The Story I Didn't Want to Tell (and more)

Eye-Opening Moments are real-life stories of adversity, encounters, and perspectives intertwined. In this episode you will hear about The Story I Didn't Want to Tell & Eating Grits Reminded Me.

Website: https://inspiremereads.com
Books: https://amazon.com/author/emily-kay-tan.2021_

Chapters

• 0:22 Introduction
• 1:04 The Story I Didn't Want to Tell
• 6:44 Eating Grits Reminded Me
• 18:28 Key Takeaways

Transcript

Hello and welcome to episode #158 of Eye-Opening Moments where you’ll hear stories of adversity, encounters, and perspectives intertwined. They are moments that can lift your spirits, give you some food for thought, or move you. For the introspective mind that likes to reflect, discover, and find solutions or meaning in a complex life, this is for you. I’m your host Emily Kay Tan. In this episode, you will hear about The Story I Didn’t Want to Tell & Eating Grits Reminded Me.

The Story I Didn’t Want to Tell
It ran across my mind as I heard a lot about the topic in the news recently. It reminded me of my personal experience related to it. When I became a memoir writer, I told myself I would never write about that life. The topic continued to splash all over the news. It made me wonder why I didn’t want to share about that thing. I was never ashamed of it, but I didn’t want to tell it. I was clear about what I did and have absolutely no regrets. A few people already know about it, so it is not a complete secret, and I don’t need to tell it again. The topic persisted in showing up in the 2024 presidential race for the white house. It made me think about what happened to me years ago or what I went through. It occurred to me that I didn’t want to share it publicly because it is a controversial topic; I don’t want to offend anyone. I probably thought others would judge me and say I did something wrong. I am a good girl most of the time and wouldn’t want anyone to think otherwise!

It was just another day when I sat down on the sofa to have a snack and unwind from a day of work. I turned on the TV but didn’t remember what was on the tube. I was too busy enjoying a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips and smiling. Little footsteps danced around my heart because I discovered that a tiny life began growing inside of me, and it was created by me and the one I loved. Because I was in love, warmth enveloped the new life and me.

Somewhere in my secret world, I always said that if I ever got pregnant, I would get rid of it. No, it wasn’t a secret because I had previously told some friends about my stance. Some said that I would change my mind if I were in love with the person who made me conceive. Others said that I would change my mind when I knew there was a new life in me. My friends who were already mothers said being a mother was the greatest joy in life. They told me to reconsider, and I said I would see what would happen when it happened. 

It happened. 

Without hesitation, I made an appointment the next day at the hospital, informing my gynecologist it was urgent and needed to see her as soon as possible. I was always clear about my stance, but the why was unclear. I thought it was because of the feared labor pains when I saw it on TV as a kid. When I started my career, I thought it was the fear of losing my freedom and needing to juggle a career and children. It wasn’t until after my child-bearing years that I discovered the deep-seated reason behind it all. I was shocked; I didn’t realize how the trauma powerfully impacted my life and created my strong stand.

My broken record narrative said that when Mom tossed me out at five to live with my grandmother on the other side of the country, she did not love and care for me. She abandoned me, and I hated her for that. 

The five-year-old me unwittingly decided that I would never bring another life into this world because I never wanted to be a mother like the one I had. I studied child psychology in college. I read research that said if you were abused, you could grow up to be an abuser. I was never physically abused, but I was emotionally. I refused to have the possibility to do that to another child. The wounded child in me stayed in me to constantly remind me.

Even though I never gave birth to a child, I have loved and cared for hundreds of kids as my students; I just gave them what I never got from my mom: Love and care. I never wanted the slightest chance of hurting a child like what happened with me and my mother.

Still drawn to watching the speeches in the race to the white house, I couldn’t seem to get enough of hearing them. It told me that I was fortunate that I had the freedom to decide what I wanted to do with my body. It is scary to think of other women who don’t have that right or might lose that freedom. My country, the one filled with so many liberties, was obtained and claimed from much bloodshed. I shudder to think we could lose some of those precious freedoms.

This story is a story I didn’t want to tell for fear of being judged negatively or offending anyone. However, silent for too long, I choose to have the courage to stand up and say a life without the love of a mother is an agonizing pain. I know how it feels and would never wish that upon another child.

Eating Grits Reminded Me
"Today, you will have grits, hashbrowns, and eggs because I want you to enjoy a southern breakfast," announced Rebecca. Rebecca had never cooked breakfast for me before, and I had never had grits before that day. Little did I realize that many years later, when I started eating grits for breakfast, I would be reminded of that day Rebecca made grits for me. I didn't know that a simple breakfast with Rebecca and her family would make me think of her for a small moment each time I ate some grits.

Rebecca and I were never close. Sometimes, I tried to establish a relationship with her, but it only existed when I tried to connect. I started calling her for a few years, and we would have enjoyable conversations together for an hour or so. But one day, I got tired of always being the one to call and communicate. Nine out of ten times, it was me initiating the calls. She would call me once a year at most (for a few years). Finally, I stopped calling, and she had not called me since I stopped. Nearly thirty years have passed since those few years when I called her about once a month. It is sad that we didn't continue to keep in touch, but I have no regrets because I did try several times. It isn't easy to have a relationship with someone when only one person is reaching out!

Mom sent me to live with Grandma when Grandma's family immigrated to America. I grew up with Grandma's family since I was five, and Rebecca grew up with Mom, Dad, and my other siblings until she married. I wanted a relationship with Rebecca because she was my older sister, but unfortunately, we never had much of one. I rarely saw her or the rest of my family for nine years. I lived on the East Coast, while my nuclear family lived in the South. You need to ask my mom why she didn't have us visit one another because I don't have the answer.

Luckily, Grandma thought I should return to live with my parents and siblings when I was fourteen because they had moved from a poor class to a middle class. It looked like they were living the American dream and flaunting their big house, BMWs, and beautiful clothes. Grandma felt proud of Mom and was happy for her. Unfortunately, my biological family was strangers to me, and the values my grandmother instilled in me were vastly different from my mother's values. My other values, ideas, and behavior made me the black sheep or the outcast of the family. Since Mom and Grandma were mother and daughter, I don't know how they ended up with such different values and lifestyles!

While living with my family, I saw my sister Rebecca spend a lot of time putting on makeup, combing her hair, and trying on several outfits before deciding which one to wear for the day. It sounds normal for a teenager to do that. I was only a year younger than my older sister, but I was not like her. Maybe I was the abnormal one in the family. I didn't wear makeup, and I did not wear anything fancy or fashionable. Rebecca was fifteen and really into boys and had already begun dating. I was fourteen and had no hormones kicking or any interest in boys at that time. I seem to be building a case for being an atypical teenager, but I was a normal human! I was different from Rebecca, and it seemed like we had nothing in common, so we never did much together when we were under the same roof for two years as teenagers. As children, we were apart. As teenagers, we never connected. It is sad because she is my sister, and I wish I had a sister with whom I could do many things.

As an adult, Rebecca came to my wedding, as did my parents and siblings. I invited them because my grandmother told me to do so, and I wanted my future husband to know I had a family. I cared about looking good to the family I would marry into. Perhaps a little of Mom's values rubbed off on me. Rebecca and Mom cared about looking beautiful in their dresses and makeup at my wedding. My friend and wedding coordinator, Janice, told me my mom and sister did nothing to help in my wedding and were busy looking at their dresses and refreshing their makeup and hair. They even asked Janice if she was hired to help and were surprised to learn that Janice was a friend who volunteered to be my wedding coordinator. 

After my honeymoon, Janice told me about Mom and Rebecca. I only rolled my eyes, looked down, and shook my head silently. I thought they would show a nicer side of themselves on my wedding day, but they only showed their true colors. They only cared about their own appearances and could care less about me, the bride. And my friends all saw it. 

While helping me sort through wedding gifts to write Thank You cards, Janice commented, "Emily, no wonder you never talk about your family. They are far worse than I thought they could be. It is not your fault because you didn't grow up with them. But I am sorry you have a family like them. My eyes strained, trying not to feel anything or shed a tear. I was sorry I had a mom and a sister like that, too; I was ashamed and embarrassed. Worse, it reinforced to me that they never loved me because they couldn't even show some care about me for one day, my wedding day. Rebecca was never directly or overtly mean to me, and we didn't connect well into adulthood. Maybe it isn't sad, and it is only so because I wanted a big sister I could talk to and do things with. Despite our differences in values, I still wanted to connect with my biological family. Perhaps it is only a yearning for a kind of family love I have never experienced.

Some years after I married, I attended a business convention in the city where Rebecca lived with her husband and two kids. I decided to call Rebecca and ask her to meet with me since I would be in her town. She agreed and invited me to her home for breakfast since that was the only time I had available during my visit. I was nervous and excited to see my big sister; it would be the first and only time she invited me to her home. It was monumental!

That was the last time I called Rebecca. It was the first time these two sisters, Rebecca and I, got together outside of other occasional family gatherings like funerals. My body was jittering with excitement or nervous tension; I didn't know which one. I wore more makeup and a purple and blue floral jumper that made me look pretty. I knew she would look at me from top to bottom, as appearances greatly mattered to her. I didn't think or consider that it could be the only time the two of us got together without our other relatives around, but it was. And that was over twenty years ago. It isn't too sad because we never connected. If we did bond and something happened to sever the ties, then it would be heartbreaking!

Upon arrival at Rebecca's house in the suburbs, I was all smiles, and Rebecca was full of smiles. We hugged, and her husband took pictures of us in front of the colorful flowerbed in front of their house. My floral jumpsuit blended with the background, but I felt beautiful because I was happy to have my sister beside me. Though it was only two sisters getting together for breakfast, it was the only time Rebecca and I got together alone (besides her new family). I knew it was a rare occasion. 

As I stepped inside, Rebecca directed her school-age sons to greet me. They appeared to be on their best behavior as their mom told them I was a teacher and if they didn't behave, I would punish them! She quickly showed me around her house. I was surprised that it was a tiny abode because she was like Mom, who cared about looking like the Jones or better. She soon informed me that she would provide some Southern hospitality by making me a typical Southern breakfast. I was to sit while she cooked. 

It was the first time I learned what she called a typical Southern breakfast. She grew up in the South and lived there all her life, even though she moved to another state when she married. It was still in the South. I grew up on the East Coast, unaccustomed to anything in the South. Indeed, it was my first Southern breakfast. It was the first time she invited me to her home, and it was the first time she cooked for me. The many firsts left me feeling like I had fun at my sister's house.

Like any ordinary shopping day at the supermarket, I looked to buy cereal. Not usual was that boxes of Quaker Grits caught my eye. I decided to purchase some grits instead of some other cereal for breakfast. The grits came in individual packets, so I could try a little to see if I liked it. The next day, I boiled water to put in my bowl of grits. It was ready to be eaten after mixing the water and grits in the bowl with a spoon.

As I spooned heaps of grits into my mouth, I remembered something from over twenty years ago! The last time and first time I ate grits was when Rebecca made it for me for breakfast at her house. With every spoon of grits I digested, I enjoyed it and smiled, remembering my sister Rebecca. We are both still alive, but after that breakfast together, I only saw her once in passing at Grandma's funeral nearly twenty years ago.

Because I enjoyed the feeling of the little lumps of grits or their texture on my tongue, I started buying grits more often instead of other cereals. When I moved abroad, I suddenly craved some grits but could not buy any because they didn't sell them. After several years of craving grits on and off, I decided to buy some online from the USA. Shipping costs as much, if not more, than the grits themselves! But treating myself to some grits every so often was worth it. It tastes good; it is good for your health and reminds me of my big sister. Each time I grab a packet of grits, I remember the last time my sister Rebecca and I got together at her house. It is a pleasant memory to cherish. I may not think of her much as we don't have many memories together, but every time I eat grits, I remember our time together and that I have a big sister.

Key Takeaways
Though I had a story I didn’t want to tell, I finally told it (publicly) and rejoiced for my courage.

Though I never had much of a relationship with my older sister, eating grits brings a small moment of fond memories with her.

Next week, you will hear two real-life stories called The Free Rides & Acceptance. If you enjoyed this episode of Eye-Opening Moments, please text someone and ask them what they think about this podcast, or go to www.inspiremereads.com and leave a message. Thank you for listening!