The Butterfly Dishes
CONTENT WARNING: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE & ABUSE
On my twelfth birthday, my grandmother gave me a ‘hope chest’. I had no idea what a ‘hope chest’ was, nor could I have understood the misogynistic history of it at the time, but I was thrilled to be gifted a nice piece of cedar furniture that differentiated me from my brothers. It was small but beautifully crafted with varying warm wood tones, and fit snugly in the corner of my bedroom closet. The idea behind it, she informed me, was to set me up with practical household items that I could use when I was running my own home. Traditionally, a young girl might ‘hope’ to one day snag a husband; but my grandmother, a longtime member of The League of Women Voters, insisted that it was perfectly acceptable to forget the man and just hope to one day own my own house instead.
From that birthday on, household items accumulated within the chest at a fairly regular pace. Grandma began with tea towels and tablecloths, before working her way up to fancier kitchen utensils. I could expect to get anything from a soup ladle to a cheese slicer. One of my brothers even got in on it one Christmas, giving me a pasta server in the shape of a green dinosaur. I would admire each item, no matter what it was, as I imagined how I would one day use it, and then wrap it in newspaper and place it securely inside the chest. Safely locked away for some indeterminate day ahead.
The year I turned sixteen, my grandmother outdid herself. After scanning the pages of the National Wildlife Federation’s magazine, a favorite pastime of her’s, she stumbled across a beautiful set of butterfly dishes. They were expensive but she “couldn’t pass them up!”, and while the dishes themselves were mostly white except for a forest green ring around the lip, each displayed a different beautifully detailed butterfly in the center. When I opened them I marveled at a large dinner plate adorned with a vivid orange monarch and then I , like all the times before,meticulously repackaged it, placing the boxes in the back of my closet. They were stunning and I dreamed of the day that I would have a home for myself and use them. As I mused, however, I never suspected that nearly two decades would pass before I would open those boxes again.
When I headed to college, the plates migrated, like the Monarchs do, up to my parents’ attic. A dorm room was in no way fit for fancy ‘grown-up’ dishes, so I settled for some plastic ones from Walmart instead. To their credit, they held up to hundreds of roundtrips in the microwave, and then followed me from my dorm to a shared house. When I was 20 years old I could finally afford to live independently in a one-bedroom apartment. My mother asked me if I finally wanted the butterfly dishes, but for whatever reason I didn’t feel ready for them. What if I broke them? No, it was best to wait.
In 2008, about 18 months before my graduation, the world entered the Great Recession. Banks failed, the stock market tanked, and my parents suddenly worried about their retirement fund. Knowing the pitiful job market I would face, I decided to move back home to save money and sought alternative paths to my life after college. My trajectory then took a more adventurous route, when I applied for the Peace Corps and was eventually accepted. I spent the next two years in Benin, West Africa, an ocean away from home and everything that was familiar. So, as you might naturally expect, the plates, and my journey into “adulthood”, were put on hold once again.
When I returned to the United States in 2012, I made my way to Washington D.C. My time in Benin, along with the benefits I received from my service, had inspired me to start a career there. It took three months to land a job in the city and more than a year to find an affordable place of my own. Though my new studio apartment was a spacious 360 square feet, it felt a little too cramped for serious dishes, so I settled on a gently used set from my aunt. My mother, however, traveled from Ohio to help me move and surprised me by bringing along the coffee cups from the butterfly set. She reasoned that I needed them, which I did, and that these ones were plenty sturdy and I was unlikely to break them. My mother, aunt, and I spent the entire day moving my stuff into that tiny apartment. And as if by some sick twist of fate, my grandmother passed away that same night.
I lived in that studio for two years before I realized that it was time for a career shift. I started graduate school at the University of Delaware at the age of 29 and moved into a spacious one bedroom apartment just a half mile from the campus. I was rejuvenated by the graduate program. The work was challenging and I bonded quickly with my fellow students. I began dating a local guy soon after moving and quickly fell in love. He seemed perfect. After we moved in together, I felt as if I was actually on the cusp of adulthood.
Over time though, the illusion fell apart. My new ‘perfect’ partner was much angrier than I was. We fought. A lot. And sometimes my things would end up broken. Were these accidents? He insisted that they were and, at the time, I believed him. However, more and more of my simple white dishes wound up broken, some by ‘accident’, but others--deliberately. And then the abuse started.
It began with a raised voice over a perceived slight. Perhaps I was ‘disrespectful’ for challenging his opinion or questioning his fidelity. He’d throw my things, pace around, and scream so loudly that he’d spit in my face. If I tried to leave, he would block the exits. If I locked myself in the bedroom, he would kick down the door. If I tried to use my phone, he would rip it from my hands and chuck it at the wall. If I stood up for myself, he would pin me to the floor and raise his fists, stopping just short of beating me. By the time I graduated from my program, I was a shell of my former self, and ending the program meant an end to my primary support network. After a year of increasing isolation and escalating abuse, I finally broke when he wrapped his hands around my throat. I had read the statistics; I wasn’t going to become one.
It would take a month of planning with a domestic violence counselor and the support of friends and family to finally leave. I stayed at a safe house, was granted an order of protection, quit my job, and said my goodbyes. I packed up all my possessions and moved them into a storage unit just a few blocks from my childhood home.
I was 31 years old, broke and unemployed, and living with my parents. It was better than the alternative but an all-around shit situation.
Friends and family went to great lengths to remind me that I was not to blame for the situation, but I wasn’t so easily convinced. My independence had always been a focal point of my identity. The realization that one toxic relationship, and its subsequent aftermath, was enough to steal it from me, was incredibly jarring. The hope that my grandmother had for me to ‘forget the man’ and find my own way seemed even further from me than it had been when I turned 16. Instead of creating my own happiness, I had sought it externally from a person who preyed on my vulnerability. I was definitely bitter about the situation, but more than anything I was ashamed of myself. Had I ever really been independent?
I spent my newly found free-time helping my parents with various projects around the house. We started with the ground floor, repainted the bathroom, and finally made our way to the attic, which had been an albatross around my mother’s neck for years. Organizing it seemed like the perfect distraction from my troubles, so I was happy to help. We went through boxes and items one by one, sorting and reorganizing until we finally made it to my dishes. I was certainly in no position to use them then, but I wanted them more than ever before. I took them out of the attic and moved them into my storage unit.
Learning to cope with PTSD and seeking validation from within became my priority. Therapy healed my wounds and restored my faith in myself, while family and friends provided unlimited support. I applied to more than fifty positions before landing my dream job. When I was ready, I found love again, real love this time. And after more than one year of mutual love and respect, we moved in together.
We’ve been slowly emptying out my storage unit over the past few weeks. Taking a couple boxes here and there, emptying their contents and finding places for my things in the home we now share. When I got to the box of dishes, I paused. The moment stretched out quietly in front of me. Aside from the coffee cups, I couldn’t even remember what they looked like. For the first time in 18 years, I opened the boxes and carefully removed each dish from its packaging, piling them neatly on the kitchen counter. I stared at the butterflies and thought of my grandmother who had taken such care to buy me a set that I would love. I then thought of the journey I took to get to this moment.
For years I had placed my self worth in the hands of others. I gave more weight to what they thought of me than to what I thought of myself. I would deride myself for each mistake and flaw while simultaneously giving others endless unearned grace. Breaking free from that relationship and focusing on my need to heal had finally transformed me into the person I was meant to be. I had always been good enough.
“Wow! These are beautiful.” my boyfriend said as he carefully picked a plate up off of the counter.
“This is the first time I’ve actually taken them all out of the package.” I told him. “I had forgotten what they looked like. I’ve never eaten off of them.”
“Then let’s use them.” he said.
And for the first time, we did.
