She punished me for having skin like sassafras, and drank the blood of my fears like a flea...

My step mother called me a bitch every moment that seemed relevant to her
And a whore
And ill
She was a character
Pitting one of us against the other
She played the game with glee
Always testing my patience
An “I love you” here and there intermingling with resenting sighs
She punished me for having skin like sassafras
And drank the blood of my fears like a flea •

I would have two official stepmothers in my life - those whom my father married (aside from his various other girlfriends). And the four of them together — my father, my mother, my 1st stepmother, and my 2nd stepmother — would make my short 18 years of childhood both interesting and extremely complicated. All four of them experienced their own traumas in their individual lives that they still have not grappled with. And they would affect those within their charge with these traumas. Some were simply all-around neglectful, some were violent, and some were verbally... expressive if you will.

I have said previously that as my birth month is in August, I am spending the upcoming weeks sharing these four individuals who have majorly impacted my life — both in good, and not so good ways.

My first stepmother has always been my favorite mother of the three. She was the first person I knew in my family who had attended post-secondary education, allowing me to understand that it is possible. I developed my sense of style and aesthetic simply from viewing her and having her in my presence during those formative years. She was the only one of the four of my parents who took the time, energy, and effort to nurture me on an individual basis. She allowed me to feel seen and loved and important. And I will always love her for that.

Yet, she is nevertheless complicated. I remember much strife in those early teen years. I remember us children crying to my father about her various conflicts and him always only siding with his wives. I remember crying a lot and feeling conflicted. Here was this woman whom I loved deeply, who also cost me my first urge to cut myself (never did as the pain was too great, thank the gods). I do not remember much of what she has done, although my siblings remember other moments.

Of the negatives, what impacted me most was that although she nurtured me individually, she would also individually nurture my siblings, choosing a favorite at different intervals and making fun of the other children with the chosen sibling of the moment. We would individually be labeled as fat or whores, bitches or mentally ill, and various other insults, causing some of us to cry drastically. And I always believed she delighted in it.

She would tell my sister that she envies her light skin color; and this always stuck out to me as odd because my stepmother had, and continues to have, beautiful, flawless, and blemish-free, rich chocolate-toned skin.

As I said: complicated. At this time, I remember only small increments from that time in my life. I do not remember why I disliked her as much as I loved her. I do not remember all of the pain she caused. I only remember the admiration. She would apologize to me in my latter teen years, saying that she did not understand what she did wrong. And I would hug her and tell her she is forgiven. Whatever happened, I have both forgotten and left it behind.

Now whenever we meet, I feel much joy and an ear-to-ear grin on my face, just happy to see her. Now, all I feel is love. And that is to say, while some things are completely unforgivable, other pain can truly be relieved of its duty of keeping us stuck in now insignificant conflicts. Some things can be released and retain their place in the past, from whence they came. The great memories can take their presence. And catharsis can begin within leaving only love in its wake. •

Poem from Acres of Shadow
© Aisha Tariqa Abdul Haqq Publishing
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