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It is hard loving someone if you see them as a substitute for a lost one, instead of a unique individual. My adoptive mother Lisa Henshaw and I would had better lives together, if we had appreciated our individual uniqueness instead of seeing each other as mere replacements.
Lisa had called herself black, and blamed racism for the death of her daughter. To me, her statement didn’t make any sense as I saw her as white with a tiny bit more melanin than your average white person. Yet, she claimed to be a proud aboriginal woman and blamed The Stolen Generations for all her problems. I guess to an outsider, the distinction between Hutus and Tutsis is equally nonsensical. Humans tend to argue about distinctions without a difference, and often these nonsensical dogmas drive our species to insanity.
Lisa’s daughter Daphne had died six months before my arrival in Australia. She had died by her own hand. The bullying she experienced in school from being the only aboriginal child in the town had pushed her over the edge. She had taken her mother’s painkillers and swallowed the whole lot of them, which caused her to overdose and die. I knew that as much as Lisa tried projecting the anger and blame onto others, she blamed herself the most for what had happened. It was her drugs that had killed her daughter.
Lisa often called me Daphne when she was drunk, or off her head on prescription pills. The notion was absurd as we didn’t look at all alike, but I guess it was a function of how Lisa perceived me as a replacement for her lost daughter.
As for me, I saw Lisa as a desperate replacement of comfort from the beautiful and gentle Amy who had saved and took care of me. While Amy was energetic, intelligent, and committed to making the world a better place, Lisa was her opposite. Lisa saw herself as a victim of circumstances, and instead of building a better life for us, she chose to get drunk and blame her misery on others. As time passed, I grew resentful towards Lisa, and things got worse when I heard about Amy’s death.
***
OUR CHOICES IN LIFE can have a ripple effect that affects all future outcomes. I don’t know whether it was my fault that Amy died in Tanzania, if it was a consequence of her idealistic personality, or if it was just a pure coincidence. What I do know is that Amy’s death affected me severely, and crushed my spirit to pieces.
As I came home from school one day, I noticed Lisa was drunker than usual. This surprised me, as Lisa usually looked after the farm and the animals during the day, and the heavy drinking was her night-time only activity.
“She is dead. This is your fault.” Lisa slurred.
I prepared myself for a confrontation. I didn’t accept to be other people’s punching bags. Lisa’s choice to adopt me didn’t give her the right to abuse me. “For the last time. I am not Daphne, and it is not my fault that she killed herself.” I shouted and I was about to leave and slam the door behind me when Lisa stunned me with her revelation. “Amy is dead. The authorities found her body close to the Nyakasanza refugee camp.”
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HEARING THIS, MY WORLD fell apart. I had been counting the days, hoping that Amy would come back to Australia and take me away from this shithole. Amy couldn't have intended for me to be abused by her drunken cousin. If she had come back to Australia, she would have taken me in and formed me to a better person. If Amy was dead, there was no-one left in my world to care about anymore, and there was nothing left to live for.
Realising that Amy wouldn’t come for me, I had to reach out to my drunken custodian.
“I am so sorry to hear that. Amy saved my life.” I exclaimed and approached Lisa to give her a hug.
She pushed me aside and shouted. “Don’t touch me, you filthy nigger. This is all your fault.”
Hearing this from the vile hypocrite who always spoke about how racism made her life miserable, I snapped. I shoved her into the wall and rushed to the barn to spend the night with our farm animals. The animals were a better company than the mean drunk who was supposed to be my “mother”.
***
REFLECTING ON MY YEARS in the South Australian village of Wudinna, the racism was never a major issue to me. I don’t know if my experience were different to Daphne’s, but the small incidents that occurred would never had driven me to suicide. People have different mental strengths, and my mental strength made me become unaffected by minor issues such as name calling or teasing. I had survived too much to let a few inbred broods affect my life with their cruel words.
The relationship with my foster mother Lisa remained strained for the five years I lived in Wudinna. While we stayed out of each other’s way, there was no love between us. Words can’t describe the relief I felt when I turned 18 so I could finally move to Adelaide.
Lisa died a few months after I moved to Adelaide. A combination of severe drugs and alcohol addiction claimed her life, and she passed away at the young age of 42. I guess she had lost the remnants of her will to live when she no longer had to look after me. At times, I am blaming myself for not doing more to save Lisa from her own demons. But then I remember that I came to Lisa as a broken girl, ravaged from war and scarred of rape and genital mutilation. What person, except for Jesus, could help someone else under such circumstances?