What I Didn’t Tell You

• Linda Starkweather

What I didn’t tell you then Aunt Pauline was how enchanted I was as a kid with your Native American mystique. How I always chose to be the painted warrior when I played at cowboys and Indians perhaps, in part, because of you. How I wondered if, because you lived in Pontiac, you might actually be a descendant of the great Chief Pontiac, an Ottawa war chief, famous for his struggle against the British—against tyranny. 

***

What I didn’t tell you then Aunt Pauline was how strikingly beautiful you were. High cheekbones, solid but graceful frame, deep lines of love that decorated your bronze face—especially when you smiled or laughed.

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What I didn’t tell you then—as I watched my four younger cousins hang on your every word—was that I secretly wished that my equally beautiful, but shy, southern, mother had your confidence, your strength and your ability to dazzle.

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What I didn’t tell you then was how enamored I was with your beguiling singing voice and your beautiful paintings—such talent. That sparkly trio you sang with on special occasions was so professional that I believed one day you would appear on the Ed Sullivan Show, skipping the Ted Mack Original Amateur Hour all together.

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What I didn’t tell you Aunt Pauline was how excited I was to find myself at Saturday night dinners where you devised home made pizzas for all of us: aunts, uncles, cousins, grandma—the whole extended tribe.  Savory, creative pizza which was likely to be stolen right off your plate if you weren’t paying attention, thanks to my four hungry cousins stalking the tables.
That is what I didn’t tell you then.

***

What I need to tell you now Aunt Pauline, is how I suspect you changed the trajectory of my life in one stunning moment when I was perhaps seven. Like an arrow piercing the bullseye of my existence, you hit the mark. You probably wouldn’t remember. I’m sure it was a tiny blip on your bigger than life radar. But for me, it was monumental. 

***

It was summer, let’s say August—the hottest and stickiest month in southern Michigan. We were all at Grandma Ruth’s house. You were standing at the kitchen window looking out at all us kids playing in the yard. We had just finished lunch and were excused to resume our tireless play in the huge yard, lined and guarded by the giant, ubiquitous oak trees, with a hot, gentle breeze tickling their leaves. If I was seven that summer, then my four cousins, your kids, would have been six, five, four and three. I remember them following me around like ducklings —after all I was their big girl cousin, full of allure and mysteries of my own.  I was also pretty creative and directive. I would make up games, scenarios and activities that they never even thought of.  I guess my future role as a theatre director was cast early as I created stories to act out, and invented imaginary battles to win. As an only child I loved these times with my cousins. Lazy summer vacations with the promise of endless adventures and plenty of company.

***

Now, what I need to tell you Aunt Pauline, was that I remember vividly the moment you called my name from that kitchen window. I remember you saying, “Linda, come in here for a minute.” You hadn’t called my cousins in, just me.  I was sure I was going to be praised for entertaining the Indians—for keeping us kids out of your hair while the adults enjoyed a game of Canasta or Pinochle at the dining room table. I rushed in, out of breath, waiting for those words from my favorite Aunt.  

And then they came, out of your mouth like a rushing torrent, a tempest of tyranny. You said, “Quit bossing my kids around”.

***

I’m an adult now, and I certainly can’t blame my lifelong ambivalence with leadership on that devastating moment with you. Or can I? It was my first heartbreak, my first betrayal by a loved one. I’m sure I didn’t cry. I suspect I kept a poker face as I slowly returned to the yard. Trying now to avoid my doting cousins. I remember a huge tree root circling out of and back into the earth on the embankment by the driveway. I climbed on, mounting it like a pony, hoping to ride off into the sunset to lick my wounds in private, to be alone with my grief. My poor cousins didn’t understand the sudden change in mood, the coldness with which I was blanketing them. It wasn’t their fault, but they were the only ones I had any power over and I wanted them to suffer too.

***

It was one, short minute, fifty-seven years ago. A drop in the ocean that is my life. But I find myself still telling this story, still grieving, still wishing that my Republican, Bible-quoting Aunt Pauline would stop telling me how much she loves me as my country, and my rights, and my personal power disappear into the politics of hate and an imperious, amoral regime. 

***

What I need to tell you now Aunt Pauline is that you are not the strong, dazzling, powerful matriarch I had mistaken you for as a kid. You were and are a bully. What I need to tell you now Aunt Pauline is that you need to stop telling me how much you love me.

Previously published in Turning Points: Owl Light Literary No. 1 (2021)

LINDA STARKWEATHER is a versatile artist working in several mediums. In addition to her writing, she is also a sculptor, painter, woodworker and theatre artist. She has taught theatre at the high school and college level, is a working actor, director and designer.