Pack is my middle name. But I had to give it to myself. When I got married and went to register my new identity at the Social Security offices they asked for my full name. My new full name was Kelly Pack Beck. You may not think it is flashy but not everybody's name can fit comfortably into a folk song. Mine does. Try it out: Sing "Kelly Pack Beck and I don't care..." repeated three times for a substitute lyric in "Jimmy Crack Corn". It fits perfectly. To finish the song with great pizazz choose your own favorite name with three syllables (Anderson is popular in my neighborhood). Now sing the previous lyric three times and finish the third line with "...I don't care...my name's not Anderson!" I'm famous for this song. Mostly in California, with young women now adults who are finishing college. Young Women Sunday lessons and Girl's Camp Fireside chats tend to carry from them embarrassing stories that are repeated with every reunion of girls-become-women and their once-upon-a-time leaders. These girls-who-loved-me-when enjoy introducing me to people I have never met by singing this song. Where is a seer-stone for average people when they need one? I never would have started this tradition, had I known!
But the raw and painful truth is that my middle name should have been Drama. I owe the credit for my acquisition of dramatic flair to my mother. I'm confident that she owes the credit to her's. My grandmama could turn on the drama like no other. Although to be accurate, I don't remember her drama ever being turned off. Raised an only girl among three brothers and their friends, she must have carried it like a weapon, used it like the fish that blow themselves up to a threatening size when they sense that they are too vulnerable and about to become prey.
The most dramatic moment I can remember as a child, the one that defines the roles we chose as children best, occurred one night at dinner when my mother stood up from the table and declared, "I am going to divorce your father!" Only half the children in my family still lived at home. My older sister, me, and my younger brother. At this shocking outburst my sister laughed, my brother cried and I politely requested, "Pass the mashed potatoes." Always my savior, food blocked me from pain. And frozen in those few seconds in time is the picture of my trauma, my drama, and my greatest mortal challenge in life--allowing myself to feel the hurt that mortal relationships bring.
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2 comments:
After reading your blog- all I can so is... "Kelly, I love you- your great"
I can identify with your original into to your blog. I want to leave a "hole" too, but it will be in a different way. All sorts of people leave different "holes," and live in all kinds of different worlds like sports, writing, drawing, being "Mother Tereasa," or just being a good person. Did your mom and dad ever divorce? I identify with your childhood experience and the method you used to escape the pain. My mother left my dad several times because the lifestyle she wanted for our family did not include an alcholic father. As she would load us into the car and drive away, I shared her hopes for a better life somewhere. The reality was that she had no job skills and could never support us. She finally decided we were better off where we were with aunts, cousins, and uncles to provide security and love. Since she had no income of her own, she had to ask daddy for every penny. I witnessed the humiliation she suffered, and decided I would never put myself into that position. Mother's passion for me to have a better life led me to heed her warnings to get as much education as possible and to prepare for as many careers as I could. What a blessing that was for me--what motivation it gave me. I coped with my childhood pain through reading, walking in the woods, playing with my cousins, going to movies, and dreaming about the time when I could leave my home town and make my own life. Thanks for sharing.
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