♥ ♥ Memoirs of a Dreamer ♥ ♥: a Broken Home doesn't have to break you, too.

I always like to be fair and I always try to be, although sometimes unsuccessfully, I always make sure that I try.
I've been thinking all night that maybe it's just me. Maybe my sister has always been bothered by the fact that she grew up in broken home and she seems so very deeply affected by it and it's one of the baggage of the past that she carries around with her that has encumbered her through the years.
Perhaps it is just me because I did not grow up in a broken home. By the time I was old enough to remember anything significant, I had a father figure in my English stepfather. He wasn't as good as he could have been but he was still there when I was growing up. I had a mother and a father who watched funny Aussie sitcoms after tea. I knew he wasn't my biological father but I never cared about my biological one ever since I was a child. Maybe because there was never a void in me that needed filling.
So this morning I asked my brother how much it affected him being in a broken home when he was growing up. We have nine years between us so by the time my mum married my stepdad, both he and my sister were away living in boarding houses in Manila and later on they went to Univ so they were rarely home with us.
He told me "I'd still prefer it broken than messy, pag broken kasi, you know where you stand
pag messy, you have this (possibly false) hope na baka mag improvethat's what I think on the matter"

So yes, from what I gathered, it affected him a little bit but he never dwelt on it. Only a stupid person would think she'd meet the father in heaven who abandoned her, took back the only toy he'd ever given her to sell it and never even tried to get in touch with her simply because he has a dozen other daughters that he probably did the same thing to. I hope my sister doesn't get her wish to meet her this same father in heaven. I hope my sister and our biological father never meet because then I'd know she never made it to heaven.

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This is an article written by my godmother's daughter, my kinakapatid, and I enjoyed reading it. It's refreshing to have someone who did not grow up with her biological father think differently from most.

Two houses, one home
By Ma. Cesar C. Del Rosario

bro·ken \’br_-ken\ adj 4a: cut off: DISCONNECTED b: imperfectly spoken or written <~English> 5a: not complete or full 6: disunited by divorce
, separation, or desertion of one parent — broken·ly adv —bro·ken·ness n

MANILA, Philippines
- Webster and his legion of lexicographers might try very hard to define what it means to be broken; or to come from, or to have, or to belong to, a broken home but it is only through experience that one can truly realize the meaning of coming from, having and belonging to a home that has been brokenAs for me, I experienced it at an early age, way before I can spell the said word. My parents got separated when I was still a two-month-old. I remember vaguely that my mother, when I turned five, explained to me that they have parted their ways and that, I might not be seeing my father for a long, long time.I got fully acquainted with the word when I was in grade school. I remember my teachers always asking me where my father was or why I put “N/A” on his occupation, address, date of birth, etc. It was like putting spoonfuls of salt to an open wound. I have this recollection that it was during this developmental stage when I learned that I was defying what seemed to be the norm because I was a child of a broken home.And then I encountered this red book from Adarna House when I was still a Family Life and Child Development major in UP Diliman, entitled Papa’s House, Mama’s House by Jean Lee C. Patindol. It was a daring book in a sense that it tackles separation, and as though it isn’t daring enough, it is intended to be read by, or for, children. It starts with the lines: “Ana, Bianca, and I live in two houses. There is Papa’s House. And there is Mama’s house.” Right then, I was hooked. I wanted to see how this author would explain this very sensitive topic. I wonder how this author would tell my story, and the story of countless, innumerable children who became part of the painfully increasing statistics of coming from, having, and belonging to broken homes.
How do you tell a child in the simplest form that his or her parents are going to be separated — meaning, they would not wake up together, pray together, eat together, go to parent-teacher conferences together, attend recitals and field demonstrations and whatever school programs together, cry over skinned knees or over a beloved pet’s death together, celebrate graduation and college admissions together, share triumphs and defeats together, and live life to the fullest together?

Well, none of these was tackled (for those were my own longings) but I still stand in awe how the author was able to conceive, prepare and deliver the most sensible explanation of why two people, known to you as your Papa and Mama, are separating without using the words “irreconcilable differences.” And here goes:

“Papa, why can’t you and Mama live with us in one home?”

Papa said, “Do you think trains and planes can travel together?”

And I said, “Umm…I guess not. Trains go by land and planes fly in air.”

Papa patted my head and smiled.

The next day I asked Mama.

“Mama, why can’t you and Papa live with us in one home?”

Mama took out my paint set and said,

“Let’s mix white and yellow together. What color do you get?”

Yuck! We got the color of Bianca’s poo-poo!

Next we mixed black and green together.

Even yuckier! We got the color of Ana’s poo-poo!

And so I said,”So some colors aren’t pretty together, huh, Mama?”

Mama hugged me tightly.

In the context of the child’s world, it was explained appropriately. Who would think that through trains and planes, yellows and whites and blacks and greens, the most crucial message that can make or break a child’s heart can be properly delivered? We always assume that some topics are not for children and underestimate their way of processing and understanding things. We neglect the fact that although at certain age they cannot yet grasp abstract concepts (yes, Piaget’s theory attests to that), they are individuals who can feel love and who can get hurt.

Most people wondered why I did not end up a drug addict, a teenage mom, or a school dropout — in short, an unsuccessful and pathetic individual expected of a child from a broken home. And I say, it was the way my mother brought me up without ingraining contempt for my father and respecting my right to know about our situation and explaining to me early on what we are dealing without the sugarcoat and then providing me all the opportunities for growth, understanding all my shortcomings and loving me unconditionally.

It is in the way we use words, the way we define concepts, the way we explain things with children that significantly affect their outlook in life. It is our responsibility to get them through this process of being broken and being healed for, in the first place, it was not their responsibility that they were brought into this complicated world. It was a situation that confronted not only the rich and the poor, not only the whites and the blacks, but all people in general.

Liane Peña-Alampay, a developmental psychologist, has this to say about the book: “It sends the message that children in ‘two homes’ are not different, nor are they loved and nurtured any less by their parents than children in two-parent homes. Papa’s House, Mama’s House opens the way for greater tolerance, understanding and empathy in children and adults alike.”