Photo courtesy of Dr. Ian Ellis – Jones Living Mindfully Now blog
Welcome back to another Tea session. Memoirs of a Tainted Woman is a series filled with much heart felt truth and unprecedented revelation. A word by word account of the hidden trials I’ve voyaged; a much sequestered part of my life. Recounting what happened decades ago has gotten easier with time but with all heart breaks, residual pain is always a guarantee, a small piece of it never fully goes away. It either remains as bittersweet memories or as nightmares that appear once in a blue moon. Perhaps it may not resonate with you, or it might even be too personal for your level of comfort, but unlike me you have the opportunity to stop here, to turn the page, to walk away or to detach yourself from the detriment.
“Those who spend their time looking for the faults in others, usually spend no time to correct their own”
The year was 2001. Summer was coming to a closure but the days were still hot and long in my small, quiet hometown, one which I was so gracious to step foot back in. I had been gone a little over a year, but a year has brought on so much change. Time moved as it always did here, enriching and pleasant, but I had been in a parallel universe all this time. It felt like I’d been gone for a centuries. I’ve aged ten-fold and I was surely not the same person I was when I left. Still, it was refreshing, so much lighter here than where I was coming back from. It was beautiful to see familiar places, familiar faces, and all the familiar sounds, even the annoying train tracks down the road from my childhood home that kept me up at night. Casualty or not, at least I was alive, and lived to see the end of a senseless war. My return was both a victory and a life long defeat. The initial shock was difficult to settle. My parents were trying to ease me back into some sense of normalcy, nurturing me back to life, and preparing me for what laid ahead. Oh how I didn’t want those August days to end, it was my only comfort, my safety net. I wasn’t ready to face reality yet let alone the world. I didn’t have that kind of strength left in me.
I was 16 going on 17 that Fall. When I left I was just 15, pure and innocent as some would say. My kid brothers have grown up and my sister was now in college. The atmosphere was different, nothing looked or felt the same, everyone had gotten used to life without me, my foot prints were just starting to disappear. Penciling me back into the scene was quite the adjustment for all of us. I had to relearn how to behave, how to live amongst family, how to cook, clean and talk their way all over again. I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider; a complete stranger. Inside enclosed walls, we were trying our best to rebuild an organic bond that used to be. Just like no one can prepare you for marriage, no one can prepare you for life after divorce either. I could have processed my feelings but I chose not too. It was impossible to absorb the disappointment my family was left with, from my parents to my siblings. If getting married at such a young age wasn’t traumatizing enough, I’ve now created the ultimate sin. Like a veil, my choices in life were now a rippling effect that hovered over my sister and brothers. Would people give them the same lowly judgement as they give me? Would people assume they’d make the same mistakes in life? I’ve never had the opportunity or the courage to ask how they felt. Were they ashamed? Were they hopeless? Did they resent me? It was a bitter pill to swallow and it was a burden too heavy to carry, so instead I told myself that they were happy, that they wanted nothing more than my safe return, that my heart was still beating. Someday in the future God wouldn’t give them the same testimony as me, that they would meet non-judgmental families, wed peacefully and live outstanding lives. It was easier not to dwell on the things that I couldn’t control. It was like we all took a life size eraser and blocked off that part of my life – for a long time. Maybe forever.
As tradition goes, anytime a girl comes back from a failed marriage, a ceremony is warranted to welcome her spirit back to be part of the family again, to cleanse her sins, and to coddle her broken spirit. Of course, this was at the discretion of her parents and mine wasted no time in getting this underway, cow, celebration, blessings and all. When I think about it, this was more or less a public service announcement. It was officially letting the outside world know of my return. Of course, they never really make such an announcement. The closest thing to an announcement my parents ever made was that they wished to bless their four children with health and longevity in ceremony. Even so, we all knew what it was about which made it all the harder not to drown in self pity. The house filled up with family and friends as it always did, the locals. Only this time I wasn’t a visiting guest, nor was I apart of the family; awkwardness ceased to describe the feeling. I didn’t belong, I was stuck in limbo, neither all the way in or all the way out. People didn’t know how to address me, greet me, or make conversation. No one said a word but with every stroke of a hand on my head, with every well versed blessing, followed by every somber embrace created a potent potion for flood works. How was I supposed to hold my composure. There was so much unspeakable sadness. I cried so much that day. I cried till I couldn’t talk. I cried till I was blue in the face. I cried till I couldn’t cry no more. Even though my parents had the best intentions in the world and this was the way of the culture, it didn’t make me feel any less like an outsider. Of course I accepted the love and appreciated their undeniable effort, but time was the only thing that was going to heal this broken heart and put me back together again; only time.
Soon the sun started to break through the cracks and my scars were healing one day at a time. To the untrained eyes, I may have been whole, but his remnant and the war I lost remained skin deep. I was emotionally exhausted and physically beat. Even though I was now safe in the wallows of my parents undertaking, the thing about victims of domestic violence is that cyclical behavior of forgiving, forgetting, and justifying. We have been at the mercy of our abuser, and they’re all we’ve known for so long that we become accustomed to that life or pattern of abuse. Before I could properly process what had happened, before healing could take place, and before forgiveness began, I longed for him every single day. And this is the raw, ugly, truth. I waited, and waited, and waited, like a long lost child waiting for it’s mother. I was 16, he was all I ever knew. There were days I wagered my choices, there were days I wanted to pick up the phone to call him, and there were days that just seemed easier if I ran back to what I knew. I was willing to take the beating all over again, because not living in that warp made it all the easier to tolerate. But of course, I had a mom who knew me better than anyone else. She knew my weaknesses no matter how much I suppressed it. She’d looked at my palms and say, “Look at your hands, look at how much they’ve changed. I’ve known every inch of you since you were a baby but you’re no longer that baby, no longer the same person you were when you left. Look at all these lines and hashes. It’s all the sorrow that’s bleeding through. I’m here for you and I’m going to help you get through this so that some day these lines will return to how it was meant to be.” I’m sure my palms were like an open book, a sad and incomplete synopsis of a young and foolish tragedy. Somewhere in the midst of it all, my Mom slowly became my best friend. My savior. She sat with me for so many nights and we cried our hearts out. I don’t know who was more heart broken between the two of us. It was a heartache I could never explain to anyone. To drag your mother through the same hell you were living, to know that she felt every heart ache you felt. Many times she feared I would give in to the deprivations in my heart and run back to the man who violated my youth, back to the man who broke my spirit. So every chance she had, she would remind me that he wasn’t coming and the only thing left to do was to move forward – and she was right, life moved on with or without him.
That Fall I entered my junior year of high school and I did so with my head held down low. Everything went exactly as I imagined. There were your curious onlookers and speculators and then there were your bold instigators. I’m all about honesty, I really am. There’s no reason in hiding something that’s been publicly aired. I also understood that it is and was only human nature to be curious, especially in such a close knit community. Of course, most questions came with negative connotations and I wasn’t fully prepared to handle so much negativity thrown at me. I remember there were people I didn’t even know who would stop me in the hallways or at lunch to ask me a probing question, to have me confirm what they’ve heard; to entertain them with my stories. I heard you had a baby and it died? Did your ex-husband really beat you? If he did and if it was that bad why didn’t you leave right away? Did his family hate you because you were lazy? Did you really lock him up? I couldn’t keep track of all the rumors I heard, all the stories that existed out there. People gossiped and I wasn’t going to dedicate my efforts to what was a lost cause. There’s nothing like trying to be polite and answer someone’s question while they continue to insinuate that what you’re saying isn’t true. They knew my sorrows better than me. At times it was almost easier to tell people, “The truth is whatever you heard it was“. This was nonstop for the first couple of weeks. Most people that knew me tried their best to honor the silence that I needed, but for strangers, the temptation was impossible to resist; it’s only human of us I guess. Thankfully, the drama slowly died down, or perhaps I learned to tune it out, either way, life eventually went back to normal as best as normal could be for someone like me.
Back on the home front my parents kept me shielded for a while. I didn’t attend many, if any, family functions in the beginning. There was a family reunion shortly after my return and I remember my mom asking if I was sure I wanted to go, she emphasized that there was going to be a lot of people there. I didn’t end up going but I did understand that this had to end at some point. I had to face relatives, people, the community, and the world at some point. And so I did, and boy was it brutal. Every family gathering felt like a beat up session and I would have to pull myself up and go back into the ring for another knock out round, no gloves, no defense. I had to relive the nightmare over and over again through these conjugations. After a while I felt like a pin cushion, for their pleasure, convenience and ridicule. Just like school, out in the community there were people who were kind and genuinely cared for my wellbeing and then there were people, women, who couldn’t wait to tear me apart. And to make matters worse, these were all women who had daughters of their own.
There were the “I told you so” lectures and the “I would have done this” lectures. Everyone seemed to be an expert in marriage and reserved the right to critique mine. I had an aunt from down south who said at an event to me that getting divorced was the only outcome for girls like me who knew nothing about being a proper daughter-in-law but only chased after boys for sex. And now no one was going to marry me because everyone will know that I’m tainted. But, I should feel blessed since I didn’t come back home with a whole litter of kids. After all, men didn’t want baggage, and the less baggage I had the better my odds would be. I remember feeling so much rage. I hated her instantly, so much. The way she looked at me, her smirk and her demeanor. She knew she hit me right where it hurt. But as my mom have said time and time again, “you are only in a position of defense, you are in no position of offense, let it go”. Let it go until it all stopped? Or let it go until I could find my offense? At 17, just like at 15, I couldn’t comprehend what my rights were. I didn’t know how and when I was able to and supposed to stand up for myself. At another family event, a lady, unrelated to me asked why I came back. Did I know that I no longer have any value? Did I not know that any kind of integrity or reputation (npe toj xeem) I ever had has been thrown out the window (tshav ntuj pug nram qab ha)? That I would bring shame to my parents. Did I think that walking the path of a divorcee is easy to do? I should let go of any hopes and dreams of meeting a good man or “luag tej tub tsim txiaj”. The only cards I had left would be taking on the role of a second wife or marrying men twice my age, “Lub me npe niam yau thiab txiv yawg nrauj yawg ntsuag ces ntshe yuav caum cuag zaum no lau“. This was a complete stranger who said this to me in front of a large group of people. A conversation that was unprovoked, a conversation created out of thin air that she felt needed to be made. Those words were neither helpful, respectful, or uplifting as with many conversations I would continue to have over the years with strangers and families alike. It was difficult for me to comprehend why people chose to say such spiteful words. Who was I to them, and what was the purpose they were trying to achieve? What were they expecting me to say? To tell them that they were right and even though I didn’t know them, I should’ve listened to them? It’s one thing to watch someone fall, but it’s a different kind of karma when you kick someone after they’ve already fallen. It was all part of the ironic bliss of living in such a merciless culture, one in which falls consequently heavy on women. There was no shield, no umbrella, to repel all the criticism, because it poured. There was absolutely no escape. And that was the case for many years. I had to walk that road on my own, outcasted and alone; stoned by villagers without a given right to fight back. My parents had their hands tied and watched quietly as bystanders because they were damned if they do and damned if they didn’t. As a man of the clan once said, allowing me back into their home had already defied the laws of the culture so much.
I also learned of what families near and far truly thought about me, what they couldn’t say upfront but low key felt. Their children would tell me, “My Dad said only your parents would allow you to come back, he said that wouldn’t be the case for us, that we’re only supposed to get married once“. On a separate occasion I was also told “I don’t think I can introduce so-and-so to you, his mom doesn’t approve of divorcees so I don’t think he’ll be interested in you“. I couldn’t ever tell if these were hateful words, or if these were words coming out of young women who didn’t know any better. But learned biases and stigmas start in the homes of which children are brought up in, don’t you agree? Yet, life is long and the future belongs to no one, no one except our maker. It’s always so much easier to sit on the sidelines and judge someone and to decide the fate of someone else’s daughter; to make her a martyr. It wasn’t just strangers that whispered, family whispers just as well. I’ve heard the subtle lectures that I should be the only daughter in the clan to taint our image, everyone else should be forbidden to follow suit. I should be made an example of and serve as a constant reminder to all. I shouldn’t be given any roles that had honor, I shouldn’t be given any roles that would result in recognition. And that burden I carried. It’s true. Everyone has tried so hard to put their money where their mouth is. No daughter has ever come back home, at least not the daughters of those who had something to say about me. But failed marriages are hard to hide, and if you have to dwell in misery or put your child through misery just to prove a point then all the power to you, go ahead and be proud of yourself. No matter who we are, judgment day comes for all of us. It’s inevitable.
At a family reunion I was introduced to a nice young man. Hardly even remember his face or his name, but I remember the way his aunt, who was also a distant relative of mine, looked at me that night. After some time she made her way over to us to intervene and to intrude on whatever it was she believed was going on. As she stood there gently patting and stroking his back in much admiration she says, “this is my nephew, he comes from a long line of honorable people, it’s where he gets his good looks and character from but we’re not letting him date right now or get married anytime soon, he’s going to just focus on school so I hope this is just a friendly meet and greet. Oh and this (gesturing to me), this is one of our relatives divorced daughters. She’s already been married once and it didn’t work out (twb mus ua neej ib zaug tsis tsheej thiaj li rov los), but very young and pretty so you would’ve never known she was divorced“. I’m sure he felt more embarrassed for me than I did for myself in that moment as his face flushed red. He tried not to break character, but his demeanor quickly changed and before I knew it, he swiftly made his exit. I wasn’t sad but I’m sure his aunt was relieved. I’m sure she felt proud of what she did. Being divorced was a disease people feared. It was a permanent disgrace that fell below all else. She was one of the few strangers in this journey that fit in it’s own category, she was one of the few people that was respectful only until they felt threatened. And she was threatened that night, but she wouldn’t be the last person I threaten as I moved through this journey.
Then there was the village lady, she who loved to instigate. She had never paid much attention to me nor given me the time of day when I was younger, but since my divorce, she’s been like a lioness on the prowl. She’ll eye me in a crowded room, sneak her attack quickly and slither away like the petulant serpent that she is. I promise you, it’s as dramatic as it sounds. She’s very loud, very local, and very delusional? She’s the type that walks into anyone’s event and feels she can insert her opinion anywhere, change their menu, change their recipe, change their venue. She is the best cook, the best niam tsev, and has the best kids. She has two daughters as well whom she loves to gloat about and enjoys comparing me to. The first time we crossed paths was at a another family event. It was an annual graduation party. She watched on as I joined in on the festivities, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. In the back where all the ladies convened over the days feast she called out my name to interrupt a conversation I was having and says, “Did you even know how to make rice before you were married? Did you even make any meals besides ramen and eggs? It’s probably why they didn’t like you, I’m sure you were lazy and thought it was going to be just as easy as living with your parents. That’s what happens when your parents try to teach you the ways of life and you think you already know everything. Was it worth it? Do you regret not listening to your elders? My daughters know how to do everything, but I won’t let them get married young like you. I told them to use you as an example, so they’re very cautious and say they’re going to finish school first. They’re about your age, but prettier than you (cob-xub zog koj). I would be so sad if they ever got married, but I’m sure they would marry stand up guys and be able to love and take care of me. If you want to find a good man I suggest you take care of yourself, because you’re a bit overweight. My daughters take such good care of themselves, if they were in your position no one would never know that they’ve been married before. You’re still so young, there’s no reason for you to look like that“. Bystanders looked stunned as I glared at her in silence. There was something about the way she said it, she had that sneering look of every villain in every drama or lakorn there ever was. I was used to people taking jabs at my poor choices in life but she didn’t just speak to my divorce, she spoke about me as a person, she took that conversation to a dangerous new low. To be very honest with you, this was one of the few times in my life that I felt violence come over me. I really wanted to throw the plate of food in front of me at her. I wanted to get on her level and dish out what I thought about her and her daughters, who I didn’t know but only knew of. I wanted so much to unleash havoc and ignore the composure I had. But, I was never prepared for ridicule. I never had the right comebacks, never had the right timing. I hated myself for that. I don’t know if it was because I was taught to hold my tongue, or if a part of me agreed with the criticism laid on to me. This, unfortunately, was just the first encounter. It was only a taste of how all conversations would go with this woman. To this day she still tries to make witless conversation with me but I avoid her at all cost. I don’t greet her nor do I acknowledge her because I don’t ever want to give her the platform or opportunity to say anything to me. Now that I’m older, my silence is not fear or intimidation, it’s because my tongue has grown wicked and sharp over the years. I know all her weak spots, but I don’t want to lower my integrity just to hurt her like she does me. The things I have to say to her would have no comebacks; it would be a low blow, it would be cruel and unnecessary, it’s something I wouldn’t be able to undo. And unlike many people in my journey, I know I have a maker, a higher power that I’ll have to answer to someday, so I don’t want to suffer the consequences of something that does not add value to my life. There’s simply no need for me to cause a scene just to let the world know what is already apparent.
A photo from that day
Over the years people have also tried to set me up and played match maker as well. I was the used floor mat that relatives felt they needed to help sell off or to advertise. I don’t know. It seems like the only possible explanation for their actions. It was common for someone to ask me if I “found” a husband yet. Or god forbid they should see me conversate with a random stranger they’d ask “New husband? (vauv/yawm yij tshiab lod?)” A relative once said to me “I gave your number to so and so’s son, he screwed up his life just like you, so maybe you two can learn from your mistakes together. Don’t worry whether or not he’s suited for you, you’re nothing compared to his ex-wife (hais txog qhov zoo nkauj mas koj twb tsis piv nws tus nyab dim lawm)”. How do you respond to something like this from an elderly person? Or how do you answer to someone that says “You’re already divorced so you should mail-order so and so’s son. Don’t be so picky. You should be so lucky. You’re considered an old maid now but he is still so young and pure (hluas nraug xuv-xuv)”. Or “you don’t need to be so picky, people have more reasons to be picky about you” (txhob xaiv xaiv luag, luag ha-yam xaiv yus). They would tell me not to wait too long or I’d turn into an old maid and no one will really want me then. It was a vicious cycle that repeated itself for a long time. It got old real quick, but it unfortunately never got easier. They thought it was because I wasn’t good enough but in all reality I just wanted to heal, I just wanted to live, I just wanted to g r o w up. I knew what it was like to live without my parents once and I wasn’t ready to live like that again. I valued every minute of my second chance, the chance to love them, to listen to them and to take care of them while I still could. I was no longer the selfish teenager that I was long ago. At 17, spending quality time with my mom was an easy option from a night out with friends. Sleeping in a nice warm bed at night was such a blessing, eating a well balanced meal unfollowed by tears or without having it hang over you was such a blessing and making mistakes without punishment and hate was everything. What a difference it was to be under your parents wings, under their grace, nkawv tej me ntsuj duab ntsuj hlau pov puag yus. The sun set so beautifully and peacefully in their presence. This was the basis or foundation to my growing bond with my parents. So when I say that no one understands their sacrifice for me, no one really does. No one could understand that but me, not every one gets a second chance.
Needless to say, ignorant and misguided conversations continued well into my twenties, but I was a tireless soldier, an angel of god, it felt like that anyway. Whatever was the most difficult of lessons, he handed it to me without hesitation. I transformed and I continued to transform to carry out his trials. As time moved on I became the daughter that was “divorced”. It was never, “which one is your younger daughter?” It was always, “Which is the divorced one?”. The cold sad truth is, these people are among you, amongst us. Everyone in this memoir exists. They’re your moms, your aunts, your grandmas, your cousins, and your sisters; I’m sorry if that’s difficult to accept or to reason with. I’m not trying to say that men aren’t equally as guilty but they were seldom and far and few in between. Perhaps there were more unbeknownst to me, but I’ve only known of one man in our clan that has openly belittled my parents. Who blamed them for handling my divorce so poorly, for allowing me to return home, for aiding a bad person; someone who walked away from her marriage. Their only responsibility as parents were to enforce their daughter to stay in her marriage and to make it work and my parents failed to do that. How can someone be so protective and nurturing of their own children yet step on someone elses? But as I’ve said and will continue to say, I promise you, there is a higher power and it has a memory beyond yours and mine, only so many people fail to acknowledge this crucial fact.
Unfortunately, this was and is only one facet of the journey, a journey that I contemplated for a long time whether or not it was a mistake. I could now understand a little bit of the rationale behind women who returned to their lovers and abusers. Life after divorce was brutal, it really was. I always believed that IF I was someone else, maybe, just maybe I wouldn’t have been so mistreated or misjudged in the clan or community. It’s such a confliction because as I said, there may not have been many divorces in my family but there have definitely been marital issues and family dynamics that hissed in the wind. Unbelievable how people can be “hush-hush” about a select few, but waste no time in making a mockery of some. Even with that said, I want to clarify that things weren’t always this hateful or cruel in nature. Those who loved you will always love you and those who never judged you, will never judge you. People who trusted themselves, people who had a head on their shoulders knew my disease wasn’t contagious. They never stopped to question it for a minute, for it was never a disease at all, and for that I thank these few genuine souls that made life that much sweeter.
I’m sure by now you’re probably wondering why I never responded to the ridicule, or if I ever did respond. The answer is NO. My hands always felt tied. And arguing or even defending myself to these people would only be giving them what they want. Someone who already has preconceived notions about you will never be swayed by what you have to say. There’s no doubt in the world that I carried the anger and hurt inside my heart and outside on my shoulders, but I still chose to take the high road. I knew that karma was out there somewhere. Not that I wished for tragedy to befall anyone but I knew that we all have our own maker, so it wasn’t up to me. My very young life was an ongoing toggle between picking up where I left off, enjoying my youth and lessening the shame my family now had to carry because of me. At the end of the day, and even to this day, it’s difficult to justify why some women can easily choose divorce or to choose it again and again and again. I didn’t expect to never get remarried, but this path, this journey, it was just as cold as a loveless marriage. I wasn’t completely hopeless, but I knew that marriage or finding a decent men was probably a far shot. For a long time I believed there was a high possibility that I wasn’t going to find love or happiness ever again. And even if I did, I knew it would be another challenging road to travel.
Those decades were a challenging era that’s for sure. Divorce was such an uncommon thing and thus was such a shock to the community. Maybe it was because our community was so small, both in mind and in number, or perhaps the whole world was indeed much smaller back then. Today the divorce rate is much higher so maybe some girl out there is fortunate enough not to endure the turmoil I lived through but either way this is only one count, one voice, among all the tragedies that exists out there. It is no more than memories gone with the wind. There’s nothing or no one that declares divorce as a joyous journey, but the gory and raw details of the truth is seldom ever drawn out. I may not speak for all women who’s been through a tragedy but I’m speaking to all the women who is currently contemplating this journey or those who can’t possibly relate. Whatever leap you take, I hope that I’ve endured enough of the pain and ridicule for you, so that no one else needs to walk these same foot steps. Before I bid you farewell, if at any point you feel you’re reading what’s yours and mine encounter, it’s not. “Kuv tsis tau noj nkaub los yog tuav npe.” Remember, this is MY memoir. As always, if you’ve read this in it’s entirety, thank you so much for your time. I’m sorry, I wish this could have been a lighter read, but I also wish everything in life was rainbows and butterflies….till next time
Sweetrowyn 