Impossibly Possible Me

A Lifetime Of Can’t Equals A Whole Lot Of CAN!

The folks over at Know Thyself, Heal Thyself have done it again! They’ve come up with a prompt that stopped in my tracks and compelled me to start writing.

My mission today, as offered by Diana C. and which I’ve chosen to accept (weak Mission Impossible reference, which will soon make sense) is to answer the following:

What are all the impossibilities that were made possible in order for you to be where you are at this moment right now?

I can’t tell you how absolutely giddy I was reading this nugget. Talk about playing right into my wheelhouse! I am the very embodiment of impossibility made possible.

My very existence was, in many ways, supposed to be impossible. While interracial relationships weren’t illegal in Canada in the early 1970s, they were certainly frowned upon.

A White woman taking up with a Black man was enough to leave her ostracized by the community and the subject of cruel and scornful gossip. Add to that the fact that the White woman left her White husband in favour of her Black lover. Oh, and that she left the US to cross back into Canada to do it.

Well, that’s exactly what my mother did. Consequences be damned! And in the early morning of July 27th, 1971, a baby girl was born. A baby girl that society said shouldn’t exist because of the colour of her parents’ skin. The standards of the day said I was impossible. Apparently not.

Sadly, my mother died under circumstances that are still fuzzy to me when I was 3 weeks old. I was a very light-skinned child. Social Services became involved and determined that my father could not have me.

My birth certificate had already been filled out. My mother had listed her estranged husband as the father, which was the convention at the time (note: there was no possibility that the husband was my father, he’d been living in Alaska for about 3 years by this time).

This was way before DNA tests so, in the eyes of the authorities, I was legally and obviously not the child of my father. It was, therefore, impossible, for me to remain with my biological family.

But wait! Was it? Not so much. My father’s oldest brother stepped up and offered to adopt me, thereby keeping me in the family, at least as much as was possible. The impossible was made possible yet again.

It’s no wonder I’ve never been able to take no for an answer. As a child, I enjoyed track and field. I was told I was too small to compete successfully against the other girls my age. I was too short. My legs were too short. I’d never be able to keep up.

They were right, I was never able to keep up. But I was able to run right past them. Just count my trophies.

It felt impossible to leave my abusive ex. We’d been together 12 years. We had 3 kids together. With him, I’d gone from a bold, brash girl with dreams to a downtrodden, hopeless young mother, full of fear and self-doubt.

I’m still not sure how I did it. One day, I just snapped. I’d had enough of the beatings. I’d had enough of the putdowns. I’d had enough of the cheating. I’d had enough of working 3 jobs while he sat home in his underwear, watching the Simpsons and getting leftover spaghetti all tangled up in his chest hair. I’d just HAD. ENOUGH.

I threw him out. I was terrified after the fact. But, you know what’s worse than raising 3 children on your own? I’ll tell you, raising 3 children plus a giant man-child. In an instant, a 210-pound weight was lifted from my shoulders.

It seemed impossible to raise 3 boys alone, on a coffee waitress’ salary (which was, just over minimum wage). But I did. We owned our own home. It was a trailer (mobile home for my American friends), but it was ours. We ate. We ate well. My kids had all they needed and most of what they wanted.

I had nothing. No, that’s not true, I had the satisfaction of providing for my children, seeing their smiles, seeing them happy and healthy and knowing I did that.

It was impossible for a single mother to go back to school and become a lawyer. No licence, no car, no money. Well, just wait, remember who we’re dealing with here.

I learned to drive. I got a better job. I took advantage of scholarships and my employer’s tuition reimbursement program. Two degrees and a year of articling later, I was that lawyer I had dreamed of being.

Over time, I found it didn’t satisfy me. It didn’t excite me. What I wanted to do was write. But come on, what kind of a moron would leave a 6 figure salary to start over with a silly pipe dream of being a writer?

Do the math. How many people who call themselves writers actually end up making a living from their words? That shit’s damn near impossible!

Maybe not. One mental breakdown later, and with a whole lot of love and support from my current husband, I walked away from the courtroom and picked up my pen. He graciously agreed to shoulder the financial burden of our day to day bills from his art career.

How did it all turn out? Well, you’re reading my words, so you tell me.

There’s no such thing as impossible. At least not to me. There’s possible and there’s possible, but I haven’t figured out how yet and that’s it.

So, now, I extend the mission to my pals who I know have made the impossible absolutely freakin’ possible to share their stories. Courtney Capone, KL Simmons, Jimmy Misner Jr., I’m looking at each of you because I know you’ve all done great things against a lot of odds and I adore and admire you all.