The Early Life of a Southern Belle
Before I Allowed Myself to Tarnish
I was born in the spring of 1968 to a 16-year old girl who made the courageous decision to put her unborn child up for adoption. She had been sent away to a “home for unwed mothers” in Fort Worth to save herself and her family from being an “embarrassment” in her small Texas town.
Within three days of my birth, I was living with the folks that I would forever call “mother & daddy”.
In the big picture view of life, I was blessed. I was well provided for: I always had clothes and food and books. I had an older (also adopted) sister. I was reminded regularly that I was chosen to be a part of this family.
I was the apple of my daddy’s eye.
I was not, however, the apple of my mother’s eye. The relationship with her was often tumultuous. I believe that she loved me and truly had desired another child. But she wanted me to be different from who I was at my core.
She wanted a pretty little girl that would quietly stand still and look pretty.
Instead, I was this tiny ball of fire and energy. I was talkative and bigger than life. I was brave and bold and wanted to explore every inch of the world at my fingertips.
I was scraped knees, dirty fingernails, and a frog-catching tomboy. She wanted the perfectly groomed, somewhat timid and studious girl.
Intellectually, I get it. She was a Southerner, a child of the Depression and came of age in the post-WWII culture of the 50's.
She was also a little high-strung and delicate.
By the time I joined the family, she was in her mid-thirties and wired for the old fashioned art of child-rearing.
Children were to do what they were told. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Manners were to be impeccable. The appearance of perfection was critical. No one was depressed, bi-polar or mentally ill, they were delicate (or high-strung). We never spoke of problems, they were to be swept under the rug.
My sister was a perfect child. She was shy and beautiful. She played the piano. She was happy to pour herself into the “Good Southern Girl” mold. At seven-years my senior, I looked to her as a role model of what it took to be accepted by our mother.
Sometimes, I would get these glimpses of my sister’s rebellion underneath, but she was careful to never let it out in our mother’s presence.
I learned that in order to be loved by my Mother, I would need to bury who I was and become who I was supposed to be.
I learned to play quietly. I discarded my imaginary friend because it was “strange”. Barbies and my books were my companions. I wore shiny black patent Mary Janes with knee-high socks to Sunday School. I got a pretty little dress and white shoes for Easter.
I made good grades. I didn’t play the piano, but I learned ballet and was a natural singer.
When I developed breasts, I kept them well under cover. I wore pantyhose, slips and girdles under my dresses. I never left the house without make-up.
I was a good girl that married young and lived a white picket fence life.
I was the perfect Southern Belle.
I spent the first 36 years of my life pursing perfection.On the surface, I was a Perfect Southern Belle. And then, I began to allow myself to tarnish.
To understand who I am, it’s critical to gain an understanding of who I was and how I came to be.
There are degrees to the downfall of all that perfection - tales for another day. The journey to be here, where I am today, has been a bit of a wild ride.
I know that I am blessed.
I am doing the work I need to release the Bold and Brilliant Child within. To release the layers of protection and numbing.
To be who I was born to be and to create what I was meant to create in this life.
Despite the tumult of my youth, I know that I landed where I was meant to be. I was raised by the daddy who loved me as I was and the woman who didn’t love herself enough to accept people for their imperfections.
On the cusp of my 45th birthday, it’s simply a time of reflection and the knowledge of understanding.
