Severing as Perseverance: Breaking the Family Bond
2021; Johns Hopkins University Press; Volume: 24; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/jaas.2021.0010
ISSN1097-2129
Autores Tópico(s)Musicology and Musical Analysis
ResumoSevering as PerseveranceBreaking the Family Bond Michie Sariyama (bio) My cousin George's name flashes on my phone and I worry that she is pulling out of ladies' night. We're supposed to watch Journey at the Hollywood Bowl; I had come down to L.A. specifically to see them perform with their new lead singer from the Philippines. Ten years my senior, my cousin had earned my mom's trust enough so that I could attend George's New Year's Eve party when I was just seven. She bought me my first guitar, took me to my first rated-R movie, and my first concert. She's been there for me through many highs...and a few lows. I tentatively answer the phone, fearful that she's calling to cancel. "I'm not supposed to tell you, but this is ridiculous," she blurts as soon as I answer. "Your mom is sick. Really sick. She's in the hospital." It had been four years since I cut off ties with my mom. She would invite me to spend the holidays with her. I'd decline, but I'd send her a Mother's Day card. We danced around each other like this for a few years until the communication stopped almost entirely. At the point when George called, I hadn't yet put a timetable on when I'd see my mother again...if ever. Too much had yet to be resolved, and I wasn't at that point when I no longer needed a resolution. So when George delivered the news ostensibly from my mother's deathbed, I had to ask myself: "Was I ready to see her?" "She doesn't want you to know," George adds. "And neither does Kiyoshi." [End Page 79] ______ My stepfather, Kiyoshi, came into my life shortly after my parents divorced when I was nine years old. He was different from my parents and other relatives. He was college educated, a professional, a dentist. Over the subsequent years, he would become my ally, helping me navigate my mom's erratic mood swings. He drove me to school in the mornings. He encouraged my athleticism, offering pointers in weight training. He spoke to me like an adult, something I wasn't used to, but appreciated. Looking back now, I have the vocabulary to understand what he was doing, which was grooming me. At that age, I didn't comprehend what was normal and what wasn't. I couldn't articulate exactly what I was feeling. I only knew that in the pit of my stomach something felt wrong. My earliest recollection of an inappropriate touch happened when I was about eleven years old, during a fishing trip at Lake Tahoe with a classmate. I remember Kiyoshi putting something into my shirt pocket and his hand lingered on my chest. He wasn't giving me something; he was feeling. Slowly, the physicality escalated, but he somehow normalized it: wrestling matches where he would pin me down; massages while we watched television—all of this in plain view of my mom. One evening after my mom had gone to bed, he called me to the couch. I sat there frozen, not quite knowing what was happening to me; not knowing enough to say anything about it afterwards, and certainly not enough to do anything. And what could I possibly say? What could I possibly do? I was in middle school. From the moment it began, my life was split into two worlds: the public world of a model-minority nuclear family, and a private world of silence and abuse. I largely did not acknowledge that private world in my normal everyday life. But there were times when a signal from one world almost reached the other. Kiyoshi took me on a rafting trip at the Klamath River when I was a pre-teen. This three-day, two-night trip included about fifteen rafters and several guides. I remember getting ready for bed and the women in the group clearly thought I'd be sleeping with them. They had puzzled looks on their faces when I headed to Kiyoshi's room. "She can stay...
Referência(s)