As I listen to my newly delivered Soul and Motown 1960s and 1970s CDs in my car. I'd received them for making a donation to public television. This was the music I truly dug as a kid. My parents I'd thought didn’t understand what I'd requested when asked what I'd want for a Christmas gift; however, I'm someone that allows reflection of attitudes even as a child.
And what occurred was that I couldn't wrap my mind as to why my parents never bought me the records by the artists I'd listed on my Christmas list, neither had I inquired. Although we could afford buying me that for Christmas, as they'd tell me what I was entitled to ask for. Then they would give a surprise gift for each of us, and a group gift or two to share such as a plastic sled and/or a game like yatzhe.
Going back to my vinyl record selection every year since about age eight was the same. As we awoke on Christmas Day we'd stay in our beds and open our stockings that were placed at the end of our beds, and had been left at some point in the night as we slept.
Afterwards, we would go into the living room and look at the tree with gifts all around it. I would be mesmerized by the deep blue, green and other colors that reflected off the decorative silver, gold, red and other multicolored hanging tin balls that hung lightly on our tree. Too, I'd seen the items wrapped that appeared as record albums gently laid over other gifts under the tree.
Sure enough it was exciting. I knew later that morning we would take the nearly 90 minute drive up to Norwalk, Connecticut to spend the afternoon and evening with dad's relatives. I enjoyed my dad's parents, yet for some reason only one to two times per year did we visit them until my parent's eventual separation in 1978.
Meanwhile, I'd stare at the tree in a dream like fashion in hopes to soon open some presents and listen to part of an album before our noon trek up to Norwalk.
Once mom and dad had awoken we could begin opening presents and exchanging some too. That soon arrived.
Of course, the first gift I'd want to open was what appeared to be a record album. Well, I can say that every Christmas I requested the same artist, "Gladys Knight and The Pips". They sang to my soul, it was as if they knew who I was. And definitely by age twelve I was totally hooked on them, and many other Motown and musical artists out of Philadelphia who'd projected that deep soulful music that I gravitated to and still do.
So, going back to those years of my vinyl record album requests for Christmas, well sadly those artist's vinyl records never arrived anywhere from Santa (my parents or anyone) on Christmas time or anytime. What arrived were vinyl records of Melanie, Peter, Paul & Mary, Bob Denver and the like. Basically, all white people who were in the music industry. The first three Christmases that this happened, I'd thought that they couldn't find those artist's albums. By age twelve I caught onto their scheme. It was a painful acknowledgement.
To put it quite frankly I was born to two closet bigots who wanted to remain ignorant though they'd stated otherwise. Here were two adults who read books and newspapers regularly. Yet somehow, they hadn't grown, neither prospered into full maturation as adults. I can express this now, for I do now know at age 63 what surely that entails. Truly that is what had occurred from my viewpoint.
They went to their graves, one alone, mentally ill, practically homeless, dieing of psoriasis of the liver at age 64. The other dieing with all the money to become enriched with a better education than he'd chosen. Which was his way or the highway. As my mother would say about him, "He bites his nose to spite his face." Perhaps he died angrily as to not get the benefit of enjoying all four grandchildren, only two at best. And he too died of psoriasis of the liver; however, nearly reaching the age of 81 and having owned much land and multiple homes down south.
Obviously both my parents lacked balance. All those years, I never said a thing about the 'wrong' vinyl albums purchased for me for Christmas; however, every once in a while I'd privately reflect and be reminded by my dad's absence in our daughter's lives. That along with so much I'd heard, and witnessed in all the years of my childhood and adulthood till his death.
His absence was a painful truth and as well a blessing. For when my much younger sister had her first child; then her second two years later in 2007 that was the last year he'd made his sort of annual visit to our home, even as he'd visited friends and family within 30 minutes of our home. He'd hid this from me as I intuitively accidentally found out. He would get mad at me when I found out too. Yet, I wouldn't harp on it, ever. I'd accepted his actions; however, six years before dad's death, my husband agreed that I needed to finalize cutting the umbilical cord off from my dad. Two of my medical doctor friends in business actually said it to me. One directly in 2009 stated, "You're what 46? You don't need a dad anymore." It was as she'd checked a past leg injury on me before a grappling competition I was to perform at. I concurred as I'd realized once again that it was always me who had to shut up and take it. He was a great bully. I remember the day I told my dad that he needed professional help and that our relationship would be completely severed until he did so. I told him how painful he was. Only once before in late 1998 had I ever expressed such to him.
The reason for his absence wasn't because of anything between us or between my sister which I'd gotten along with my siblings pretty much always. It was the same reason why he and mom never bought me those awesome soulful vinyl albums for Christmas, Bigotry.
My husband and I were an interfaith couple and when we realized we weren't able to have our own children we looked into adoption.
Our most reasonable and realistic way to become parents was international adoption. More than likely our children would look different from us in many ways, but we needed to be parents; and someone needed parents. We wanted practical decisions for us so we could provide the best possible scenario for the children we'd adopted. Too, you didn't need a lawyer for these types of adoption. You had an adoption agent/agency which had long term ties to a few countries. That was their expertise. And once we'd adopted, the child could not be taken from us by their biological parents. In New Jersey back then, a child could be taken back by their biological parent(s) within two or three years. That I knew would destroy me. Because when I love someone that much, and I know this to be true, the pain would be unfathomable for me. I've known myself well enough, even back then.
The direction of adopting came from our economics, and the needs of the child adopted, such as 'were they at risk?'
Too, I understood the tragedies in my life and how they'd effected me, as I'd already been close to death a few times before the age of 30 mostly from crime and fire, none of which was beholden to me, it was that I was either placed in harm's way, and too young to know it. Or I was the selected victim in a kidnapping, another story for another time. In turn, I understood abandonment on a personal level, which was a plus from the combined 15 books we'd read on international adoption.
My mother-in-law had asked me over 25 years ago as we were still childless, "I don't understand how you can have such faith." I feared answering incorrectly, but when its the truth, there are no others answers but that, the truth. I replied, "It's all I've had."
So, my longed for Christmas gift arrived in a plethora after a donation I'd made this year. I was like that little kid staring at the Christmas tree on Christmas morning with wrapped albums in hopes to receive those musical artist's records as a gift. This time it arrived weeks later after my donation, decades upon decades later after my requests. And Sweet Mother Mary! It plays to my soul.---Jody-Lynn Reicher
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