Category Archives: relationships

The Ninth Stage.

An essay by Ruth Ann Scanzillo.

She shifted in her seat, squinting a bit as if to bring the second generation photo of a photo into focus. This nine point list was a treasure; she had to put it someplace where it could not be lost to the ether.

That Master Class with Dr. Ramani on Narcissism in Romantic Relationships was a gift. Where else could she have obtained a point by point reminder to assist in identifying the rush of emotion [ euphoric recall ] that was impossible on the late afternoon of a hot summer day alone? How else could she be gently comforted by the suggestion that meaning could be found in suffering [ point nine ] , when suffering was a nagging Catch-22 otherwise? (Never let him see you suffer; it just adds to his Narcissistic Supply – and, emboldens the new conquest likely small and stupid enough not to fit into your pajamas.)

She’d sat out on the stoop again, earlier, in spite of what she now knew to be UVA rays, forking down her spinach sweet potato salad, wondering how many times he’d be missing her desserts and dinner companionship, all the groceries she’d stocked for their shelter in place. [ Anger and rumination, point two.]

There’d be no bartering for the return of goods and services, this time. The reach in freezer he’d crowed about providing, the only object too heavy for her to set out for convenience retrieval was replacement for the one he’d refused to bring up from the cellar and just clean. Laziness was never justification for grandiose gift giving, not on her turf, after all the throw rugs and sheet sets she’d brought him following total kitchen clean up. [ Point three – or, four? ]

Gaslighting [ five ] no longer overwhelmed her. That was its own relief. Persistent denial was its own evidence, no matter how irrelevant; he’d run out of tactics that weren’t predictable.

But, the late afternoon sun was a tough competitor. Right up there with the first moments upon awakening, feet twitching, the struggle to name the upcoming day’s purpose. Five days of reading out there on the stoop had rendered her Vitamin D within acceptable limits, finally and, with it [ point six ] a lift to only residual Depression.

The future wasn’t revealing any of its secrets, this evening. Fear [ point seven ] would remain in her back pocket, burning a hole where she’d otherwise have kept peace and contentment; but, she resolved, he was never to know. No more Narcissistic Supply, last chance to gloat from his position kneeling behind the latest willing agreeable. Important to carry no regret when walking away.

Point eight was the hardest to accept. [ Acceptance ]. The narcissist was never to change. Too many AA meetings, its companion Al Anon, over one lifetime; too many recovery success stories on audio, playing in the car en route to northern destinations, entirely too much goddamned hope. No return to the inns or the B&Bs, no forever claim on Room 1, Rogue’s Harbor. Worse – no replacing the time spent there with productive, self affirming activities. Hope may have made no one ashamed. Perfect love still waited to cast out fear. The Narcissist, defying no odds, was destined to live forever.

*With profound gratitude to Dr. Ramani, licensed clinical psychologist, and her 9 Stages of Grieving the Narcissist©.

© 7/7/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of Dr. Ramani, and this author, whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or part, including translating or transcribing, permitted without written permission of the authors. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

My Mammy’s Touch.

June 28, 2020contemplation, family history, grief, healing, human behavior, memorials, nostalgia, personal testimony, psychology, public education, relationships, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, truth, UncategorizedAmerican racism, Eastern Pennsylvanians and racism, familial racism, generational racism, Italian-Americans and racism, Mammy, Oprah Winfrey, racism and forgiveness, racism and hatred, racism between whites and blacks, racism in families, systemic racism, The Learn family of eastern PA, Toni Morrisonruth ann scanzillo

Mae Elisabeth [Learn] Sweet was my maternal grandmother. Her first grandchild, Alan Marshall, called her “Mammy”, and it stuck; she, and her husband, would be Mammy and Pappy to all 19 grandkids, thereafter. Let me tell you about her.

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Mammy (seen in this photo, at about 95 years) was widely regarded by all who knew her as a human saint. She was the absolute sweetest, most loving, most gentle, most prayerful, hardworking, resourceful, generous, forgiving person anybody knew. Her character made most men whither. She prayed, daily, for everyone she knew, whenever they “came to mind.” I am not alone in believing that she was nearly psychic, able to attune to the slightest and most immediate needs among her brood, and beyond. And, when mum met dad on the train and began to write letters to him, placing those letters in the iron mailbox just outside the front door on the porch wall for the mailman to pick up and deliver, Mammy would discreetly take those letters and cross off the final two syllables of dad’s surname. Mum told me this, having discovered the act. Why did Mammy do that? Mammy did that, not because she wasn’t a loving, caring, forgiving, generous, prayerful, hardworking, resourceful mother and grandmother, but because systemic racism had borne itself out, in her; dad was Italian, and he was a source of shame to her. She had to remove the final two syllables of his last name, to make it appear different than the identifying ” – zillo” which appeared naturally.

Was it Mammy’s fault, that she behaved this way? Did her actions arise out of some corrosive gangrene in her soul? No; it did not. It emerged because she had been taught by her Eastern Pennsylvanian, Danish/English/Germanic societal roots, to regard Italians as second class citizens, as shameful members of American society.

And, it is just such deeply rooted, largely subconscious behavior toward people of color which those of American “white” society have and continue to portray, however subtley however fleetingly however rarely, in their actions throughout the generations.

In 1944, mum married dad. Almost ten years later, after a nearly decade long divorce, they remarried. I was their second child, and favored my father; my hair was black, my skin was dark. And, Mammy was fond of stroking my face, doing so every time I would sit beside her. She would regularly exclaim at the beauty of my skin, its softness, and smile with deep fondness into my eyes.

It’s my belief that my birth changed my Mammy, ever more; she realized, and thereafter made conscious effort, to appreciate that which she had been taught to shame. And, in just such the same manner, only when we reach out and touch that which we are taught to revile will we ever hope to heal from hate.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Minneapolis.

May 29, 2020civic commentary, commentary, contemplation, Deep Thoughts, family history, Fundamentalism, grief, healing, human behavior, nostalgia, personal testimony, political commentary, psychology, relationships, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, UncategorizedAll Lives Matter, civic commentary, commentary, George Floyd, political commentary, similarity bias, subconscious biasruth ann scanzillo

I remember so much about Minneapolis.

The first visit, winter. The year, 1978. My elder brother’s college buddy had come to town, charmed our mother, and swept me off my feet. Tall, ruddy, he was the one who’d applied himself – getting the grades, being accepted into med school and, now, establishing his own clinic in greater Minneapolis/St Paul. He’d even just purchased his own white cottage, complete with hardwood floors. I, being almost 21, couldn’t have been more willing to submit to the fantasy of a lifetime.

Well, almost. But, I did fly out for a visit. With him, I did eat banana pancakes, drink Cold Duck, and inhale a reefer, all for the first time ever; alas, a list of firsts which omitted that which he’d most anticipated.

But, I did see the city.

Winters in the midwest were fabled for their dry cold, the kind you didn’t feel, unlike those frigid to the bone affected by the Great Lakes. The first thing you noticed was the absence of significant snow. Oh, there was a certain whiteness, but it was hard, frozen, packed down like pavement. The only thing betraying the season was the cloud of breath coming from your mouth, as you made your way downtown; once you stepped inside the massive mall pavilions, the strip, chain restaurant nooks, or the concert venues, all was warmly lit and wonderful.

I remember thinking, months later, drawing comparisons to New York’s Manhattan and the likes of Cleveland, Ohio that what distinguished Minneapolis was its pace. People moved more gracefully through this city, nothing propelling them either from behind or within. Enjoying all the amenities and style of its contemporaries to the east or west, nobody there seemed driven; everyone was settled, content.

Returning, on or about 2015, this time in the fall to visit a dear old friend – herself, a native Minnesotan – we again spent time both in her suburb and the city itself. An antique store, where I acquired four carnival blown milk glasses; a bakery, serving large loaves of German breads. Again, I marveled at the elegant design of the wood framed downtown center, the grand foliage, the parks and, yes; the pace of the people. Nothing appeared to disturb their peace.

Today, I endured another realization.

Recalling both of these visits, separated by decades, I was now able to recognize one, unavoidable feature through the incisive view of hindsight; nowhere had I ever remembered SEEING a black person.

In fact, I wouldn’t have been able to tell if Minneapolis had any minorities, at all, among its residents. If they were there, they must have been miles from wherever I had been.

Now, I wonder. How many of those miles separated me from what, back home, could only be termed an integrated community? How far apart, instead, were its residents from one another – black to white, Latino to Caucasian……………German to Swede……..

How carefully crafted, by city planners, the American heartland. How many decades of suppression veiled deep bias, among its peoples.

Minneapolis. The heart of the midwest. Today, aflame.

False peace; deeply disturbed. Vastly entrenched racisms; exposed raw.

Fond memories, nevermore the same.

littlebarefeetblog.com