Of Early Morning Hibiscus Dew

Written by Renee Ramdeo

When I think back to all the films I've watched throughout my childhood, I think The Wizard of Oz is the one in which I harbour the most complicated feelings for. As a young child, it really was fantastic stepping into such a realm where all your problems could be tended to by just five simple words. But, then again, I suppose I’d be wrong to say they were just “simple” words. The popularization of the phrase, “There’s no place like home.” spoke to me on such a deeply emotional scale that I could spend hours so just to wax poetic on why. Unfortunately, it would be a disservice to my younger self who would plainly put it that, home is all I’ve ever known. Even so, at such a young age, there’s not much you really can know. If you’ve never known anything better, then mediocre becomes God’s greatest gift to her softest lamb.

My childhood wasn't exactly terrible, but it wasn't quite great either. I have no intentions on writing a sob story on dysfunctional families and their impact on a young girl’s psyche, but there’s only so much I can sweep underneath the rug. Growing up, I’ve learned that I am what others have come to describe me as — tough. Of course, that didn't always make me feel better at the time, because what I really wanted was to be the opposite. I didn't want to have to be tough. I just wanted to be as alive as I could ever possibly dream of being, and as free as any bird ever had been. So, when time came to unravel that home wasn't what movies and shows made it out to be, I was heavily let down. I remember staying up at night thinking about how all I ever wanted was to get away from home, how a new family would see the sadness behind my tear sunken eyes and pity me before adopting me into their warm embrace. I’d fantasize of a new family and a new bedroom and new dinners every night. It was going to be perfect. Home was meant to be perfect. Home was perfection. But of course, perfection is something that doesn't come so easily.

I’ve spent my years moving from place to place and house to house, excited each time. I remember the great anticipation I felt from being in a new environment, like a bird discarding its old feathers and replacing them with new ones. After all, new places meant new chances for opportunity. Opportunity for what? Opportunity for this house to finally become my home after all those years of wishing and dreaming. It meant that I could forget about my old life and get a chance at something better. I suppose all children start off as optimists, naturally of course. Even now, I wish it were true that I did end up finding a forever home for myself. Unfortunate to say however, that I did not. Moreso, not only would I not find my home, or any home of sorts for years to come, my idea of what a home was even meant to be had begun to distort. Coincidentally, I’d discovered that instead of finding a place where I felt accepted and loved, all I’d be was a stranger to take pity on in someone else’s home. Maybe this was exactly what I had spent countless nights hoping for? It’s a bit funny to think of it in that light at the age I am. One of the best examples in my life where not being careful for what I wished for, ended up being my folly. It is scary to think that something like that can follow and alter even a child’s most honest and pure dreams.

Whenever I ended up on the doorsteps of different family members, I was always greeted with a smile. Of course, this wouldn't last forever. Writing this now, I can still feel the disappointment I have for my relatives that couldn't understand my personal perspectives. I had moved in with my father's sister not long after being kicked out from my home. At the time, I was going through a months long depressive episode that lasted from before I even moved in with them. They were a fine nuclear family and a bit younger than my dad himself. They only had one child, a daughter, who was on her way to turning five. This meant that it was their first time dealing with a temperamental teenage girl. They tried their best to welcome me and make me feel at home — the best that they could anyway, but it just wasn't working. Plagued with melancholy, I was unable to even rise out of bed in the morning. It didn't help that I was being pushed to get a job either. They wanted to make sure I was doing something productive throughout the day instead of brooding around the house. Of course, I made not much of an effort on my job hunting. I believe at that point, all I really wanted was for everyone to stop expecting things from me. So, there I was, making poor excuses as to why I couldn't get a job despite sending in dozens of resumes online. It worked for a couple of months, which seemed to all blur together in the end. I suppose I really did put them in a rough spot at the time. I barely did my chores, made no effort to be productive, wouldn't get a job, and I was always in trouble for something that I've already been in trouble for. I don't like to think about much of the going ons in that house as it starts to shake my nerves, but the thing I remember most was the constant verbal abuse. It wasn't something I was unaccustomed to, however it had been some fair time since I'd have experienced it.

Because of my lackadaisical behaviour, my aunt's patience dwindled more and more each day with me until she began to shout profanities at me and accuse me of untrue things. I suppose this was her way of taking out her frustration, but I was disheartened when I seemed to always be the target of abuse. I had recently turned eighteen, meaning that she had higher expectations from a young adult such as myself, yet not so high as to disrupt the natural family hierarchy. Being eighteen was a difficult enough challenge, but living with them made it the least enjoyable it could've been. Even now, a part of me is saddened by the fact that we'll never go back to the way things were between us. I used to live with my aunt as a child, and I was stuck to her like molasses. I remember how great of friends we were — when she wasn't just a family member, but someone I chose to actively be around. After our most recent falling out, I'll never forget the utter despair and helplessness I felt knowing that I was the one to burn the bridge we once built together. Things had quickly escalated over the course of that six month period, all while her husband did nothing to help me — not that he would. Eventually I had had enough of staying quiet during one of her most volatile tangents. After she threw her shoe at me, I responded with just as much violence. I tried to scream the words “Fuck off!” to her, but it really just ended up being a loud noise that resembled the word fuck. She promptly stood up and pushed the dining table towards me, which I returned to her with equal force. In the end, her husband had to intervene, and my very much disappointed father had to be called in.

Not much else can be said about that situation. They dropped me off at my mother's place for a two-week long visit, and when it was time to come back, they never returned. I was kicked out of my father's home for similar issues, although that situation is far more complicated. But, it really did have me thinking that maybe the issue wasn't with the home I was in, but rather me. Like if I was something of a rotten apple, only apparent at the core. On the outside, I looked promising and sweet, yet the first bite makes you regret ever picking me in the first place. I suppose I too would be angry if I'd gotten a bite of blackened fruit. Much less to say, I didn't have that great of a time with my mother in that house of hers. She lived in a studio apartment which meant there was no point in trying to avoid her. My only saviour then, was her demanding job that caused her to work double shifts and spend twenty-four hours at the company she worked for. This evidently meant that on some days, I could enjoy the room to myself. However, after an unwanted pregnancy occurred, her shifts began to trickle down from twenty-four hours, to twelve hours, and from twelve hours, to eight. At this point, I had luckily found a job, but because I would be at work from eight in the morning to six in the evening, it meant that there was no escaping her. It was now that my position as guest was thrown away and replaced with the position of prisoner. The verbal assaults were relentless and unbearable. She threatened to end my life twice during my stay at her place. It had gotten to the point where I considered becoming homeless in hopes it might keep me alive for longer. When I think back to my stay in my mother's house, home is the furthest thing I'd ever consider calling it. I spent multiple nights reaching out to old coworkers and other family members for help, hoping that I could stay with one of them instead. I wasn't making nearly enough money to pay for an apartment on my own, so that was out of the question. But things went downhill after I was let off from my job. The entire reason I began working was to help pay for my mother's rent as her job was no longer providing what it once used to. Her ex-boyfriend had reached out to her and offered that we stay with him in his apartment, a place I dread. I never want to have to step foot in that awful place again. I know what happens behind those walls and I know it would just start all over if we moved in with him. My resolve was strong and certain, no one could convince me to live with both of them — even though many did try.

Throughout my experiences, it really did leave me with the question, “What is home?” As a child it seemed obvious. Home was where a family lived together. Of course now, my viewpoint has drastically changed in such heartbreaking yet magnificent ways that I'm almost proud of myself for making it this far without ever actually having a “real” home in the most recent years. I've meditated on a few things during my time there, but never really on the topic of home. Home can be anything really, as it varies from person to person. Home can be a memory of a place you once knew, it can be the people you surround yourself with, or even the town you live in. If you were to ask me, I'd say home is within myself. The soul that dwells within this flesh couldn't be more appreciative of the fact that despite everything, I'm still standing on this earth alive and expecting. I trust in myself, in my mortal body, that my feet will carry me where I need to eventually be.

I haven't fixed everything that's been done to me, but I've fixed enough to be glad to wake up and smell the early morning hibiscus dew. In a world where people are always angry and sullen because of their surroundings, I'm glad I was able to separate myself from them. I feel terribly guilty that I couldn't give my four year old self the home she wanted, but I'll forever be at peace knowing I gave her the home she deserved. It's so indescribably freeing to feel happiness after all those years of turmoil. Even Rama was exiled from his home and a similar sentiment can be said for Jesus. The lack of a home, or compassion you get in this cruel world is not reflective of your character. Approach all things in life with the kindness and love you wish you could receive, and stop dreaming of a perfect home as no such thing exists. Become the kind of person that fosters warmth and joy wherever they go and see now that you have transformed into everything you were looking for, into the home you once were looking for. Home is all around us. In the branches of trees and in the soil beneath our feet. Appreciate the love you're capable of giving yourself and share it unto others. There are a lot of us out there that feel incapable of change and helpless in our own situation. How do you combat such feelings of inescapable despair? Sometimes the answer is don't. Don't fight these feelings of yours, embrace them like you would embrace a friend or loved one if they came to you in that position. You'd be willing to hear others out, so maybe it's time you learn to hear yourself out. Feel deeply and love just as much as you cry. Hold yourself and realize that it doesn't take a traditional family in a pristine house to make your problems disappear. Your home should be special to you, and always filled with love. Fill yourself with that love.

Even now, I'm still not where I want to be in life, but I'm no longer wishing I was somewhere else. I'd recently turned nineteen and now I'm staying with people that don't actively harm me. I believe I still have quite a long way to go before I can ever create a home of my own, but I know I've come far, and I'll walk twice that distance again if it means finally being in the place I need to be. Until I get to that place, I'll try my hardest to be a home for those that need one.