The following is an excerpt from Love Language by Linda Marigliano, a memoir of people-pleasing, family and what it means to love and be loved.
When I was six, I learned how to lie.
It was my first day of kindergarten. My older brother, Sam, and I stood side by side in our driveway in our school uniforms, all knobbly knees and white socks. My thick hair was tugged into neat, tight plaits and Sam's was gelled back like a suave newsreader's, a slick black mop atop his head. Our dad was a hairdresser, and he had styled our looks carefully.
Mum dropped me at my new classroom that morning and told me I was to behave and obey the teacher's instructions. And absolutely no tears were allowed.
The big square lunchbox in my backpack banged against my water bottle, jutting into my back as I walked into the classroom. It made a loud thud every second step. I didn't like it. But I was on my own now.
The first person I met was my teacher, Mrs Bennett. She was tall, much taller than my mum, and had short, dark hair: a quintessential nineties power cut. She wore a brown chequered blazer, sharp angles at the shoulder pads, and spoke in a voice that was much more commanding than the women at my preschool, who had worn polka dot t-shirts and had freckles across their noses. From behind, Mrs Bennett looked like one of our male Italian family friends who wore gold rings and turtlenecks when they turned up at Nonna's house to play cards and smoke cigarettes. Her deep, stern voice directed me to sit beside a girl named Stacey, who was to look after me if I needed any help throughout the day. Stacey was bossy, with big red lips that were always moving. I asked her to show me to the toilets, where I shut myself into a cubicle and hovered over the stainless steel toilet seat, wishing I could go home.
Back in the loud classroom, I felt increasingly out of place. I wanted my mum. I wanted my bedroom. But there was no way I was going to tell Mrs Bennett. I was going to be a good girl!
As lunchtime approached, I could feel my tears welling up. The day was so horrifically long. Mum had told me she would come back to pick me up at the end of the day, but what if she didn't? What if I was left with this chequered-blazer stranger? What if I never saw my mum and dad again? I couldn't get the idea out of my head. But I needed to behave. The only thing worse than never seeing my parents again was the thought of disappointing my mother. I knew it was only a matter of time before I burst open like one of the freezing taps in the toilets. I needed a way out. But what? I sat on my hard yellow chair, a little ticking time bomb, and concentrated on watching the other children in the room. My eyes landed on Jay, a boy sitting one table over from me. Every now and then Jay would do something that would land him in trouble—he'd accidentally kick over a set of blocks, or clumsily knock someone else's pencils onto the floor—and every time Mrs Bennett would scold him loudly in front of the class. Her voice would ripple across the room, "Jay! Stand up right now and get Mitchell's pencils from the ground and say sorry!" "Jay! Do NOT look at what she's doing, keep your eyes on your own paper!"
The bell finally rang, and we were all dismissed from the room for lunch.
My eyes brimmed over as I hurried outside into the playground. I missed my mum horribly, but I'd been fiercely determined not to cry in the classroom. My nightmare theory felt too real—the fear that I would be abandoned in this strange new place, that I'd never see my precious bedroom again, felt too real. With a couple of bulbous tears blurring my vision, I quickly took stock: there was a grassy area far away where some bigger kids were running around, but most of my class were confined to the asphalt. I saw Stacey drawing on the ground with a piece of chalk, but I turned back to the verandah that lined my classroom.
Jay was sitting on his knees playing with something on the wooden floorboards. He was as skinny as a stick insect, with dirt on his knees and a big goofy smile on his face as he saw me approaching.
"I'm Linda." I sat down next to him. "Hi, I'm Jay."
"When we go back into the classroom after lunch, I’m going to cry because I really miss my mum. But I don't want the teacher to think I'm a wuss. So I'm going to say that you punched my arm. Okay?"
Jay looked back at me and nodded. "Okay."
I wasn't sure if he was really nice or if he just didn't care about getting in trouble again. I walked away and joined Stacey, to sit cross-legged on the hot asphalt until the bell rang again.
Finally, I could let go. The tears bubbled in my eyelids as we all re-entered the classroom. As I sat back down at our shared tables, my chest started heaving.
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Mrs Bennett strode over to me and leaned down to where I was huddled next to Stacey, who was comforting me.
"Linda, what's wrong?"
"Jay..." I replied without hesitation, then paused to sob in between words, "... punched me."
Stacey and the rest of the class all turned to look at Jay, who was watching quietly from the next table. While I was consoled by tiny, pillowy pats from the children around me, Mrs Bennett stormed over to Jay. Raising her voice and ordering him to stand up, she asked him if what I had said was true. He gave her another one of his quiet nods and said yes. She almost shouted when lecturing him and then marched him over to me to apologise. He stood in front of me and spoke earnestly.
"Linda, I'm sorry for punching you."
I turned away from him as I blubbered out, "It's okay." He had to sit facing the far corner of the room for the rest of the day, cross-legged on the floor with his back to us, his head bowed down so far his nose was almost touching the cornice.
I watched his hunched punishment while I sponged up the benefits of my dishonesty. I never forgot Jay's kindness to me that day. I was ashamed of what I'd done, but I never had the courage to tell him thank you, or apologise. Instead, I held a secret pocketful of fondness for him and shame for myself as I saw other teachers scold him in classes and school assemblies over our primary school years.
Stacey would go on to become my best friend for the first few years of school, her ribboned ponytail guiding me through the hallways as we learned to read and write. The other children in my class warmed to me as the defenceless girl who was picked on by the rowdiest boy in the class. Their sweet round eyes looked at me with as much care as six-year-olds can muster. Even though we'd only been alive a tiny handful of years, I understood that I was winning them all over. I cared about what the children in the class thought of me. I had succeeded.
Most importantly, I would not get in trouble with my mother for giving in to my emotions. She hated complaints and she would have been disappointed if she knew I'd cried for no good reason. I was pleased that she would never find out the truth. I wanted to be good for her.
***
My need to please grew as I got older. Looking back, I notice how I was learning to judge myself.
I was fourteen years old and taking dance lessons multiple times a week, performing on weekends at competitions and shopping centres.
At one event, I was standing in the wings on the side of a stage, waiting nervously for my group's turn to perform. Heavy black curtains brushed against my bare legs as I watched the routine before ours. About fifteen girls wearing pink spandex with lime-green frills threw themselves from one formation to the next, in deliberate steps to the pulse of the song. I glanced down at my body, the diamante-studded crop top I was wearing highlighted just how bloated my exposed stomach was. It was sore, too. A familiar anxiety. A mix of dread and excitement.
I stood there fidgeting with the tight waistline of my denim shorts cutting into my belly, and all I could think about was my mother's face in the crowd. I was about to see her signature expression in all its discerning glory. Her beautiful face would be frozen in an expression of stern judgement as it zeroed in on me on the stage. It was this face I thought about every single time I performed. Some dancers might have pictured someone they had a crush on watching them to spur on their performance, but I pictured my mother.
It was an addictive game. I'd get the tummy-aching fear of my mother's dissatisfaction and then, if I could manage it, the relief of her approval. It was like holding your breath underwater and emerging at the end of your oxygen reserves, relieved to have survived the ordeal. After a dance concert, I could finally breathe out, splutter, and let my body cave into a relaxed state.
In the wings, I started to go over the upcoming choreography in my head. My taut little arms and legs were unmoving but my brain was visualising every pop and click that would unfold. It was the hardest and fastest choreography I'd ever had to learn, a classic jazz routine that took every ounce of energy and concentration to get just right. There was a knee slide in the second half of the track that scared the shit out of me. A deep knee slide onto the floor, then a series of turns while still on my knees, followed by more tense floor choreography. The thought of getting this wrong in front of my mother terrified me. I peered out from behind the curtain and scanned the audience. I spotted the outline of Mum's bobbed hair and shoulders then the stage went black. The group before us was finished. Their buzzing bodies and made-up faces scurried off stage and past us to the backstage room. A few seconds passed by. A trickle of ear-slicing feedback crackled out of the speakers, and then a man's voice began to boom.
"Big round of applause for the young ladies of Brent Street Academy! Next up in the sixteen-and-under con- temporary jazz section for the City of Sydney is Nadine's Academy of Dance."
There was an audible chugging from the back of the stage, where the smoke machine was coughing out an ominously large cloud. The stage slowly filled up with the haze, and then the song began.
First the synth: jagged, spiky, bad-arse. That was our cue to slink on stage like sewer rats rounding the corner of an alley. A troupe of pretend thugs, with bright blush on our cheeks and thick kneepads. Then the drums attacked the synths. A kick and a harsh electronic snare: boom KAH boom KAH boom KAH (pause) boom KAH. I slapped my hips, my torso moved in sharp turns, and I locked my arms and legs in squarish music video shapes. All in perfect tight sync with an early eighties hit.
Now that I was on stage, I could see my mother's face clearly in the barely darkened auditorium. She was sitting in the second row of the audience, with a delicate hand touching her chin. Her fine gold bracelets had slid down to the wider part of her slender wrists. Her head was tilted ever so slightly sideways, but she was also leaning back, chin up, and staring directly at me.
Her black bob was perfectly blow-dried and hair- sprayed to sit unmoving at just the right points; the sleek bangs on her forehead and the sides framed her face, curled inwards just under her earlobe. She looked like a photograph, except instead of a smile her face was pulled into a scowl, as if she was experiencing something painful.
It was the eyes that intimidated me the most. Her brown eyes were narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, and her full red lips were set in a pursed pout. Her entire countenance was in stark contrast to the mothers and fathers either side of her, not to mention the parents who gaily waved at their dolled-up offspring on stage, beaming and clapping like seals even when their kids couldn't coordinate their movements to the pulse of the ridiculously loud kick drum. I disliked those clumsy kids, but I wanted their parents' all-encompassing enthusiasm. Instead, my mother winced and pouted her way through my entire performance.
I could not tune out her face. I wanted to dance better, faster, harder and longer. I wanted to impress her, for her statuesque pose to relax into something that might resemble pleasure.
We were halfway through the song now. My tense fists punched the air above my head alongside fourteen other girls in distressed denim and sequined outfits. Our feet shuffled and kicked in a fishnet stocking sea of synchronicity.
Next came the segment I'd been dreading. We broke out of our diamond formation and into rows of five across the stage. I strutted to my designated position at the front, determined to embody the star quality I didn't really believe I had. I was aware of Mum's eyes tracing my every move. I was ready to nail this floor choreography with all my—
OH F*CK.
My mind raced, my cheeks burned up. My peripheral vision confirmed my suspicions—I had slid much too early!
While everybody else was still on their feet and locking into the tight groove, I'd managed to dive all the way to the front. I'd propelled myself forward with such gusto that my right knee was teetering over the edge of the stage. Horrified, I looked directly at my mum, clocking the way her scowl was transfixed on me. Thinking quickly, I remained on my knees, flashed a huge fake grin and began to pivot and slide my body backwards. No choice but to freestyle some absolute dogshit while waiting for the rest of my troupe to catch up to me. A shoulder roll, a body roll, a pathetic attempt to look like my centre stage solo moment was intentional.
I could see my mother's gaze taking it all in and not buying a second of it. She knew I'd stuffed up. Everyone did. I began to feel the weight and tightness of my hair— my father had used an absurd amount of hairspray and multiple hair nets to pull my long locks into a painfully immaculate bun at the nape of my neck. My head was a shiny black helmet, bobbing up and down for dear life. My face continued burning for the remainder of the routine, even when I was back in sync with the other girls. Afterwards, I cried backstage as I faced a corner getting undressed. A few of the other dancers in my group comforted me, but for the most part I concealed my humiliation.
We were used to winning or at least placing somewhere in competitions, so it was a sore moment when we left the venue empty-handed that day. I was sure I had cost us the competition.
Mum's disappointed face was waiting for me as I emerged from the dressing room and we headed to the car. On the ride home, she didn't offer consolation or ask how I was feeling, but she didn't bring up the mistake I'd made either.
As the years went on, I sought out my mother's face in the crowd again and again. She looked identical in each audience setting, whether I was dancing at a Westfield shopping centre or doing a speech in our high school hall. Even when she wasn't in the crowd, I would picture her face watching me, daring me to do better or else disappoint. In confessional moments with my friends at school, I would say that I longed to swap mums with my friend Katie. Her mother let us eat meringues after school and didn't get angry about all the sugar, and she let us swim in the pool without worrying that the chlorine would ruin our hair.
On a Saturday afternoon, I was crammed into the back seat of Katie's mum's car with my other best friend from dancing class, Noelle. Katie's mum was cruising down the highway in the afternoon light, her window half wound down and her curly brown hair blowing in the breeze. Mum was in the front passenger seat, window all the way up and hair still perfectly blow-dried in place. We were in high spirits—we had landed first place in a prestigious dance competition. Every so often, Mum would turn around and look at me. It was an unusually prolonged look. She looked oddly excited, her eyes bright as they ran over my face. Her lips held a subtle smile. I've done it, she’s proud! I thought to myself. She saw us win, and she's going to tell me how well I did today. I continued laughing along with Noelle and Katie, enjoying the post-win thrill. When we stopped at a traffic light, Mum turned back to look at me again, and I held her gaze as her eyes gave my face another once-over. I smiled at her, and Mum finally spoke up triumphantly.
"Your eyebrows are too thick for your face, Linda. I'm going to start plucking them."
***
When I was growing up, my parents would often invite other couples over for dinner. Eavesdropping on one of their small dinner parties, I heard something that made me realise just how hard I needed to work for my mother's approval—something that stuck with me even more than her face in the crowd.
I was still in my early teens at the time, although it should be noted that my eyebrows were being plucked regularly by this point, to arched perfection. After dinner, my brother, Sam, and I would be excused to go to bed while the adults continued talking and drinking. I would lie in bed for around forty minutes, watching the red numbers of the digital clock on my bedside table ticking over. One night, satisfied that enough time had passed for my parents to be convinced I was asleep, I rose on silent feet and opened my bedroom door. The carpet was soft under my bare toes as I crept along the hallway, past my brother's bedroom and towards the sliver of light coming from beneath the dining room door. With my right ear ever so slightly touching the door, I could hear the voices distinctly. The couple who had come over were asking my parents a question: "Have you got a favourite?"
My dad's voice, "No, not at all."
His Italian accent emphasised the T sounds in this phrase, so it came out as "No, no Ta Tall". I heard coffee cups, probably filled with a shot of espresso and a healthy dash of liquor, being picked up and placed down on our thick saucers. They would be using the 'good' cups, white with brown stripes, with no chips in the ceramic. The male voice pressed on in a playful way.
"No, but if you had to choose. You definitely have one.
Who?"
Dad was staunch. "No. I love both my children equally." His voice was matter-of-fact. He would not budge. There were a couple of seconds of quiet at the table, and then the man's voice came again. "Janet, what about you?" he asked my mum. Silence for another moment.
Then: "Sam."
My heart dropped a little as I stood huddled against the shaft of light coming from the other side of the dining room door. I turned and began to silently scurry back to my bed as fast as possible, but I couldn't help tuning in to a few more words as they all kept talking. I couldn't make out full sentences anymore, but I knew it was my mother’s voice. Something like 'sensible, good boy' and 'very disciplined and quiet', and then I thought I made out the words 'more difficult' and something about mothers and daughters needing to be closer.
Back beneath my lilac bedspread, my pulse beating fast in my ears, I turned my mum's response over and over in my mind, wondering how she could deliver her answer with so much certainty. I'd always had the sense that the relationship Mum had with my brother was not the same as the one she had with me. I felt like it held me on a different, tighter leash, under more scrutiny than my brother. But as I lay under the covers, I thought that what she was saying was true. My brother was, in general, a better child than me. He was much more sensible and well behaved. He was less outgoing and loud and annoying than I was. He did his schoolwork; he got great grades; he did housework too, and he was handsome. Those things mattered. More than that, I knew that, as a daughter, I had different duties from Sam. And I couldn't be sure, but it had sounded like Mum had been conceding that we would be closer if only I did better. From housework to schoolwork to how I presented myself, I had to do better.
I had to be perfect.
This is an edited extract from Love Language by Linda Marigliano, RRP $34.99, published by Allen & Unwin, out now.
Feature Image: Supplied/Instagram @lindamarigliano.
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