Becoming Eleanora

“It was June 7th, 2023, we were on a road trip. Mom and Dad were arguing (as always) and my mom she- I don’t remember vividly but I think she hit him and- and- he crashed. I can’t remember” I tried to explain “Okay, It’s fine. It’s Eleanora, right?” She asked “Yes.” I replied “Good, you remember your name. Can I call you Ellie?” She asked again “yes” I answered “Ellie, you were involved in a severe car crash, you broke some bones, specifically in your hands and legs,” she explained “I noticed. When do I get out of this wheelchair?” I said “You have a 3% chance of ever walking again” she stated “You’re bluffing” I said “Your mom says you like books, Is that true?" She asked “That’s irrelevant, but yes, I do” I answered “What’s your favorite book?” She asked “Favorite? I don’t have a favorite” I said “Weird, but okay. Who’s your favorite author?” She asked “Colleen Hoover” I answered “Well, imagine you’re a main character in one of Colleen Hoover's books. This is just a phase, for your character development” She encouraged “Are you being serious? You just told me that I'm never going to be able to move my legs again and now you’re telling me to pretend like I'm in some dumb book” “You can, just use your imagination” when she said this, I cringed so hard. Why is she talking to me like I'm 6? “I can write right?” “Well, it’s just your lower body that is paralyzed but I advise you to wait a week or two before you jump into writing” “You would’ve just said yes” “Well, in the meantime, you can do spoken word poetry” “I’m not much of a stage person” “oh, you’re really (and oddly) confident and kind of rude so, I thought you’d be open to the Idea" “Don’t say that, Don’t you dare say that- you're really lucky I'm in a wheel chair right now. I would’ve ripped your head off” “Well, you're lucky you’re in a wheelchair because I would’ve called the cops” “Anyway, you’re to start physical therapy next week” “I thought you said I have a 3% chance of walking” “Yes” “So why do I need therapy?” “Because there’s still hope” “Girl, you’re going 97 against 3. That’s like making a cheetah and an ant race. It's a waste of time.” “You’re negative Eleanor. It’s not up to me, your parents or legal guardians have to make the choice for you” “Where’s my mom?” “She’s waiting outside, Should I go call her?” “Duhh!” 10 minutes later, my mom walked in with a bouquet of flowers and my dad. She was wearing a weird green dress with flowers sewed into it and it was ugly, she even went ahead to wear green eye shadow and bright purple lipstick. She stared at me with tears in her eyes and hugged me warmly “Eleanor. Oh my God, I promised myself I won’t cry, I spent so much time on my makeup. Now it’s ruined” “It was already bad mom” “I see some things never change" My dad commented with a smile “We’re so happy you’re awake, love” “Thank you” “Did they mistreat you? Hit you? because I don’t trust these white folks” “Babe, I'm white” “I know, that’s why I don’t trust y’all” “Can you both stop it? And I'm doing just fine but, I’m not comfortable here” “Why? Is it cause of your daddy? I’m sorry, I couldn’t get him to keep his big behind at home” “no, it’s not.” “Then why?” “I have to go to therapy” “Are you depressed, child?” “nope” “then why do you need therapy?” “it’s physical therapy, for my legs to get better" “That isn’t a problem” “I don’t wanna go” “Well, you have to” “How much does it cost?” “a couple hundred dollars” “A hundred dollars? Per year or per month?” “Per week” “Nuh-uh. Black people don’t need no therapy, we’ve got Jesus” “Honey, don’t be unreasonable, this is our daughter” “Frank now, you know we don’t got that kind of money. Unless you got some lady you out there sleeping with for money” “Sholanda, I don’t have any wife but you” “Mm-hm, that’s what all y’all say” “Ughhh! Can y’all stop bickering?” “Child, if you say I'm bickering one more time I would break your neck too" “Don’t threaten our child” “What’re you gonna do? Hit me?” “Please, this is a professional environment, and we don’t need noise” “Girl, ain’t nobody ask you” “Please keep it down or I'll call security” “Aren’t you Lily? Blossom’s child?” “Yes, I am” “Your mama told me why y’all moved. We go to the same church.” “How’s randall doing? Still out there taking care of the child? It’ll be a shame if someone told people about you, you know, your life in Mississippi.” Mom mentioned. My name is Eleanora, but nobody ever calls me that. They prefer to call me Ellie, El, Nora, Elles, Lea, and Elle with a cheerful tone that annoys my soul. "Smile, Ellie! Everything will be alright," they say. But what do they know about being me? About growing up like me? I am both black and white, mixed, if you may, a fusion of two worlds that should have offered me an ounce of understanding, but instead, I feel like I belong nowhere. My skin is a beautiful mix of two shades and two races, a reminder of my parents' love that turned into hate. I don't blame them for what I feel most of the time, but their inability to get along has ruined my life in more ways than one. They used to be happy together, I think. I have faint memories of laughter and hugs, back when they could stand each other's presence. (That was Before my 3 siblings were born, Amelia, Theodora and Noah.) But time has a way of wearing down even the strongest relationships, and their love morphed into something unrecognizable. The fights, the shouting matches, the yelling, the rudeness, the financial problems promoted by my dad’s excessive spending, the cold silence that followed - it all became a routine. Somewhere along the way, I became a victim of their broken love. 7th June 2023 I lost the use of my legs in a car accident, leaving me dependent on crutches and a wheelchair. It was as if the accident made the relationship worse. The arguments became more frequent, the yelling, money shortage, all of it. Since then, I have existed in this state of numbness, yet, I still feel this never ending pain, both in body and spirit. My room is my safe place, the only place where I can swim in my misery without judgment. The walls are painted a soft lavender, and the window overlooks the cherry blossom tree in the front yard. It's beautiful, and yet, its beauty feels like mockery. The tree blossoms every spring, a testament to renewal and hope, but I find no inspiration or life in its pretty petals, unlike people around me. I've lost all hope in life and love. I've watched my parents' affection wither and die, and I've seen the pity in people's eyes when they look at me. No one wants to be friends with the girl in the wheelchair. My wheelchair is a constant reminder of vulnerability, and I hate how people tiptoe around me (not literally), treating me like a fragile doll. My parents, in their ironic way, have taken opposite approaches to dealing with my disability. My mother is the overly positive one, forever convinced that a miracle awaits just around the corner, I believe in Jesus and miracles, but I don’t think it works like that. "You'll walk again, Ellie. I just know it!" she exclaims, unaware that her words are empty promises that leave me feeling even more hollow. My father, on the other hand, doesn't even talk about it. He buries himself in work, using his job as an escape from the reality he can't bear to confront. Using excuses like, “I have to make money to provide for the family” His newfound distant persona only serves to widen the space between us, and it's almost as if he’s ashamed of me. I can hear them arguing again downstairs, their voices rising and falling like an ugly symphony. It's a song they've perfected over the years, and I wonder how they manage to keep going. For me, every passing day is an unbearable struggle, and their disputes only fuel my despair. Downstairs, I hear my mother yelling, "I’m not going to leave my daughter in the hands of white, bloodsucking people" But my father's response is icy and distant, kind of unusual, "She’s a mess, I can’t take her anywhere, Sholanda! She has to go to therapy" But my mom still insists, “Frank, we don’t have that type of money” And as they continue their agonizing song, I remain locked in my room, feeling like a prisoner to their problem. The world outside might be fooled by their constant acting like ‘the perfect family’, but I see through it all. There's no room for hope or love in this house, just the lingering scent of bitterness and shattered dreams. I long for an escape, a place where people understand the weight of despair and stop pretending that everything is alright. But for now, all I have is my lavender room and the distant cherry blossom tree outside my window, a constant reminder of the gap between the beauty of life and the brokenness of my own existence. In my loneliness, I've found comfort in books. Colleen Hoover and Kathleen Glasgow books most especially. They offer me a refuge from the harsh reality that surrounds me. The world beyond my bedroom walls is filled with people who don't understand what it's like to be bound by limitations or to know just how much of a disgrace they are to their family. Yet, within the pages of a novel, I can journey to a far-off land, where characters overcome hardship and find strength in their weaknesses.