Nobodys daughter, p.1
Nobody's Daughter, page 1
Praise for Nobody’s Daughter
“(Ramos) pulls no punches in analyzing the wellsprings of her adult challenges and childhood angst.... She emerges from this reflective process to a new position of power ... Very highly recommended for anyone interested in self-help strategies, memoirs of abuse and recovery, and those involved in transforming lives from a foundation of abuse to achieve empowerment.”
—D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
“Nobody’s Daughter is a lucid recollection of a childhood no one would have chosen. The author’s courage as a sexual abuse survivor has an inspiration of its own. Her yearning for her mother’s love is heartbreakingly raw. In a fiercely candid voice, Rica has crafted a tale that resonates with the universal truth that our past doesn’t define us; it refines us.”
—Allison Hong Merrill, author of Ninety-Nine Fire Hoops
“Nobody’s Daughter is masterfully written. With insight, love, forgiveness, and an evolved understanding, Rica Ramos dives deep into the complexities of mother-daughter relationships as they are woven through real-life ups and downs and the traumas that so many of us must overcome. A compelling read I could not put down. This book will benefit every woman.”
—Linda Lee Blakemore, speaker, advocate, and author of Entrenched: A Memoir of Holding On and Letting Go and Kids Helping Kids Break the Silence of Sexual Abuse
“Ramos’s imagery is fresh, precise, and strongly drawn. Nobody’s Daughter is suffused with a beauty as brutal as it is breathtaking. Her memoir is a compelling account of her lifelong journey from unspeakable betrayal and violation to healing and wholeness. She pulls apart and examines with precision the many interwoven layers of love, loss, and lies we live with. Rica is a writer of extraordinary talent, with a gift for bringing clarity to complex issues. Her voice demands to be heard.”
—Lee Gaitan, author of My Pineapples Went to Houston and Lite Whines and Laughter
Copyright © 2023, Rica Ramos
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2023
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-491-6
E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-492-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912621
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.
Preface
As a young girl, I was obsessed with poetry, with cracked volumes that smelled of dust and neglect, whose yellowed pages were golden treasures in my hands. One day I found a poem I’ve never forgotten: “She Walks in Beauty” by Lord Byron. Here was a mythical woman, but I knew her the way you know a recurring dream, a déjà vu moment, or a sparkling secret. I wanted her to be possible, to be perfect. Lord Byron savored her beauty and grace, but I hoped for something more.
I imagined she was maternal. She could listen to my stories and throw back her raven tresses and say, “Tell me more.” She could nurture me, love me, and choose me over the man who’d abused me, her man. She could be my safe haven, my mother. But this woman was a kaleidoscope of dreams, shimmering fragments of wisdom, warmth, humor, strength, compassion, patience, and love. I romanticized her being, because I needed a heroine. With her image in my mind, I pinned my expectations on my own mother, a woman who didn’t have the courage to save me. A woman who could never be flawless.
When I held the poem in my little hands, I held it in my heart too. It would take me three decades to set the woman free, the woman who belonged only to the pages and could never be anything more than Lord Byron’s and my fantasy. It’s hard to tell a girl that poetry is poetry and mothers—rather, women—are simply people. This book is the story of that journey. It is the untangling of a myth, the revelation of the truth about women and mothers. It is a narrative about imperfect beauty, because it’s the only kind that ever existed.
She Walks in Beauty
by Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Chapter 1
A Dress
A mannequin wore a bridal gown in the store window. The tall, svelte plastic form flaunted a fairy-tale figure. I thought about this when I spent more time on fitness. My heart thundered a storm in my chest as I ran faster and longer. Sweat stained my sports bra, and I planked until my arms shook and burned. Still, my body was not svelte. I’m short and have actual hips. That dress in the window wouldn’t work for me.
More than a decade post-divorce, Wes was the man who made me want to wear a wedding dress again. But I had been to all the local venues and scoured some thrift shops, too, without finding the right one for me. Musty little stores with rumpled dresses askew on plastic hangers. I liked the idea of wearing something with a history, a dress with experience. Because I am a woman with experience. But wedding dress shopping had flipped a switch in my brain. I saw magazine model brides in designer dresses and boutique mannequins sporting teeny dresses, and it made me feel worn, like an old pair of jeans. I plucked satin and lace from store racks, but every dress made me feel frumpy. Why did I suddenly feel like the self-critical girl of my youth?
I parked my car and worked up the nerve to enter the bridal shop, eyeing the mannequin as if to challenge her. The glass door banged shut behind me, and a bell jingled. A sixtyish woman looked up from the counter and smiled, holding up a finger in a “one minute” sign. She cradled the telephone on her shoulder and scribbled on a legal pad. Her white-yellow hair was upright and oblong shaped, a butterfly net in the wind. She had a substitute school teacher look, and I thought of Mrs. Lamen at the front of my fifth-grade classroom in her polyester pantsuit and stodgy, drugstore eyeglasses. When she finished the call, I learned she was Mary, the store owner.
“Are you the bride?” she asked, followed by, “When is the wedding? What is your budget? How many guests? Have you chosen a venue? What size do you wear? What style do you like—traditional, sexy, elegant?”
“Ahh ... umm....” I began, then took a deep breath. “I like lace. Mesh sleeves, maybe—a vintage look.”
“Beautiful. Yes, that will be perfect for you, honey. Just perfect, honey,” she said, clasping her hands like a prayer. She held out a questionnaire. “Fill this out and I’ll order something special for you to try on.”
I stood there with the clipboard for a while until I had checked every box on the form. When I finally handed her my paperwork, she was giddy. We set an appointment for Saturday afternoon.
“Honey, you’re going to love the dress,” she said as I headed for the door.
When Saturday came, my friend Suhaill met me in the parking lot. We are soul-mate friends, the kind who can finish each other’s sentences, not talk for many months, and then talk again as if no time has passed. She is a quick-talking Cuban woman with copper-dyed hair and soft brown eyes. We met nearly a decade ago in an office where she was a magazine manager, and I had applied for a job.
“You’re a writer?” This was more a statement than a question. Her legs crossed, one peep-toe high heel tapped on the carpet in the conference room. When she asked about my family, I told her I was divorced with two sons named KJ and Sym, and she said she was also a single mom raising a boy. We synced up instantly, the way two shoes fit in a box. One left, the other right. But a pair nonetheless. We were divorced mothers bonded by hardship, motherhood, humor, and fashion. We spent the rest of the interview comparing notes. Your son does karate? Where do you take him?
It was the first interview in which I had left with a friend, a job, and no questions as to whether I’d fit in. Suhaill was my first friend in a new state, since I had moved from Wisconsin to Florida with my sons, a packed car, our obese cat, and a whole lot of nerves.
Now, at the bridal shop, the sun washed over the windows and danced on beaded bodices, sequined straps, and belts that looked like swanky necklaces.
“Oh, look at that. Now that would look great on you,” Suhaill said, pointing to a mermaid dress. “Thi s is A-line, that’s a ball gown, and they call this a sweetheart,” she said, pointing to all the displays. “You’re gonna have to try them all on to see how you feel.”
We approached the door, and she’d already cataloged the inventory. She was a drill sergeant, making lists and sending rapid-fire texts with questions, suggestions, photos, and links. Look at this centerpiece. Check out this sign-in book. What about the bouquet—silk flowers, baby’s breath, tulips, roses, daisies? My wedding was her wedding because I’d enlisted her help. And when she is in, she’s all in. It was overwhelming, yes, but it was what I’d asked for, what I needed to help me sort through the endless details. All the while, I wished I could just Rooms-to-Go the wedding. Or pick from a drive-through menu. Give me the number five please, with a side of eucalyptus.
Inside the salon, I saw Mary in the center of a cackling female crowd. They were high on wedding-day bliss, tickled by champagne bubbles. A young bride sauntered out of the dressing room, shy in a sheath of a gown. It fit her like a silky new skin. The girl glowed as she stood facing the mirror. Backlit by sunshine, her edges were golden as if drawn with a sunbeam. Her entourage squealed compliments. “Amazing ... gorgeous ... stunning. You’re a princess.”
Two older women stood behind the bride-to-be, and I knew instantly which was her mother. I couldn’t see the woman’s face, only her hands, as she fussed with her daughter’s hair and the fabric of her dress. I meandered around the store racks and feigned interest just to get a better look at this mother and daughter. I was mesmerized by them, by their easy touches and easy banter. This was a foreign language to me, the language of mothers and daughters. With my own mom, there was only shallow conversation and the invisible burden of things left unsaid.
Suhaill caught up with me, holding a dress made of delicate tulle and lace overlays. She thrust it at me. “Look,” she said.
“Too frilly,” I responded. She snorted and walked away.
It occurred to me that Suhaill is a mother hen, although she’s almost exactly my age. Most of my friends are far older, approximately the age of my mother. If I picked this apart, I’d see the obvious psychology. I was attempting to fill a void, to meet a primal need. I gravitated toward those older women because they were maternal and wise. They were mothers to their own children, and they understood what it meant to love a daughter. To protect and preserve the sacred bond.
As I watched the ladies at the bridal shop make a vital memory, savoring the sweetness of a milestone day, I thought about where my mother might be right then. I imagined her sipping her third cup of coffee in front of the television. Her husband on the adjacent sofa, the man she had chosen to love and keep despite the wicked things he did to her children. He was the reason I hadn’t asked Mom to come that day. Experience had taught me she’d rather be home with him.
When Mary cheered, I turned away to look for Suhaill. The bride-to-be twirled in another gown, and the squeals began again. After twenty minutes, I was growing impatient. When Mary finally came over, she flashed a smile.
“Yes, honey?” she said, and I thought for a moment she remembered me. But then she asked, “Who is the bride?” And “Do you have an appointment?” And “When is the wedding? What is your budget? How many guests? Have you chosen a venue? What size do you wear? What style do you like—traditional, sexy, elegant?”
I told her I had filled out the forms. “I’ve been here before. Remember, last week?”
She stared at me blankly when I told her she’d ordered a dress for me, and it was apparent she hadn’t. I wondered if she had forgotten, or if the special dress was simply a sales pitch. I’d been looking forward to my appointment all week, imagining the dress that would end my search. Now, I felt duped. Still, I told myself to give Mary a break; perhaps she was just overworked.
“The forms?” I said again, thinking a paper trail might lead her back to me. But she was not interested.
“You’re going to be a beautiful bride,” she said, pouring on a sugary smile. “Look at your shape, honey. You’re petite, aren’t you?” She pawed at my waist, smoothing down my sweater to feel the size of me. She walked over to a dress rack. “Look here, honey,” she said. “What’s your budget?”
We were three honeys in, and I was not feeling too sweet. Suhaill shifted at my side. She nose-breathed, my Darth Vader friend.
“We have a payment plan, if budget is a problem,” Mary said. Her eyes arched as if to ask the question again. Budget? Budget? Budget?
“Well, I don’t really have a budget ... I mean....” I fumbled with my words. Mary’s eyes brightened at the mention of no budget.
I was frustrated now.
“Let’s start with these.” Mary took my arm and urged me toward the Cadillac rack, the high-priced dresses with hand-stitched Swarovski crystals. We’d seen these gowns elsewhere, and I had come here to find something different. This shop had felt like a last resort. Not a thrift store, but not a swanky boutique either. Mary pulled down gaudy dresses and held them under my chin. She had dollar signs in her eyes.
I thought again of the week I’d spent waiting for a special dress that didn’t exist. Suhaill shot me a look, and her mutual annoyance felt like fuel—permission to explode.
“I don’t want these dresses, and I don’t have a budget problem,” I said, swatting away the ten-pound sparkling gown she held up, which looked more like a chandelier than the vintage dress I’d envisioned. “I want my paperwork. I want the dress you promised me.”
Mary looked at me like I had slapped her. Her hands fell slack at her side. Fifteen minutes later, Suhaill and I were soaking our pancakes in syrup at the diner across the street, a truck-stop kind of place with career waitresses, gray-haired and aproned. They knew customers by name, but called everyone darlin’ anyway. Suhaill picked up a curl of bacon. “I guess this is my cheat meal,” she said. “Screw it.”
“So, you’re not vegan or low-carb or paleo or ... whatever today?”
“Who can be vegan when we’re planning a wedding?” she snapped, then laughed her floaty, schoolgirl laugh. “I’m a stress eater, girl. You know bacon is a food group for me.”
I laughed too. Then we went silent as we worked on our pancakes. In between bites, we glanced out the window. It was a typical bright day in Florida—heavy with heat, like the weight of emotions. The restaurant was cool and clamoring with old married couples, and bearded men clutching coffee and waiting for plates of hot breakfast meats, their noses in newspapers—the sports section or the automotive page.
Our waitress set a small dish of half-and-half cups on the table, and I thought of my oldest nephew as a child. How he had bitten through all the tiny, sealed cups of creamer at a Denny’s restaurant and sucked out the liquid. His plump lips dotted white, he’d turned to me, brown eyes swollen with delight. “Is this baby milk, Auntie Wica?”
I thought of this every time I ate out, and of how he always ordered “macon” because he couldn’t say bacon, and this made every waitress adore him. Three years later, my own son came along, and then two years after that, his brother. So many diners. So many messy tables, littered with little sucked-out creamer cups, half-eaten jelly packages, and straw wrappers, twisted and wet. Big tips were a kind of apology, a peace offering I’d leave behind. My life’s work was a series of peace offerings. I was nothing if not a peacemaker, but things were changing. I was changing.
Suhaill stared across the table at me. She tilted her head as if waiting for permission to speak.
“What?” I asked.
“... talk to your mom?”
“No. I just want to focus on this dress. Can we just tackle one problem at a time?”
“Of course,” she said. “I don’t need you turning into bridezilla.”
After our meal, we said our goodbyes in the parking lot. I headed toward my car and pulled my sunglasses from the top of my head to the bridge of my nose. In the car, I kicked my shoes off and massaged the soles of my feet as Suhaill’s words echoed in my mind. I put my car in gear, drove to the edge of the parking lot and negotiated a left turn onto the road. Did you talk to your mom? She’d asked, and I’d deflected. The thought of Mom split me in two: part woman, part girl. My adult self said focus on finding a dress, being a bride, and living out my happily ever after. But my teenage self haunted me from the streets of Milwaukee. I thought of the warm spring day I’d walked several miles to Southridge Mall after cashing the paychecks I’d earned at my first job, a donut shop. I was sixteen and determined to find the perfect Mother’s Day gift for Mom. I thought something extravagant would impress her. When I saw the jewelry store, I headed inside to study the rows of twinkling stones in glass cases. I passed the bridal bands, the solitaires, and cluster rings with bouquets of tiny diamonds.
