Vivian

Vivian

Vivian Rose Martin was a striking woman. The men always stared after her, while the women squinted their eyes and glared, determined to detect something false. I remember seeing her picture on the back of a book one summer at my great grandmother’s house; Aunt Vivian was so beautiful with her dark hair framing her porcelain face, full red lips and eyes that made you feel like she was looking right back at you and she knew what you were thinking. I carried the book to Great Grandmother and asked how Aunt Vivian got to be on the cover of a book. Great Grandmother gathered me in a hug, she was always hugging us whenever we got within reach, and laughed saying, “Why she wrote it that’s how, didn’t you know child? Your Aunt Vivian is a writer, and getting quite popular too. The pride was clear in her voice. I was shocked, Aunt Vivian a writer, I could not believe it. Momma never talked about Aunt Vivian much, except when we did something strange or out of line and she would admonish us to straighten up or we would turn out like Aunt Vivian. I never told Momma but Aunt Vivian was my favorite aunt. Whenever she came to visit our normal, boring lives were put on hold and a sense of un-reality descended upon us. Aunt Vivian told the most amazing stories full of adventure, danger, and fantastic creatures.

I used to dream about being a famous writer who traveled the world and told stories of my adventures in wild places with beautiful people… But those were not the sort of dreams we talked about. Momma tried to teach us to be proper children who grew up to have successful lives that were respectable like Bankers in my brother’s case or housewives, teachers, or secretaries for us girls. In our home, being proper was everything. We were taught that our behavior was a reflection of our parents and a prediction of our future which told the world who we were and who we would become. This was very disappointing to me when I finally understood it. I was a good, proper, well-behaved, boring girl; but in my heart I longed to be free to explore, to adventure and dance in fantastic places. So how could my behavior be a reflection of me? It was not me at all.

I remember seeing Aunt Vivian the summer after Great Grandmother passed. The family had all gathered together at Great Grandmother’s house, which had been left to Aunt Trudy who was the oldest. There were children everywhere, lots of food, and everyone sat around the living and dining rooms at various tables visiting; when the front door opened with a gust of wind that blew my hair across my face. No one said anything, no one moved; no one even looked around… The awkwardness began to rise, almost as if everyone was holding a collective breath. This was nothing new; every reunion, family gathering and funeral is always the same. She knew that they hated her, not just because she was different but because they were not and never would be. All of them, sitting around the tables, trading stories about their children, laundry, husbands and soaps were enough to make her gag. But she had promised, how could she refuse, her grandmother that she would never leave the family; that she would keep in touch and visit whenever they all got together. What had she been thinking? Deathbed promises were the worst, completely unbreakable. Oh well, she did not have to stay long – “Dress it up with a smile”, that is what Grandmother used to say, “Nothing is ever as bad as it seems once you grace it with a smile.” Ugh... Sigh… Smile, “Hello everyone” she called, forcing them to look at her, “Where’s the party? Am I in the right place? Oh yeah, I remember… it is only a party if there are balloons! I guess we will make do with a ‘gathering’, Cheers!” Making her way through the room, she found a seat close to the back at a small table for two and sat down as the babble resumed and she was ignored like an ugly spot on the carpet everyone knows is there but steps over, long ago given up on. She tried to be “good” once, but it just was not for her. It was like trying to wear clothes that were too small, pinching and binding in all the wrong places.  In an interview, she once said “I think the term they use for me is ‘inappropriate’… I am never quite proper, you know – happy at the right moment or sad or contrite… There is a prescribed behavior one must conform to or suffer their displeasure… I feel no remorse, one must be allowed to breathe otherwise all your brain cells die - of course then I would fit right in.”

            I had been fourteen that year, and had waited until everyone had become absorbed once more in their conversations so I could steal back to Aunt Vivian’s table. I loved Aunt Vivian; she seemed to me like everything I would like to be. I knew that Momma would never approve, but the thought of being a plain housewife or worse a secretary filled me with dread. Aunt Vivian’s life was practically scandalous compared to my Mother and her other sisters. Sometimes I wondered how they all came from the same family. Great Grandmother had not seemed to mind Aunt Vivian’s writing so why did everyone else act so negatively?  Now, some thirty years later I am still wondering that same question. Many things have changed in the world so that it is no longer such a wild idea for a woman to become a writer instead of or perhaps in addition to being a wife and a mother. When I look back at my childhood and remember that summer afternoon spent with Aunt Vivian at the back of the room, worrying every moment that I would be caught and sent to play; I know that was the day that my decision was made. That was the day I decided to be me.