“IN LOVE THERE IS NO DISTANCE ONLY UNITY”
Written by Michelle Carmela Saldana September 3, 2011
When I first found myself separated from my husband of almost ten years, it was a grave devastation. The depression that resulted so permeated and engrossed me that each time I closed my eyes even for a moment I wondered if I would wake up alive.
I had been through so much devastation and trauma in my early days of life. Marriage suited me. Being a wife and mother was all I dreamed about as a little girl. It was all I worried about. I remember asking my mother at age sixteen while we were setting the dining room table for assurance that I could indeed one day be married even though almost all my childhood had been about beatings and rapes. In my heart I was a virgin and in my mind I vowed that I would do my damnedest to protect my children from the pain that had been inflicted upon me.
But there I was just a week before Christmas in 2000, homeless, expelled from my home and informed that my husband was dovorcing me to pursuit other women. Just a few hours before, I was packing up the household to move to Mexico. We had so many adventures planned and our sons were to enroll in the top schools of the nation of Mexico conveniently located close to my now ex-husband's family. What was I doing at a shelter –homeless, about to be divorced, away from my sons and just days before Christmas?
If my adult mind could not make sense of the nightmare what would this new reality do to our young sons just eight and five years of age at the time? Thinking of this made me physically sick.
In hours I went from being a stay at home housewife and mother of two wonderful sons who to me shined like Super Nova or Quasars to a homeless invisible person lost among thousands in a place I had never been.
When I was 26 years old my now ex-husband informed me that he just could not see me as the woman he loved. He kept on talking and talking and each word was a knife cutting and slicing into me. To make matters worse the day was rainy, thundering, the boys were down for a nap, it was a beautiful setting for romance instead in quiet whispers I did not hear sweet nothings whispered into my ear. I heard I was nothing to him being drilled into my heart. But I listened. And decided to stay married because I believed in the vows we said to each other on our wedding day. And I did not want to bring such pain to my sons. So we agreed for our sons sakes that we would remain married in name. My nightmare had come true. My husband did not want me because in his eyes I was tainted. In reality, he was cheating left and right and wanted to use the fact that I was abused as a child and had physical health problems as an excuse. Then at age 29, he informs me that the medical bills which resulted from treating the remaining health conditions that I still had from the abuse I endured as a child were no longer his responsibility because soon we would no longer be married.
Pay phones and the phone at the shelter’s office were the only instruments available at the time to stay connected to my sons to hear their voices, to hear their hearts.
My sons even while so young were and still are my inspiration. Every day, we had adventures. In the summer and afterschool on Fridays, we went treasure hunting or dinosaur hunting around Los Angeles. Using the city bus the boys were in charge of seeing we had food, supplies and we all managed safely through the concrete jungle to our final destination of either the Los Angeles Science Museum or the La Brea Tar Pitts. In the matters of treasure hunting we could wind up at any of the libraries or city parks. The boys never failed to somehow involve the bus driver or passengers into our adventures. On rainy days we laid out a blanket in the living room and had dinner in the living room picnic style. The boys pretended an empty water bottle to be the roaring campfire which we gathered around while they took turns making up stories –sometimes acting out the scenes.
Most engrossing and intriguing were our quiet times. When asked “What are you thinking?” the depths of the topics discussed were astonishing. The insights that were expressed by each young man were amazing. And when shared with adults in position to help, these two small boys managed to turn a gang infested school into a community center in less than nine months and they were not even ten years old. Now barely a year later, their parents were being divorced, their mother gone away and they didn’t know why. All they knew was mommy left and now daddy would take care of them. Well, with the help of the new women in daddy’s life.
It shredded me to the core to know these magnificent young men would be open to pain at such a young age because I had failed to protect them. The knowing other people (strangers) would be coming in and out of my sons’ lives influencing their values, and possibly changing their character, and posing the risk of danger wrecked me as much as it angered me. I more than resented the idea of my sons being in such circumstances that at best were uncomfortable awkward inconveniences and at worst made them fearful and possibly rightly so. And with my health issues now escalated by depression and stress, I feared that if something happened to my sons I could do nothing to help them or I would die without their knowing me as a person and the fact that they were the apples of my eyes.
In the early days I made every phone call count. When I could call I listened to everything they said. Because my cell phone would cut out, we learned tobegin and end our calls saying: "It is good to hear your voice." A habit my youngest son started. He still says often, "In your voice I can hear your heart. It is good to give you my heart and you to give me yours. Good trade by the way." I am a thankful mom. At times they were in binds and danger that little ones should not be in. Like a babysitter’s boyfriend making them uncomfortable. Not able to get through to their father that the boyfriend of the baby sitter was ogling our sons and making our sons feel dirty even though the boys said he did not touch them because of the protective tricks I had taught them. (I am an educator about abuse and slavery in the United States and I firmly believe every child should know how to defend themselves.) I called the authorities and immigration. The man was deported; Immigration had found him to be a known pedophile and he was wanted in Mexico on related charges. I forget what happened to the baby sitter but I do know my sons went back to their original sitter who they had called “Abuelita” which is “Grandmother” in Spanish and knew they were satisfied and safe.
When my oldest son was ten he informed me by phone that he was going to military school because he wanted to be a soldier and defend the country and his dad had enrolled him. This was minutes before my shift at work was to start. I was confounded and did not agree with this avenue for my son’s education. While at work I prayed holding back tears. What could be done? I was hapless. A client came to me and asked what was wrong. I told him. Right then and there he started making a few phone calls. I took him to be disinterested in my dilemma and was embarrassed for being unprofessional in telling him my problem. When he was done, I proceeded to apologize. He put his hand up as to stop me quiet. Then my client informed me he knew the major in charge of the military academy where my son was enrolled. He went on to say he called the major directly and asked him to pass over my son and not accept him. That was on a Friday. The next Monday, my son called to tell me his dad received a call that our son’s enrollment was withdrawn and his file was “red flagged.” The major had expedited the request. My ex-husband also received notice in the mail. The relief in my son’s voice was heart breaking and breathtaking for it revealed the pressure of sense of duty this young child was carrying to be all things good for all people and the gladness he had to have the pressure removed could be felt. “Please stay you. Enjoy being ten. And be your little brother’s big brother. Please. That is all the world needs. That is what your dad, your brother and I need.” I begged. “I can do that mom.” He said gleefully.
There have been times when I have been able to be physically part of my sons’ lives. However, the times away have outweighed those times. There have been many phone calls of homework done long distance, stories read and prayers said before bed via the phone. However, I would have given anything to be there in person as when they were younger. For whatever reason my ex-husband did not want me to talk with our sons; often, he would grab the phone away and hang it up. So my youngest son came up with a code and we would talk code.
First there were phone calls and then the addition of My Space emails and chats. As a gift one Mother’s Day my sons called to give me all their internet information: email addresses, passwords, social chat sight information and passwords to those. And my oldest son introduced me to his girlfriend over the phone. My youngest son that day asked me, “Mom, now that you have all this info will you ‘cyber-stalk’ me.” “I sure will.” I said firmly. “Good, Mom. Because there are some scary and dangerous people out there.” The next day when I went on his page he had already put up a notice that sometimes I would be on his site because I had his permission to delete people. So the people on his My Space should be careful of what they say. My oldest son was a different story. More than once I told him to remove vulgarity from his account or I would report him to Tom the founder of My Space. I reported him once. After that he listened for a while at least. Seeing his determination to keep the shock value on his account, I decided these would be teaching moments for him. So I selected my battles carefully prepared my comments and would send him private messages. To my joyful amazement, he toned his postings way down and became more expressive with his words. Still there were awkward moments, like when they just removed me from intubation ICU to a regular ward floor and my oldest son called not to see how I was doing but because he had some questions about sex. So with a squeeky raw scratched throat and an eighty-six year old lady as a roommate there I was not even twenty minutes off of life support answering my son's questions about sex. I wondered if he even knew why I was in the hospital but did not mention it as not to alarm him. I was available for him no matter what, that is all he needed to know.
Because My Space allows people to post so much information about them, my sons really got to know me more. My youngest son often would use the “Bio” section of My Space to ask questions of me when he and I were on the phone.
Now my sons are both on Facebook. The oldest son requested me! And the youngest accepted my request! I am learning more and more about my sons through Facebook. I learned that I had no need to worry about them staying true to their core characters. Their characters have been scraped and bruised some over the years by bitter experiences as a result of the divorce and my not physically being there due to my health issues, but their bodies have grown up handsomely to surround their golden souls. I go on their walls and see they have many friends who admire, love and respect them.
More than once my sons have informed me they wish to one day carry on my humanitarian work against abuses and slavery in some fashion. And each has expressed to me candidly many times what the abuse I endured as a child has done to them. They made it clear that the abusers did not just abuse me but abused my descendants as well. My sons constantly give me food for thought. I am an advisor to many organizations; however, my sons are my advisors. One day, I informed them, I was too tired to go on sharing my story. Right away they pounced not even letting me finish. “Mom, your story is our story. You know too much to stay quiet. And you have an obligation to US YOUR CHILDREN to tell OUR story.” To drive the point home my youngest son asked quietly but firmly, “Mom, if you don’t talk to the people who will help my future wife heal after someone hurts her before she comes to marry me? How will my friends learn where to go when they need help? No, Mom. You have to keep talking.”
I am so thankful for the privilege to be the matrix that allowed these wondrous souls to enter the world at this day and age. I am so blessed to have them in my life. These young men have been my gift and the world’s gift given by their creator. I love and admire them so much. I am thankful for every opportunity to tell them this truth. The last time I thanked my oldest son for this privilege he said, “No, mom! God used you and dad to give us life. How can my brother and I not be thankful? You could have aborted us - this day and age people are doing that. How could we not be thankful? Mom, the phone and internet are not the same as you hugging us and being at our games and other school events, but it is all we have. A lot of people don't even have that. You are wrong, Mom. The decision for you to be our mom was you not aborting us. And every time you call or e mail or write you are deciding to be our Mom. You are letting us know we are your sons. You are letting us know we are connected. We know you are doing your best to get well. We know your plans include us. My brother and I talk about this with our friends. We know more about you and dad than most of our friends know their parents because they are always on the go with job, school, activities, or fighting over silly stuff. Mom, our relationship is not perfect, but we know we are here because you want us. And you make what effort you can for us. You want to know us. Mom, you are our mom. You let us be your sons. How can we not respond to that?!”
The affirmation from my sons is priceless to me. When people tell me I am a good mother, I cringe inside. I do not know if it is true really until my sons say it to be true. Over the years while conducting seminars on abuse(s), slavery, and homelessness I always close with a lesson about relationships discussing the most fundamental: relationship with self; parent –child; and between spouses, life partners or lovers. These relationships more than any others determine our future decisions and can either make or break our well - being. For so many years I felt like a hypocrite giving this lesson knowing the condition of my own relationship with my sons. Even when asked to contribute to this edition and hearing the topic was parenting, I tried to back out, explaining I am not confident writing such an article since I parent via computer or telephone. Instead, my participation was all the more encouraged. As I pondered this piece I realized I know quite a few people estranged from their children and use the internet for communication. As divorce increases the trend to parent via technology seems to prevail. I can’t help but to ask what the impact of this trend will be?
In the mean time I will bask in the knowing that my sons know me and want to continue on in the legacy of combating abuses, organized crime, homelessness and slavery. We might not have traditions but we do have each other’s hearts.
"Carmela" was born and raised into a Mafia life and is a survivor of Human Trafficking. For the past 25 years, Carmela has been educating Americans via radio, TV, internent, social media, in print and in person how to identify and deal with the complexities of Human Trafficking such as "generational fallout," child/domestic abuse, homelessness, human trafficking, and organized crime. Carmela servers on the boards of several organizations and NGO’s in various capacities. In the Fall her book "Armchair Abolitionist" will be released and she will be moving to Nairobi, Kenya, to work in partnership with Tradional Healthcare Integrated Network of Kenya to develop her theory that people who have endured stresses and trauma have greater nutritional needs. For more information please go to http://www.onceuponaneden.weebly.com. To contact Carmela email onceuponaneden@gmail.com
Written by Michelle Carmela Saldana September 3, 2011
When I first found myself separated from my husband of almost ten years, it was a grave devastation. The depression that resulted so permeated and engrossed me that each time I closed my eyes even for a moment I wondered if I would wake up alive.
I had been through so much devastation and trauma in my early days of life. Marriage suited me. Being a wife and mother was all I dreamed about as a little girl. It was all I worried about. I remember asking my mother at age sixteen while we were setting the dining room table for assurance that I could indeed one day be married even though almost all my childhood had been about beatings and rapes. In my heart I was a virgin and in my mind I vowed that I would do my damnedest to protect my children from the pain that had been inflicted upon me.
But there I was just a week before Christmas in 2000, homeless, expelled from my home and informed that my husband was dovorcing me to pursuit other women. Just a few hours before, I was packing up the household to move to Mexico. We had so many adventures planned and our sons were to enroll in the top schools of the nation of Mexico conveniently located close to my now ex-husband's family. What was I doing at a shelter –homeless, about to be divorced, away from my sons and just days before Christmas?
If my adult mind could not make sense of the nightmare what would this new reality do to our young sons just eight and five years of age at the time? Thinking of this made me physically sick.
In hours I went from being a stay at home housewife and mother of two wonderful sons who to me shined like Super Nova or Quasars to a homeless invisible person lost among thousands in a place I had never been.
When I was 26 years old my now ex-husband informed me that he just could not see me as the woman he loved. He kept on talking and talking and each word was a knife cutting and slicing into me. To make matters worse the day was rainy, thundering, the boys were down for a nap, it was a beautiful setting for romance instead in quiet whispers I did not hear sweet nothings whispered into my ear. I heard I was nothing to him being drilled into my heart. But I listened. And decided to stay married because I believed in the vows we said to each other on our wedding day. And I did not want to bring such pain to my sons. So we agreed for our sons sakes that we would remain married in name. My nightmare had come true. My husband did not want me because in his eyes I was tainted. In reality, he was cheating left and right and wanted to use the fact that I was abused as a child and had physical health problems as an excuse. Then at age 29, he informs me that the medical bills which resulted from treating the remaining health conditions that I still had from the abuse I endured as a child were no longer his responsibility because soon we would no longer be married.
Pay phones and the phone at the shelter’s office were the only instruments available at the time to stay connected to my sons to hear their voices, to hear their hearts.
My sons even while so young were and still are my inspiration. Every day, we had adventures. In the summer and afterschool on Fridays, we went treasure hunting or dinosaur hunting around Los Angeles. Using the city bus the boys were in charge of seeing we had food, supplies and we all managed safely through the concrete jungle to our final destination of either the Los Angeles Science Museum or the La Brea Tar Pitts. In the matters of treasure hunting we could wind up at any of the libraries or city parks. The boys never failed to somehow involve the bus driver or passengers into our adventures. On rainy days we laid out a blanket in the living room and had dinner in the living room picnic style. The boys pretended an empty water bottle to be the roaring campfire which we gathered around while they took turns making up stories –sometimes acting out the scenes.
Most engrossing and intriguing were our quiet times. When asked “What are you thinking?” the depths of the topics discussed were astonishing. The insights that were expressed by each young man were amazing. And when shared with adults in position to help, these two small boys managed to turn a gang infested school into a community center in less than nine months and they were not even ten years old. Now barely a year later, their parents were being divorced, their mother gone away and they didn’t know why. All they knew was mommy left and now daddy would take care of them. Well, with the help of the new women in daddy’s life.
It shredded me to the core to know these magnificent young men would be open to pain at such a young age because I had failed to protect them. The knowing other people (strangers) would be coming in and out of my sons’ lives influencing their values, and possibly changing their character, and posing the risk of danger wrecked me as much as it angered me. I more than resented the idea of my sons being in such circumstances that at best were uncomfortable awkward inconveniences and at worst made them fearful and possibly rightly so. And with my health issues now escalated by depression and stress, I feared that if something happened to my sons I could do nothing to help them or I would die without their knowing me as a person and the fact that they were the apples of my eyes.
In the early days I made every phone call count. When I could call I listened to everything they said. Because my cell phone would cut out, we learned tobegin and end our calls saying: "It is good to hear your voice." A habit my youngest son started. He still says often, "In your voice I can hear your heart. It is good to give you my heart and you to give me yours. Good trade by the way." I am a thankful mom. At times they were in binds and danger that little ones should not be in. Like a babysitter’s boyfriend making them uncomfortable. Not able to get through to their father that the boyfriend of the baby sitter was ogling our sons and making our sons feel dirty even though the boys said he did not touch them because of the protective tricks I had taught them. (I am an educator about abuse and slavery in the United States and I firmly believe every child should know how to defend themselves.) I called the authorities and immigration. The man was deported; Immigration had found him to be a known pedophile and he was wanted in Mexico on related charges. I forget what happened to the baby sitter but I do know my sons went back to their original sitter who they had called “Abuelita” which is “Grandmother” in Spanish and knew they were satisfied and safe.
When my oldest son was ten he informed me by phone that he was going to military school because he wanted to be a soldier and defend the country and his dad had enrolled him. This was minutes before my shift at work was to start. I was confounded and did not agree with this avenue for my son’s education. While at work I prayed holding back tears. What could be done? I was hapless. A client came to me and asked what was wrong. I told him. Right then and there he started making a few phone calls. I took him to be disinterested in my dilemma and was embarrassed for being unprofessional in telling him my problem. When he was done, I proceeded to apologize. He put his hand up as to stop me quiet. Then my client informed me he knew the major in charge of the military academy where my son was enrolled. He went on to say he called the major directly and asked him to pass over my son and not accept him. That was on a Friday. The next Monday, my son called to tell me his dad received a call that our son’s enrollment was withdrawn and his file was “red flagged.” The major had expedited the request. My ex-husband also received notice in the mail. The relief in my son’s voice was heart breaking and breathtaking for it revealed the pressure of sense of duty this young child was carrying to be all things good for all people and the gladness he had to have the pressure removed could be felt. “Please stay you. Enjoy being ten. And be your little brother’s big brother. Please. That is all the world needs. That is what your dad, your brother and I need.” I begged. “I can do that mom.” He said gleefully.
There have been times when I have been able to be physically part of my sons’ lives. However, the times away have outweighed those times. There have been many phone calls of homework done long distance, stories read and prayers said before bed via the phone. However, I would have given anything to be there in person as when they were younger. For whatever reason my ex-husband did not want me to talk with our sons; often, he would grab the phone away and hang it up. So my youngest son came up with a code and we would talk code.
First there were phone calls and then the addition of My Space emails and chats. As a gift one Mother’s Day my sons called to give me all their internet information: email addresses, passwords, social chat sight information and passwords to those. And my oldest son introduced me to his girlfriend over the phone. My youngest son that day asked me, “Mom, now that you have all this info will you ‘cyber-stalk’ me.” “I sure will.” I said firmly. “Good, Mom. Because there are some scary and dangerous people out there.” The next day when I went on his page he had already put up a notice that sometimes I would be on his site because I had his permission to delete people. So the people on his My Space should be careful of what they say. My oldest son was a different story. More than once I told him to remove vulgarity from his account or I would report him to Tom the founder of My Space. I reported him once. After that he listened for a while at least. Seeing his determination to keep the shock value on his account, I decided these would be teaching moments for him. So I selected my battles carefully prepared my comments and would send him private messages. To my joyful amazement, he toned his postings way down and became more expressive with his words. Still there were awkward moments, like when they just removed me from intubation ICU to a regular ward floor and my oldest son called not to see how I was doing but because he had some questions about sex. So with a squeeky raw scratched throat and an eighty-six year old lady as a roommate there I was not even twenty minutes off of life support answering my son's questions about sex. I wondered if he even knew why I was in the hospital but did not mention it as not to alarm him. I was available for him no matter what, that is all he needed to know.
Because My Space allows people to post so much information about them, my sons really got to know me more. My youngest son often would use the “Bio” section of My Space to ask questions of me when he and I were on the phone.
Now my sons are both on Facebook. The oldest son requested me! And the youngest accepted my request! I am learning more and more about my sons through Facebook. I learned that I had no need to worry about them staying true to their core characters. Their characters have been scraped and bruised some over the years by bitter experiences as a result of the divorce and my not physically being there due to my health issues, but their bodies have grown up handsomely to surround their golden souls. I go on their walls and see they have many friends who admire, love and respect them.
More than once my sons have informed me they wish to one day carry on my humanitarian work against abuses and slavery in some fashion. And each has expressed to me candidly many times what the abuse I endured as a child has done to them. They made it clear that the abusers did not just abuse me but abused my descendants as well. My sons constantly give me food for thought. I am an advisor to many organizations; however, my sons are my advisors. One day, I informed them, I was too tired to go on sharing my story. Right away they pounced not even letting me finish. “Mom, your story is our story. You know too much to stay quiet. And you have an obligation to US YOUR CHILDREN to tell OUR story.” To drive the point home my youngest son asked quietly but firmly, “Mom, if you don’t talk to the people who will help my future wife heal after someone hurts her before she comes to marry me? How will my friends learn where to go when they need help? No, Mom. You have to keep talking.”
I am so thankful for the privilege to be the matrix that allowed these wondrous souls to enter the world at this day and age. I am so blessed to have them in my life. These young men have been my gift and the world’s gift given by their creator. I love and admire them so much. I am thankful for every opportunity to tell them this truth. The last time I thanked my oldest son for this privilege he said, “No, mom! God used you and dad to give us life. How can my brother and I not be thankful? You could have aborted us - this day and age people are doing that. How could we not be thankful? Mom, the phone and internet are not the same as you hugging us and being at our games and other school events, but it is all we have. A lot of people don't even have that. You are wrong, Mom. The decision for you to be our mom was you not aborting us. And every time you call or e mail or write you are deciding to be our Mom. You are letting us know we are your sons. You are letting us know we are connected. We know you are doing your best to get well. We know your plans include us. My brother and I talk about this with our friends. We know more about you and dad than most of our friends know their parents because they are always on the go with job, school, activities, or fighting over silly stuff. Mom, our relationship is not perfect, but we know we are here because you want us. And you make what effort you can for us. You want to know us. Mom, you are our mom. You let us be your sons. How can we not respond to that?!”
The affirmation from my sons is priceless to me. When people tell me I am a good mother, I cringe inside. I do not know if it is true really until my sons say it to be true. Over the years while conducting seminars on abuse(s), slavery, and homelessness I always close with a lesson about relationships discussing the most fundamental: relationship with self; parent –child; and between spouses, life partners or lovers. These relationships more than any others determine our future decisions and can either make or break our well - being. For so many years I felt like a hypocrite giving this lesson knowing the condition of my own relationship with my sons. Even when asked to contribute to this edition and hearing the topic was parenting, I tried to back out, explaining I am not confident writing such an article since I parent via computer or telephone. Instead, my participation was all the more encouraged. As I pondered this piece I realized I know quite a few people estranged from their children and use the internet for communication. As divorce increases the trend to parent via technology seems to prevail. I can’t help but to ask what the impact of this trend will be?
In the mean time I will bask in the knowing that my sons know me and want to continue on in the legacy of combating abuses, organized crime, homelessness and slavery. We might not have traditions but we do have each other’s hearts.
"Carmela" was born and raised into a Mafia life and is a survivor of Human Trafficking. For the past 25 years, Carmela has been educating Americans via radio, TV, internent, social media, in print and in person how to identify and deal with the complexities of Human Trafficking such as "generational fallout," child/domestic abuse, homelessness, human trafficking, and organized crime. Carmela servers on the boards of several organizations and NGO’s in various capacities. In the Fall her book "Armchair Abolitionist" will be released and she will be moving to Nairobi, Kenya, to work in partnership with Tradional Healthcare Integrated Network of Kenya to develop her theory that people who have endured stresses and trauma have greater nutritional needs. For more information please go to http://www.onceuponaneden.weebly.com. To contact Carmela email onceuponaneden@gmail.com
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