situations.
Probing, digging
and asking questions, we finally found out why my uncle divorced my mother. It was
a shocking revelation and unkind to the cultural and social norms of circa 1940’s
how this divorce developed. Divorce was a serious matter and it took a serious
matter to create enough pressure to annul or break up a marriage between a man
and a woman.
As the story was
told, my mother worked for the underground during the war and was a messenger
and courier for the underground to pass along information where the Japanese
troops were, what region they were searching for troops and who was captured
and where they were being held in various prison camps on the island.
She worked
closely with high school friends turned patriots as well as friends and
relatives of all families brave enough to perform such a critical task to spy
on the enemy and relay that information to those who could use it to their
advantage and upset the enemies plan while occupying the islands.
It was during one
such underground activities when my mother was raped by a long time close friend
inside one of those hidden tunnels where they congregated to gather
intelligence and prepare the dissemination to other couriers. Although she
fought hard to prevent sexual penetration, she lost her battle and had to face
the harsh consequences of telling her husband, my uncle and my father’s
brother, she had been raped by another man who forced himself on her and caused
her much pain and suffering emotionally and physically.
For my uncle, it
was an ultimate social disgrace to accept her explanation and he walked away
from her leaving her behind forever. He adamantly believed she could have
prevented this assault and blamed her for it happening. Regardless of my mother’s
plight and sorrow, he was unforgiving and literally walked out of her life
leaving her feel guilty and ashamed of being a violated and now an abandoned
married woman.
It seemed his
emotional wellness about his own credibility and reputation outweighed my mother’s
pain and suffering. Soon after, my father came to my mother’s side and
reassured her he would marry her after his brother divorced her legally and
take care of her and raise a family.
No comments:
Post a Comment