At Poetry & Company in Kingston on Thursday night, I performed my latest piece, entitled "Rug". The poem is about the last home occupied by our entire family before my parents split up and my mother moved us kids out of the house:
the rich red rug
ran all through the house
upper middle-class opulence
a la 1974
it muffled the sound of your feet
creeping down the hall
(Edited for adult content)it brimmed over with
her keening pathos
and your snarling invective
running through the house
barking and lascivious
the rich red rug
absorbed our family secrets
congealed them in wealthy prominence
so when your self-congratulating colleagues
came to walk upon it
with their Italian leather shoes
we stiffly wore our happy plastic grins
while rich red rage
rumbled beneath our feet
This poem is indicative of the contrast in our family between the rage buried in each of us and the successful, happy exterior we were expected to show the world. The luxurious, deep-pile rug, which cloaked the floor of the entire house, save for the kitchen and laundry room was symbolic of this cover-up. In the 70's, such wall-to-wall carpeting was associated with wealth and, therefore, well-being.
Today, many of us would tear the rug out, knowing it off-gasses toxins of its own and harbours impurities. I think about that rug and the poison it carried from a deeply unhappy and violent family. I hope that the homeowners who came later had the good sense to rip it out.
However, with Father's Day approaching, I don't remember just the unhappiness, but the intelligence of my father, how hardworking he has always been, his artistic ability, his sense of humour, and the way I felt special as a very young girl, cuddling with him while he watched sports on TV, or the way I thrilled to the horror stories he read to me (at an age when I probably shouldn't have been privy to such tales, but they fueled my interest in the macabre in general and the works of Poe in particular).
I think it must be said that the ones who can inflict great pain upon us can also be the ones who teach and inspire us. From both of my parents, I got my drive, my intelligence, and artistic abilities that find their way into my writing, dancing and singing.
It is healing to remind myself that my parents are complex beings, and that there is nothing black and white about their behaviour. Just like me, they've sought to end their suffering - and as humans, we don't always choose a path to happiness that is kind to others. May they both have joy in their lives today. I wish they knew that they have a daughter who still loves them, even if it must be from afar.
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