Exile — Poem from Suede: A Collection of Poetry

Exile

As soon as I showed signs of rebellion—

drinking, missing curfew, talking back—

my parents sequestered me to my

second story room where, in winter,

I could see my breath. It was an exile I came to love:

four windows, the moon peering like a voyeur

through pink floral curtains—so far—

yet close enough that I could steal its light to sketch.

In summer, a small window fan chopped my friends’

voices from the streets below, drew up that second flight,

a light breeze, so I could breathe.

When the smell of dinner wafted up the stairs,

I trudged to the kitchen where my stepmother,

sipping tea, said, No one wants you here.

Back in my room, I sketched John Lennon—

imagined that he’d written “Mother

just for me—and Marilyn Monroe,

another girl left by her mother who made me think,

someday, I might see my name across

a marquee. But at sixteen, freedom

and fame were as distant as the stars.

So, I stole a Valium—yellow and round—

from my stepmother’s jewel box, held my breath

and swallowed it down, then lay across

my bed spread, drawing the moon.

Ever wonder how I got my title The Cobbler’s Daughter?

The answer’s more involved than my father working as a shoe repair man. When I watched my father stand over the last, his face less than a foot from his work, he concentrated deeply. The shoes he fixed were perfect. He sewed leather with thick thread, pounded soles, buffed and polished.

This perfectionism carried over to me. It’s what got me in trouble in preschool when a kid stuck a felt eyebrow upside on the face we were making in class and I yelled, “He did it wrong.” The teacher put a finger to her lips and frowned in my direction. I was four–already an editor. As I came of age, I loved the exactitude of words spelled correctly, coloring inside the lines and memorizing nursery rhymes.

He toiled Monday through Saturday, 9 to 9 for the first several years he owned his business. And when I was five, I got my first job peeling boiled eggs at the Gondola Restaurant for three dollars a day. I am a cobbler’s daughter for my work ethic. I’ve been a door-to-door greeting card saleswoman, papergirl, babysitter, fast-food employee, lifeguard, diet aide, retail sales clerk, navy data technician, video store clerk, teacher, tech writer, the list goes on.

My father taught me “Work will see you through.” For this gift, I am most grateful.

How a small boy became a great man, illustration

Why I Killed My Step-Uncle In a Poem

From ages four to nine I was sexually abused by my step-uncle “Reggie” who was seven years older. He paid me in quarters and record albums, including Cheech and Chong’s Big Bambu and Toys in the Attic by Aerosmith. I had no idea that the abuse was wrong and blocked the memory until I turned 18.

When I told my father and stepmother about the abuse, they said, “Why didn’t you tell us then?” I was four. And of course, my stepmother accused me of trying to get her brother Reggie in trouble and cause problems between her and my father.
(as if they didn’t have enough on their own) Now I know this response is typical of a family in denial.

I’ve spent decades in therapy working through the after effects of the abuse, which includes mistrust of men and authority figures, fear of commitment, control issues, and a penchant for the melodramatic. I have left good relationships for terrible ones, including my last marriage. I don’t want to be alone but keep making that happen. The truth is, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

In a poetry class years ago, I had a teacher who was a victim of childhood sexual abuse and not afraid to talk about it. He really understood the damage it causes to the human psyche. Through discussion, he helped me get my writing to a place where I could articulate what I wanted with the following poem. He read The Coin Collector and said, “You killed ‘im off, eh?” I didn’t mean to, but the poem took me there. And so be it.

The Coin Collector

You look tranquil in nickel-plate, uncle,
shark skin suit, black tie, eyeglasses.
They’ve done great work with your makeup,
brushed your hair back as you would
have worn for a wedding or wake. Your mother
offers kind words, says that as a child
you saved every penny you found. Your sister
talks about your thumbs, how they bent nearly
flat from the indent of so many coins.

I remember the Lincoln Cent collection book
you gave me, your taking me to antique shops
when I was thirteen, our private talks
of my high school lovers, all of which
you were dying to hear. These days, I carry
grief in my pockets like the coins you collected,
handled so often they’ve lost their brilliance.

I think of the young girl from a family
where no hands reached, how she welcomed
your affection year after year, afternoons
in your bedroom, a quarter a trip, your arms
linked through her legs, her fingers
tugging your blond hair, the pleasant ache
she felt between her legs then—and now—
when she hears them say your name, runs
her finger along the ribbed edge of a quarter,
sees the coffin close over your face.

Corn is a four letter word.

Three years ago, I almost lost my son Vinny to his severe food allergy to tree nuts. He secretly ate a piece of toffee and lied about it. While his father and I sat in the E/R crying and watching Vinny sleep off his Benadryl/Epi-pen-induced coma, the doctor came out and said, “That boy needs to be under the care of an allergist.” Within the week, Vinny had an appointment.

We already knew Vinny was allergic to peanuts and tree nuts from an earlier blood test. But now we were requesting a food panel. They would only test for a couple foods, because of his potential for an anaphylaxic reaction. I agreed to be tested, too, to offer moral support. Turned out Vinny and I are both allergic to cats, dust, dust mites, and all the grasses, weeds, and trees that grow in Idaho. He’s also allergic to dairy and corn. I’m allergic to chicken, barley, malt, coconut, and corn.

At the time of the allergy test, I wore a size 10. I was still drinking beer, eating bread, fried foods, including chicken, you name it. I was running three miles a day several times a week and lifting weights. I looked pretty good and weighed about 160 for my five-foot-six frame. The allergist recommended a full elimination diet.

Later, I discovered that if I ate any type of food with corn in it, i.e., restaurant french fries (deep fried in vegetable oil that had corn oil) or enchiladas with corn starch, Heinz ketchup, gravy, within two days, tiny blisters formed on my fingers that opened up into full-blown eczema. And since I’ve taken corn out of my diet, I’m incredibly sensitive to its effects.

Corn is everywhere: dextrose, fructose, modified food starch, Xanthan gum, vegetable oil. I can’t eat at any fast food restaurants or fried foods at sit down places.imin

Vinny’s ten. He eats popcorn, which makes his skin itchy. He says he doesn’t care. The allergy will become worse with age. He cannot eat dairy. It gives him horrible flatulence and the runs. And as one teacher described his behavior after he dairy: he wilts like a flower.

The benefits of my food allergies are that I have been turned on to clean eating, and my body has shrunk four pants sizes. I’ve lost 30 pounds because of healthy eating! I have to watch every bite I put into my mouth, not because I want to lose weight, but because these foods I’m allergic to quite literally poison my system. The effects of chicken on me aren’t even worth discussion. Once you stop eating poison, your body loses inflammation. It’s that simple.

When I go to barbecues, restaurants and gatherings with friends, some say, “Wow. I’m lucky. I’m not allergic to anything.” I’m like, “Really? Have you ever had a food panel done? How do you know?” Plus, I didn’t ask for this. A little sensitivity goes a long way, folks.

Moving My Blog to WordPress

Dad and two kids

Hello, friends:

For all of you who’ve stood by me since my blog Against All Odds, I am moving the Cobbler’s Daughter blog to WordPress. Stay tuned for more poetry, stories about the Leather Shoe Shop, my children, and whatever life hands me.

More to come!

Love you all.

Cindy

joevandal

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