Plain Jane 2

By Jane Coma

Plain Jane 2 was produced and written for the readers. The author endured more abuse in one lifetime than anyone should be exposed to. Jane wants her readers to know and understand that if she can fight for her freedom, then so can they. She came to this country and was left stranded with three childrenno home, no food, no job, and not a single English word in her vocabulary. While her eldest son was kept from her back home by her controlling mother-in-law, she raised her other children without a dime of public assistance or child support. She worked three jobs for a long time, saving money to eventually buy a home for her children and fight tooth and nail to reunite with her estranged son who she left as a child and reunited with as an adult. Finally she saw light at the end of tunnel, but her freedom was never free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466950146

Jane Coma

Jane Coma was born on March 17, 1962, in Shum, a small old village in the country of Macedonia (formally Republic of Yugoslavia) as one of six children. After a childhood of hardship of working the fields, chopping firewood, and being under the reins of her very opinionated father, she tried to escape his wrath by marrying at sixteen into a family who would ultimately see her as their servant and not their daughter-in-law. She would eventually give them four beautiful grandchildren, one girl and three boys. Nine long years of slavery to her husband’s parents and grandparents had passed when she was given the opportunity to come to America for freedom and opportunity, none of which came to light until she escaped from the beatings and infidelity of her controlling and abusive husband. The responsibilities of a single mother took over her life and led to what it is today.

Book preview

1

As young Muslim girls, our parents and elders constantly instilled in us the concept of remaining pure. The idea of saving ourselves for our wedding bed took on a deep religious significance. As significant and intense as if the concept had come from a religious canon.

Remaining chaste was more severe for us than the American notion of celibacy. In America losing one’s virginity seldom had a violent physical counterpart. In Macedonia not being pure could result in possible physical violence and death.

Mother told us that our father had said, Girls are like clean glasses. And if a glass breaks it cannot be repaired. This metaphor took a long time for me to understand.

She also told us that boys and girls do not mix. Unlike American children, we did not socialize on school grounds or after school with boys. Only when properly chaperoned were we allowed to speak directly to a boy.

My two grandmothers scared me by telling stories of what happened when the bride was not a virgin. She was not a clean glass. After their wedding night, the next morning the groom angrily told his parents his wife was not clean. The exact meaning was that the bride was not good enough for her husband. The girl was not pure and the young bride was sent back home. Shame and humiliation went with her.

The girl and her family would live in shame as the young bride like some spoiled or rotten commodity was promptly returned to her parents.

On the other hand, shame and humiliation never touched a Muslim man and condemnation of promiscuous men never happened. In our Muslim community, something more pervasive than just a double set of standards existed for centuries. Muslim men were exempt from all forms of culpability. Women were always the culprits.

Any woman not found to be a virgin carried a stigma worse than the famous letter A the citizenry forced poor Hester Prynne to wear in the classic story, The Scarlet Letter. Even in this story, the woman was always at fault and never the man. And he received no censure.

The unchaste newlywed female and Hester, the fictional character carried their shame with them for all their lives.

Women always brought the shame and the men were always exempt.

That is how I learned at an early age that women in the Muslim culture were magnets for accepting guilt and shame. Thank goodness, in most cases the stoning of adulterers had nearly, but not completely disappeared. The stoning of a man for adultery in the Muslim culture never happened.

The young bride would have nothing to say. Women had no rights and defending herself was never an option. She would never have any say in the decision to send her back.

The rejected bride’s options were to marry some handicapped person or an aged widow who needed a wife to raise his orphans. This poor girl would end up marrying a handicapped person or an elderly man. She would endure gossip and ridicule for as long as she lived. Again, she had no input and gossip would follow her around like nagging flies.

Life in the Muslim world was cruel for women. I look back upon it sadly. We learned early that the shame always belonged to the women never to the men. Men were violent and abusive, but never accountable. They were always blameless. That is how my grandmothers taught us girls.

This was my family’s teachings. And just like they were educating us so they had been educated by their family. They were great people and did their best.

Like slavery in America, it took many generations to dispel some of the sad mores of our culture. In addition, like America still fighting racism, we are still battling many of these primitive standards.

In the end, I look at my grandchildren and pray that they as a new generation will not follow all the old ways.

I also pray they will love me as much as I love my grandparents. My grandparents passed on their love for gardening and taught me how to plant vegetables from sets, how to collect eggs, to milk, to make cheese and yogurt and churn butter. From them I became skilled at making jellies. Our grandparents taught us how to make egg noodles from scratch.

I learned how to work the cornfields and how to collect beans and to pick tobacco early in the morning and bring it home and hang it out to dry. All this and much much more I learned from those two ladies. Grandmothers make the world a better place to live in even when undereducated or without any formal schooling. They were survivors and tried to teach us the best.

Today I am fifty years old and continue to use my grandmother’s recipes for much of my cooking. I rarely use a measuring cup and everything seems to go together nicely and the final product is delicious. I read the recipes, but often switch the ingredients and double or triple them. And still my boys tell me there’s nothing better than their mother’s cooking. Over most recipes I read I still chose my grandmother’s home made noodles and chicken or stuffed tomatoes, eggplant or stuffed cabbage. We Albanians have an excellent menu at home. We all cook the same and make Bureks, crêpes, and excellent deserts like Baklava and Sheqerpare, tullumban, rewanie, halva, and the most delicious rice pudding.

We all shared in a hard but good life. All summer everyone worked hard and all winter long, we lived in a nice warm house. The family only purchased rice, sugar, and nothing more than those staples that our farm did not grow. Our own produce remained safely packed away for the winter.

The farm grew potatoes, onions, fruits, and vegetables. We made our own cheeses and butters, which retailers took in trade for their sunflower oil and barley for flour.

From time to time, we fed the animals farm-grown beans and corn. Our grandmothers cooked delicious homemade corn bread with our own ground corn on the wood burners.

2

The wood burner stoves kept us warm during the long, but never lonely winters. After dinner, we always had visitors. Always relatives and we had a room full of unshelled corn and we all would shuck corn and listen to our grandparents tell us stories, which usually included a learning moral.

Our grandparent’s stories were either frightening ghost stories or something that had happened before. I have taken the liberty of sharing some of these stories with the reader. Moreover, I would like to pass on these amazing stories from my life and culture.

Every winter night my mom would surprise everyone by bringing down a large bowl of walnuts and we young girls would break and peel them for our grandparents to eat. Sometimes we would peel apples, pears, or quinces or boil chestnuts or bake winter pumpkins and drizzle honey and sugar over them.

I still remember those sweet winter nights with hot mountain tea in our warm house.

This was my grandparent’s way to educate us in how to be good people.

My grandfather, Sunaji was a smart man to the point where people invited him for dinner so he would recount the old stories with their true meanings.

One night I remember, when snow was pilling up outside he would sit on the floor on a piece of sheepskin and begin his story telling. I still remember…

Some of these stories might not make sense to the reader, but each is dear to my heart and calls out for sharing. Each starts with; Once upon a time… When our grandparents began their stories our little faces lit up and stared at them hanging onto every word and gesture. When the stories were scary, we would become scared and ask our grandparents if any of the ghosts or spirits from the stories would visit our house. A grandma’s answer would always be the same, No sweetie. The ghosts only collect bad girls and boys. After such approbation, we felt relieved and safe.

At the end of each of the following sixteen chapters, I have included one of my family’s stories. Some of these stories come from my older brother, Jemal who lives in Melbourne.

The stories included herein are the old stories told to me as a child. They were an important part of my life and culture. All shared with us by our grandparents, great and not great. Some real event back in the day was the genesis for many of these stories.

Like Washington Irving’s story The Headless Horsemen, we do not know where reality stops and fantasy begins. And that is the fun of listening to these old stories.

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The Blue Horse

Once upon a time there were three brothers and the king heard that they were very smart people and he decided to keep them in prison. The king asked the older brother, If you can find me a blue horse I will free you."

The brother’s answer was, No. It’s impossible, and then the king asked the second brother the same question. I can’t find it either. The youngest of the three brothers rose, wiped straw off his lap, and said, I will find a blue horse on one condition. And that condition is that you free me and my brothers. And then I will find you a blue horse.

The king agreed. The brothers left the dungeon and went home. The two older brothers were worried for what the younger brother had promised. The younger brother smiled and showed no worry.

One day they heard a knock on the door. The king had sent his trusties to collect the blue horse.

The two older brothers panicked and immediately went into hiding. The younger brother opened the door and asked, What can I do for you?

A trustee replied, The king has sent us to collect the blue horse.

The brother said, I want you to go back and tell the king that I have found the blue horse, but he has to find a special day to come and take it. Then he stated that it could not be a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. And when the king found that special day he should come and get the horse. The trustees understood what the smart brother was saying. There was no blue horse and no special day. Therefore, they went and told the king that the brother was truly smart and the king left the three brothers alone.

3

Everything my grandparents told or taught me seems to make more sense every day. If I had known then what I know now I would have kept a journal and written everything down. Unfortunately, I kept no journal.

My grandparents taught me how to plant walnuts trees and how to transplant plum trees or quinces and lots of grapevines and chestnut and fig trees. Even living here in New Jersey I have eight fig trees. I borrowed the secret to the fig trees from my grandfather. He had said, Keep them protected from the wind and frost.

Moreover, that advice has kept my trees safe and the reason I planted them behind my house. I also have six grapevine trees, two chestnuts, four Macadamian nuts and two Kiwi trees. I love the large land around my house. For me the land is more important than the house.

I love making the garden every year and work in it as if I was a little girl and my grandmothers were watching over my shoulder.

Everyone should love and respect their grandmothers, because before we know it we too will become grandmothers. I have been a grandmother since I was thirty-four years old. Sometimes I think I may love my grandchildren more than I love my own children.

I have worked very hard raising my children as a single mother without a family in this country and always without child support or public assistance.

Grandmothers are wonderful human beings. And at times so are grandfathers.

My great grandfather, Ismail was a tall man with a long white beard. Grandfather Ismail was around a hundred years old. At that time, still a strong robust man. My father and often my great grandfather would shave him. Sometimes they would also cut his tobacco since his hands were shaky. Now in retrospect the man must have had Parkinson’s disease.

When he returned home from his travels to Mecca, he did so extremely tired and exhausted. Later that year Grandfather Ismail passed away. The stories he shared with us about this adventurous trip will remain with me forever. Grandfather Ismail was proud of his camel ride and said how he had worn only white because of the oppressive heat. He brought back Hanna and dates. We were so happy when his wife Fatima gave us dates. Even though they were delicious and we thought they, were fruits from heaven we did not know what they were.

After his death, we learned that my grandmother, Fatima was his fourth wife and my grandfather, Sunai had told us that he was an unhappy person. Unhappy since he watched his father marry three times. His mom died giving him life. Grandma Fatima outlived him. I suspect that was one of the reasons he favored me. Simply because he named me after his mother, Abiba. He would often say, Your eyes are green. My uncle had told me his mom’s eyes were also green.

He once said, I am sure if I would have had a chance to know my mom she must have looked like you. Maybe she did. I am the third Abiba. My grandmother had been an Abiba.

I am the third Abiba. My grandmother had an Abiba, my dad’s sister, she passed away, mom had one before me, and she passed away.

I believe if the time had been right, my parents and grandparents would have gotten more education and become more knowledgeable. My dad never went to school, but taught himself to read and write. When it came to raw intelligence, my dad would have been at the top.

Life for him was always a challenge and he had the added caveat of having to deal with an unruly anger and temper. He made it hard on our mother and his children. After our grandparents passed away dad became an old man and most of the time, he would whistle around the yard, smoke, and sing songs.

When he was diagnosed as diabetic life became nearly too much to handle. At times, he made up songs where he would ask his dead mother to come and take him away. Every time my mom heard his singing it was something like this, Hey mother where are you? Come and get me. Do not leave me. I can’t take this anymore.

That is when my mom would tell him, Please keep calling your mother so she will come and take you to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

My dad continued calling or singing for his mother to rescue him until she finally did arrive and took my dad. That occurred on April 17, 2006. I was in the United States when I received the news of his passing and at my second job. To this day, I still cry for my dad. He was a rough and tumble guy and not perfect, but he was my father and the man worked hard all his life and in the end suffered from diabetes and died.

The first time I returned home after his passing it was hard to see his corner of the house empty. My dad was missing from my life.

As a little girl, I had prayed for him to die. Even after I left home and married, I continued praying for my dad’s death.

Dad had given permission to my in-laws in front of me that they could beat me if I was disobedient.

After my first child was born mom told me that dad had wished my daughter and me dead. Dad thought girls were not valuable like boys. If a baby girl somewhere in the family died, he would say mockingly, Big deal. This meanness and ugliness towards girls continued all the way up until his death.

I never knew or understood if he really loved us girls. Perhaps in some twisted way he did, but if he did, I never felt loved by my dad.

However, as previously written I never heard the words, I love you. A solid roof over our heads and having food on the table and our mom and grandmothers around to take care of us meant love. Love was making fresh cheeses and butters and preserves like home made molasses and jellies and much more.

I do not blame my parents for any wrongs. They did their best with what they knew. They were born into a traditional highly conservative Albanian environment. They learned everything they knew from their parents.

If they had known better (I believe) they would have done better. There is always room for improvement and growing up we were five generations living under one roof starting with my great grandfather, Ismail. Then his son my grandfather, Sunaji, two and then my dad, Demir, his only son, three. And then I should say my brothers since girls don’t count, four. And my older brother’s Jemal’s first son, Rasim five. All together in the house. I remember before my great grandfathers passing we were fourteen people.

I have recently begun visiting the graves of my four grandparents and my dad. This is something I had refused to do year after year.

It has been two years since my loving brother, passed away on August 17 in Switzerland at the age of forty-five and left his beautiful wife, Sabrina with five children and ten grand children. May all of them rest in peace and may God open his heaven’s gate and forgive everyone for any wrongdoings on earth. They lay side by side on the side of the lake surrounded by trees and water in front of my house.

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The Smart Young Man and the Poker

Once upon a time, there was a nice, but not so smart a young man whose mother sent him to the city to fix their fireplace poker.

The walk to the city was long and lonely. After arriving in the city and speaking to the maintenance people, they told him the poker was beyond repair.

He asked, What will I tell my mother. I will forget what you told me before I get home? The young man left worried and kept repeating the words while he walked home.

It can’t be repaired… It can’t be repaired. He passed a farmer planting beets; the farmer listened to the man’s words, It’s not going to happen. It’s not going to happen. He yelled at the man to stop. The farmer walked over to the young man and slapped him in the face. The youth asked, Why are you hitting me.

The farmer answered, I work hard all day planting seeds on my land. And you’re saying it’s not going to happen. The young man asked, What do you want me to say?

The farmer answered, You should start saying, Make it and eat healthy."

The young man kept repeating what the farmer said and did not realize that behind the bushes someone was using the bushes for a bathroom. He heard the young man and stopped what he was doing and quickly moved toward him and slapped him in his face.

The young man said, That hurts.

The other man said, I was tired of walking so long and needed to go about my business. And I heard you saying to make it and eat it for my health."

The young man soon approached three very tired hunters who were out hunting early for something to feed their families. They asked the youth to stop. And when he did they too punched him in the face. One of the hunters said, We are tired and sweaty and have hunted nothing. And after you said nothing. The young man asked, What do you want me to say? The hunters quickly responded, We want you to say, four or five times a day."

Once again, the young man began his long lonely walk and he ran into a funeral procession. It was an extremely hot day and he was still repeating, Four or five times a day.

This time he received a hard slap in the face by one of the pallbearers. What are you saying? Don’t you see that we are having a difficult and hard time burying one a day? Can you imagine four of five a day?

The young man repeated his question he had already asked four times.

What do you want me to say?

The gravedigger said, Just go home. He followed that advice and went home. Upon arriving his mother asked him why the poker was not fixed. He had no answer.

4

One reason I married Faik at the age of sixteen was part puppy love and part to escape an abusive father. In reality, I traded one terror for another.

When I left home to be with Faik, I dressed in very feminine clothes. My dad had brought me a beautiful sweater, which he had purchased in Turkey. My blue jeans came from Kosovo, but were made in Italy.

After my wedding, those beautiful Italian jeans disappeared and I never saw them again. My sister-in-law wore my sweater every day.

Sadly, my mother-in-law demanded her new daughter in-law wear clothing that completely covered her like a burqa.

I weighed less than one hundred pounds and it was always nice to hear that upon returning to my village as an adult the compliments always came. The villagers reminded me that long ago I was a beautiful young girl.

I told my princesses, my granddaughters that they are welcome to that beauty as a present as I have no use for it.

Before I turned twenty, three babies were tugging at my legs and thirteen people chattered at me like magpies wanting this or that. A baker’s dozen that depended on me for most of their care.

Since I was a little girl, my instructions had always been simple, serve, respect, and listen and obey your husband and your husband’s relatives.

While told how to act as young girls, we never knew what awaited us as a bride.

I was astonished when they told me that even if the husband was not home his relatives could divorce the daughter-in-law.

As tradition dictated, her replacement quickly arrived and without emotion, the former wife left. The whole replacement process was almost like getting rid of a donkey because there was something wrong with the animal.

No problem and no questions and almost immediately, the gossip would begin.

The gossipers would say that the young daughter-in-law had shown no respect for anyone and had not tried to be a good woman or good mother. And she didn’t care to learn to cook or most importantly she talked back. Even for a woman with children there was never a guaranteed safe haven. These things happened. Many times the young woman had to marry some poor man or widow or handicapped man or divorced man but usually in a different village.

I remember many examples of this, but the most outrageous scenario was when a bride turned out not to be a virgin. The disrespected family would return her to her parents the following morning and she would live with shame forever.

Often her demise ended at the end of a rope. Sometimes she would take poison and commit suicide. Nobody would know what happened and there would be no investigation or autopsy.

Her name would disappear from everyone’s lips. While this was a long time ago, there is no doubt in my mind that this tragedy could have occurred in our home if any of us girls crossed that line and brought shame to our family. We were a well-known family and had a great reputation. Even to this day at the age of fifty, I am grateful that my sisters and I always brought honor to our family.

I would never do anything wrong to bring shame to our family. I would feel like my mom is watching or my dead father.

In addition, my five beautiful grand children have a good grandmother so I never wanted to be a gossip and this is a big thing in the Albanian culture.

When I am alone and think about my past it is possible that my life was never my own. My mother always said that when you have children your life belongs to them. She was right. My life seems to be the same as my mother’s.

My mother is an absolute caregiver and she passed those genes down to her daughters. The realization was slow to come that I was a born caregiver as my sister.

My sister lives in Germany and we are licensed caregivers. Like me, she works all the time. Money is seldom the focus when one is a caregiver. You must have a big heart to do this job.

The elderly have taught me many things. As I wrote working as a caregiver is a special vocation. One where the worker must bring a lot of love to the job. Being a caregiver is ideal for a person who loves people. Many times the thought passed through my mind that if I were retired and financially independent perhaps visiting and spending time with the elderly would be a worthwhile avocation. The elderly I worked around always felt isolated and neglected.

But life is expensive here and requires large sums of money. Sometimes I think that we go through a lot to get so little and to maintain a comfortable life style.

Most everyone’s children works and some of them work two jobs.

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The elderly are often depressed waiting for visits that sometimes never come. They often talk to us as if their children are present. Their conversations are nearly identical. They talk about their lives and health. We try to listen and respond in a nice way, but that is not the time to sit and talk to them in a nursing home.

I have worked in many nursing homes and many of them as a caregiver. At times my responsibility covered eight rooms and three patients in each room. Some of them are easy to care for but some need total care even with a lift to remove them from their beds.

It was not uncommon to work a complete shift without a break. During each shift, I showered three to seven residents. And on top of the regular assistance we provided I was given extra assignments like filling ice pitchers, or going to the dining room to help clean showers or a utility room. Often I took leftover trays downstairs to the kitchen. Deep down in my heart I knew these seniors did not get the care they deserve and I nearly destroyed myself working there.

In 2006 I had bunion foot surgery and in 2008, a complete hysterectomy. My period was continuous and I thought might leave me for good. I found an excellent Muslim female doctor. Dr. Nadira in Wayne, New Jersey. She took great care of me and removed the tumors, which were benign.

Being extremely hardheaded about doctors, pills, and analgesic medicine kept me from seeing a doctor or taking pills of any kind. Even Tylenol or Advil and vitamin D and caltrate never found their way into my mouth.

I grew up with nothing and had never visited a doctor during any of my pregnancies. Also I had never taken prenatal vitamins. The same knuckleheaded state of affairs existed with my mom and sisters. No medicines for them either. My mantra has never changed, If it does not kill you it makes you stronger.

If someone, like me considers their selves as a natural born caregiver then the thought always exists as to what more we can do for others. My thoughts always consider my children, grandchildren, and extended family.

In my previous novel, Plain Jane, I explained how in November of 2011 I took a private job as