34 ICSA TODAY
had criticized me, saying that an amusement park wasn’t a truly
French experience. So I figured that I could make the experience a
little more French by going to Parc Asterix rather than Euro-Disney.
I also looked forward to introducing my kids to Asterix, one of my
favorite Gallic heroes from the quintessentially French comic Asterix
and Obelix. English translations of these comics are often found in
Indian airports and hotels, and they were
part of the reading repertoire of the cult
kids. I had grown to love the comic antics of
Asterix and his goofball sidekick Obelix as
they battled the Romans and resisted defeat
during the heyday of the Roman Empire.
The commute to the park presented
challenges of its own. We took public
transportation and were accompanied by the
bride’s nephew, a young adult probably 19 or
20 years old. My mother was with us, too. On
the trip to the park, she eagerly chatted up the bride’s nephew. She
expounded on how thrilled she was to be here in France, and how
she really enjoyed the opportunity to see this part of Europe. “I’ve
never been to this part of France before,” she lied. The lies roll off
her tongue so effortlessly I think she must believe them herself. But
to me, they sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
These lies have caused a tremendous amount of pain in my life, and
it is cruel and unusual punishment for me to have to sit and listen
to them again. My other option is no more appealing. I could call
my mother out on her lies and remind her of all the times she has
been here before. In other words, I could pick a fight with her on
a crowded subway in front of family and strangers. I could insist
that the truth be told even though I know that it would humiliate
her and make her mad. It is a hard choice, and I’m faced with it just
about every time my mother is around. I usually choose to keep
quiet, but it is getting harder for me
to do so.
As expected, my kids had a blast at
Parc Asterix. We went during the
middle of the week, and as a result
the lines weren’t long for the rides.
The weather was perfect it was warm
but not too warm. It kept threatening
to rain but never did. I found the
overcast sky much nicer than the
blazing, unrelenting sun that would
have been the alternative.
We went on as many rides as we could
squeeze in. My kids were too small
for a lot of the rides. Of course, my
little Antoine knows no fear, and the
biggest, scariest roller coasters were
the ones that he wanted to go on the
most. I told him, “No, Antoine, you are
much too big for that ride. That one is
for babies. This one over here is for big boys like you.” Then I would
steer him toward the teacups or the miniature airplane rides.
My kids knew that I had been to the park before when I was a
kid, and they had lots of questions for me. “Which rides did you
go on, Mommy? Did you go on the teacups? Which ride was your
favorite?” asked Olivier.
How could I explain to them that my experience of the park as a
child was nothing like theirs? When I came to the park I was part
of a large entourage of about 30 kids and adults. We were with the
grandson, and our job was to serve and entertain him. There was
no thought given to our happiness we were
not individuals in our own right. We were toys,
his toys, and we had no other purpose than to
keep him happy. We went on rides only when
and if he deemed it appropriate.
The grandson had chosen some of the
kids to go on rides, but for the most part I
was overlooked. Finally, he picked me for a
midsized roller coaster. I was happy, but only
guardedly so. I knew how easily my happiness
could be snatched away. As predicted, after
I had stood in line for at least 45 minutes, and right before I was
about to get on the ride, the grandson decided that I couldn’t go
on the ride after all. No explanation was given he didn’t need to
justify his choices. Luckily I had not invested too much hope in
the possibility of going on the ride. I knew better than to allow
my hopes to be so bitterly dashed. I had become comfortably, yet
uncomfortably, numb.
Now, I tried to explain to my kids, “Well, I really didn’t go on too
many rides. I was with a large group of people and they wouldn’t
let me.”
The kids looked confused. “Was it a school field trip?” asked Olivier.
“Did you have a mean teacher?” Colette persisted.
“Well not exactly sweetie,” I fumbled. “Look,” I said, trying to change
the subject,” I think I remember that ride!” I had spotted the ride
that I had stood in line for, but didn’t
go on. Moved by nostalgia, I said to
the kids, “Hey, let’s check that one out!”
We bounded up hopefully, but I soon
realized that it would be too scary for
my little kids. “On second thought, I
remember this one, it wasn’t fun at all,” I
said, “Let’s go find a better one.”
I hate lies. My mother’s lies are so hurtful
I have vowed to raise my kids differently.
I want my kids to know the truth, but
how on earth do I tell them? How could I
possibly explain to them that their dearly
beloved mommy was raised in a cult in
which my needs were routinely ignored?
My childhood was so different from
theirs. It is hard for me to feel anything
other than a dissociated numbness when
it comes to my childhood. If anything
could move me out of this catatonic
state, it would be the sadness of my
children when they learned what I went through. I can’t mourn
my losses, but the thought that they might almost moves me to
tears. I’m not sure if I can stand that kind of vulnerability. They will
have to learn the truth someday, but honestly they aren’t ready for
I can’t mourn my losses,
but the thought that
they might almost
moves me to tears.
had criticized me, saying that an amusement park wasn’t a truly
French experience. So I figured that I could make the experience a
little more French by going to Parc Asterix rather than Euro-Disney.
I also looked forward to introducing my kids to Asterix, one of my
favorite Gallic heroes from the quintessentially French comic Asterix
and Obelix. English translations of these comics are often found in
Indian airports and hotels, and they were
part of the reading repertoire of the cult
kids. I had grown to love the comic antics of
Asterix and his goofball sidekick Obelix as
they battled the Romans and resisted defeat
during the heyday of the Roman Empire.
The commute to the park presented
challenges of its own. We took public
transportation and were accompanied by the
bride’s nephew, a young adult probably 19 or
20 years old. My mother was with us, too. On
the trip to the park, she eagerly chatted up the bride’s nephew. She
expounded on how thrilled she was to be here in France, and how
she really enjoyed the opportunity to see this part of Europe. “I’ve
never been to this part of France before,” she lied. The lies roll off
her tongue so effortlessly I think she must believe them herself. But
to me, they sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
These lies have caused a tremendous amount of pain in my life, and
it is cruel and unusual punishment for me to have to sit and listen
to them again. My other option is no more appealing. I could call
my mother out on her lies and remind her of all the times she has
been here before. In other words, I could pick a fight with her on
a crowded subway in front of family and strangers. I could insist
that the truth be told even though I know that it would humiliate
her and make her mad. It is a hard choice, and I’m faced with it just
about every time my mother is around. I usually choose to keep
quiet, but it is getting harder for me
to do so.
As expected, my kids had a blast at
Parc Asterix. We went during the
middle of the week, and as a result
the lines weren’t long for the rides.
The weather was perfect it was warm
but not too warm. It kept threatening
to rain but never did. I found the
overcast sky much nicer than the
blazing, unrelenting sun that would
have been the alternative.
We went on as many rides as we could
squeeze in. My kids were too small
for a lot of the rides. Of course, my
little Antoine knows no fear, and the
biggest, scariest roller coasters were
the ones that he wanted to go on the
most. I told him, “No, Antoine, you are
much too big for that ride. That one is
for babies. This one over here is for big boys like you.” Then I would
steer him toward the teacups or the miniature airplane rides.
My kids knew that I had been to the park before when I was a
kid, and they had lots of questions for me. “Which rides did you
go on, Mommy? Did you go on the teacups? Which ride was your
favorite?” asked Olivier.
How could I explain to them that my experience of the park as a
child was nothing like theirs? When I came to the park I was part
of a large entourage of about 30 kids and adults. We were with the
grandson, and our job was to serve and entertain him. There was
no thought given to our happiness we were
not individuals in our own right. We were toys,
his toys, and we had no other purpose than to
keep him happy. We went on rides only when
and if he deemed it appropriate.
The grandson had chosen some of the
kids to go on rides, but for the most part I
was overlooked. Finally, he picked me for a
midsized roller coaster. I was happy, but only
guardedly so. I knew how easily my happiness
could be snatched away. As predicted, after
I had stood in line for at least 45 minutes, and right before I was
about to get on the ride, the grandson decided that I couldn’t go
on the ride after all. No explanation was given he didn’t need to
justify his choices. Luckily I had not invested too much hope in
the possibility of going on the ride. I knew better than to allow
my hopes to be so bitterly dashed. I had become comfortably, yet
uncomfortably, numb.
Now, I tried to explain to my kids, “Well, I really didn’t go on too
many rides. I was with a large group of people and they wouldn’t
let me.”
The kids looked confused. “Was it a school field trip?” asked Olivier.
“Did you have a mean teacher?” Colette persisted.
“Well not exactly sweetie,” I fumbled. “Look,” I said, trying to change
the subject,” I think I remember that ride!” I had spotted the ride
that I had stood in line for, but didn’t
go on. Moved by nostalgia, I said to
the kids, “Hey, let’s check that one out!”
We bounded up hopefully, but I soon
realized that it would be too scary for
my little kids. “On second thought, I
remember this one, it wasn’t fun at all,” I
said, “Let’s go find a better one.”
I hate lies. My mother’s lies are so hurtful
I have vowed to raise my kids differently.
I want my kids to know the truth, but
how on earth do I tell them? How could I
possibly explain to them that their dearly
beloved mommy was raised in a cult in
which my needs were routinely ignored?
My childhood was so different from
theirs. It is hard for me to feel anything
other than a dissociated numbness when
it comes to my childhood. If anything
could move me out of this catatonic
state, it would be the sadness of my
children when they learned what I went through. I can’t mourn
my losses, but the thought that they might almost moves me to
tears. I’m not sure if I can stand that kind of vulnerability. They will
have to learn the truth someday, but honestly they aren’t ready for
I can’t mourn my losses,
but the thought that
they might almost
moves me to tears.
