Forsaken

Part I

Chapter 1

As a child, I quickly learned to develop ways to shrink or disappear within myself. It was imperative for my survival. My mother had always been a tortured soul; at least as long as I could remember. Her face told a sad tale that once spoke of beauty and promise. Now, the weathered lines upon her face only told tales of once upon a time, and what could've been… Sadly, she looked ages older than what her date of birth otherwise spoke of.

The older I got, the more apparent it was that my mother wasn't fit to be a parent. But who was I to know anything about that? It had always been just she and I, outside of the weekend visitors she would bring to our apartment, sized no bigger than a shoebox. I never had the chance to meet my father, and on a regular basis, my mother would always make sure to remind me why.

Your father was the love of my life, she would always tell me, before raising the bottle of cheap whiskey to her mouth. No glass; she would just drink it straight from the bottle. We were going to get married. Then I got pregnant with you, and he took off. Never heard from him again, she'd say, casting a dirty look in my direction. If it weren't for you, I'd be married and happy.

The older and wiser I became, the less guilty I felt over her accusation.

The place I grew up in was a very old apartment building in the Bronx. A tiny two-bedroom place; it was the cheapest place she could find. She never worked. Not an honest job anyway. Not since I'd been alive. She claimed she was bipolar and couldn't sustain a normal job. The doctor she had conned into buying this story was a man who came over regularly to stay the night, over the years since I was young enough to remember. Not that I wasn't some medical expert, but whatever bipolar was, I always felt she had to have had a lot more wrong with her than just that. We never had a car; if you couldn't take the train or walk to a place, you just weren't meant to go there.

On the other hand, when that's all you know, and all you grew up with, it doesn't seem so bad. It's just normal.

I took the brunt of my mother's shortcomings — her anger, bitterness, and resentment towards all of mankind — ever since I was just old enough to start remembering. Gia Parisi was once a beautiful young woman, and she had her school yearbooks to proudly prove it. With her long brown hair and big doe eyes, she was the product of a rebellious Jewish woman and her handsome Italian lover. Both of which she shunned as soon as she became a wild teenager, and rebelled against them. I hadn't seen my grandparents since I was maybe four years old. Now, I wouldn't even know where to find them, even though I've tried.

So, as it turned out, my mother ended up a pregnant seventeen year-old, who was left behind by a man who left to avoid the burden of raising a child.

I'm not sure when Gia Parisi took up drinking, but it had become the main problem that rendered her disabled on a daily basis, since I was a child. I watched her deteriorate from the lovely young girl in the pictures, to the hardened and bitter woman that she became after she had me. Forever lost in her vanity, I don't think she ever saw herself as anything less than the beautiful teenager she once was. But she certainly never let me forget that she thought I was anything but.

Ugh, sometimes I just don't see myself in you at all, she would say. You must take after someone on your father's side of the family, with that ugly little pug nose, and no chin. No chin? I could've sworn I had a chin, and I never thought my nose was ugly, until she began pointing it out. And what are they feeding you in school? She would ask. You're getting chubby. Next thing you know, you're going to bust out of your clothes.

Perhaps that was why there was never once a time growing up, when our refrigerator was stocked full of food. A month never went by without at least a day or two of darkness, when the electric bill wouldn't get paid. As soon as I was cognizant enough to realize that living required bills being paid, I was the one who took the money from her wallet after she'd cash her monthly check, and I would run to the corner market for money orders. This, in turn, would merit her to pick up the broom, coat-hanger, or simply use her fist to reprimand me for stealing her hard-earned money, when I was doing what was best for the both of us.

I used to sit in my bedroom and sing to myself as a small child. The neighbor-lady who lived above us always listened to the most haunting classical music every evening, and opera during the day. In passing, my mother would hiss at her to "turn that shit down! Neither of us can sleep with that crap on!"

The old lady would smile down upon me, and I would try to tell her with my eyes that I actually liked it. It sounded like faraway places, and fairy-tales that told of love and sorrow. Thankfully, that music never ceased. Instead, I learned it and began to sing along.

Oh Christ, my mother rolled her eyes and shook her head as I stopped mimicking the song coming from above. Hearing it from up there is bad enough, she chastised.

It's pretty, I insisted in a small voice. I like it.

You can't understand what the Hell they're saying, she barked back. This is America! Play songs in English!

The first song I ever learned to sing, turned out to be an aria from La Wally. Its significance wouldn't be apparent until much later in my life. But, in learning how to mimic the singing I heard coming from the floor above, my mother saw this as a way to cash in. Forever the schemer, her brilliant plan was to drag me around the subway stations and promise to buy me groceries if I sang for passersby. It was cruel; taking a child who had been so mentally broken down, and putting her on display for the scrutiny of any and all who passed. It was downright terrifying.

I remember the very first time she took me below street level, down to the subway station at 3rd Avenue and 149th Street. I had no idea what I was in for. I thought we were just going to the store. I was just five years old, and maybe it was because I was too fat, or perhaps it was because I outgrew the only coat I ever recalled having, but I remembered shivering nonstop from the winter cold. She held in her hands a small jar that I saw her empty some age-old jelly out of, from one of the cabinets in our kitchen. On this particular day, it beheld only the right amount of change for us to get beyond the gates, into the bustling area where people were hurrying in every which direction. Where are we going? I curiously asked.

You'll see, she replied, looking about. She was on a mission. I didn't think any more of it, until she stopped me in the middle of an area crowded with people waiting, and sat herself down against the concrete wall. Confused, I looked down at her, watching her pull the throw blanket she had taken from our couch, and pulled it more tightly around her. The same blanket she usually fell asleep with, after wearing it around her shoulders while she was out all day, pitifully asking people for spare change. She set the jar down in front of her, and then looked up at me expectantly. Sing, she ordered.

Frozen, my mind went completely blank. What?

Sing, stupid! Sing something! She grew irritated by my petrified stare. Sing that idiotic crap I hear you sing in your room! The stuff that crazy old lady plays upstairs. Sing it! People will give us money!

In an instant, my mother had dumbfounded me and reduced me to a most mortified state, all at the same time. I nervously looked around at the faces of people who were passing by, and some of them were giving us perplexed looks. I was positive now that my trembling was due to fear. The question I posed to myself was whether being looked at and laughed at by folks getting on and off the trains would be worse than going home to get beaten by my mother for not doing as I was told?

Reluctantly, I began to sing.

I had no idea what I was saying. At the time, it couldn't have been more than sounds that mimicked the foreign language I had no way of fully knowing. I didn't even possess the knowledge that it had been a part of a very popular opera, or what any of it was about. All I knew were tones and sounds. It would be years before I understood the irony of what that first song I sang was even about. I just closed my eyes and removed myself from my body, and when my voice came out, it came from somewhere else. Someone else. Daunted at first, I paused when I heard how loudly my voice resonated off the concrete walls throughout the station. Upon my mother's ruthless insistence, I continued on. I tried to pretend that no one was around. The sound of change jingling against the insides of my mother's jar startled me. I opened my eyes, but my mother's ferocious stare forced me to shut them once again, to carry on. When the only song I knew by heart was over, I began to sing it again, from the beginning. I belted it out. I tried to sound as delightfully entrancing as the melody did when it came through the floors of our apartment building, trickling down into my bedroom. I tried to imagine that sweet old lady there, cheering me on and applauding after each round of the song. The whirr of the trains kept coming and going, and the mixture of voices as people passed by and acted like we weren't even there, were the only music to the words I sang. She waited until my throat felt blistered from singing for who knows how long that I'd been standing there, while she just vapidly looked around. Then she decided it was time to go. Picking up the jar that beheld several dollar bills and about an inch of change, she started back to where we came from. Without dinner, I tiredly ended up falling asleep on my bed, feeling too exhausted to be horrified by what I'd just been subjected to.

It would end up being just one of many horrific occurrences I'd suffer through, over my lifetime.

Chapter 2

When my mother enrolled me in Kindergarten, she was ecstatic for the simple fact that it got me out of her hair for a few hours a day. What she didn't expect was that my intellect exceeded her expectations, and floored my teachers. I never considered myself brilliant, but I was certainly a quick learner. I was too young to fully understand what all the fuss was about. I had no idea why my first grade teacher would pull me aside and have me work on little projects that no one else worked on. I also thought it was normal when Mrs. Bonder would guide me into the school restroom on a daily basis and ask me questions like how are things at home? and what are your favorite cartoons? while she smiled warmly and took a washcloth to my face and neck and arms. She liked to brush my hair. Then, after a few weeks, she began bringing me cute little barrettes and pins to style my hair. It wouldn't dawn on me until years later that she did this because half the time our water at home wasn't turned on. I had no idea how dirty I actually looked. Or smelled…

I had a best friend, and her name was Shelly. Of course, friendships were so much simpler at that age, and ultimately meant so much less than those you form as adults. Except that they stuck with you for so much longer… With blonde hair, green eyes, and bright pink lips, I thought she was so pretty. I used to want to be just as pretty as her. She had a nice nose, a chin, and she wasn't chubby like me. Her favorite color was pink, and so became mine. I admired her. She always wanted to come over to my house after school to play. I always told her my mom didn't allow visitors. It wasn't that she didn't. I just anticipated her being as mean to whoever I'd bring over, as she was to me.

It wasn't worth the humiliation.

I remember the first time I met Shelly's parents. After school, she anxiously called me over to where she stood with her mom and dad, who looked so nice. I remember thinking that she looked just like her mom. She introduced me to them as her "best friend. Can Fee stay the night tonight?"

They took one scrutinizing look over me and reluctantly answered No, honey. Not tonight. Maybe some other time. With a tight smile that didn't quite register with me, they scooped up their daughter and told me it was very nice to meet me.

I never did stay the night at their house.

There is a huge interest these days, in taking a stand to stop bullying. End bullying! We don't want our children growing up oppressed! We don't need their fragile egos wounded! True enough, but I definitely adopted a stance that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. I spent my elementary years being exiled from groups of children, because "Stinky Fiorella has the cooties! Don't touch her! Make sure you get your cootie shot! Circle-circle, dot-dot — now I've got my cootie shot!" It was a song I heard all around me, over and over. It was enough to make me feel closed off from the majority of children my age. Sure, it was mean and cruel, but you know what it did? It forced me to build my character. It forced me to delve deeper into the books given to me in school. I didn't have new clothes - I had pants that I'd been wearing for the last year, that I'd outgrown and were inches too short, and sometimes I couldn't even button them any more. I had to rely on shirts being long enough to cover my waistband. I had to wear clothes that hadn't been washed in weeks, because we didn't have a washer and dryer, until I began stealing change and taking my mother's and my clothes down the street to the laundromat, once I was old enough to figure out how to do laundry. And because I was chubby, had dirty clothes, didn't smell fresh and clean, and I had a fat nose and no chin, most of the kids did pick on me relentlessly. They did call me names, and make me feel like I wasn't worth anyone's niceties or friendship. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I compensated for all those shortcomings by soaking up every lesson in school like a sponge. And singing.

Every day I would sit in my room after I got home from school and close my eyes, rocking back and forth, just taking in the beautiful operas that the old lady upstairs would play. Almost in a meditative state, all that existed for me were those songs, and the world my imagination spun around them. I dreamt of big fancy castles, and girls wearing gowns that made them all look like princesses. These thoughts were the same thoughts that carried me through every subway performance my mother put me through, every evening when she knew the subway would be the busiest.

Oh, it was beyond embarrassing the first time a kid from school recognized me belting my heart out in a language they didn't know, in the middle of the subway station, with my mother looking like, quite frankly, a homeless person, seated on the dirty floor beside me, collecting change being tossed at us.

Mom! It's Fee! Stinky Fiorella! Look! It snapped me out of my reverie, and stunned, I looked into the face of Johnny McCarty, who smugly tugged at his mother's coat. What are you singing, Stinky? No one can even understand you! I didn't have an answer. I felt my face reddening. I felt humiliated. I couldn't even summon up a response.

What did you stop for? Sing, Stupid! Sing!

I looked down at my mother, and then back at Johnny McCarty as his mother pulled him away from us, and I will remember the smirk on his face for the rest of my life. It was mean. It was as mean as every kid was since then, when he went back to school and told everyone how Stinky Fiorella was singing in some made-up language, starting a new kind of vicious barrage of insults hurled at me at recess, or in the cafeteria every day. I was weird, and the other kids thought I was wicked for singing in the weird language that Johnny McCarty described to everyone who would possibly listen.

Shelly! Why do you like her? I remember the first time someone asked her that, right in front of me.

Because she's my friend, she politely answered the curious, judgmental faces standing before us. She's smart, and we have fun swinging together at recess.

But she smells.

And she's weird.

My mom says she's I'm not allowed to play with her because her mom is a bitch.

What did you just say, Nicholas? Our heads whipped around, before any of us could even react to the verbal onslaught, when one of the teachers standing nearby overheard one of the words we weren't allowed to say. "Come here. Now!"

Grateful as I was for Shelly's friendship, I was sure I was undeserving of it. When I watched her smiles and laughter with other friends of hers who wanted nothing to do with me, I felt alone and sad. A part of me longed so badly to fit in with everyone else. But why would I? Any chance at self-esteem was flushed down the toilet daily, what with my mother's unkind words, combined with the unattractive criticism from the kids I spent all day with.

In second grade, my teacher wished to request a meeting with my mother, but couldn't reach her via phone. Do you have a valid number I can reach her at? He asked.

We don't have a phone, I answered meekly. I caught the slight surprise on his face, followed by pity - a look I knew quite well.

What's your address, then? I would just like to speak to her about a few things, he told me with a pleasant smile.

Am I in trouble? I asked worriedly.

Not at all, he answered. On the contrary, I think you are doing amazingly well, he complimented brightly. I'm interested in seeing whether she would allow us to advance you early, to a higher grade.

This was news to me. I really didn't think I was doing anything better than anyone else, but the prospect of being moved to a different class away from Shelly scared me. So I lied and told him I didn't know our address. I didn't want anyone to see where we were living, anyway.

Unfortunately, he took it upon himself to look it up. Clever teachers - their resources were endless, and of course my mother probably gave the school our address when she registered me. I shouldn't have been surprised when my mother answered the door a few evenings later, and Mr. Ballard was standing there. I knew my mother reeked of booze, and her hair looked like she hadn't brushed it in days. What a far cry from those yearbook pictures…

Mrs. Parisi?

Miss, she corrected him sharply, blowing her cigarette smoke just to the left of his face. Not married. What can I do for you? Did Joe from down at the pier send you?

I watched from around the corner, as he didn't miss a beat and extended his hand towards her. Ed Ballard. She didn't recognize him. Then again, she never did come to meet-the-teacher night. I'm Ella's teacher.

She reluctantly took his hand, and allowed him to shake it. Fiorella, she corrected him. What'd she do, now? That damned kid, she sighed, holding the door open wider to let him come in. These days, they think they can just do whatever they want, and-

Actually, he talked over her, interrupting her rant. She hasn't done anything wrong. He looked around, and I know he saw the endless empty whiskey bottles on the counter. Feeling a heat rush to my face, I wished he wasn't so perceptive. Holding my breath, I waited for him to continue. Ella, he began before pausing and correcting himself. Fiorella, he started again, is quite a remarkable child, he spoke carefully. I've had the pleasure of having her in my class this semester, and I couldn't help but notice that she has really picked up on the material I've taught the kids, so far. I don't know, but it appears she's bored with the work — like she already knows it, and is ready for the next thing.

Look, Mister Ballard-

Ed, he asserted with a polite smile.

Ed, my mother repeated. If she's acting bored and disrespectful, I apologize and I will certainly correct that -

That's not it, he argued. I've consulted her previous teachers, and they all believe the same thing I'm about to say to you. She belongs in some accelerated classes. Maybe some tests to place where exactly she should be, but she's capable of so much more than the kids her age, he explained. I was still holding my breath. I'm here because your permission is required to proceed with this, he continued, removing some folded papers from the pocket of his long, black winter coat. But I'm really hoping this is something that you're open to.

I felt the pace of my heart quicken in horror. What does it all mean? My mother sounded impatient. So what happens after you test her? Then what?

Well, he continued slowly. If she qualifies, we could possibly advance her a grade. Maybe two. Judging from some of the projects I've given her as of late, I really suspect she could comfortably move to the fourth grade.

What!? Go and be with the older kids? They made fun of me even worse than the ones in my grade now! No! I yelled around the corner with fearful eyes. Both of them turned to look at me hovering there, clinging to the wall that had yellowed over time as a result of cigarette smoke and presence of filth in our home. I don't want to be moved away from Shelly! She's my only friend!

After a moment of staring at me, my mother shrugged her shoulders at my teacher. You heard the kid. She said she doesn't want to.

He sighed, hoping to try and convince her to reconsider. She may not want to, but it's in her best interest, he pleaded with her gently. I promise, if you sign these papers and she doesn't qualify for advancement, we won't put her through that. But I really think she is, and she could benefit from that. You do want her to reach her full potential, don't you?

I don't want to! I cried out, feeling like this would be the worst thing in the world.

Perhaps it was that small tortured voice that caused my mother to turn and thoughtfully narrow her eyes at me, before reaching for the papers in my teacher's hand. You know what? Maybe you're right, she spoke in a cheery tone, much to the delight of the man standing before her. Maybe this will do her some good. Do you have a pen? Of course he did. Horrified, I felt like at that moment, my mother was signing my life away. Of course I had no concept at the time of what a great opportunity I was being given.

One that I would try to piss away, like an idiot.

Ella, Mr. Ballard took me aside after several days and many tests later. He took a seat in one of the tiny chairs, leaning down to put himself at my level. Why did you answer all of these questions wrong? He placed the stack of papers on my desk, and I didn't even want to look at them. I didn't want to look at him, either. His tone was soft. His eyes were imploring and inquisitive. I know you know the right answers to these questions. I know you know all of it, because I have personally gone over it all with you. I couldn't deal with him being disappointed in me. But I felt like I did what I had to do, to stay where I was comfortable. I couldn't even look at him. I had enough of fear, every day when my mom took me down to the subway to sing for the crowds that were coming off the trains from their daily jobs. I had enough of feeling inadequate, without having to deal with a whole new set of eyes scrutinizing me every day at school, too. Why? He asked again. Look at me, Ella.

He was the first person to ever call me Ella. It sounded so much prettier than my given name. It made me feel pretty. He made me feel like I was something other than myself. Ella was who I was, when I closed my eyes and sang for strangers. Fiorella was the stinky little girl who had cooties, no chin, a fat nose, and was too fat and stupid to ever amount to anything in her life. Reluctantly, I brought my eyes up to the lined blue eyes of my teacher, whose brow was furrowed at me. I don't know, was my stubborn response.

Yes you do, he countered. Ella, talk to me. Are you scared? Are you afraid Shelly won't be your friend anymore, if you are put in a different class?

I nodded my head weakly. He was clearly sad for me. We reached an understanding. I trusted him when he said Shelly wouldn't stop being my friend anymore, if I agreed to take the tests and inevitably moved up. See, that was the thing - I knew I would get moved. That series of tests was so easy I completed it in record time, albeit all my answers were purposely incorrect, the first time.

Mr. Ballard's lie turned out to be the last time I ever allowed myself to trust a schoolteacher.

I moved up. Two grades, as was anticipated. Either my mother was never informed, or she just didn't care. The new kids were just as cruel as the old ones, except their words were more foul.

I now had a different lunch time. A different recess time. After I was moved to a completely different class, Shelly's warmth and friendship was replaced with awkward smiles when I occasionally saw her, and distance. She still looked so happy with the kids she played with, out the windows as she played on the playground outside the classroom I sat in, now. She giggled and ran about, with the very kids who used to call me names. I missed her. It made me cry when I went home every day, until my mother would drag me out for my concert in the subways. After that, it was back home to stay up way too late doing the new daily homework assignments that came along with my advancement.

I