The Beginning

Passing By Open Windows

Written by Riah Willow
“Adversity builds Character”

The Beginning

​When you pass by a home and notice an open window do you ever wonder who lives inside, or what their life looks like? I have; this is the story of many open windows I have lived behind. Some were happy; others held secrets, which no child should endure.

​Who would have thought when I was born that I would be the person I am today? When my children were born I had no expectations of who they would be, because my life had taken so many twists and turns that I wanted to be sure I provided them with all they needed to build character, but that they would decide who and what they wanted to be. I don’t know if when I was born if anyone expected the moon and the stars for me or if they just expected that I would “never amount to anything”. I say this because those are the very words I heard too many times in my youth. You see I didn’t start out being born into a perfect situation, which would foster success and happiness in life. I was born as what I like to call a “pawn or glue child”; this is a child who is born because of the necessity of the mother keeping her man.

​ My birth mother has spoken about the fact that she wanted to place me up for adoption at birth, but that her mother and grandmother talked her out of it. You see I was the first of many grandchildren to come in my family. My grandmother (Nana) had five children three girls and two boys, all from the same father but the last one she called her “love child”. Nana had a succession of five husbands the first being the father of her first four children, the last of the four children her first husband and children’s father was not to know about. Her last child was born during the marriage to her last husband; the one she always said was the only one she really ever loved, but one day walked out for a pack of cigarettes to never return. My birth mother (Sandi) followed suit in her romantic life, her first husband (Charles) was my birth father, but was gone before I was even born. Her second husband (John), the father of her second child, my brother (Bruce), was on the scene prior to my birth, and brought a twelve pack of beer to the waiting room while he my Nana and my great-grandmother (Ninny or Auntie Winni) waited for my arrival. You see it was my Ninny who talked my mother out of putting the first grandchild up for adoption more than anyone else, so much so that I was not taken home from the hospital in the usual way. My Ninny took me home as her own and poured all the love for her own child (my Nana, whom she did not raise), into me. At this point my birth mother became to me an odd woman who visited my home from time to time, sometime after my fourth birthday I started spending weekends and some summer weeks at my birth mothers home. I never dreamt she was my mother; my only feelings toward her were reminiscent of how a child would feel about a baby sitter. My Ninny was a woman born in 1910, who had her first and only child in 1929 (my Nana), out of wedlock, because of generational shame she gave her only child to her own mother (Nana Burdon) to raise as her sister rather than her daughter. Was history repeating itself with me?

Let’s face it times were changed by the time I was born in nineteen sixty nine. There was still a stigma about giving birth as an unwed mother, but my mother was not unmarried, she was just at the tail end of her divorce from my birth father and the beginning of her life with my step father. This was a situation slightly frowned upon in nineteen sixty nine as well. My birth mother married my step father when I was two years old and she was nearing the end of her pregnancy to my brother Bruce. At her wedding I was seated in the third row of the church watching on as a two year old child and somehow I knew she was my mother and he would be the only father I would ever know. I stood up on the pew in the middle of the service and yelled out “that’s my mommy and daddy up there”. I wonder often who or why someone told me that my Ninny was not my mother and that Sandi was. I wonder if my life would have been different or better had I never been told. I do not recall this situation but have been told about it many times from many of my family members. I do remember that I called my Ninny “mommy” one day when I was about seven years of age, and was told, “I love you as my child lovey but as much as I wish you were my child, you are not and you have a mother who loves you very much but is not able to take care of you so I take care of you as you deserve.” I did not understand this statement, and though I felt extremely loved by my Ninny, in many ways I felt rejected by this statement. I only knew how much I loved her and somehow I was experiencing the loss of a mother that I never knew as my mother but rather the odd lady who watched me sometimes. How did I know to say what I did at two years old but then by seven I failed to understand that a statement of this magnitude had to be impossibly hard for my Ninny, but a very loving statement to make?

​My childhood during the time when I was raised by my Ninny was a happy time, a time where the world was beautiful, with no fear, and I was allowed to stay young and innocent. I loved and still love my Ninny as my mother, not a great-grandmother. To me our world was a place of beauty and wonderment. My days were filled with an unconditional love and innocence that every child should be afforded. I was a quiet child, or so I am told. I was enrolled not only in school, but dance class and exposed to the beautiful things in life such as art, friendships with children from good families and a stable home that I reflect on now more as a fairy tale than my actual life. I say this because it was filled with magic and mystery but most of all love and happiness.

​ The first memory I have of my life with my Ninny was when I was in kindergarten and I was playing with a wooden duck pull toy that had flipper feet that made noise when you pulled it. I was so fascinated by this toy that I was running in the school play yard and fell down and scraped my knees so badly that I still have scars from it today. My teacher, though her name is lost to time, was so kind and loving that she cleaned me up, kissed me on the forehead and introduced me to the doll furniture that was also in the classroom; a red doll high chair, a red rocking bassinet and a rocking chair to match. From that day forward I always ran at play time to be the first at the doll furniture. Because of this when the school closed at the end of that year, she gifted these items to me, that would become my own daughters first toys.

​ My Ninny and I walked everywhere we went, mostly because she never learned or wanted to learn how to drive but also because we lived only a block from Boston University and public transit was very accessible for long trips and everything else was within walking distance from our home. Our world was a small place but at the same time was very culturally diverse. There was a Chinese street vendor that we purchased egg rolls from on every trip to the grocers, there candle pin bowling alley 2 blocks from our home was owned by an Italian man who we knew, and was very kind to me on every visit we made, the police guard at the bank was an Irish man who was always sure that every Christmas he had something under the tree at the bank for me and me alone, while all the other presents under the tree were empty boxes.

We were very well known in the community we lived in, for no other reason than people could see how I was treated and how I held myself like a little lady. I had friends on my own block that I played with often, while my Ninny made friends with their families. One of my friends was Marsha who lived on the opposite side of the street and the other was Marni who lived on the same side that I did. Marsha was the older of the trio, while Marni was the youngest, Marsha a year older than I and Marni a year younger than I. The home I lived in with my Ninny was a rather large two family home. The house had a one bedroom apartment downstairs, while we took over the top two floors of the house with an apartment that had four bedrooms. My Ninny had two twin beds in the master bedroom the left one was mine while the right one was hers. One of the bedrooms was very small and would have been called a closet these days but it was large enough for a small chest of drawers and a twin bed with a chair at the foot of the bed, while the last two bedrooms were on the third floor. One of the third floor rooms was transformed into my play room, where my imagination could run wild. I was encouraged to explore my imagination with music, dance, art and of course every girls staple dress up in my Ninny’s old clothing, hats, shoes and costume jewelry. I lived in this fairy tale existence until the age of twelve, when my birth mother decided that she needed me back with her.