History Shrouded in Mold - Part 1

 

Sipping my morning coffee I sit on my bed looking out almost century old windows and into the backyards of my neighbors. This morning was no different. The sky is grey and there is a slight chill in the air, reminding me that outside that glass is another world filled with life and adventure, stories to tell and lessons to be learned...knowledge to be gained. In other words, hope. 

That sentiment brings back the emotions I felt as a little girl. Then, I sat on my bed looking out the massive Victorian era windows of the 3rd floor apartment we called home. It was in the mid 70s -Evanston, Illinois. I loved being able to see into the green of the trees that lined our street. Between the leaves and branches was another world playing out before my eyes. The birds, the squirrels and sometimes even a stray cat - they lived out a day in their life without ever knowing they had an audience taking in their story. 

I would spend a lot of time watching them and getting to know their personalities - I had nothing but time on my hands for my imagination to roam. I was in that home more than in school and when not home I was in doctor offices or hospitals. It was also during that time when I learned not to answer the door to the man who lived next door.  He made my stomach churn, remembering him I can still feel that swirl of acid burning within me. Even as far along as I am in my healing journey, I still feel his cold hand reaching up my shirt, touching my 8 yr old body and the immediate fear striking my entire being, even deep into my soul. That cold hand left a mark, more than once. 

Believe it or not, that memory doesn't hold power over me anymore - while it still plays out as real as it happened, the things that stand out stronger for me are things like those windows I am currently being remind of staring out. Those tree tops, that animal world, and also being able to see the, from a secret perch, into and beyond the homes around me. I was surrounded by stories - glimpses into current scenes and also back in history too the 100 year old bricks housing the collections of life. 

It was wondering about all the stories, all the lives that have shared an occupancy is where I would truly get lost with my thoughts. Layers upon layers of life creating our world today. 

Looking out my window this morning I realize there is comfort in those memories and being able to still hold on to the part of my once little girl's imagination. Nostalgia, as bittersweet as it is, can build into serendipity. 

For the last few weeks we've been residing in the upper level of the home we rent in Memphis. Luckily for us it is very much like an apartment. I say luckily because considering the toxic nature of the downstairs right now our only other option would be for all of us to take up temporary residence at an Air B&B, which would have been tighter quarters for four adults and two dogs to manage life during surging Covid and being high risk. 

Yes, toxic mold. And, a lot of it growing in the basement and up into the bathroom downstairs, it was also found in the kitchen and I am sure just about in any room of the lower level - the 1st floor of the this beautiful example of a craftsman home. A home built during the Art Deco phase of our history - during the roaring 20s of the Midsouth. Currently we are in the process of remediation of that mold, hence why we are living upstairs. 

I have a lot of anger in me right now. Anger towards a property management company that failed to do as promised and take care of the known issues of old and faulty plumbing. Promises made when they took over this rental from another property management company that also failed to take care of this historic home.  Thus far I've heard two property management companies attempt to point fingers at everyone but themselves - Yes, the last two years of my life, here in Memphis, has been spent advocating for ourselves as consumers and renters as well as being disgusted in how our society treats the remnants - the symbols of our past and in doing so history repeats itself in that someone else is always trying to get more off the backs who have the least. That behavior is spawned from a fungus in our society, in mankind, that for some reason we just cannot seem to break the cycle, hence, history is shrouded in mold. 

I think about that as I look out my window now and within my sight are the other homes that stand with our's, together creating what is known as the Glenview Historic District. I think all of that as I look down at my hands which, finally, no longer appear as baseball mitts from autoimmune inflammation. The pain in my joints is still present but now I can see those joints and the destruction that had quickly taken hold over the past year plus of non stop flaring.  Seeing that reminds me of the fear I've had in me - fear that came from sliding rapidly down the autoimmune disorder slope. Nights spent with tears in my eyes from aches, physically and mentally, hating my body and having to reach out for a walker because I couldn't stand straight and walk without holding on to the wall or anything present. The headaches that wouldn't go away - I wondered how long I had for this Earth. I was scared. I felt like a burden on society, on my children. 

To help divert my attention I would often wonder about those who lived in this home prior to us. I had read some history of the area and why this home and the others in this district are in the National Registry of Historic Places, all of which when taken in tells the story of American life currently playing out once again. A story of the few who believed they were superior over the rest,  and then those envious of their lifestyle, they willingly swallow their commands while others suffer from their societal blindness. Empathy replaced by false egos and idols. 

I am often asking myself and the skies above, is that our true human nature? Can we evolve? Will we? 

I have a bad habit in that I can't just get lost in a thought, once absorbed I find I must find the truth in it, if there is truth. This leads to countless hours and lost sleep of research. Perhaps that obsession is my chosen distraction from my own reality and after - or - while living in trauma's grip. My drug of choice. 

Growing up under a mother who had her own demons not dealt with, I saw the effects on the people around me that lies hold. I witnessed what happened when pretending to be something you're not. It tends to create a prison of soul-isolation. It can be a torture like no other. 

Truth matters - being authentic respects your own life, your reflection. I've been lied to and about for most of my life, we all have,  and for me - that fact is painful. I see it as the oil for the gears of dysfunction, the innocent being victimized and changed forever to only repeat the patterns of destruction built into their cracked foundation.

This house holds the stories, memories of the lives who helped to build the area. The history is rich and filled with struggle. That struggle is the beauty of the past as in it are those lessons that we tend to keep on reading over and over without actually comprehending and growing from. 

In my next post I will share some of those stories contained within these walls. They start in that Art Deco world and move forward through a few periods of war, poverty and then also growth. In a region of our country where prejudice was, and still is, a way of life. It has been woven into the fabric of the landscape. 

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Any gifts received during the

History Shrouded in Mold series

Will go towards my family's legal fund and healthcare - test and detoxing from mold. 

Thus far, with this post, we've raised $175 via Social Media 

Give the photo above a click! 

The following video was filmed in the very home I speak about here in this post - inside the Glenview Historic District of Memphis, Tennessee. 

That band, Super Brick , are my roomates - my kids. The guitarist is my son, Kyle Roberts, the singer is his girlfriend -Bethany, and the drummer is Gabe Brown -Kyle's best friend from back in Mauston, WI. Not shown is my other son, Justin. We all live together. These fine young people have been helping me through this stage of life and facing my health. 

Thank you for paying attention.